At the Duke's Wedding (A romance anthology)

by Caroline Linden

  Chapter Ten

  The wedding day dawned cool and misty. Awake since before first light, Cleo lay staring at the ceiling until the maid brought warm water for her to wash. There would be dark circles under her eyes, but the last two days of solitary contemplation had been good for her, in a way. She had nothing to regret; she had lost nothing that had been hers. What she felt for Gareth ... it was unnatural, besides being wrong. People couldn’t fall in love so quickly, she told herself. It was not love; it was merely desire, or perhaps a hidden longing to be married again emerging with all the fuss over Helen’s wedding. It would pass, she told herself, trying to believe it. Sooner or later. The important thing was that she hadn’t acted on any of those mad, wicked impulses and betrayed her beloved sister.

  She dressed slowly, carefully. Her mother had dictated her gown for the day, and Cleo had rolled her eyes behind her mother’s back at the volume of lace and the bland shade of gray. It would have been entirely appropriate for elderly Lady Sophronia—or rather, for someone of Lady Sophronia’s age, for Sophronia would probably have sliced the gray dress into pieces with her little Scottish dirk. Normally Cleo would feel the same way; Matthew had even made her swear not to wear mourning for him. He didn’t want her to be old before her time, he had said. But this morning Cleo put on the gray dress without complaint. Today she felt old and mournful, and might as well look it.

  She drank the tea the maid brought, then just sat by the window, staring blindly at the grounds. The carriages were to come at ten o’clock to carry them to the Kingstag chapel. It was only a little past eight, although if Cleo knew her mother, the carriages would be waiting at least half an hour. Millicent was incapable of being on time to anything.

  A maid interrupted her morose thoughts. “Your pardon, ma’am, but your mother, Lady Grey, requests you come to her.”

  Cleo’s eyebrows went up, but she went without question. No doubt she would provide an audience to her mother’s raptures over Helen’s gown and hair and shoes. With something as momentous as this, Millicent would need someone to boast to, and Cleo was the only person who would listen and not think her crass. She braced herself and tapped at Helen’s door.

  It opened and her mother seized her arm, whisking her inside before closing the door behind her. Cleo rubbed her arm, startled. “Why must you do that, Mama?”

  “Shh!” Millicent pressed a handkerchief to her lips before her face crumpled. “Something awful has happened.”

  Her heart stopped. “What? Is Helen ill?”

  “Helen,” said her mother in tragic tones, “is not here.”

  “What do you mean? Of course she’s here, somewhere at Kingstag.” Cleo was astonished. “When did you discover she wasn’t in her room? We must look for her—”

  Millicent waved her handkerchief as if to dispel the words. “Don’t say that! Would you have us run up and down the corridors calling her name? What would people think?”

  “They’ll notice if she doesn’t come to her own wedding.” Cleo tried to tame her thoughts into order. “Chances are she woke early from nerves and went for a walk. Have you checked the garden?”

  “Of course we did!” snapped her father, pacing in front of the fireplace. “What kind of fool do you think I am? I went there first thing.”

  “But she’s not there—her bed hasn’t been slept in—she never rang for her maid—she’s gone and run off and we’ll all be humiliated when His Grace discovers it!” Millicent burst into loud weeping. Cleo patted her mother’s shoulder numbly, not knowing what to think. Where could Helen be? Had she truly run off?

  Her heart took a mad leap at the thought; perhaps her sister didn’t wish to marry Wessex after all. Perhaps there was a chance for Cleo to have him without hurting her sister and causing a scandal. She was a wicked woman for thinking it, but she did think it.

  “We must tell His Grace,” she began, only to be cut off by her father.

  “We most certainly must not! What will he think?”

  “He’ll think Helen’s not here,” said Cleo, “which is true. Mama, we must tell him,” she insisted as her mother shook her head and burst into tears again. “We cannot conceal her absence! He’ll notice his bride is missing.”

  Millicent clutched at her arms. “You must find her,” she begged. “Please look—you and she were always thick as thieves. We’ll be a laughingstock if she jilts the Duke of Wessex at the altar!”

