The Wedding of the Century & Other Stories

by Kristin James; Charlotte Featherstone Mary Jo Putney

  His dark brows arched. “You’re right. It will be better if I am on the other side of the Atlantic.”

  He opened the door for her. When she walked in front of him, on impulse she laid her hand on his arm for a moment. “I shall do my best to be a duchess you will be proud of.”

  He inclined his head. “I’m sure you will succeed.”

  As she went upstairs to her room, she decided that he was rather attractive, in a subdued way. Granted, he wasn’t much taller than she, but she was a tall woman. The quiet excellence of British tailoring showed his trim, muscular figure to advantage, and his craggy features had a certain distinction.

  The words echoed in her mind, and as she entered her room and wearily lay on the bed, she realized that she had had similar thoughts when she first saw him at Swindon Palace.

  That memory triggered others, and gradually fragments of that day came back to her. Lord Justin had been quiet but very gentlemanly, and knowledgeable about the gardens and estate. He had even showed signs of humor, of a very dry kind. It had been a pleasant interlude.

  Yet he was still almost entirely a stranger, for she knew nothing of his mind or emotions. He didn’t seem to be a man of deep feelings; it was his duty to marry well, so he was doing so, choosing a wife with his head rather than his heart.

  Her eyes drifted shut. Perhaps this marriage would not be such a bad thing; she had heard that arranged marriages were happy about as often as love matches. She and the duke would treat each other with polite respect and not expect romance or deep passion. God willing, they would have children, and in them she might find the love she craved.

  Certainly the duke had one great advantage: he could hardly have been more different from charming, articulate, false-hearted Paul Curzon.

  THE MAID ANTOINETTE MADE a last adjustment to the train of Sunny’s ball gown. “You look exquisite, mademoiselle. Monsieur le Duc will be most pleased.”

  Sunny turned and regarded herself in the mirror. Her cream-colored gown was spectacular, with sumptuous embroidery and a décolletage that set off her bare shoulders and arms perfectly. After her hair had been pinned up to expose the graceful length of her neck, fragile rosebuds had been woven into the soft curls. The only thing her appearance lacked was animation. “Thank you, Antoinette. You have surpassed yourself.”

  The maid permitted herself a smile of satisfaction before she withdrew. Sunny glanced at the clock and saw that she had a quarter of an hour to wait before making her grand entrance at the ball. The house hummed with excitement, for tonight Augusta’s triumph would be announced. All of Newport society was here to fawn over Thornborough and cast envious glances at Sunny. There would also be sharp eyes watching to see how she and the duke—Justin—behaved with each other. Antoinette, who was always well-informed, had passed on several disturbing rumors. It was said that Sunny had at first refused to marry the duke because of his licentious habits, and that Augusta had beaten and starved her daughter into accepting him.

  Even though there was a grain of truth in the story about her mother, Sunny found the gossip deeply distasteful. She must make a special effort to appear at ease with her mother and her fiancé. She looked in the mirror again and practiced her smile.

  The door opened and a crisp English voice said, “How is my favorite goddaughter?”

  “Aunt Katie!” Sunny spun around with genuine pleasure. “I had no idea that you were coming for the ball.”

  “I told Augusta not to mention the possibility since I wasn’t sure I would arrive in time.” Laughing, Lady Westron held Sunny at arm’s length when her goddaughter came to give her a hug. “Never crush a Worth evening gown, my dear! At least, not until the ball is over.”

  After a careful survey, she gave a nod of approval. “I’m madly envious. Even Worth can’t make a short woman like me look as magnificent as you do tonight. The Newport cats will gnash their teeth with jealousy, and Thornborough will thank his stars for his good fortune.”

  Sunny’s high spirits faded. “I believe he feels that we have made a fair bargain.”

  Katie cocked her head. “Are you unhappy about the match?”

  Sunny shrugged and began carefully drawing an elbow-length kid glove onto her right hand. “I’m sure that we’ll rub along tolerably well.”

