by Amanda Scott
“I thought ’twas merely a field of weeds,” she reflected ruefully.
“It was mostly weeds. A worse-kept field I hope never to see again. I’d have a few choice things to say to someone if any of my fields ever looked like that one did. However, the duke cared less for that, as I recall it, than he did for his neighbor’s good will. And lest you still think you bore the brunt of that business, my girl, let me take this opportunity to set the record straight. I may have got my supper, but I suffered through a right rare trimming for the privilege.” The expression in his eyes warmed suddenly, and Cicely turned her attention toward the walkway, lengthening her stride.
“You were a good deal older than I and richly deserved a trimming, sir,” she muttered. “I only wish I might have been privileged to hear it.”
“My dear child,” he murmured dulcetly, “I should have been more than happy to have shared it with you.”
She laughed at that, turning her merry eyes up to his again, finding gratefully that the odd look that had so disturbed her had disappeared.
Three days later, when Ravenwood announced that he must leave in order to clear some trifling matters of business before the wedding, set for a date three weeks distant, Cicely felt that she still knew very little about the man. He was still a prankster of sorts and a tease. And he was at least dandified, if not entirely foppish. But she had caught an occasional glimpse of unsuspected strength of character as well. He was gentle with Brittany, entered into amusements with Amalie as though he were still a boy, talked sensibly with Arabella about her music, and let Alicia pit her skills in the French language against his own. He also exerted himself to be charming to the duchess and never failed to speak a kind word to Miss Fellows.
The thing that impressed Cicely from the outset, however, was his ability to understand Alicia’s quicksilver nature. He seemed to have a gift for diverting her whenever she was about to make one of her inimitable faux pas, and when he failed in that, he generally managed to catch her before she was entirely in the briars.
On the last evening of Ravenwood’s visit the duke agreed that she might join the family for dinner, and Alicia entered the saloon where the others had gathered, looking as self-conscious as though she was certain everyone must be thinking of her recent disgrace. Cicely, stepping forward quickly, did what she could to make Alicia forget about herself, but it was Ravenwood, coming to stand at her side, who successfully drew the younger girl into conversation.
“Bon soir, mademoiselle,” he said with a formal, elaborate bow.
Alicia, chuckling, replied in kind, and the two quickly launched into Gallic babbling. Cicely waited until she had twice seen the duke glance their way before intervening with a grin. “Not tonight, you two. None of us here wishes to stretch the mind to follow your so excellent French. Speak English, or don’t speak at all.”
Ravenwood grinned back at her, stirring that sudden tingling sensation that seemed to come when she least expected it. “Don’t interrupt, my girl,” he drawled. “The Lady Alicia has a knack for the bon mot. I find her conversation in either language extremely stimulating.”
Alicia blushed, but Cicely noticed that the glance the younger girl shot at the viscount was filled with warm gratitude. Moments later, however, when she showed a wish to continue their French conversation, Ravenwood deftly steered her back into English and thence into the general conversation around them. He did it so adroitly that Cicely was nearly certain her sister was unaware of being maneuvered, and by the time they went into dinner Alicia was her normal, buoyant self. Cicely realized that part of Ravenwood’s success lay in the fact that he treated Alicia as though she were an equal. There was no condescension in his manner toward her. Nor was there any sign of the indulgent tone he often used with Brittany.
He was seated next to Cicely at the table, as usual, and from time to time she sent him a slanting look as she tried to analyze him again. It occurred to her that that had become nearly a constant process with her. But he intrigued her. There seemed to be so many facets to the man. All in all, however, she decided he was an enigma.
Conversation drifted to plans for the wedding and then, quite naturally, to the journey to London.
“I daresay our Aunt Uffington will have managed to reach Town before us,” commented Arabella with a smile. “She nearly always does so, does she not?”
“Indeed,” replied the duchess, a glint of humor in her eye. “Sometimes I doubt my sister ever actually takes the knocker from her London door. It is a good thing that she keeps such an excellent bailiff in Dorset, else her property there must go to rack and ruin for all the mind she pays it.”
