At the Duke's Wedding (A romance anthology)

by Caroline Linden

  Frank’s voice cracked as he read the last sentence. “What a decent girl she is, my Rosanne. Not many ladies would be so kind.”

  Christian agreed. He also wanted to pummel Rosanne’s father into the ground.

  “You have to answer her at once,” he said. “You must set her mind at rest.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “Miss Lacy fears that you would behave like her father.”

  “She doesn’t say so, does she?” Frank peered at the letter.

  “Women do not always say what they mean.”

  “I don’t see it, but I expect you are right. You would know better than I how she’d feel in this case. Of course, I wouldn’t ever look at another woman if I were lucky enough to win Rosanne. How shall I tell her? Seems a bit awkward to bring it up.”

  “Subtlety, my dear boy. Now, write.”

  As Christian dictated the reply, he felt a twinge of regret that the recipient would never know how much it came from his own heart.

  My dear Rosanne,

  I am honored that you shared your trouble with me. Your generosity of spirit touches me, and I have no doubt that you bring your little sister as much joy as you bring me with every word you write. But Rosanne, my dear, I feel for your unhappiness at discovering your father’s behavior. Common enough, I fear, but distressing to a man’s family and abhorrent to me that a man should so betray his vows. I’ll say no more but if you wish for a sympathetic ear, I am here.

  o0o

  Rosanne’s reply arrived by return of post. Frank was on duty all day and the missive sat in his box in the officers’ quarters. It was all Christian could do not to rip it open. Their last letter worried him. Frank, as usual, had taken dictation like a lamb, never questioning his cousin’s words. Pressing her to speak further of her father’s sins was bold, indelicate even. Christian had his reasons for thinking Rosanne might want to talk about it. Suppose he was wrong and she was insulted? Suppose she broke off the correspondence?

  Frank would be devastated.

  He’d better go and get changed for his dinner engagement with Clara, who wasn’t dancing that night. But as his servant helped him out of his uniform and into evening dress, he discovered a complete lack of interest in either dining with Clara or bedding her. There was nothing wrong with her. A perfectly pleasant companion and skilled lover. But their liaison, after only a couple of months, bored him. He wrote her a note and went downstairs to dine with the regiment.

  Frank arrived only as the meal started, so Christian had to suffer through several excellent courses—the Guards did themselves proud in the mess—and endless toasts. At long last, he got Frank settled in the common room with brandy and Rosanne’s letter.

  “Why are you hovering over me like that?” Frank asked as, maddeningly, he sipped instead of reading.

  Christian sank into the embrace of an armchair and took a deep breath, forcing himself to wait patiently for Frank to break the seal and unfold the sheet of fine, hot-pressed paper favored by Rosanne.

  “I am so happy that you think as I do on the subject. I did not like to say more in my last letter, but it is a relief to write of feelings that I cannot share with anyone else. I know my father is not the first gentleman to behave thus, and I do not know if Papa continues his relations with Mary’s mother. He visits Dorchester frequently, as do we all. I know that he called on Mrs. Birch when she was ill. I suppose it is right for a man to visit his former mistress (hateful word) to ask after her health. But suppose she is not former but present? In my disappointment with my father I’ve found it difficult to look him in the eye this past week. I honor him for looking after his child, but I cannot understand why my mother tolerates her visits. I suppose she must have forgiven him. For myself I would find it impossible. I have a horror of deception and dishonesty.”

  Frank stopped reading when Christian groaned. “What?” he asked. “What’s the matter?”

  Frank, the poor dolt, didn’t see the problem.

  “It occurs to me, dear cousin, that Miss Rosanne may be a little upset should she ever learn that the tender letters she has read are not, in fact, the products of your own genius.”

  It took a few moments for Frank to understand. Not the gentle insult in the question. Frank never expected unkindness because he never suffered from it. He wafted through life on a cloud of approval. Christian rarely unleashed his tongue on Frank but Rosanne’s letter had made him ... prickly.