  Ignoring her own advice about crushing a Worth evening gown, Katie dropped into a chair with a flurry of satin petticoats. “I made inquiries about Thornborough when his solicitor first approached me about a possible match. He’ll make you a better husband than most, Sunny. He’s respected by those who know him, and while he isn’t a wit like his brother was, and he’s certainly not fashionable, he’s no fool, nor is he the sort to humiliate you by flaunting his mistress.”

  Sunny stiffened. “Thornborough has a mistress?”

  “Very likely—most men do.” Katie’s lips curved ruefully. “There’s much you need to learn about English husbands and English houses. Living in Britain is quite unlike being a visitor, you know.”

  Sunny relaxed when she found that her godmother had been talking in general rather than from particular knowledge. Though she knew that fashionable English society was very different from what she was used to, she disliked the idea of Thornborough with a mistress. Acutely.

  She began the slow process of putting on her left glove. “Perhaps you had better educate me about what to expect.”

  “Be prepared for the fact that English great houses are cold.” Katie shuddered. “Forget your delicate lace shawls—to survive winter in an English country house, your trousseau should include several wraps the size and weight of a horse blanket. You must have at least one decent set of furs, as well. The houses may be grand, but they’re amazingly primitive—no central heating or gaslights, and no hot running water. And the bathrooms! A tin tub in front of the fire is the best you’ll do in most houses.”

  Surprised and a little amused, Sunny said, “Surely Swindon Palace can’t be that bad. It’s said to be the grandest private home in Great Britain.”

  Katie sniffed. “A palace built almost two hundred years ago, and scarcely a pound wasted on modernization since then. But don’t complain to Thornborough— English husbands, as a rule, are not solicitous in the way that American husbands are. Since the duke will not want to hear about your little grievances, you must learn to resolve matters on your own. I recommend that you take your own maid with you. That way you can count on at least one person in the household being on your side.”

  Sunny put a hand up. “If you say one sentence more, I will go downstairs and cancel my betrothal,” she said, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. “I’m beginning to wonder why any woman would want to marry an English lord, particularly if she isn’t madly in love with him.”

  “I didn’t mean to terrify you,” Katie assured her. “I just want to make sure that you won’t be disillusioned. Once a woman gets past the discomforts, she may have more freedom and influence than she would in America. Here, a woman rules her home, but nothing outside. An English lady can be part of her husband’s life, or develop a life of her own, in a way most unusual in America.”

  Since frankness was the order of the day, Sunny asked, “Are you sorry you married Lord Westron?”

  Katie hesitated a moment. “There are times when I would have said yes, but we’ve come to understand each other very well. He says that I’ve been invaluable to his political career, and through him, I’ve been able to bring a little American democracy to some hoary bits of British law.” She smiled fondly. “And between us, he and I have produced three rather splendid children, even if I shouldn’t say so myself.”

  Sunny sighed; it was all very confusing. She was glad when a knock sounded on her door. “Your mother says that it is time to come down, Miss Sarah,” the butler intoned.

  “Don’t forget your fan. It’s going to be very warm on the dance floor,” Katie said briskly. “I’ll be down after I’ve freshened up.”

  Sunny accepted the fan, then lifted her train and
went into the corridor. At the top of the sweeping staircase, she carefully spread the train, then slowly began descending the stairs, accompanied by the soft swish of heavy silk. She had been told that she walked with the proud grace of the Winged Victory. She ought to; as a child, she had been strapped into an iron back brace whenever she did her lessons. Perfect posture didn’t come easily.

  The hall below opened into the ballroom, and music and guests wafted through both. As she came into view, a hush fell and all eyes turned toward her. The cream of American society was evaluating the next Duchess of Thornborough.

  When she was three-quarters of the way down, she saw that her fiancé was crossing the hall to the staircase. The stark black of formal evening wear suited him.