“Surely Sir Conrad must keep an eye out for her interests,” put in Cicely.
“If my nephew has a thought to waste upon anything but himself, I’ve never noticed it,” stated her grace with unusual tartness. “It would do him good to think of his mother’s interests, but I doubt he spares the time.”
“She probably wouldn’t heed him anyway,” Alicia commented thoughtfully. “I heard her say once that what her dunderhead son knew about the property wasn’t worth the bit of paper it would take to scribble the words upon.”
“A Tartar, is she?” Ravenwood said quickly, glancing directly at the duke, whose complexion had taken on a deeper color at Alicia’s thoughtless words. “I’ve a maternal aunt very much like that myself. Wears lace caps and looks like anyone’s favorite sweet old lady, but she’s got a tongue that would make a sailor blush. Told me once I wasn’t worth the bit of powder one of the damned poachers that plague her lands would use to blow me away.”
Malmesbury’s only reaction was a curt shrug and a sound that might have been a grunt. If Cicely was initially surprised by his lack of comment on the interchange, she quickly realized that although he might well have scolded Alicia for her breach of manners, he could not do so now without rebuking Ravenwood as well. And though he might have taken a twenty-year-old youth to task for such talk, he would not reprimand a twenty-six-year-old man who was, furthermore, his daughter’s intended husband.
Alicia had giggled and looked as though she might expound more of her views upon the subject of maternal aunts, but a quelling look from under Ravenwood’s brows silenced her effectively. Cicely saw the look and was amazed that Alicia responded so easily and without resentment. Then she looked at her father again, still a little surprised that he had remained silent. Malmesbury had returned his full attention to his dinner, however, and the conversation went on, albeit along more conventional lines.
The following morning Ravenwood took his leave of them, and Cicely was astonished by the sense of emptiness he left behind. Each of her sisters seemed to miss him, and if she were honest with herself, she had to admit that she, too, felt a void in his wake.
But the days flew quickly, what with all the plans and preparations that had to be made, and Cicely soon found herself too wrapped up in the business at hand to think much about Ravenwood. Indeed, she did not think of him above two or three times each day.
He did not write to her, although to have done so would have been perfectly proper. Nor did any other communication arrive from him; although, since the duke had called in workmen to refurbish the north wing for the newlyweds’ immediate occupancy and had written Ravenwood to solicit his suggestions in such important matters as color and furniture style, some sort of reply might have been expected.
The big day arrived at last, however, and Cicely, surrounded by her excited sisters, spent the early part of the morning preparing herself for the ceremony, which was to take place in the duke’s private chapel. She knew that Ravenwood, safely in the north wing of the great house so as to take no chance of his accidentally laying eyes upon the bride before the ceremony, was likewise preparing himself. She had met his mother at supper the previous night, and her thoughts dwelt for a moment upon the dowager viscountess.
Lady Ravenwood had proved to be a quiet-spoken woman of fragile appearance who seemed to regard her large son wi
th the same lazy amusement in her eyes that Cicely had seen so often in his. Other than that, there seemed to be no resemblance between the slight, well-preserved, white-haired lady and her broad-shouldered, dark, and drawling son. Cicely had liked her well enough, but thought her reserved. She herself had been cool and serene, but Ravenwood had refrained for once from baiting her.
Now she watched critically as Meg Hardy twitched the ivory silk skirt of her slim, high-waisted gown into place. Amalie handed her the pearls that had been a bride gift from her husband-to-be. They were particularly beautiful, perfectly matched, and the clasp of rubies and diamonds formed her initials. She fastened them around her neck, then turned so that Brittany could settle the flowered headpiece into place. Cicely’s fine, straight hair flowed down her back, nearly to her waist, gleaming almost silvery against the simple gown. The headdress was anchored tightly over a long, soft, lacy scarf, the ends of which were then draped over her arms at the elbow. Stepping into dainty satin slippers, Cicely took a final look at herself in the long cheval glass, then glanced a bit nervously at the others.