  Cleo ignored that. She rather thought the duke wouldn’t mind being jilted, but there might be another reason Helen had gone missing. “I’ll go look for Helen, but I have to tell the duke. He has a right to know,” she said, raising her voice as her mother began to moan softly. “Let me change my shoes and get a pelisse.”

  “Yes! Yes, you must go.” Her mother retreated to the sofa. “Oh, where are my smelling salts?”

  Cleo went back to her own room and kicked off her gray satin slippers. Her sister might have gone for a walk and fallen; she could be lying hurt somewhere on the vast estate. Walking boots in hand, Cleo sat down at the dressing table, not bothering to ring for her maid to change her dress. Until she knew Helen was at least safe, there was no time to lose. She laced up on boot, combing her memory for any place Helen might have wandered. Where could she be?

  The answer stared her in the face when she reached for the second boot.

  Cleo seized the note tucked partly under a box of face powder. It was folded small and bore her initials in Helen’s delicate writing. Unfolding it with shaking fingers, she read. Then she read again. She laughed a little madly, then stopped at once, glancing around the room in guilt. People would think she was mad, and Helen, too.

  Oh, God. What a twist.

  On shaking legs she went back to her mother’s room. Her parents were where she had left them, alone, thank God. She closed the room door behind her, and cleared her throat.

  “What is it?” barked her father.

  “I’ve found a note,” she said, “from Helen.”

  That roused even Millicent. “What does it say?” Sir William strode across the room to snatch the paper from Cleo’s hand before she could read it. His eyes skimmed it, then his face blanched, and he thrust it back at her as if it burned him. “You!” he croaked. “You did this!”

  “No!” she gasped. “No! I did nothing!”

  “What?” cried Millicent, struggling off the sofa. “What has happened to poor Helen?”

  “Poor Helen,” spat Sir William, “has disgraced us all! Disgraced and ruined us! And you—” He shook his finger at Cleo, “—you are responsible!”

  “I most certainly am not!” Cleo’s temper finally snapped at his unjust accusation. She had held her tongue about her shop and endured his suspicion without a word, but now she had had enough. “You are, Papa, if anyone is. You and Mama both.”

  He reared back. “How dare you!”

  “Helen has been unhappy and anxious since we arrived, and neither of you paid any attention because you were so pleased she was marrying a duke. I knew she was unhappy, but she insisted it was just nerves—which you, Mama, made worse with your incessant talk of how glorious Kingstag is and what an honor is will be to preside over it.”

  “But it’s a castle,” protested her mother. “Helen needs to know—”

  Cleo threw up one hand. “Helen needed to know her future husband cared for her. She needed to know she would be happy with him. It doesn’t matter what sort of house he has if she’s miserable!”

  “This is the match of the season!” said her father furiously. “A brilliant marriage! You tempted your sister away from following her duty, prompting her into some hysterical fit. I knew it was a mistake to let you come.”

  She shook her head. “Why is it Helen’s duty to replenish your fortune, Papa? Why wasn’t it your duty to make economies or learn investments or do anything at all to support your family? Instead you’ve been content to live off your daughters, taking the money I earned in my hateful little shop and now selling Helen in mar
riage, regardless of her feelings in the matter.”

  Sir William’s face was purple. “You are dead to me now.”

  Cleo just lifted one shoulder sadly. “I know. I’ve been dead to you for years. But now I think you shall be dead to me as well, if you cannot forgive Helen for what she’s done. Being happy is more important than being a duchess.” She turned to go.

  “Cleo!” Her mother’s anxious voice stopped her. “You—you will still try to find her, won’t you? To make sure she’s not hurt, and—” Millicent cast an anxious glance at her husband. Cleo’s heart started to soften toward her mother. Perhaps one parent would be made to see reason; surely her mother still cared about more than Helen’s status. “—and perhaps,” Millicent went on hesitantly, “perhaps she might reconsider ...”