  When she reached the bottom, he took her hand. Under his breath, he said, “You look even more beautiful than usual.” Then he brushed a courtly, formal kiss on her kid-covered fingers.

  She glanced at him uncertainly, not sure if he truly admired her or the compliment was mere formality. It was impossible to tell; he was the most inscrutable man she had ever met.

  Then he smiled at her and looked not merely presentable, but downright handsome. It was the first time she had seen him smile. He should do so more often.

  Her mother joined them, beaming with possessive pride. “You look splendid, Sarah.”

  A moment later they were surrounded by chattering, laughing people, particularly those who had not yet met the duke and who longed to rectify the omission. Sunny half expected her fiancé to retreat to a corner filled with men, but he bore up under the onslaught very well. Though he spoke little, his grave courtesy soon won over even the most critical society matrons. She realized that she had underestimated him. Thornborough’s avoidance of the fashionable life was obviously from choice rather than social ineptitude.

  When she finally had a chance to look at her dance card, she saw that her fiancé had put himself down for two waltzes as well as the supper dance. That in itself was a declaration of their engagement, for no young lady would have more than two dances with one man unless intentions were serious.

  When the orchestra struck up their first waltz, Thornborough excused himself from his admirers and came to collect her.

  She caught her train up so that she could dance, then took his hand and followed him onto the floor. “It will be a pleasure to waltz,” she said. “I feel as if I’ve been talking nonstop for the last hour.”

  “I believe that you have been,” he said as he drew her into position, a light hand on her waist. “It must be fatiguing to be so popular. In the interests of allowing you to recover, I shan’t require you to talk at all.”

  “But you are just as popular,” she said teasingly. “Every one in Newport wants to know you.”

  “It isn’t me they’re interested in, but the Duke of Thornborough. If I were a hairy ape from the Congo, I’d be equally in demand, as long as I was also a duke.” He considered, then said with good-natured cynicism, “More so, I think. Apes are said to be quite entertaining.”

  Though Sunny chuckled, his remark made her understand better why he wanted her to call him Justin. Being transformed overnight from the Gargoyle to the much-courted Duke of Thornborough must have been enough to make anyone cynical.

  It came as no surprise to learn that he danced well. She relaxed and let the voluptuous strains of music work their usual magic. The waltz was a very intimate dance, the closest a young woman was allowed to come to a man. Usually it was also an opportunity to talk with some privacy. The fact that she and Justin were both silent had the curious effect of making her disturbingly aware of his physical closeness, even though he kept a perfectly proper twelve inches between them.

  Katie had been right about the heat of the ballroom; as they whirled across the floor, Sunny realized that a remarkable amount of warmth was being generated between their gloved hands. It didn’t help that their eyes were almost level, for it increased the uncomfortable sense of closeness. She wished that she knew what was going on behind those enigmatic gray eyes.

  A month before, she had waltzed like this with Paul Curzon and he had told her that his heart had driven him to follow her to America. The memory was jarring and she stumbled on a turn. If Justin hadn’t quickly steadied her, she would have fallen.

  His dark brows drew together. “Are you feeling faint? It’s very warm—perhaps we should go onto the porch for some air.”

  She managed a smile. “I’m fine, only a little dizzy. It’s absurd that we can turn only one direction during a waltz. If we could spin the other way now and then, it would be much easier.”

  “Society thrives on absurdity,” he observed. “Obscure rules are necessary so that outsiders can be identified and kept safely outside.”

  While she pondered his unexpected insight, the waltz ended and another partner came to claim her. The evening passed quickly. After the lavish supper was served, the engagement was formally announced. Augusta was in her element as even her most powerful social rivals acknowledged her triumph.

  Sunny felt a pang as she accepted the good wishes of people she had known all her life. This was her last summer in Newport. Though she would visit in the future, it would not be the same; already her engagement to an Englishman was setting her apart.

  The first phase of her life was ending—and she had no clear idea what the next phase would be like.