  The handsome numbskull nodded slowly. “She’d better not find out.”

  “No, she must not. In future you shall write your own letters. And keep hers to yourself.” It hurt to say so, but it was the right thing to do. He was too invested in the vicarious correspondence and feared he’d managed to harm Frank rather than help him.

  “Never mind. Listen to this.”

  Christian raised his eyebrows in warning.

  “Nothing here anyone shouldn’t hear. I hope that your promised visit in June will not coincide with the wedding of the Duke of Wessex, whose marriage to Miss Helen Grey is to be celebrated with a very large party. Very large indeed, if we are invited. The duke is only a distant connection, but Mama surmises that we’ve been asked since we live in the same county. We shall be at Kingstag for a week.”

  That was it, then. Frank would speak to Rosanne’s father at Kingstag, make his offer, and be accepted. Future correspondence would be minimal and quite within Frank’s capabilities. Rosanne would never learn, must never learn, of the part Christian had played in her courtship. She must never discover just how much he knew about her.

  They would meet at her wedding as strangers, about to be cousins. Frank would want him to stand up with him in church.

  Damn. He hated weddings.

  “You have to come with me to Dorset, Chris. I can’t meet her again without your support. What shall I say to her? I need you.”

  “Frank,” he replied with more patience than he felt. “She loves you. She knows you’re no chatterbox. Just be yourself.”

  “Please.”

  Just as Christian hated weddings, he also detested large gatherings of the ton. At least a London ball was only one evening. But a weeklong celebration in a house crammed with people, many of whom were his own relations? Possibly even his own parents? He couldn’t face his father’s blustering demands that he leave the regiment, settle down to his duties on the estate, and produce an heir or two. Or his mother’s careless assurances that he needn’t worry about his scar because any woman would be happy to marry the heir to the Marquess of Glastonbury.

  She should know; she’d done so herself, and look how well that marriage had worked.

  Very likely the marquess and his wife would decide not to attend, since they rarely occupied the same house at the same time. But there would be no avoiding the stares and covert whispers inspired by Christian’s appearance.

  Put in the balance against this was that she would be there. Would she stare and whisper? Would she be repelled by the sight of him? He could not believe that Rosanne was so shallow. She wasn’t like other women.

  And although he knew it was a bad idea, he wanted to meet her.

  Chapter Two

  In the years since she came out Rosanne had stayed in many country houses, but none as magnificent, as imposing, as just plain grand as Kingstag Castle. She’d been here once, for an open day, but that wasn’t at all the same as being received as a guest in the lofty hall by the Duke of Wessex, his mother the duchess, and his bride-to-be, the incredibly beautiful Miss Grey. Kate, who’d persuaded Lord and Lady Warnford to let her attend the ducal wedding, seemed unintimidated by the vast halls, herds of liveried servants, profuse gilt, and endless passages. As soon as she’d changed out of her travel clothes into a demure white muslin gown, she set out to explore. Rosanne kept their maid tweaking her curls, showing a demand for perfection that surprised the girl.

  Kate burst back into the room. “I met the duke’s sisters, all three of them, and Lady Charlotte Ascot.”r />
  “What are they like?”

  “Very friendly. They told me Mr. Newnham arrived hours ago. Aren’t you ready yet?”

  “I suppose so.” Instead of setting forth with Kate to join the house party, she picked up her modest string of pearls and held them up to her neck. “Do you think these look better than the gold cross and chain?”

  “Who cares? Aren’t you dying to see Frank?”

  “I’m afraid I won’t be able to think of anything to say to him. I liked him when we met before, but I had no idea how clever and eloquent and wonderful he is. I’ll disappoint him, I know.”

  “Nonsense,” Kate said with complete lack of sympathy. “You can’t stay up here all day. If you don’t hurry, Mama will come looking for us and you’ll have to see him for the first time with her watching.”