Until that moment she had not given any real thought to the finality of the step she was about to take. Annulment or divorce—the latter possible only by act of Parliament in extreme cases, though not unheard of even in ducal circles—were not remedies Cicely could contemplate for herself. She would be married until death separated her from Ravenwood.
Just as the finality of marriage had been a long while occurring to her, so, too, had it taken her till those few moments before departing for the chapel to wonder what might be his reaction to her determination to maintain a certain distance between them. She thought of it now and, with the aid of his three weeks’ absence, was easily able to persuade herself that he would throw no rub in the way if she decided to enjoy the Season in London as a modern married lady. Indeed, she told herself, by refusing to live in his pocket, she would be thought a model wife. A tiny tickle of doubt greeted this last notion, but she suppressed it. Surely Ravenwood understood how marriages were conducted in London these days and would expect his wife to understand it, too. There would certainly be no point to pretending theirs was a love match instead of the marriage of convenience that it was. No one would expect that. Why, love matches were still considered by a good many people to be offensive. Everyone, including Ravenwood, would expect her to follow her own course.
Of course it would still be nearly two weeks before the family went up to Town, she reminded herself as she and her sisters walked the long corridors leading to the chapel. That meant she still had some time, and on her own ground at that, to make her views on the subject clear to him. Just in case he hadn’t previously thought the matter out for himself.
The spacious chapel was decked with spring flowers and filled with guests. For the comfort of the elderly and other less hardy folk amongst them, the fires had been ordered kept up for the past four days, so the chapel was warm and its stone walls perfectly dry. But Cicely, entering on her father’s arm, was scarcely conscious of the warmth or of the multitude of guests. Indeed, she went through the ceremony itself in a near daze, stirring only at the touch of Ravenwood’s hand when he slipped the wide, intricately twisted gold band onto the third finger of her left hand.
She was suddenly conscious that the tall, dark, near stranger looming over her, making her almost forget the presence of the rector himself, let alone that of the many guests, was establishing his rights over her very body by this ceremony. No longer would she be subject to her father’s will. Now she must bow to Ravenwood. She looked up at him, her eyes widening at the thought. She could not think he would be a cruel husband, though there would be little to protect her from him should he prove to be so, but she had no substantial reason to expect him to be a kind one, either. It would be up to her, she decided, to establish the fact as quickly as possible that she was no milk-and-water miss to bow to his simplest wish or cringe at his slightest displeasure.
The ceremony ended rather abruptly with the rector presenting the Viscount and Viscountess Ravenwood. “May God speed them well,” he added kindly.
“Amen,” came the fervent reply from the assembly, and Cicely was a married lady. As they walked together out of the chapel and into the adjoining garden court, she was more aware than ever of her husband’s presence at her side. A moment later she felt his light touch between her shoulder blades and glanced up, almost shyly, to find him smiling at her.
“Yes, my lord?”
“My name is Gilbert, Cilly,” he said gently.
Without thinking, she opened her mouth to inform him once again that she had not made him free of her name, let alone that awful nickname, only to feel warmth invading her cheeks as she realized, before the words were out, that she could no longer say such things to him. When a mocking gleam in his eye told her he had interpreted her fleeting expressions accurately, she looked away, nibbling at her lower lip in frustration.
“That lady in the green gown over there is attempting to engage your attention, my dear,” he said softly near her ear. Cicely turned in the direction he indicated and saw Lady Treedle approaching, her customary country stride not in the least hampered by sensibly flowing skirts.
“What good weather you’ve managed for this do,” she said cheerfully, holding out a hand to Cicely. Instead of the normal, light, two-fingered touch, Cicely found her hand grasped solidly between the other lady’s two. “A good match, my dear,” said Lady Treedle comfortably. “You’ll take good care of her, I know, my lord.”
“Indeed, I shall, ma’am. You’ve no need to worry on that head.”
