“You are so silly, Eliza,” Becky said. “What lady wants flowers, when she could have gold and jewels?”
“What lady wants gold and jewels,” she countered, “when she could wear a crown of delicate, scented wildflowers—never before worn and never to be worn again?”
“How lovely you make it sound,” Becky said.
“It is lovely,” Eliza insisted. She leaned over and gave each girl a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Becky. Thank you, Reggie. I will always remember your thoughtfulness.”
Eliza wanted the twins to understand how important their gift was to her. That it was not the value of the gift that made it precious, but the love that had prompted the giving of it. Yet from the strange look Reggie had given her, and the confusion on Becky’s face, Eliza knew they did not understand. Or if they did, could neither accept nor believe what they were hearing. Someday, in the not too distant future, both children would.
But first, Eliza had to get through the wedding. The wildflowers were beginning to wilt. Where was the groom? He had said sundown. They had not even come to the chapel until sundown. Had the Beast changed his mind?
It was too late for that. They had made a bargain. Eliza intended to see it through. Even if she had to drag the Beast kicking and screaming to the altar.
The thought made Eliza smile. And shudder.
“The decorations are so very beautiful,” Becky said with a sigh, glancing around the chapel. “The flowers. And the candles.”
Eliza eyed the two painted ceramic vases Griggs was arranging on the altar—unfortunately unmatched—which held enormous bouquets of dark purple irises, fern, and cascading wisteria. The twins had turned the rest of the wildflowers they had gathered that morning into two large baskets of petals, since Reggie had decided to join Becky in reenacting the wedding at the fair in Comarty. If they threw them all, she would be wading in wildflowers.
Eliza had done everything she could, with the help of Griggs and the children, to dispel the gloom in the chapel. Beeswax candles burned in every iron sconce along the crumbling wall, and from as many candelabras as she and the twins could carry from one wing of the Abbey to the other in a single afternoon.
As he joined her, Griggs muttered, “All lit up like a Spanish whorehouse. All we need are the dancin’ ladies.”
Eliza’s lips curled, but she could not manage the smile. She was too aware of how little time remained before she was to become a bride. “Where is he, Griggs?”
“Waitin’ for company to arrive, miss. Should be along any minute now.”
“Company?” Eliza asked, her stomach shifting sideways. “What company?”
Griggs shrugged. “Folks he invited to the weddin’.”
Eliza tightened her grip on the ribbon-bound bouquet of wildflowers she had rescued from the twins before they dissolved it into petals. Drat the man! She could barely keep her knees from knocking, she was so scared, and the looby had invited guests to the wedding!
“Eliza! You’re beautiful!”
Eliza whirled. She almost broke into tears when she saw who was standing there. “Charlie!”
The Earl and Countess of Denbigh were flanked by the Duke and Duchess of Braddock. Behind them, hat in hand, stood Cousin Nigel and his wife. Bringing up the rear, but by no means the least of the collected company, stood Aunt Lavinia.
“Oh, dear,” Eliza said. “Oh, dear.” She was overwhelmed with joy, with gratefulness that he—that man—the captain—had thought to invite her friends, and that he had somehow convinced Aunt Lavinia to come, as well.
And though she could not be happy that Cousin Nigel was present, she suddenly realized what the Beast must have known full well—that her guardian must give his consent for her wedding to be valid.
Eliza glanced at each of them again, her heart in her throat. “Oh, dear,” she said.
“My sharp-tongued Eliza can only say ‘Oh, dear? Have you lost your wit, as well as your senses?” the countess asked, walking right up to Eliza and hugging her. “What is this I hear? Is it possible? Did the Beau really ask for your hand, and did you really say yes?”
Eliza gestured helplessly to the flowers she carried and the crown in her hair. “Can you think of any other reason I would become a walking garden?”
“That is my Eliza!” the countess said with a laugh and another hug. “See, Lion, everything has turned out fine, after all.”
Eliza noticed the earl reserved agreement. Instead he said, “I have brought the special dispensation for Blackthorne to be married after dark.”