  “Yes, Mama,” she said, and left the room, closing the door on her parents. Her heart thudded, both with disbelief that she had finally been so blunt with them and with surprisingly little regret. She had borne it because she believed that, deep down, they loved her and Helen; she had told herself they were simply unable to conquer their disappointment in her marriage to Matthew. A shopkeeper was a distinct step down, and she had excused them that. But finally she accepted that it was excessive pride, indifferent affection, and arrogance. They wanted their daughters to marry well so they might live more comfortably and trade on their daughters’ connections. Her actions, like Helen’s today, mattered to them only as a reflection on their own state.

  And if Helen had finally taken charge of her own life and happiness, there was nothing at all to stop Cleo from doing the same. She didn’t know where Wessex’s rooms were, but she found the butler and told him she must speak to the duke urgently. He directed her to the study at the back of the house, overlooking the gardens.

  At the door she took a deep breath and knocked. Just the sound of his muffled voice made her pulse jump. She let herself in, glancing quickly around to be certain there was no one else in the room.

  He was alone, standing in front of the window with his hands clasped behind his back. Just the sight of him made her dizzy with yearning and hope. She unfolded Helen’s note. “I have something to tell you, Your Grace. It is about my sister.”

  His attention was fixed on her. “Oh?”

  “Yes.” She checked that the door was securely closed. “My sister left me a note, which I only discovered a few minutes ago. May I share it with you?” He inclined his head, and she wet her lips, then read Helen’s note. “Dearest Cleo: By the time you read this, I shall be gone from Kingstag Castle. I am writing to you because you are the only one who will understand why: James and I are eloping. We hope to make Gretna Green by the end of the week.”

  Her voice faltered. She swallowed, and read on. “I am very sorry to do such a thing to His Grace. He honored me greatly with his offer of marriage, and I did accept him honestly. But I feel it would be an even greater disservice to him if I were to go through with a marriage I no longer want, and could not be happy in, while I loved another man. Comfort him, Cleo, and tell him I am sorry. Your loving sister, Helen.”

  For long moment there was silence. Cleo folded the note, unsure what to do next.

  He crossed the room to her. “May I see it?” She gave it to him, trembling a little as his fingers brushed hers. Wessex unfolded the note and read it before letting it fall to the ground. “So I’ve been jilted.”

  “I believe you have been.” Her heart beat so hard it hurt. He wasn’t going to marry Helen, sang the wicked voice inside her head. Some remnant of duty obliged her to add, “My parents are distraught that Helen would do such a thing.”

  “Yes, I imagine they are,” he murmured. “Are you?”

  “Well—I wish my sister had confided in someone before disappearing in the night and giving us a great fright ...”

  “James Blair is the most capable man I know. If she’s with him, she is perfectly well.”

  She just nodded, overwhelmed by the jumble of hope and uncertainty inside her. He was taking the news very calmly, but also without any show of the relief she felt that now he—like Cleo—was free to follow his heart. Perhaps his heart had reconsidered; perhaps he couldn’t stomach the thought of anything to do with her family after Helen’s action. She was a common merchant, after all, hardly a likely duchess. Perhaps she had been all wrong ...

  “And have you come to do as your sister asked?” He rested one hand against the door above her shoulder. “Have you come to console me, Cleo?”

  The way he said her name was almost a caress. “If there is any way I can.”

  A smile bent his mouth as his eyes darkened. “I think I may require excessive consolation after this most distressing fortnight.”

  “And being jilted,” she whispered.

  His smile grew darker, more intimate. “My darling,” he said, “being jilted has been the best part—thus far.”

  Cleo’s knees went weak. She hadn’t been wrong at all. She laid her hand on his chest. He was wonderfully big and warm beneath her palm, his heartbeat steady and strong. “Your heart doesn’t seem broken.”

  He laid his hand over hers, pressing it against his silk waistcoat. “On the contrary—I think it has only just begun to beat with purpose, now that you are here.”

  She listed toward him. “Why is that?”

  He smoothed a wisp of hair away from her temple, then curved his hand around her nape. “Because I can finally do this,” he said, and kissed her.

