by Burnett, May
“Or one of my ensigns,” the lieutenant suggested. “No need to waste blunt on a secretary, what is the army for?”
“Hmm,” the Major said, but fell into a thoughtful silence.
“So when is the wedding, North?” a familiar voice asked. He turned to see an old friend, Jack Cochran, with whom he had served on the Peninsula.
“In two weeks,” he said. All present fixed him with astonishment.
“So soon? Well, you’ll have your reasons,” Jack said lightly. “At any rate, congratulations!”
“Thanks – will you come to support me on the day?”
“Nerves, North? I’ve never known you to show any before.”
“It’s little wonder,” the lieutenant said, “most of us would rather face cannon fire than a society wedding, especially as the groom.”
“One is more likely to survive the wedding,” Jack commented.
North remembered his bride’s three brothers. “I’m not so sure of that.”
He told his former brother officers the time and date of the wedding, and invited them to attend the ceremony, since he had no family to support him. Since Edward’s suicide, Milla was his only living relative apart from some distant cousins in Yorkshire. The match with Lady Susan would not only rescue the Northcote family from ruin, but from imminent danger of dying out. With all that artillery fire and two gunshot wounds he had survived, it was a miracle it was still hanging on. Better a cuckoo to carry on than nobody – and there would be more children, he was determined on that.
“We’ll be there,” the Major declared, “and we’ll pass the word around to those fellows who are not here today. Make sure the wedding breakfast is lavish enough.”
“That is the bride’s father’s department,” North said, grinning at the idea of Lord Branscombe feeding all his former brothers in arms. Some of them looked like they could do with a square meal; there was not a single fat member in the Ares Club.
“So what is your secret, how did you manage?” he was asked again, by another officer.
“Luck,” he said blandly.
“Nonsense. Nobody is that lucky. My theory is that that you sold your soul to the devil.”
A lively discussion ensued, whether a beautiful heiress with eighty thousand pounds was worth selling one’s soul for. The near-consensus was that yes, if offered such a bargain, they would take it and not look back.
North had not had to sell his soul, merely his family name and lineage, - some would say his honour, North reflected, as the debate raged. But the chance to help a lovely lady out of a nasty predicament had to be weighed in the balance also. On the whole he was at peace with his decision, - his gamble - although he had not been sleeping so well since accepting the lady’s bargain. He had a dozen theories about her situation, but none completely fit all known facts. There was some element, some piece of the puzzle that eluded him.
“What of the wedding journey? Italy is very popular just now,” one of the wags said to him.
“I’m taking Lady Susan to my castle in Cornwall,” he told them.
“I suppose you’ll want privacy,” Jack said doubtfully, “but is it in fit state for a young bride? Didn’t you tell me your brother had not properly maintained it?”
“All the more reason to begin at once with the restauration. If it is too bad, we can give the proper orders, and proceed to Italy, or France, in the meantime.” North did not mention that it was his bride who had proposed the plan, and stuck to it against her father’s, and his own protests.
Would that be the pattern of their marriage, that she would decide matters, and he’d give in, even when he knew better? No, by Jove, once he got that ring on her finger, and the right to her obedience, he’d make sure that there was a proper balance in their relationship. He’d not be a tyrant, but neither would he be henpecked. The very idea that he – a decorated officer – could be in danger of succumbing to his young wife’s commands should have been ludicrous, but he had observed several such cases. Even Generals were sometimes afraid to go against their wives’ edicts. That would not happen to him.
Of course there were opposite cases as well, husbands oppressing and bullying their wives. North knew himself incapable of such behaviour, but Susan could not know it, with their acquaintance as superficial as it was. She was also running a risk – he had to keep his eye on that fact. If they were both reasonable and physically compatible, it should be possible to arrive at a happy balance. He would make sure of it.
But first there were a wedding and wedding night to get through. He looked forward to them with mingled dread and delight.
“You’re already daydreaming of your betrothed,” the Lieutenant charged him. “So in love?”
“Of course not,” North denied immediately. “I leave that to poets and other lunatics. Marriage is a serious business.”
“Naturally, with eighty thousand pounds involved,” another man added, and the good-natured chaffing went on.
Chapter 10
The two weeks went by swiftly, in a flurry of preparations. North was not afforded any opportunity for private speech with Lady Susan, and had to wrestle with his doubts and second thoughts all by himself.
The day of their wedding dawned overcast but dry. Despite the short notice, the ceremony was scheduled at the most fashionable church in Mayfair, St. George’s at Hanover Square.
North had not thought about his bride’s wedding gown beforehand, but when she appeared on her father’s arm in shimmering, virginal white, he had to suppress a rueful grimace. What a beautiful hypocrite he was marrying. The solemn atmosphere of the wedding was somewhat marred by the rigid expression of the bride’s father, and the glowering resentment of her brothers. Their acting talents were distinctly inferior to Lady Susan’s, or his own. North flattered himself that he looked the attentive lover, a role that was very far from his real feelings at the moment.
