With a wide smile he bit into the pastry and allowed his eyes to close with sheer pleasure.
“Ah . . .”
A CONVENIENT MARRIAGE
Alexandra Ivy
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
To John, Who really does make fairy tales come true
The Wedding
So this was love.
Whoever would have thought plain, awkward, eccentric Beatrice Chaswell would ever find such bliss? she thought as she heaved a giddy sigh.
No, no, she silently chastised herself. Not Beatrice Chaswell, but Countess of Faulconer, wife to the Earl of Faulconer.
Perhaps it was not so strange that she found it difficult to think of herself in such a title. She had barely been married two hours. And with her whirlwind courtship there had been little time before her marriage to actually consider anything beyond the immediate needs of acquiring a trousseau, calling the banns, and attending to the hundred and one details required for a wedding of such large proportions.
She still could not truly believe her incredible luck. Fairy tales happened to lovely, charming vixens who knew how to bewitch gentlemen with a smile. Not plodding, shy maidens who were far too plump for fashion and preferred pottering about her grandfather’s workshop to dancing the waltz.
Gabriel was quite simply something out of her dreams.
Handsome, charming, witty, and heartbreakingly kind. He never made her feel clumsy or ugly. Never grimaced when she managed to wrinkle her gown or say something foolish in front of society. In truth, he was the only gentleman who had ever taken the effort to truly understand her.
He was her friend.
And soon he would be her lover.
That delicious thought made Beatrice impatiently glance around the elegant salon still crowded with her parents’ guests. She would have far preferred a quiet ceremony with only a few close friends, but she had not had the heart to dampen her mother’s enthusiasm. After three and a half seasons of watching her daughter suffer the embarrassment of being a perennial wallflower, Mrs. Chaswell had wanted to crow to the world that Beatrice had not only managed to land a husband, but a titled one at that. And for once her suitor’s interest had not been firmly settled on the large inheritance that would one day be hers.
But now the ceremony was over and Beatrice had more than done her duty. All she wanted was to be alone with the gentleman who had made her believe in happily-ever-after.
The gentleman who had stolen her heart and changed her life forever.
Floating upon a cloud of euphoria, Beatrice began to weave her way through the babbling crowd, barely noting the envious glances and pointed stares at her waistline. She no longer had to concern herself with her parents’ shallow friends and their barbed tongues. What did she care if they thought she had trapped Gabriel into marriage by becoming pregnant? Or even worse, that she had bought him with her dowry.
She was utterly indifferent to their spiteful dislike.
As long as she had Gabriel at her side, she could face anything.
Reaching the end of the salon with still no sight of her husband, Beatrice gave a faint frown.
Perhaps he was seeing to the carriage that would take them away from Surrey, she told herself. He was surely as eager as she to be away from the crowd.
Slipping through the door, she moved down the hall toward the front of the house. She had just passed the library, when she halted at the sound of deep voices drifting from behind a partially closed door.
At first she paused to see if she could recognize one of the voices as Gabriel’s. Then it was the realization that the men were discussing her that kept her glued to her spot.
“To my mind, Beatrice got precisely what was coming to her.”
“Damn right. Sticking her nose up in the air and pretending she would never stoop to marrying a poor bloke in need of a bit of the ready. Serves her right to have married the most desperate fortune hunter in London.”
“Shame, though. All that lovely blunt being squandered on a destitute estate. Wish I’d seen through Faulconer’s act before he swept the heiress off her feet. That money could have been mine.”
“ ’Taint worth it, if you ask me. The woman is dicked in the nob, and not a thing to look at. Wouldn’t want that in your bed every night.”
“Don’t think Faulconer will worry about bedding the chit. Now he has her fortune he can leave her buried at his godforsaken estate and have all the fun he wants in town. Damn his eyes. He is deuced lucky that my man of business didn’t learn he was floundering in debt sooner. Gads, the man is said to owe every creditor in Derbyshire. Sweet little Beatrice wouldn’t have been nearly so eager to tie the knot had she known the truth. Now it’s too bloody late.”
In the hall Beatrice walked to the front door and into the cold afternoon air.
She did not feel the bite of the wind, or the sting of the pelting sleet.
In truth she could feel nothing.
Her heart had just died.
Prologue
A long, eloquent silence filled the vicarage.
Standing to one side of the portrait he had just removed from its crate, Vicar Humbly watched his housekeeper frown at the faithful image of himself upon the canvas.
After nearly thirty years with Mrs. Stalwart beneath his roof, the vicar could easily read her expression of disapproval. Although the servant was fiercely loyal toward him, she could not always disguise her disappointment that he was not of a more stately nature.
He hid a smile as he returned his attention to the portrait, viewing his portly form and untidy gray hair with wry resignation. He had long ago accepted he would never possess the elegant pomp of a bishop or the dignified composure of a scholar. He appeared to be precisely what he was. A country vicar with no ambitions to be anything more.
Besides, this portrait had been no more than a ruse to help Addy in her marriage to Adam Drake. He had needed some legitimate excuse to linger in London long past the conventional visit, and he had been quite pleased with his clever notion to persuade Addy to paint his portrait.