  She melted against him, opening her mouth and meeting his tongue with her own. She gripped his jacket, holding him to her, and then she forced the lapels wide, trying to peel it off him. With a harsh exclamation, he pulled his arms free of the jacket and let it fall to the floor behind him before gathering her close. She pressed against him, her cheek on his chest, listening to the rapid thump of his heart. She could feel the warmth of his skin through his shirtsleeves.

  “Cleo,” he murmured against her hair. “If there is any reason ... any objection you have to me making love to you, tell me now.”

  “No,” she gasped, catching his shoulders as his hands slid down around her bottom, lifting her up onto her toes, dragging her against his rigid arousal.

  “No? I should stop?” He tugged her earlobe between his teeth.

  Cleo whimpered. “Don’t stop,” she moaned. “Don’t ever stop.”

  His hand slipped behind her back, pulling loose the tiny pearl buttons of her gown. The demure bodice slid down, and then he pulled it further down until her breasts were almost exposed. She shuddered at the cool air on her flesh, her head falling back against the door behind her. His hand cupped her breast, his mouth was hot on her neck. “Wessex,” she gasped, dimly thinking they ought to find a more comfortable location.

  “Gareth.” He pulled at her bodice again, and there was a sound of cloth ripping. “My God, you’re beautiful in every way.” He lowered his head to her breast and Cleo abandoned all thought of moving. She plowed her fingers into his thick dark hair and gave herself up to the pleasure of his lips on her skin, his teeth scraping over her taut nipple, his tongue playing along the delicate flesh of her bosom.

  He drew up the skirt of her gown, and she shifted her feet to allow him to press ever closer to her. He raised one eyebrow as his boot bumped against hers. Cleo blushed; in her hurry she’d run through the house wearing only one shoe. Gareth simply grinned as he fell to his knee, unlaced the boot, and tossed it aside, and then his hands were exploring the length of her legs. His fingers skimmed her silk stockings, plucked at her garters, and then roamed higher. She gasped aloud in pent-up desire when he finally touched the aching folds between her legs.

  Even she, who had eloped at seventeen, had never been so careless of propriety and restraint. With inarticulate words and sighs she urged him on, clasping his head to her bosom as he stroked her and teased her. When her legs threatened to give out beneath her, she managed to tug at his hair. “Gareth,” she gasped, her heart thundering and her breath ragged.
“Gareth, please ...”

  He shuddered. “When you say my name that way ...” He lurched to his feet, tearing at his trousers. “Put your arms around my neck,” he commanded, his voice rough. Cleo obeyed, glad he put his own arm around her waist. She might have stumbled and fallen if he hadn’t. “Now tell me ...” He caught her knee and pulled, hooking it around his hip to hold her skirt out of the way. “Say you want me, Cleo ... Please, darling ...”

  “I want you madly.” She strained against him. “I want you now.”

  “Thank God.” He cupped his hand around her bottom and held her as he fitted himself against her and pushed home. Cleo made a faint gasp of delight and surprise. It felt so good, so right, to have him inside her. She tightened her grip on his neck and pressed her forehead against his shoulder. Every nerve felt alive as he held her so easily, so securely, so intimately. He seemed as moved as she was. His chest heaved and his arms trembled. “At last,” she thought he whispered, and then he began to move.

  Whatever making love against a door might lack in finesse and comfort, Cleo thought she might prefer it to any other kind. She curled herself around Gareth, meeting each hard thrust with a little arch of her back. He held her easily, he knew right where to touch her, and when it all culminated in a fierce climax, she almost burst into tears. Gareth caught his breath and rested his forehead against hers as his hips jerked a few more times in his own release, and then he kissed her, leisurely and thoroughly.

  And then there came a soft tap at the door. Cleo started in spite of the hazy contentment that enveloped her. She could feel the knock through the wood at her back, and the thought of what the person on the other side would think, if he knew what was just inches from him, made laughter bubble up in her throat. Lips pressed shut to hold it back, she looked up at Gareth, her eyes tearing.

  He grinned lazily down at her. “Yes?” he called.

  There was a pause, then the butler’s voice came through the door, low and rushed, as if he were whispering through the crack of the doorjamb. “Your Grace, Mr. Blair wishes to see you at once.”