She’d stated her objections, and he’d stated his opinion, dismissing them.
That was that.
After all, what greater incentive for marriage could there be than to protect one’s own life?
I’m getting married.
Chapter Seventeen
The carriage swept over hills, following the ever increasingly winding roads.
The tension that had filled him since Antibes ebbed somewhat, and Arthur guided the horses over the hilly countryside, stopping frequently at coaching inns to change them. Stone castles perched on sharp hills, and vineyards and olive groves were scattered about the countryside.
Arthur considered hiring an Italian to drive the coach for him, but the thought of being confined in the carriage with Madeline and her companion filled him with a strange dread.
Ever since he’d declared his plans to marry her, their time had been more awkward.
Most women would be delighted.
He hadn’t waited seven years since he’d first been declared one of London’s most eligible men to get engaged, only to have his fiancée avoid looking at him.
He grasped the reins more tightly.
It seemed ridiculous that he was so near Madeline, after so many years, but they didn’t know what to say to each other.
He allowed himself to remember how things had been seven years ago. He remembered the feel of her body pressed against his, of her arms looped around his neck, and of her cheek as it rested against his bare chest. He remembered the sparkle of her blonde locks in the dim light.
They’d never even kissed. They’d always been observed. The most privacy they’d had was on balconies at balls, but even then they’d both known that someone could be observing them from the shadows.
But he still remembered all their conversations, and the rush of pleasure he would receive as they danced together. He’d pictured them living in the capital during the season and visiting the opera together. She would be one of the women who actually paid attention to what was happening on stage. He’d imagined her discussing the sets with him and hypothesizing how they could have been improved. When the season ended they could retire to some vast country home that she would manage with ease.
He certainly hadn’t pictured this strange silence between them. He sighed.
Once they got married, he could set her up in a country house. Perhaps he could continue to live his life much as he had before. This time he wouldn’t need to withstand the matchmaking mamas. This time he wouldn’t need to concoct excuses for not desiring to call on the daughters of the ton, who gazed at him with such hopeful faces that he wanted to flee straight away. They would all know he was taken.
He sighed. He’d been a spy and raced into danger with regularity.
Conversations over the merits of curricles and phaetons bored him. Ladies assumed that since he was a man, that nothing held greater interest to him than the intricacies of carriage construction.
But Madeline…
He’d underestimated her.
He didn’t love her of course. He pushed away the strange tinkling that appeared in his heart when he dwelled on that thought. But really, what better match could he hope for? She’d been married and was independent.
No. He’d been right to press for their marriage. He was certain.
*
Madeline had grown accustomed to the rattle of wheels and clomp of the horses’ hooves over the dirt lane. Italy surpassed England in its hill count, and Madeline had even become accustomed to the queasy feeling as the carriage jolted over dips in the road and swung round a never-ending line of bends. A lump seemed to reside in her throat permanently, and even when they halted their travel each evening, it would take her a while to become accustomed to the fact that the earth was no longer moving unpredictably beneath her.
Speaking with Arthur in this state seemed intolerable. Besides, they’d agreed on it—she would marry him once they reached Venice.
And though the thought of completing their journey seemed often inconceivable, given the length of time merely to reach Bologna and Verona, Venice was now nearby.
The carriage halted, and Madeline peered from the window. Vibrant turquoise glimmered outside the carriage window, the color stronger than any sky.
Arthur opened the door to the carriage, and Gabriella and she stepped out. The Adriatic Sea lay before them. Fishing boats and smaller vessels dotted the water. Tall ships glided regally though the turquoise waves, their ivory sails perfectly billowed, like brides marching down aisles with long trains.
“We’re so close.” Gabriella clapped her hands together, and her eyes sparkled. She thrust her face toward the sun and swirled. “Such lovely warmth. So un-English.”
Madeline smiled. Pleasantness was not what came to mind when faced with the sticky air that made her dress prickle and her body overheat.
Madeline was not certain if Arthur was avoiding looking at her on purpose, but his gaze was distinctly turned away from hers.
“I’ll arrange for a boat to take us into the city,” Arthur said.
“Very well,” Madeline said.
He descended the cliff in the direction of a dock below. Boats bobbed in the water, tied to candy colored striped posts, and he soon began a discussion with another driver.
“Whatever is wrong?” Gabriella asked.
Madeline drew back. Evidently her attempts at covering the red stains under her eyes had not been successful. She felt a pang of jealousy for the women of the last century who’d been able to cake their face in white powder.
That would be very useful now.
Gabriella’s eyes were filled with concern.
“It’s nothing,” Madeline said.
Gabriella didn’t say anything.
But her right eyebrow inclined all the same, and Madeline still felt her skin flush.
“Is it about the marriage?” Gabriella asked.
“The marquess believes we should marry for my safety.”
This time both of Gabriella’s eyebrows darted up, at a rather faster pace than normal.
Madeline shrugged. “He managed to convince Comte Beaulieu to release me, telling him that I had sneaked into the ball as his betrothed because I’d missed him so much.”