A ruse that had worked to perfection, he silently preened.
There was no doubt that Addy and Adam’s marriage had been in desperate straits. With Adam too stubborn to admit he had badly mishandled his spirited wife and Addy too resentful of being forced into marriage to realize her husband’s many wonderful qualities, they had been living in a state of cold indifference. It had taken all of his ingenuity to at last break through their barriers and allow them to realize that they were indeed perfect for each other.
But he had succeeded, he acknowledged with a smug smile. The two were virtually inseparable with that rather giddy glow about them that spoke of abiding joy.
Now he could only hope he could work the same magic upon Beatrice and her new husband, Lord Faulconer.
After all, it had been the fact that he had received letters from Addy, Beatrice, and Victoria all on the same day that had prompted him to travel to London in the first place. He had been unable to shake the sense that the maidens were in need of his help. He had married all three of them despite his suspicion that none of them was entering marriage for the proper reasons. And he had known it was his duty to do what he could for his young friends before he could consider retiring to his lovely cottage.
His attempt to play Cupid had been remarkably effective with Addy. He could only pray he would have similar luck with Beatrice.
A loud sniff from Mrs. Stalwart put an end to his woolgathering, and with his singularly sweet smile he regarded his housekeeper with an expectant expression.
“Well, what do you think of it?”
The woman who ruled the rambling vicarage with an iron hand allowed her lips to thin.
“It certainly looks very much like you.”
A condemning statement if he had ever heard one, Humbly acknowledged with a flare of amusement. He was careful, however, to keep his thoughts to himself.
If truth be told, he was just the tiniest bit intimidated by the ruthlessly efficient woman.
“Yes,” he murmured, “Addy is quite talented.”
The woman waved a disapproving hand toward the canvas. “Do you not think it would be better if it were a bit more . . .”
“What?”
“A bit more noble?”
Humbly’s lips twitched. “You mean if Addy had added more hair and fewer chins?”
She slashed him a chastising frown at his unseemly levity. “A vicar should have a measure of dignity.”
Humbly sighed, knowing that Mrs. Stalwart would always be far more concerned for the status due his position than himself. He cared far more for people than church politics or neighborhood society.
“I am simply as God has made me, Mrs. Stalwart.”
She lifted her brows as she took a knowing survey of his portly form.
“God and lemon tarts, Mr. Humbly,” she corrected him in that tone that always made the vicar feel he was closer to six than sixty. “Do not think I am unaware of the large basket that arrived with the painting.”
Humbly cast a guilty glance toward the desk where he had conveniently hidden the basket of lemon tarts Addy had been so kind to send. Dash it all, the housekeeper must have the nose of a hound to have sniffed out his secret stash.
“A mere trifling from Addy’s kindly cook,” he reluctantly confessed.
Mrs. Stalwart placed her hands upon her own ample hips. “Had she been so kindly, she would have sent you cucumber sandwiches, not lemon tarts.”
Humbly shuddered in horror.
He possessed a fervent loathing for cucumber sandwiches.
“You cannot propose that I be so ungrateful as to refuse such a generous gift?” he protested.
“The orphanage would no doubt appreciate the treats.”
Although an extremely generous and kindly gentleman, Humbly did draw the line at handing over his beloved tarts.
A diversion was definitely in order.
“Ah, well, I believe we were discussing the portrait.”
“Indeed,” the housekeeper retorted in dry tones.
“It shall do very well,” he continued, thinking of the portrait being hung in the long hall that held the portraits of all the previous vicars. “Perhaps it is not very noble, but it suits me.”
“I suppose,” Mrs. Stalwart reluctantly conceded.
Humbly’s humor was readily restored by the woman’s resigned expression.
“It could be worse.” He could not help but tease. “Addy’s mother, Lady Morrow, wished to have me painted with nothing more than a few angels and a fig leaf.”
As predicted, the older woman’s countenance flushed with annoyance.
“Lady Morrow? Dear heavens, the woman is without decency.”
“You do not believe I should look rather noble in a fig leaf with an angel perched upon my shoulder?”
“Really, Vicar,” the woman protested.
He gave a small chuckle at her predictable response. “Forgive me, Mrs. Stalwart. I was merely jesting, of course. I asked Addy to paint my portrait precisely because I knew I could trust her to represent me in a truthful manner. I am not handsome, nor dignified nor particularly scholarly. I am a simple vicar with simple beliefs.”
The stern expression swiftly softened at his words. “It is a fine portrait, Mr. Humbly,” the housekeeper conceded. “And at least you are back in Surrey, where you belong. I cannot tell you how I fretted while you were in London. Such a dirty, dangerous place. I do not know how you could bear to stay for such a length of time.”
Humbly smiled ruefully. In truth, he had cared very little for London. And even less for the elegant society events he had attended. He had discovered them to be overcrowded, stifling affairs that had usually offered nothing more than a pounding headache and crushed toes by the end of the evening.
Of course, there had been that charming monkey who had terrified the maidens into shrieking flight, he recalled with a less than saintly flare of amusement.
“Ah, well, it was quite an experience. And to be honest, there were more than a few moments when I wished for nothing more than to be in my comfortable library with a pot of your special tea.”