  Faced with the prospect of finally getting a daughter off her hands, Lady Warnford was almost as excited about the coming reunion with Mr. Newnham as Rosanne, and much more vocal about it. Rosanne shuddered, picked up a light shawl, and made for the door, trying to ignore the fluttering in her stomach.

  “I haven’t told you the best thing.” Kate bounced at her heels, chattering away. “Lord Bruton is with him. Lady Serena says he’s frightening, but I think it would be splendid if I could attach him. I can see myself a future marchioness.”

  “Please try to behave properly, Kate. I’m nervous enough without you setting your cap at Frank’s cousin.”

  “I have no intention of waiting to marry until I am practically decrepit.”

  Rosanne’s hands flew to her face. “Do I look all right? Am I getting wrinkles?”

  “Maybe one on your forehead. And very faint crow’s feet around your eyes. No one will notice, I’m sure.”

  “Ka-ate!”

  Kate stopped teasing her. “I’ve never seen you in such a state. Mr. Newnham admired you a few months ago, and you haven’t changed. You are still beautiful. And he wouldn’t have kept writing so many letters if he didn’t love you.”

  This was no comfort but rather the source of her unease. After she confided her father’s sin, something had changed. Frank’s letters changed. They were shorter, for a start, and somehow less thoughtful, less intimate. He wrote only of inconsequential matters: his regimental duties and ventures into London society. While she couldn’t believe he would blame her for Lord Warnford’s behavior, she feared her indelicacy in mentioning it had disgusted him. He had been so kind to her over the matter, but...

  She set down the pearls, checked the mirror once more (no crow’s feet), and walked smartly to the door. “Let’s go,” she said. No point letting her mind gnaw at the question until she was on the brink of insanity. Soon she would see Frank and judge his feelings for herself.

  On the ground floor, a footman directed them to the saloon where the party was gathered for a light collation. Taking a deep breath and a firmer grip on her sister’s arm, Rosanne stepped toward the double-doored entry.

  “Rosanne, Kate. Stop!” Unfortunately they couldn’t ignore their mother. “We’ll all go in together.”

  “Where’s Papa? Shouldn’t you wait for him?” Kate asked, bless her. “I’ll keep Rosanne company.”

  Lady Warnford smiled wryly and shook her head. She, too, had taken special care with her coiffure, and she looked pretty and young. How could Papa? “Some gentlemen have gone to look at a phaeton that is said to be the most marvelous carriage ever built.” No further explanation was necessary. “I daresay most of the company at nuncheon will be ladies, unless a certain lieutenant cannot wait to see you.” Her avid expression did not bode well for the chances of tactful restraint when they encountered the gentleman.

  “You look very lovely, Rosanne,” she said approvingly. “Take my arms, my loves. The doors are wide enough for the three of us to enter together.” When she turned to Kate, a shriek of horror saved Rosanne from her fate. “What are you thinking? You cannot wear that gown in the morning without a chemisette high to the neck. And is that rouge on your lips? What were you thinking, Rosanne, to let your sister leave the room dressed like that?”

  “Rosanne was distracted,” Kate said, without a trace of repentance. “I think I look quite fetching.”

  “I knew I shouldn’t have let you come with us to Kingstag. You are not ready to be presented. Go back and change at once. No, we’ll come with you.”

  “I see Miss Black. I will join her.” The threat of her mother’s presence had removed any reluctance to face Frank. With luck she could get over the first awkwardness without maternal observation and comment.

  The crowd of guests made the spacious saloon appear small. As Lady Warnford had guessed, there was a preponderance of ladies, but a number of men had eschewed the delights of advancement in the art of carriage construction. Trying not to appear too obvious about it, Rosanne picked her way through chattering groups, craning her neck for a glimpse of one tall gentleman who would stand out as the handsomest, most distinguished man in the room.

  “Hey, gal! Are you looking for someone?” An extraordinary old lady, dressed in the style of her youth with an abundance of very improbable red hair, stood in her way. Rosanne recognized Lady Sophronia from her previous visit to Kingstag, when the old eccentric had berated the open-day crowds as ignorant gawkers before being tactfully led away by her companion, Miss Henrietta Black.