Griggs held out his hand. “I will take it, your lordship.”
Eliza stared as the paper changed hands. Of course. Weddings were only held between eight in the morning and noon. It had never even occurred to her that the Beast would need permission to do otherwise.
While Eliza was standing lost in thought, Charlotte, being Charlotte, introduced herself to the twins. And introduced the twins to everyone else.
Eliza was surprised to see Reggie and Becky curtsy with perfect civility to each person they met and introduce themselves politely as “Lady Regina” and “Lady Rebecca.” Why those scamps! For all their “trouble” with governesses, they had absolutely perfect manners!
“Where is His Grace?” Eliza whispered to Griggs.
“I’m to fetch him and the Reverend Mister Hopewell once everyone is seated,” Griggs whispered back.
Eliza was distracted by the Duchess of Braddock’s hand on her arm.
“I am so glad for you, Miss Sheringham,” the duchess said. “You are so brave …”
Eliza shivered. Did the duchess know something she did not? Was there more to fear from the Beast than a scarred face and a clawlike hand?
The duke put his arm around Her Grace’s shoulder and said, “The duchess and I extend our best wishes to you and Blackthorne, Miss Sheringham,” before leading his wife over to be introduced to the twins.
“Are you alt right?” her aunt asked. “Your hands are cold.”
“The chapel is cold,” Eliza said, making an excuse for her bloodless hands. “As you will soon discover for yourself. Let me help you find a seat.”
Eliza began to lead her aunt toward one of the front pews.
“Pardon me, miss,” Griggs said. “But His Grace said only the last two rows.”
“What?”
“No one’s to sit closer than the last two rows.”
“Steady, dear,” her aunt said, clasping her hand tightly. “Come, find me a place to sit. My old legs are buckling under me.”
White-faced, Eliza led her aunt to a seat on the aisle in the next-to-the-last row. “At least you will be able to smell me when I go by,” she said. “I am all over flowers.”
“Are you wearing the dress?”
Eliza flushed. “Yes.”
Every dress Eliza had brought with her to Blackthorne Abbey had been lilac or lavender, the only colors she felt comfortable wearing so soon after her year of mourning. But lavender was the wrong color for a wedding.
Aunt Lavinia had heard her muttering and said, “Open my leather traveling valise. I believe I have something in there you can alter to fit you.”
Eliza had opened the valise and gasped at what she found. “What is this?”
“Your wedding dress, It is a gift from your mother.”
Eliza had been aghast. And entranced.
“Is it as beautiful as it was the day I saw your mother try it on?” her aunt asked.
“I don’t know,” Eliza rasped, staring down at the square, pearl-encrusted bodice, the ivory satin skirt. “It must have cost of fortune.”
It had been intended as a ballgown, her aunt had said, for her mother’s first ball in London. But it had never been worn. All these years it had lain in a cedar chest, to be given to Eliza on the day she married.
Eliza saw in the pearl-encrusted dress a way they could have saved themselves from destitution. “Why could we not have sold this? It would have kept us in coal—”
Eliza had not been allowed to question her further. In fact, the dress had needed very little alteration. “Whatever made you bring it along?” Eliza had asked.
Her aunt chuckled. “I had a feeling you might need it.”
When Eliza finally looked up from seating her aunt in the next-to-the-last row of the chapel, she realized Griggs had already seated everyone else in the back two rows where the duke wanted them. She watched with dismay as Griggs moved along the wall, putting out every candle from the next-to-the-last pew forward, all the way to the altar.
Griggs left two sconces burning, one in each far corner in the front of the chapel. But their meager light did not reach to the altar, which was now cloaked in shadows. The two vases had disappeared in the gloom.
“Behold,” she heard one of the gentlemen say in a low voice. “The bridegroom cometh.”
For a man of God, Marcus thought, the Reverend Mister Hopewell did not have much faith in his Maker to keep him safe from the evils of the world—and Marcus in particular. The man stuttered when he talked and was visibly shaking when Marcus gestured him through one of the four doors that led into the chapel.