  IT WAS VERY LATE WHEN the last of the guests left. As her official fiancé, Thornborough was allowed to escort Sunny to her room. When they reached her door, he said, “My train leaves rather early tomorrow, so I’ll say goodbye now.”

  “I’m sorry that you’ll have to travel without a proper night’s sleep.” Almost too tired to stand, she masked a yawn with her hand. “Have a safe and pleasant journey, Justin.”

  His gaze caught hers, and she couldn’t look away. The air between them seemed to thicken. Gently he curved his hand around her head and drew her to him for a kiss.

  Because she didn’t love him she had been dreading this moment, yet again he surprised her. His lips were warm and firm. Pleasant. Undemanding.

  He caressed her hair, disturbing the rosebuds, and scented petals drifted over her bare shoulder in a delicate sensual caress. She gave a little sigh, and his arms went around her.

  The feel of his broad chest and his hand on the small of her back triggered a vivid memory of her last kiss, in Paul Curzon’s embrace. All the anger and shame of that episode flooded back. She stiffened and took an involuntary step backward.

  He released her instantly. Though his eyes had darkened, his voice was mild when he said, “Sleep well. I shall see you in October.”

  She opened her door, but instead of entering her room she paused and watched his compact, powerful figure stride down the hall to his own chamber. In spite of the warmth of the night, a shiver went down her spine. Her feelings about Justin were confused, but one thing was certain: it would be disastrous to continue to let the shadow of Paul Curzon come between her and her future husband.

  Yet she didn’t know how to get rid of it.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  New York City

  October 1885

  THE WEDDING OF THE CENTURY.

  Justin stared at the blaring headline in one of the newspapers that had just been delivered to his hotel room. It was a rude shock for a man who had disembarked in New York City only two hours earlier.

  Below the headline were drawings of Sunny and himself. The likeness of him was not flattering. Were his brows really so heavy and threatening? Perhaps.

  He smiled wryly as he skimmed the story; it was every bit as bad as Sunny had predicted. Apparently Americans had a maniacal interest in other people’s private business. There was even a breathless description of the bride’s garters, which were allegedly of gold lace with diamond-studded clasps. The item must have been invented, since he could not imagine Sunny discussing her garters with a reporter.

  The thought of Sunny in her garters was so distracting
that he swiftly flipped to the next newspaper. This one featured a cartoon of a couple getting married by a blindfolded minister. The tall, slim bride wore a martyred expression as she knelt beside a dissolute-looking groom who was half a head shorter.

  The accompanying story implied rather strongly that the Duke of Thornborough was a corrupt specimen of European cadhood who had come to the New World to coldly steal away the finest, freshest flower of American femininity. At the same time, there was an unmistakable undercurrent of pride that one of New York’s own was to become a duchess. Apparently the natives couldn’t decide whether they loathed or loved the trappings of the decadent Old World.

  Disgusted, he tossed the papers aside and finished dressing for the dinner that Augusta Vangelder was giving in his honor. Afterward, the marriage settlements would be signed. Yet though that would make him a far wealthier man, what made his heart quicken was the fact that after three long months, he would see Sunny again. And not only see, but touch…

  After his Newport visit they had written each other regularly, and he had enjoyed her whimsical anecdotes about the rigors of preparing for a wedding. If she had ever expressed any affection for him, he might have had the courage to tell her his own feelings, for it would be easier to write about love than to say the words out loud.

  But her letters had been so impersonal that anyone could have read them. He had replied with equal detachment, writing about Swindon and acquainting her with what she would find there. He had debated telling her about some of the improvements he had ordered, but decided to keep them as a surprise.

  He checked his watch and saw that the carriage the Vangelders were sending should be waiting outside the hotel. Brimming with suppressed excitement, he went downstairs.

  As he crossed the lobby, a voice barked, “There he is!”

  Half a dozen slovenly persons, obviously reporters, bolted across the marble floor and surrounded him. Refusing to be deterred, he kept walking through the babble of questions that came from all sides.