Solemn choir music, bright spring flowers, and elegantly hatted ladies were setting the stage of this unbearable sham, on what should have been a joyful occasion. It was just a theatre performance, although the vows exchanged would be binding for life. North glanced sideways at the white statue who had taken her place at his side. What emotions, if any, did her grave composure conceal? He was taking the biggest gamble of his life this day, where the potential loss was higher than he could afford.
But second thoughts were pointless now. He only hoped that his bride felt apprehensive too. That would mean that she took him and her vows seriously, and did not consider him just a convenience purchased with her damnably large dowry. He would get her attention one way or the other, if he had to tie her to the marriage bed. A sacrilegious thought in this time and place, but the prospect of being granted the full and exclusive rights to her body cheered him to some extent.
The vicar went on and on with an unnecessarily long sermon about the sanctity of marriage, that it was the foundation of a happy adulthood, and of society as a whole, indeed of modern civilization. Would this torture never be over?
At last the prelate got down to business and asked the rhetorical question if anyone had an objection to the union of these two in holy matrimony. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”
“Hold!” A loud voice commanded from the rear of the church.
Nonplussed and scandalized, the whole congregation turned as one, to behold Lord Fenton standing near the baptismal fountain, tall and formidable and dressed as elegantly as any of the guests.
Jeremy and his brothers jumped to their feet, clenching their fists, but were prevented from doing any bodily harm by the sanctity of the church.
“And what do you have to say on this matter?” Lord Branscombe stiffly asked Fenton. “How dare you even show your face here?”
“She cannot marry him – Susan is mine! Why are you letting her marry this rascally fortune hunter when I have made several honourable offers for your daughter? This whole wedding is absurd! Lady Susan, it is not yet too late to come to your senses. Only sc
andal and misfortune will result of this union, if it is allowed to go forward!”
After a moment’s shocked silence, many of the guests began to titter at hearing their own thoughts so crudely and openly voiced.
The vicar cast a helpless look at Lord Branscombe’s reddening face. The bride’s colour also rose, and her eyes acquired a militant sparkle, though her posture remained unchanged.
“Please continue the ceremony,” Susan told the vicar in a carrying voice.
Upon receiving a nod from Lord Branscombe as well, the vicar cleared his throat, and told the congregation, “The objection we have heard does not constitute a valid impediment under canonical law.”
Seeing that the wedding would proceed, Fenton cursed, turned on his heels and left the church. North would have liked to give chase and knock the fellow down, but was immobilised by his position as the groom, at the front of the church. He noted Barton firmly grasping his brother Barnaby’s sleeve, before turning back to the vicar.
The divine immediately proceeded to the vows and exchange of rings, possibly fearing further unscheduled interruptions. North was glad that his own voice sounded calm and collected as he spoke his vows; less so that his bride’s was also completely serene. If he was plagued by nerves, did she have to be so calm?
The palpable tension in the audience only abated when the vows had been completed. These carnivores were waiting for another delectable scene, to dine out on for the next few months. Lady Susan and he were their current fodder. Maintaining an unconcerned front cost him more effort than he had expected.
They signed the register, followed by the witnesses – Lady Cirrell and Jack Cochran.
“Best wishes,” Jack told Susan and North when he was done. Susan smiled at him, and Lady Cirrell took him by the arm, to take their places behind the newlyweds about to leave the church.
“Don’t worry, it will be all right,” his new wife whispered to him as they were walking down the aisles. Under the circumstances, where did she get the nerve to try and soothe him? This marriage was starting out all wrong. Lady Susan Northcote was too much in control for her new-wedded husband’s liking.
Though the good humour was somewhat forced, many toasts and good wishes were proffered during the wedding breakfast at Branscombe House. North did not count the glasses of champagne he consumed. Anything to get him past this ghastly event. His bride for her part was eating and drinking very sparingly, and was beginning to look at him with a thoughtful expression, probably wondering if her dowry might not after all have netted a better bargain. Defiantly North downed another glass, after proposing an extravagantly insincere toast to his bride’s beauty and virtue. Susan bit her lower lip, a habit he had not previously noticed in her.
“Don’t you think it’s time we left?” she murmured to him, with an undertone of anxiety. Good. Let her worry a bit, not take him for granted from the first day. He pretended to think her suggestion over, before saying indifferently, “If you like.”
“The coach should be packed and waiting.”
“Very well. Why is your friend, Miss Trevelyan, crying into the wedding cake?”
That phenomenon had been puzzling him for several minutes. The young lady had been staring at him with a strange expression – horror? Apprehension? Even if she feared for Susan, such copious tears seemed a little exaggerated. North knew that he was an object of disapprobation to many of the guests, but it was uncomfortable to be faced with the fact so openly.
“Don’t mind Abby. She cries at all weddings,” Susan said in an offhand manner. North could not have said why, but he felt that she was lying. Though why, on a matter of so little importance? Could he believe anything coming out of her beautiful lips? His simmering tension came to a sudden boil. He grabbed his bride’s hand and announced to the assembled company, “We’re off. Good-bye to all of you.” His voice did not sound slurred yet, but it was a near thing.
