by Mary Balogh
Elizabeth. Christ!
He walked on, looking about him, trying to identify his surroundings. There was a strange novelty about knowing himself to be back on English soil. He tried to think about the victory that was so preoccupying the minds of his fellow countrymen. But how could he think of such trivialities?
Elizabeth, he thought, clamping his teeth together. And he felt sudden fury. And pain. And panic. Tomorrow morning. At St.
George’s, Hanover Square. Poole. She was going to marry Poole.
Tomorrow.
Almost of their own volition his feet carried him back in the direction of the Pulteney. He walked faster as he drew close. He had had no idea that he had wandered so far. He was almost running by the time he arrived back at the hotel.
Chapter 2
IT was her wedding day.
Lady Elizabeth Ward was standing alone in her dressing room. She had dismissed her maid, and everyone else but her father and her stepbrother had left for the church already. It was her wedding day.
She stood before the full-length pier glass and gazed at her image. It did not feel like a wedding day. She did not look like a bride. Not really.
But then brides were supposed to be seventeen or eighteen years of age, not five and twenty, and they were supposed to be dressed in white with orange blossoms in their hair and adorning their dresses according to the new French fashion and bouquets of flowers in their hands. And they were supposed to be flushed and bright-eyed and nervous.
She was dressed in pale blue and had only a few flowers—not orange blossoms—in her hair, none in her hands. She hoped that Manley would not mind that she was not in white. But he knew that she was no girl, and white somehow seemed inappropriate. A large wedding at St. George’s seemed inappropriate too. But both Manley and her father had been insistent about that, Manley because of his own political ambitions, and Papa because he wanted her to show the world quite publicly that the past was just that. The past.
And yes, he was right, Elizabeth thought, turning from the glass and wishing that she had decided to wear a bonnet rather than the girlish flowers. She had paid her dues to the past. Seven years of incarceration in the country in an exile that had been largely self-imposed. For the first few of those years she had scarcely wanted to live but had gone through the motions for the sake of others. For the rest of the years she had put herself back together again, taken charge of her own life, which she had never done even as a girl, made herself mistress of Richmond, her father’s principal estate.
But she had grown restless. Life had more to offer than the part of it she was living, she had come to believe. She needed that life. All of it. She needed a man again. Marriage. But not as an emotional prop.
All her life she had used men as her props—her father, her brother John, her stepbrother Martin . . . She brought the list to an abrupt stop. No, she no longer needed a man to help her to live. She needed a man with whom to share her life.
And so she had come back to London for the winter, much against the advice of Martin, who had lived in the country with her all those years, gently nursing her back to emotional health, giving her all the support and companionship she had needed. Dear Martin. She had been very selfish to keep him from his own life for so long. And yet he had never complained and had even tried to persuade her to change her mind when she had decided to return to town.
She had settled on Manley Hill, Lord Poole. He was almost twenty years her senior and was distinguished looking if not handsome. But far more important than either his age or his looks, he was a dedicated and ambitious politician—a Whig rather than a Tory, it was true, but then she could always respect sincerely held beliefs even when they differed from her own. As his wife she could be useful. She could work at his side to further his ambitions. She could lead a busy and a useful life.
She had chosen with her head and not her heart. She was no longer a young girl to believe that following the heart could bring eternal happiness. Happiness was fleeting at best. Contentment, a sense of purpose, a life of useful industry—they were far better goals for which to reach.
She may not feel like a bride, Elizabeth thought, looking back to the pier glass, and she may not look like one, but being a bride was not important. Being a wife was everything. She was going to make Manley a good wife.
And yet in spite of everything she felt a wave of nervousness, almost of panic. Almost as if she were about to burn all her bridges behind her. Almost as if she still hoped as she had hoped during those first empty years . . .No, there was nothing to be hoped for. It was largely to put to rest the hopeless dream that she had come to London for the winter. It was finally to shatter the dream that she had deliberately set out to find herself a husband.
Well, she had found him. And she was satisfied. She lifted her chin and smiled determinedly at her image. And then she was looking beyond her own reflection to the opening door of her dressing room and the sight of her stepbrother standing in the doorway, dressed in all his wedding finery. Her smile held.
“Oh, you do look splendid, Martin,” she said. “You look as if you should be the groom, not merely the bride’s brother.”
He laughed and propped one shoulder against the door frame as his arms crossed over his chest. “It is you who are supposed to be listening to compliments, Lizzie,” he said. “You look lovely, as I fully expected. Nervous?”
“No, of course not,” she said briskly. But she met his eyes and laughed. “Yes, of course I am. Christina was in tears when I sent her off to the church.”
“Christina will get used to the idea,” he said firmly. “You are quite sure it is only nervousness you feel, Lizzie, and not reluctance? It is not too late, you know. If you have changed your mind, I shall go and tell Poole so. We can go back to Kingston, you and I, and thumb our noses at any scandal that may ensue. What do you say?”