“After you, Your Grace,” the little man said.
Marcus smiled within his hood. The vicar apparently intended to put the Beast of Blackthorne between himself and any evil spirits flapping and fluttering on the other side.
Marcus forgot entirely about the little man the instant he stepped through the door and laid eyes on Miss Sheringham. She was bathed in a glow of candlelight at the very back of the chapel, where the candles were still burning. Her jaw was firm, but her face looked as pale as parchment. She carried a bouquet of wildflowers in her hand and wore a strikingly lovely crown of them upon her head. He could smell flowers from where he stood.
He would not have noticed the gown at all, if she had not turned in that instant so that candlelight struck the profusion of pearls on the bodice. He wondered if the Countess of Denbigh had given the dress to her as a wedding gift. He was sure it cost more than he could have made in a year as a captain in the 10th Royal Hussars.
He saw her eyes search the shadows for him. Her frightened eyes.
It was not very far from the altar to the back of the chapel. In perhaps five strides, he could be at her side. But he stayed where he was. The dark was his friend. It kept the monster hidden from those who feared it.
Please, he thought. Do not be afraid of me.
He noticed the dark circles under her eyes and knew she must not have slept any more than he had. He did not look much better. There had been a great deal to arrange in four-and-twenty hours.
His solicitor had come to terms with Nigel Sheringham, procuring a signed document from the earl that his ward, Miss Elizabeth Sheringham, had his permission to marry Marcus Wharton, currently in possession of his brother’s title, Duke of Blackthorne.
It had been the middle of the night when he realized it would better for Miss Sheringham if the wedding were witnessed by friends. Not only to give her company, but to prove to Society that she had not been gobbled up by the Beast, but merely married to him.
And he had needed a favor from Denbigh. A special dispensation to marry after dark had never even occurred to him until the vicar had pointed out the impossibility of conducting a wedding anytime after noon.
“And it must be in a chapel, Your Grace,” the little man had reminded him.
“There is a chapel in the Abbey,” he had said. “It is consecrated ground.”
“When was it consecrated, Your Grace?” the little man demanded. “And by whom?”
“By the Archbishop of Canterbury,” Marcus snarled back, “on the day Henry II bestowed a dukedom on the first Lord of Blackthorne. Will that suffice, Mister Hopewell?”
The little man had made no more objection. But he clearly suffered a fright when he walked past the decaying walls of the Abbey and heard the windows begin to rattle and saw the tattered velvet curtains appear to move all by themselves.
Marcus did not realize the vicar had followed him into the chapel until the little man cleared his throat from a spot behind the altar.
“Are we ready to proceed?” the vicar asked. “Where is the bride?”
Marcus saw Miss Sheringham sway and then catch her balance.
“I am here,” she said. She turned and gave Reggie and Becky a little shove in front of her.
When he could see the twins in the light, Marcus noticed all the changes Miss Sheringham had wrought in a single day. More braids! Different colored sashes! And charming garlands of daisies he knew she must have made for them.
He watched as Becky reached into her basket, pulled out a handful of something, and threw it high into the air. Whatever it was floated down over the assembled company. From muffled laughter and whispered comments, he realized Becky had thrown a handful of flower petals.
Miss Sheringham whispered into Reggie’s ear, and he watched as Reggie threw a handful of petals from her basket. These landed in a solid clump on the stone floor in front of her. She used the toe of her patent leather half boot to spread them around.
Marcus heard more subdued laughter.
Becky looked up at Miss Sheringham. When she nodded, Becky threw another handful of petals—straight up into the air. This time the laughter was louder and more spontaneous.
Marcus watched as Miss Sheringham leaned over and whispered to both girls, presumably giving more instructions.
Becky peered down the aisle toward where he stood and shook her head. Reggie boldly took three or four steps down the aisle, just far enough to leave the glow of candlelight behind. She stood stock-still in the dark for a moment, then dropped her basket, and raced headlong back to Miss Sheringham.