  “My lady,” she said, dropping a polite curtsey. “I wondered if Lieutenant Frank Newnham was in the room.”

  “He’s an idiot. All the Newnhams are. Take after their father.”

  “Mr. Newnham is very clever,” Rosanne said. “It is unfair to demean a man’s brain just because he is handsome.”

  Judging by her cackle, the old woman took no offence at being contradicted. “He’s pretty enough, I’ll grant you that. If that’s sufficient for you, I won’t argue. And why not? Marriage lasts a long time, and one may as well have something nice to look at when conversation palls.”

  “Lady Sophronia!” A pretty, rather harassed young woman joined them. “Miss Lacy isn’t it?”

  “A pleasure to see you again, Miss Black. Now if you’ll excuse me...”

  Rosanne managed to escape, but two uneasy circuits of the vast room failed to reveal Frank’s presence. Apprehension turned to a touch of pique that he wasn’t waiting anxiously to see her. But perhaps he was looking for her in the same way and they missed each other milling around.

  In a spot near a window, she had a good view of the room, with the advantage that a monstrous baroque stand crowned with a massive floral arrangement offered shelter from the eyes of her mother, who would be looking for her once she’d dealt with Kate’s wardrobe transgression.

  Three ladies and a gentleman, none of them known to her, were gathered a few feet away. The man presented a striking profile: inky black hair, a prominent but perfectly straight nose, and slashing cheekbones that set off a wide mouth curved into a derisive twist. Skillfully tailored to show off an excellent figure, he stood poker-straight and silent, radiating an unmistakable tension. To amuse herself, Rosanne wondered whether this was his habitual expression or whether his companions were the source of his disgust. As she strained her ears to distinguish the group’s conversation through the ambient buzz, he turned his head to reveal that his other cheek was marred by a jagged scar, a puckered puce line that descended from just below his eye, over his chin, and all the way down into the frothy folds of his neck cloth. Combined with his forbidding expression, it made him a sinister presence, like a villain in the silliest novel. Try as she might, she couldn’t keep her eyes off it, and neither, she realized, could the other ladies, whose glances kept darting to the poor man’s ruined face.

  How horrid it must be to be the object of vulgar curiosity. Not to mention the pain that must have accompanied such a grievous wound. Thinking about it made her cringe.

  o0o

  Christian had no idea how he’d managed to get himself maneuvered into a conversation with as inane a group of women as
he’d ever encountered. He could have gone to look at the phaeton with Frank, but he’d seen that design at the carriage maker’s when he ordered a new curricle. And whom was he fooling? He was dying to lay eyes on Rosanne Lacy. The trouble was, he had little idea what she looked like, aside from grey eyes and a well-endowed bosom. Frank was as inarticulate in the description of his lady love as he was at writing to her.

  Christian allowed himself to be introduced to what felt like every female in the room—and promptly forgot their names once he learned they weren’t called Lacy. They would remember him, all right. Their reactions were all the same: a moment of pleasure at meeting the heir to the Marquess of Glastonbury, followed by a intake of shocked breath, some better disguised than others, at his monstrous face. Then the continual stolen glances. Why was a scar so fascinating, anyway? He should never have come to this damnable event.

  The silly creatures were talking about the wedding. Of course. Women were all enthralled by marriage.

  “Miss Grey will make the most beautiful bride.”

  “She is very pretty,” agreed the youngest of them. “I wonder what she will wear for the ceremony. Her sister Mrs. Barrows dresses strikingly. The quality of her cloth and trimmings is very fine, though the colors are too bold. Still, I should like to know where she found that canary silk twill.”

  “My dear! Don’t you know that Mrs. Barrows owns a shop?”

  Christian let the ill-natured gossip float over his head. He was wondering how long he had to put up with this nightmare when his opinion was sought, not, thank God, on the question of silk twill.