Elizabeth gave a mock shriek. “Oh, not now, Martin, please,” she said. “Not when I am feeling at my most vulnerable. But you would do it too, would you not? Walk into St. George’s with such an announcement, I mean. I know you have been troubled by my choice. I know you think I should wait for love and all that nonsense.” She walked toward him and stretched out her hands to him. “But I know what I am doing. I am marrying into just the life that will give me a sense of purpose. I have no real doubts. I am just nervous. St. George’s, Martin, and half the ton waiting for me there!”
Martin took her cold hands in warm ones and squeezed them.
“Well,”, he said, “if you are sure, Lizzie. You know that all I want for you is happiness. I’ll always be here for you, married or single. You know that, don’t you?”
She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Yes, I know it,” she said.
“You have been like a real brother to me, Martin.”
“Like a twin?” he said, reminding her of the old joke they had often shared. They looked rather alike, being of similar height and both having honey blond hair and gray eyes. They had been almost inseparable from the age of two, when the Duke of Chicheley had married Martin’s mother, both of them recently widowed. Martin was three months older than Elizabeth.
“It is time you had a life of your own,” she said. “You spent too many years at Kingston, Martin, just because I needed you. I will always remember that and always love you for it. But it is time for you to look about you for a wife.”
His eyes smiled into hers. Martin’s eyes always smiled, Elizabeth thought. When he was older he was going to have permanent laugh lines at their corners. He was also the most amiable and the least selfish person she had known. And it was not just partiality because he was her dearest friend and almost her brother. Everyone liked Martin.
“I am in no hurry to marry,” he said.
“Of course.” She clucked her tongue and laughed at him.
“Twenty-five is shockingly old for a woman but mere boyhood for a man. So much for justice in this world.”
“You will never be shockingly old, Liz
zie,” he said. “Especially not in my eyes.”
“I wish John were here,” Elizabeth said, suddenly remembering that the day would not be quite complete because her elder brother, a lieutenant-colonel with Wellington’s cavalry, had not yet returned from Spain. “But I should not complain, should I? The best wedding gift I could possibly have received was the news of the end of the wars. Perhaps he will be home soon.”
“We will hope so,” Martin said. “We had better go downstairs, Lizzie. It does not do for a bride to be more than fashionably late for her own wedding, you know.”
“And Papa will be getting impatient,” she said. She drew a deep breath. “So this is it. Wish me well, Martin.”
“It will be the happiest day of your life, Lizzie,” he said, kissing her on both cheeks before tucking her arm through his.
The happiest day of her life? She wished he had not said that. She was not marrying for happiness. And she had the uncomfortable feeling that she had heard those words before— the happiest day of your life. She felt cold suddenly and shivered as they descended the stairs. She did not want to think of the past. She was making a new beginning today. A decisive new start. She only wished she could leave her memories behind so that all could be new. But that, of course, was impossible.
Her father was standing at the foot of the stairs, leaning heavily on his cane and looking up at her with brooding affection. Several of the servants, who had no business being in the hall, were nevertheless there, also looking up at her, their faces beaming goodwill. A couple of the housemaids and one footman even broke into applause at her appearance. They had come to see her on her way to her wedding.
It was her wedding day, Elizabeth thought again. She smiled warmly.
A sizable crowd of the curious had gathered in Hanover Square to witness one of the free wonders that the capital sometimes offered in the springtime—a ton wedding. This particular wedding had perhaps even more than the usual attraction, it being one of the first of the year and the weather being sunny and warm and the mood of festivity strong on the whole city. Besides, the groom was a baron and the bride the daughter of a duke. And she had been involved in a very public scandal not so many years back. A few came to gaze at her for no other reason than that.
Some had been standing on the square in the sun and the breeze for an hour and more before the bride arrived. There had been ample entertainment to hold their attention as a seemingly endless stream of grand and fashionable carriages appeared, stopped outside the church, and deposited their gorgeously clad occupants, while the lookers-on craned their necks to discover their identities.
There was a buzz of heightened interest when the groom arrived with two other gentlemen and the female spectators could assure one another that yes, he was handsome and that yes, he looked nervous, poor soul. The men were perhaps more occupied with envying him the approaching wedding night—though they had not yet seen the bride.
There was a lull then of perhaps ten minutes after all the guests and the groom had arrived and before the bride put in her appearance. But no one seemed impatient to leave. This was the culmination of the morning’s entertainment, this suspense preceding the first glimpse of the bride. Some would drift away after she had arrived rather than wait for the whole service within the church to be finished before the bells pealed out and the bride and groom could at last be seen together. But nobody drifted yet.
If only they had known it, the spectators were to be provided with far better entertainment than they had ever known on like occasions before and better than they were likely to know ever again. But they did not know it yet and waited with eager anticipation, craning their necks to stare off along the road by which the carriage would approach as if their very stares would bring it into sight.
And finally it came, an elegant dark blue carriage with the arms of the Duke of Chicheley emblazoned on the side panels, the wigged and stiff postilions in the duke’s blue and gold livery, the white horses with plaited manes and golden plumes. The crowd buzzed and leaned forward. Some people even cheered.