“I know that. I like what I see. Mind you, the lass has an odd kick in her gallop from time to time, but I daresay you’ll keep a firm hand on the rein, Ravenwood.”
Cicely stiffened with indignation, causing both Lady Treedle and Ravenwood to chuckle companionably. “Gently, Princess,” he murmured. “Your frost is showing.” She shot him what she hoped was an icy glare and gathered her dignity, grateful when Lady Treedle soon gave way to another well-wisher. Others followed after that until Ravenwood took her arm firmly and announced his intention of repairing to the dining room to begin the wedding breakfast. “Though why they want to call it breakfast I’ve never understood,” he added with a provocative grin. “’Tis served well after one o’clock and the menu will doubtless contain little of such stuff as graces one’s breakfast table, so I ask you …” He paused hopefully, but Cicely had no intention of entering into a semantical debate with him. Not when she knew perfectly well that his sole purpose in the exercise was to bait her into abandoning her careful serenity.
It was a banquet befitting the rank of the host and hostess, and as course followed course, side dishes were removed and replaced with a speed that was nearly unnerving. Not one of the guests would go home complaining that there was nothing fit to eat, because the duke’s chef had outdone himself, and the footmen and maidservants provided such excellent service that scarcely did a guest make a wish known before it was satisfied. There was much laughter and some ribaldry, although the latter, due to the duke’s well-known views on the subject, was kept to a bare minimum and indeed did not rear its head until well into the third course, by which time many glasses of wine had been consumed.
There were the usual toasts to the couple’s happiness and hoped-for fertility. There were others to the pleasures both would presumably be leaving behind as well as to those that lay ahead, and it was such toasts as these that led to what ribaldry the guests did permit themselves. Cicely found herself blushing upon more than one occasion. At last, however, the huge bride cake, or wedding cake, as many were beginning to call it, was brought in and paraded around the long table so that all might have a good look before it was sliced. It was a magnificent thing, covered with white icing and decorated to resemble the great ducal house itself. Its appearance was greeted with applause, and before long a thick slice was handed to Cicely, that she might present the first taste to her husband from her own han
d and thus symbolize her submission to his will. Hoping he would realize the gesture was merely symbolic, she held the piece toward him, ignoring the dancing humor in his eyes.
Her expression must have given her away because the light humor suddenly changed to a glint of mockery, and Ravenwood’s big hand encircled her small wrist, trapping it in place as he slowly took his bite, never taking his gaze from hers. Angrily she tried to pull away, but the grip tightened bruisingly, making her gasp at the sudden pain of it. The small sound seemed to make Ravenwood aware of what he had done, and he released her, apologizing smoothly.
“I fear I don’t know my own strength, Princess. My turn now.” So saying, he took what was left of the piece of cake from her hand and offered it to her. Obediently she took a small bite, but she was wishing furiously that she had had the nerve, when she’d had the opportunity, to gag him with it. It was not until she noticed Ravenwood’s mocking grin that she realized the others were staring at her and knew that once again he had stirred her into betraying her feelings. Her grey eyes were flashing sparks, and her jaw was clenched with anger. With a struggle she brought her emotions under control again and turned back to watch the servants pass out cake to the guests.
There were more toasts, and she was beginning to feel sleepy, despite the fact that it was not yet even late afternoon, when suddenly Ravenwood leaned toward her and whispered, “If you don’t want to leave here in your wedding gown, I suggest you excuse yourself to change.”
She turned sharply to face him, her astonishment clear. “Leave here! But nothing was said about leaving. I understood that our bride tour had been postponed until after the Season closes, that we were to stay here until it was time to leave for Town.” She nearly shivered with mixed feelings of exhilaration and apprehension.
“Those were indeed the plans outlined by his grace,” Ravenwood agreed, still in an undertone, “but I must confess I did not second them. It seemed simpler somehow to play my cards close to my chest, however, since I had no wish to engage in a debate with him that he must lose.”