Both twins clutched at her skirt, and Miss Sheringham did not seem to be able to get them to let go. She lifted her head and looked directly at him.
He knew what she wanted. It would have been a simple matter for him to calm the twins’ fears. If only he had not been the source of them.
“Griggs,” he said. “Please help Reggie and Becky to a seat near you.”
His voice startled the children, actually making things worse. He should have spoken directly to them, not to Griggs, he realized. Now they struggled even harder not to be torn away from Miss Sheringham. Marcus took a single step down the aisle toward them, his heart aching, knowing that all they needed was someone to hug them and tell them everything would be all right.
As though she had read his mind, Miss Sheringham knelt and pulled the girls close. She whispered to them, then led them over and sat them down in the pew next to Lady Denbigh, who lifted Becky right into her lap and put her arm around Reggie.
Before Marcus quite realized it was happening, Miss Sheringham was on her way down the aisle toward him. She did not stop, but stepped over the fallen basket of flowers and walked slowly but steadily out of the light and into the darkness. When she reached a spot in front of the altar, she stopped and stared at the vicar.
“Will you clasp hands,” the vicar intoned, “and pray with me.”
Since she was on his left, Marcus automatically lifted his black-gloved left hand. He had already begun to exchange it for the right when Miss Sheringham laid her hand on the gnarled fingers. She looked into his face—the place where his face should be—and dared him to withdraw.
Marcus turned and stared straight ahead, feeling the heat of her trembling hand through the glove, aware suddenly, as he had not been until this moment, that tonight she would be his.
“Is there any man here who can show just cause why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony?” the vicar asked.
Marcus waited, half expecting someone to point out that the groom was not a man, but a beast. But no one spoke, and the vicar continued.
He did not hear much of the ceremony. His body was too alive with the kno
wledge of her. He could not think, he could only feel and see and hear.
The touch of her hand on his as he held it to take his vows. “I, Marcus Richard Wharton, take thee, Elizabeth Eleanor Sheringham, to be my wedded wife. To have and to hold from this day forward …”
The agitated rise and fall of her bosom as she said the words that bound her to him for life.
“I, Elizabeth Eleanor Sheringham, take thee, Marcus Richard Wharton, to be my wedded husband … so long as we both shall live.”
Her indrawn breath when he placed a diamond and ruby ring—a Blackthorne heirloom intended for the wife of a second son—on her finger.
“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the vicar said. “What God hath joined, let not man put asunder.”
It was an admonition that had particular relevance to Marcus. It was not a man but a woman who had tunneled out the walls of his brother’s castle and made it collapse. But he knew now why Alastair had never forsaken Penthia. He must, at one time, have loved her.
Love changed all the rules. It had caused Marcus to do what he had said he would never do. He had taken a wife, for better or for worse. But he could not believe a life without Miss Sher—Eliza—could be worse than one with her by his side. Only, she would not be by his side. Except at night. In the dark.
It would have to be enough. Half a loaf of bread was better than none at all. If he ever revealed himself to her, she would surely turn away from him forever.
“Will you kiss the bride?” the vicar asked, cheerful now that his duty was done.
Marcus realized he must have been asked before and missed the question. “No,” he said abruptly. “I will not.”
The vicar’s smile disappeared.
Marcus was aware of a stunned silence behind him. He turned to face them. “Thank you all for coming. My wife and I will be retiring now.”
He grabbed his wife by the hand and, before she or anyone else could protest, disappeared with her through a hidden stone door behind the altar.
One minute they were there, and the next they were gone.
Reggie and Becky stared after Uncle Marcus, who had dragged their new aunt right out the door without saying a word to them. They were completely alone. Who would take care of them now? The twins sat dazed as the Earl of Denbigh rose from his seat beside them, followed quickly by his countess, who eased Becky off her lap and onto the cold bench beside Reggie. They watched the bizarre scene unfolding around them without saying a word.
After the Kiss Page 23