A young man leapt out of the carriage first after the doors had been opened and reached up to help someone else out. He was the bride’s brother, someone said. Stepbrother, someone else corrected, and soon all were agreed that the young man was indeed the bride’s stepbrother, Mr. Martin Honywood, the bride’s brother, Viscount Aston, being one of the heroes with Wellington in France. Mr.
Honywood was looking quite splendid, dressed all in blue and silver and sparkling white. He was helping his stepfather out of the carriage. The old duke suffered from gout, the knowledgeable explained to those less so.
And then, the old duke safely on the pavement, one hand clutching his cane, the other the shoulder of one of the postilions, Mr. Honywood turned back to the carriage and extended his hand again. A buzz and an expectant hush swept over the crowd. The bride was being helped down all in a rustling cloud of pale blue silk.
“Ah!” several of the women said on a collective sigh of ecstasy. She was as pretty as a princess, her form slender and shapely beneath the silk, her flower-threaded hair the color of pale honey.
And yet almost at the same moment as she set one slippered foot on the pavement, all heads suddenly jerked away from their contemplation of her beauty. There was the discordant sound of galloping hooves, the totally unexpected sight of a dark horse carrying a dark-cloaked, dark-hatted rider, and the sudden shocking realization that the rider was masked, almost all of his face except his eyes and his mouth covered in black to match the rest of him. There were those who swore afterward that his eyes were red and flashing fire. There were those who swore that his teeth were pointed fangs.
But for the moment everyone merely gawked. There was almost no sound.
And then the masked horseman galloped into the square and up to the church, taking his horse between it and the duke’s carriage, and he leaned down from his saddle, gathered up the astonished bride with one arm, twisted her with incredible strength so that she sat sideways in front of him, and turned to gallop off back the way he had come.
It was only when the bride finally screamed that the spell was broken and pandemonium broke loose. But pandemonium came rather too late. The bride had gone. The guests and the groom waited in vain inside St. George’s for the wedding service to begin.
Chapter 3
IT all happened so quickly and so totally unexpectedly that for a few moments Elizabeth did not comprehend what was happening at all. One moment she had her hand in Martin’s and was stepping down onto the pavement outside the church, looking into his eyes for reassurance to counter the butterflies that were dancing in her stomach, and the next she was . . . Well, she did not at all know what she was doing next until she realized that she was on horseback, an arm tight about her waist, and that the horse she was sharing with the owner of that arm was galloping at dangerous speed away from the church and out of Hanover Square.
And then she turned her head and saw that her captor’s face was almost completely covered with a black mask and that his lips were thin below it and his eyes glittering through it. It was then that she understood that she was being abducted. It was then that she screamed and flailed her arms at the man’s face and chest.
“Be still, you fool,” he commanded. “Would you commit suicide?”
But panic and terror had her in their clutches. She had no thought to spare for the greater danger that dislodging him or breaking free of his hold would bring. She fought in wild desperation for her freedom. This could not happen in the daylit streets of London, the part of her mind that was still rational told her. A masked man in the middle of London committing the crime of kidnapping? And getting away with it? Impossible!
She did not know how far from the square he galloped. Probably not far at all. She was not rational enough to note streets or landmarks. But suddenly there was a carriage, a plain carriage, as dark as the horse and rider, and a small fierce-looking man was holding the door open. She was being lowere
d from the horse’s back and thrust inside. And the door was being locked from the outside. It was also shuttered on the outside. It began to move almost immediately.
The dimness of the interior and its emptiness were more frightening for the moment than riding with the masked stranger had been. Here no one could see her to know that she needed rescuing.
Here the darkness and the walls were closing in on her so that she could not breathe. She turned and pounded her fists against the door through which she had been shoved. And then she pounded them against the front panel, calling to the coachman to stop.
She did not scream. She found it possible do so only when she was not thinking about it, as she had done when she had first realized her plight. She could not scream now though it seemed to be the only way to attract the attention of those people who must be walking or riding on whichever street they were bowling along.
But she could not scream. She sat down on the seat facing the horses and forced panic down with several deep and slow breaths.
They were kidnapping her. Why? For money, of course. They would take her somewhere safe, probably outside the city limits, where her screams would be unlikely to attract attention, and they would apply to Papa for ransom. Or perhaps to Manley, though he was not yet her husband. Her stomach lurched at the thought. She should be beside him at the altar now at this very moment. She forced her mind to calmness again. It would all take a few hours. Overnight at the longest. By tomorrow she would be free.
It was amazing really, she thought, clasping her hands very tightly in her lap, forcing her breathing to remain slow and even, that this did not happen more often. Ton weddings were well publicized affairs, and the bride and groom were invariably of wealthy families.
Any enterprising fortune hunter might make that fortune from kidnapping. She supposed that all the families who would arrange weddings at St. George’s for the rest of the Season would be a great deal more careful. But she had been first and it had happened to her.