Mrs. Stalwart tried to disguise her flare of pleasure at his words behind a stern glance.
“So I should think. It is unnatural to be gadding about the country in such a fashion.”
“Yes.”
“And now that you have returned you must think upon arranging your belongings. The new vicar will be arriving in just a few months. I cannot be expected to pack all those musty books you insist on taking to your cottage.”
“Certainly not,” Humbly was swift to agree, then he offered the formidable woman an apologetic smile. “However, I fear the books will have to wait.”
Mrs. Stalwart turned her considerable bulk to face him squarely. “You are not returning to London,” she said in flat tones.
“No, no.” The vicar tugged at his crumpled cravat. “Actually I am off to Derbyshire.”
“Derbyshire?” She managed to place enough disdain in her voice to imply he was headed directly for the netherworld. “Whatever would possess you to go to Derbyshire?”
“Dear, sweet Beatrice,” he readily confided.
“Miss Chaswell?”
Humbly gave a faint sigh, knowing it would be difficult to think of Beatrice as anything but Miss Chaswell. She had grown up less than a mile from the vicarage and Humbly had known her from the day she had been brought into this world.
His eyes slightly dimmed at the memory of the awkward, diffident child she had been. Despite her social position and large fortune, life had not been easy for Beatrice. Not only had she been painfully shy, but there was no denying her short, plump form and regular features could make no claim to beauty. She was consistently overlooked at balls and assemblies by the local beaus, and rarely recalled when the young members of society gathered for their casual parties.
It had only made matters worse that her parents were undoubtedly blessed with both beauty and social acclaim. It was as if a wren had been slipped into a nest of brilliant peacocks, leaving all baffled as to how the mix-up could have occurred.
Not that she hadn’t been loved, Humbly was swift to remind himself. Both Mr. and Mrs. Chaswell had doted upon their only child. But there was no mistaking they could never quite understand Beatrice, nor fully appreciate her extraordinary intelligence that had been a gift from her grandfather.
They desired a daughter they could dangle before society like a pretty bauble, and instead received a plain, studious child who preferred inventions to society.
He heaved a faint sigh.
He had hoped that someday Beatrice would discover a gentleman who would teach her to appreciate her many fine qualities. A man who would love her so deeply that she could appreciate how rare and wonderful she truly was.
Instead, he very much feared that the Earl of Faulconer had courted the poor child for the same reason she had ever been courted by gentlemen.
Her indecently large dowry.
He sighed again, his heart heavy with concern.
“She is now Lady Faulconer, Mrs. Stalwart,” he corrected the housekeeper in sad tones.
She frowned with impatience. “Surely if Lady Faulconer is in need of a vicar she can discover one closer to Derbyshire?”
“I believe she is more in need of a friend than a vicar. And I do count myself as her friend.”
Perhaps sensing his unease, Mrs. Stalwart deepened her frown.
“Has something occurred? Is she not well?”
“That is what I intend to discover.”
Watching his soft features harden with uncharacteristic determination, the servant heaved a resigned sigh.
“Well, I do not care for you gallivanting about all of England in this manner. It cannot be healthy for a gentleman of your years.”
Feeling rather like Methuselah, Humbly smiled with wry amusement.
&nb
sp; “Do not fear. Soon I shall be comfortably established in my lovely cottage with nothing more pressing upon my delicate constitution than a walk through the garden.”
“I do not like this,” his housekeeper muttered in dark tones. “ ’Tis unnatural, I tell you.”
Humbly did not disagree with the woman’s sentiments.
He was at heart a gentleman who deeply appreciated the familiarity of his shabby vicarage and comfort of his own bed. The very last thing he desired was jolting his old bones so far across the country.
But he was also a gentleman who knew his duty.
He had wed Beatrice to Lord Faulconer.
He had to ensure that they were happy together.
The vicar sighed again.
He was beginning to develop a sincere sympathy for the plight of poor Cupid.
One
“My heavens, such a racket. Not that I am complaining, dear Gabriel. Goodness knows a woman in my position would never consider bemoaning her lot in life. It is our Christian duty to be pleased with whatever may befall us. And in truth, Beatrice is such a dear child, I cannot begrudge her peculiar little hobby. I would wish, however, that she would not allow those nasty tradesmen to traipse through the grounds until a decent hour.”
With a deep sense of reluctance, Gabriel Baxtor, Earl of Faulconer, set aside his morning paper to regard his aunt Sarah as she fluttered into the room. A delicate woman with gray hair, she was appropriately attired in black as befitting her role as a much put upon martyr.
As a rule Gabriel endured her sweet complaints with the same wry resignation as he endured the flood of workmen repairing the tumbledown estate and open distrust of his numerous tenants.
After the sudden death of his father and older brother when their yacht had so unexpectedly sunk in the Channel, he had not fully realized the burdens he would be shouldering.
The previous Earl of Faulconer was a renowned reprobate with far more interest in pursuing pleasure than tending to his faltering estate. His eldest son had followed in his footsteps with a commendable vengeance, gambling away what little money remained and borrowing heavily against the future income of Falcon Park.
Love and Marriage Page 19