“And they believed him?” Gabriella smiled.
Madeline remembered the kiss they’d shared. She nodded. “But if I show up in England not married, then I’m—”
“Once again the prime suspect?”
“And then who knows what other evidence they could find,” Madeline said miserably. She shook her head. “Forgive me. I’m being silly. I know that I’m lucky. I should take advantage of Lord Bancroft’s offer.”
Gabriella smiled. “He’s arranged for his sister-in-law to bring a wedding gown for you. I think it’s rather more than an offer.”
Madeline nodded. “You’re right.”
“Cara mia, I am not finished,” Gabriella said. “You are very welcome to stay with my family. For as long as you want.”
“I couldn’t.”
“You speak French beautifully, and it will not take much for you to master Italian. There’s no lovelier city in the world than Venice. And should you tire of it, the continent does offer plenty of wonderful alternatives. You need never return to your foggy, rainy country again. Especially if you do not desire to marry.”
“That is kind of you.”
“All arranged,” Arthur called out, and Madeline stepped away from Gabriella hastily.
A man was with him to take the carriage and horses, and they followed Arthur to the boat.
“I am serious,” Gabriella whispered sternly, and Madeline nodded.
Arthur guided them into the boat, and soon they approached the center of the city. Elegant church rotundas soared over red roofs, and gradually the palazzos came into view.
She focused on the vision of beauty before her and pondered how her favorite artists had captured the city. Perhaps she might write a book about their different inter
pretations. She hadn’t discovered a new work by her late husband in a while. Perhaps she was due to find something else soon. She smiled, suddenly more hopeful.
When they arrived, she pressed the satchel with the jewels into Gabriella’s hand. “See that your parents get this.”
Gabriella nodded. “Thank you again for everything. My family will be eternally grateful.” She paused. “And you are of course eternally welcome with us.”
The reminder shouldn’t have been a surprise. She’d been thinking about nothing else.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “A quiet ceremony. Nothing extraordinary. You don’t even have to come.”
Gabriella’s eyes widened. “Are you certain? Please let me at least help you.”
“Nonsense. My cousin will have brought a maid, and your family will be eager to see you.”
Gabriella nodded solemnly. “I will miss you.”
“And I you.” Madeline turned away. Tears stung her eyes.
So much was changing, but she still managed to wave at her companion before she strode away.
Swarms of tourists still thronged Piazza San Marco. Hotels had multiplied throughout the city since her visit two years ago, and stands sold carnival masks ranging from elaborate to excessively elaborate. Fiona and her husband Percival were waiting for them as Arthur had promised they would be.
Normally she was pleased to see her cousin.
“I’m so happy for you,” Fiona exclaimed. Her red hair sparkled under the sun. “Percival and I had no idea you even were well acquainted, much less were in love.”
Madeline swallowed hard. She glanced at Arthur. He looked similarly restrained as his older brother congratulated him.
The Duke of Alfriston elbowed Arthur. “I finally understand why you were so eager to rescue me. Just wanted an excuse to see Madeline, hmm?”
Arthur flushed, and Madeline spun around. She couldn’t bear to look at them.
She understood what she gained from the match. Freedom from suspicion. She would become a marchioness. And she would be married to a lovely, caring man, who was handsome and energetic and—
Not in love with me.
The thought made her heart tighten.
She strode away from the group. She couldn’t continue to watch the duke tease his brother. She certainly couldn’t watch Arthur so valiantly pretend to be in love with her, not telling anyone about Madeline’s criminal activities.
Chapter Eighteen
The next morning the sky was an unending swathe of pale gray. Large puffs of fog settled over overflowing canals, and Italians complained about the water height which made travel beneath some bridges impossible.
Slabs of blue-grey stone glistened under the cloudy sky. The cobblestones appeared bluer here beside the ocean, and Madeline ventured to the edge of the embankment. Her skirts swished against mossy wooden posts and damp stones. She still had her maids, and she would continue to make use of them.
Centuries-old palazzos jutted into the sky, their blue shingles blending with the firmament. The breeze swept over her, brushing against her hair and rustling her dress.
The vibrant pastel colored palazzos had transformed into dull shades, like paintings that had been housed in improper places.
Dark gondolas bobbed in the harbor, devoid of passengers or singing gondoliers. The narrow boats sat in rows, waiting for the tourists to come.
“The bride.” The gondolier beamed at her, and gave a bow. “Welcome to your transportation.”
Normally Madeline might smile at the man’s joyfulness, but today it seemed a painful contrast to her own emotions. Fiona’s maid followed her onto the gondola.
“The other guests are coming separately?” the gondolier asked.
Madeline nodded. “It’s English tradition for the man to wait to see his bride.”
“Che romantico,” the gondolier exclaimed, flourishing his hands into the air. “A happy marriage is the most wonderful thing in the world.”
Madeline smiled tightly and stepped into the long black gondola.