If North had hoped to make a quick escape he was foiled by a gaggle of persons – mostly relatives, though the lachrymose Abigail was not hanging back – who converged upon Susan and embraced her and generally behaved as though they were parting forever. Well, some young women did die in childbed, - North ruthlessly suppressed the unwelcome line of thought, and more or less bodily dragged Susan towards the exit and the waiting carriage.
About to climb inside, he was stopped by the solid height of Viscount Barton.
“Hurt her and I will kill you,” this young gentleman told North in a low but intense voice, utterly sincere.
“Don’t be an idiot, Jeremy.” Susan sounded exasperated.
North grinned evilly. “Now your sister is married to me, it is hardly your business any longer to interfere, is it? Besides, we’ll be far away. I can beat her and you would never know.”
Susan frowned, looking at him questioningly. As intended, his goading only increased her brother’s impotent fury. With visible effort Barton subdued his feelings, saying only, “I am making it my business. Remember it well.” With that he turned away, allowing North and Susan to board the conveyance at last.
The stairs were taken away and the door was closed by a goggling footman. The team of four horses set a brisk pace under the whip of their experienced driver, and North was face to face and alone with his wife at long last.
“Your family has a taste for melodrama, Susan. I trust it is not hereditary.”
“Your provoking Jeremy like that did not help,” she retorted. “Nor did I like to hear you threatening to beat me, no matter how provoked you might have been, while the guests are still feasting on our wedding meats. If it was your own younger sister in my position, would you have acted any differently than my brothers?”
“It is hard to imagine the circumstances being the same. I have not seen my sister Milla for years. She is seventeen, only two years younger than you.”
“I daresay our wedding was too sudden for her to attend? I hope this circumstance does not cause any resentment in her.”
Now that the matter was brought to his attention, North realised that resentment was exactly what he could expect, particularly as he had not even written to Milla about his marriage, much less invited her to travel up to town. With what money? Things would change now, however.
“I fear my sister does not yet know about our engagement, let alone that we are married. But you will be the mistress of the house. She’ll have to accept your authority, and I daresay will come to like you soon enough.”
Susan looked doubtful but to his relief, did not pursue the subject of her young sister in law. “Now that we are alone, and married, I ought to tell you the details I did not divulge when we came to our bargain that night,” she began with a trace of diffidence.
North felt cold and furious all of a sudden. Did she think him a fool, not to understand what Fenton had really meant?
“Don’t,” he warned her in a hard voice. “I have no wish to discuss it now. I’d rather not know any more than I do. When we arrive at the stop for this night, we will consummate our marriage, and I don’t want to think about anyone else then. If we are to pretend that your child is mine, we might as well begin pretending right now, and I’ll try to forget what you told me before. It never happened.”
Susan looked troubled. “I think I understand, but it would still be best to talk about it.”
“No. You promised to obey me today. Start now.”
“Oh well then,” she grumbled, but added, “don’t think I shall always be so biddable.” She leaned her had against the leather cushions, and closed her eyes.
Was she actually going to sleep at a time like this?
Chapter 11
North contemplated his new wife with a frown, wishing he had not drunk so much at the wedding. If ever he needed a clear head…. She was still in the white gown she had worn in church. Surely Susan had been planning to change before setting out. White lace was wildly inappropriate for travel. Had he flustered and worried her so much that she had forgotten to do so, or had she co
nsidered it more important to quickly get him away from the reception before he made a fool of himself and her? Once he got her out of this garment, he never wanted to see it again.
Was she really sleeping? The breathing was regular enough, but her mouth was closed and the chin not sagging, as would be natural.
All at once he felt the greatest fool in the world. Here he was alone with a beautiful girl, his by promise and law, and he’d driven her to simulate sleep, just because he had an unaccustomed attack of vapours. He, whose nerves of steel under cannon fire had once been legendary! It was absurd.
Carefully, in case she really was sleepy, he scooped his bride up in his arms, and settled her in his lap, the head resting against his shoulder. She sighed but did not open her eyes. He looked over every detail of his new wife – the way her hair softly curled where it escaped the pins’ confinement, the line where the neck and head met, the beautifully arched dark brows and lush lips. The nose was perfect, but there was a tiny freckle just under her ear. That freckle gave him hope – Susan was human, and had imperfections.
Feeling hot under his wedding finery, he bowed his head and dropped a light kiss on the freckle. Her skin smelled wonderfully feminine, of healthy female and some flowery perfume – probably from her soap, as it was only noticeable this close. Some females doused themselves in heavy perfumes, but his wife had better taste than that.
Unable to resist the temptation, he settled her into a more accessible position and proceeded to nibble her neck and earlobe.
“That feels strange,” she said without opening her eyes. “Are you planning to eat me?”
She had not stiffened, an excellent sign, nor did she offer the slightest protest when he put his hand on her breasts, outside the layers of fabric and stays.
“Just getting you accustomed to my touch,” he explained. “Tell me if anything I do is uncomfortable or objectionable to you.”
“Not so far.” She opened her eyes to throw him a speculative look.