How had she never realized it resembled a coffin more than a boat? She shivered as the ebony sides sank deeper into the murky water. The canal seemed an unusual mixture of brown and green. She’d never before minded that she’d never been able to see into the water, but the scent was more pungent when she sat so near it, and the silk pillows and oriental rugs some servant had put there to mark her importance as a soon-to-be marchioness could not succeed at garnering a more cheerful vision.
In a few minutes, we’ll be married.
She knew better than to have the thought make her smile.
She’d been married before. At least the baron had been a friend. At least with him she’d felt safe to pursue her own interests.
Heavens. Perhaps the gondolier was correct. If a happy marriage was the most important thing in the world, then what she was doing—keeping Arthur from ever marrying someone he chose himself—was dreadful.
She’d spent the evening with Fiona and her husband.
Their love for each other was clear.
And Madeline was preventing Arthur from experiencing that. After all, he didn’t need to marry her. He didn’t have a penniless estate that needed her money. Quite the contrary.
If he married, it should be for love.
After rescuing her from a French prison and whisking her away to Venice, didn’t he deserve at least the future hope of happiness?
Perhaps she should leave.
Gabriella had offered her a place to stay.
Perhaps she should take advantage of it.
The gondolier moved his oar through the water and turned onto the Grand Canal. The canal was less crowded than normal, and rows of black gondolas bopped on the side of various palazzos and squares. Slabs of gray stone sparkled unnaturally, wet from rain.
The drizzle turned into normal rain, the raindrops falling steadily onto her parasol and dampening the edges of her dress. She pulled her legs toward her, striving to retain some semblance of a ladylike position.
No one who could avoid it was traveling now.
He turned onto a smaller canal. They must be nearing the church, and her heart raced. She glanced at Fiona’s maid. At the gondolier. At—
Thud.
The gondola bumped against a bridge, and the gondolier said more things about the too high waters. “I’ll need to fetch a normal boat,” he said apologetically.
He tied the gondola onto a post and walked toward a group of gondoliers. Madeline clutched her parasol.
This is the time.
Madeline stood.
“Lady Mulbourne?” Fiona’s maid asked.
Madeline’s chest tightened. “Tell everyone I’m sorry.”
The gondola shifted under her weight, and water rippled on either side of her.
She ignored the uneven surface, and hurried toward the bridge. Water splashed against the gondola. She grasped hold of the wet marble and pulled herself up. Water pressed against her dress and she tore some of the lace.
No matter. She pushed her veil back. She needed to see, no matter how much the rain ruined her face powder.
She hurried over the bridge. Gabriella had suggested she stay with her family.
Well, Madeline was going to accept the offer.
At least until she could get someone to bring her money to her here.
This was good, she told herself.
So many of her beloved paintings were in Venice. If she stayed here, she would never have to worry about appearing in England without a husband and raising Admiral Fitzroy’s suspicions. And though she would miss England—her chest tightened at the thought of saying goodbye to Yorkshire and London forever, of never seeing even her servants again and not spending Christmas with any of her relatives—perhaps it would be for the best.
That way, Arthur would not feel compelled to marry her. Perhaps eventually she would return to England, but she never wanted him to feel responsible for her. He deserved to find true romance, and not
to be joined to a person merely for convenience.
I know the hardships of that fate.
Fiona and Percival would be surprised, and maybe for a while Arthur would be humiliated, but it would be worth it for his future happiness. He’d saved her life before, and now she could return the favor. Arthur could marry a woman he actually loved, and not merely one he’d abandoned seven years ago and was forced to marry.
*
Arthur stood inside the church. Percival had brought him good clothes, and he was feeling himself again. Percival stood at his side.
The organist played music.
He was thankful his brother and sister-in-law had arranged such a nice wedding. It was small, but the church didn’t lack beauty.
He wondered, though…
The organist did seem to be playing the same songs quite often.
That was perhaps unusual.
A woman had come in earlier to say something to Fiona, and now his brother and sister-in-law were whispering to one another. Though they were a very good match, he imagined they likely would not have wanted to spend his wedding chatting about heavens knew what.
Though perhaps…
His eyes widened.
Where is Madeline?
Shouldn’t Fiona be helping her?
Had she—had she even arrived?
“Where is my fiancée?” he asked.
The others had horrified expressions on their faces.
Percival gripped his cane more tightly. “The gondolier is looking for her. Perhaps she is, er, lost.”
“Lost?”
He’d never heard anything more ridiculous in his life. If Madeline wasn’t here, it was because Madeline didn’t want to be here, which meant—
His heart clenched.
He should let her go.
If she was running away—so be it.
His marriage to her was a favor, after all.
Perhaps she was right. Perhaps she could survive without him. And if she couldn’t—if she was caught again, by someone less sentimental than himself, that shouldn’t be his problem, no matter how much the thought of her imprisoned in some dank, foreign cell made his heart race in the middle of the night.
A Marquess for Convenience (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 5) Page 11