Throwing his friend a black look, Nicholas turned from the mirror and moved to the small table before the mantel. Bowls of fragrant white roses flanked a gold cross, refashioning it into a makeshift altar. He repositioned the candles beside the cross and walked over to adjust a wing chair by the window, where bright afternoon sunlight filtered through sheer lace curtains.
“Leave it, Nicky, the room looks marvelous. Sarah’s outdone herself.” Ned indicated the neat line of chairs facing the altar, the white satin draping the mantel and doorway, the flowers on the mantel and side tables.
“Sit.” Hal clamped one large hand on his shoulder and propelled him into the nearest chair. “Females’ll be ready soon. You’re wearing out the carpet.”
Nicholas dropped into the chair but immediately sprang back up. Hal shook his head in disgust and Ned laughed.
Nicholas grimaced. Easy for them to mock. Bachelors both, they had no idea how quickly a wife could take a man’s pleasant, well-ordered life and smash it. For one panicky moment, he considered calling the whole thing off.
Calm down, he ordered himself, taking a deep breath. His hands were sweating, and he wiped them on the chair’s brocaded arm. He had chosen more wisely this time. And this time, he was on his guard.
He heard footsteps approaching. “That will be the priest. They must be ready at last, thank God.”
Several moments later, they filed in formal procession back to the withdrawing room. Reaching his place by the mantel, he straightened his shoulders, and nearly tugged at his cravat again before he caught Ned’s amused glance.
The opening chords of a Mozart piano piece startled him. The guests looked toward the doorway. His stomach doing a little flip, Nicholas’s gaze followed theirs.
Sarah entered in a plain gown of gold satin. An airy breath of white net shot through with gold formed the tiny puffed sleeves, and a sash of the same glittering material tied at the high waist. Despite its simple cut, Nicholas detected the hand of a master, for the rich cloth clung to each curve of her body. The brief bodice, lower than any he’d seen her wear, offered a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage. Heat suffusing his face, he jerked his gaze up.
The glowing hue of the gown warmed her skin to cream and accentuated the delicate flush on her cheeks. Her coronet of braids was threaded through with wisps of gold net and circled by a ring of white rosebuds.
She raised her eyes, saw him waiting and smiled tremulously. By happy chance, at that moment a filtered beam of sunshine from the window touched her, gilding her fair hair and setting a thousand lights sparking on the sheen of her gown. She looked, he thought with a rippling shock, like a princess; she looked—beautiful.
Then she was beside him, a shimmer of gold in a scent of lavender, and the priest was intoning the ancient words of the marriage service. Sarah repeated her vows in a clear, firm voice, while, still shaken, he stumbled a little through his own.
Ned thrust the ring at him, he slipped it on her finger, and the priest proclaimed them man and wife. Sarah raised downcast eyes from their joined hands and gave him that shy half smile. He smiled back and leaned to kiss her.
Something twisted in his chest as he touched her soft lips with his own. Sweet Sarah, he thought, following the priest past the blur of guests. Sweet Sarah, my wife.
He had mastered himself by the time the other members of the wedding party signed the register, and penned his own name with a flourish. Sarah’s fingers trembled on the quill. With a little frown, she steadied them.
“Gold becomes you,” he murmured in her ear.
She glanced up, her solemnity softening into a mischievous look. “Well, ’tis certainly useful.”
He chuckled and caught her chin. “When you joke like that, little flecks dance in those lovely silver eyes. You know what I meant. You look beautiful, sweet Sarah.”
The pale apricot of her cheeks darkened. “More Spanish coin, my lord?”
“No, Miss Jokesmith. Except for one notable occasion—” he grinned, and knew she was also remembering Clarissa’s ball “—I’ve always told you the truth—and I always will.”
“Come along, lovebirds.” Ned’s voice interrupted. “Your well-wishers await.”
Sarah gazed across the room to where Nicholas stood conversing with a cabinet minister, entirely at ease as he chatted with one of the foremost men in the realm. Several of Sarah’s sisters hovered nearby, gazing up at him with incipient hero worship.
This handsome, charismatic man was her husband? So nonstop a blur of activity had this last week been, ’twas not until she’d begun to pen her name in the parish register, and realized after “Sarah Ann” she must now sign “Stanhope,” that the fact of her marriage struck home.
In an instant of blind panic, she’d nearly fled the room. Then Nicholas had murmured in her ear, his warm voice steadying her. Nicholas the gambler, but also Nicholas the friend who rescued her from Findlay, who saved her family from eviction and want. Hand wobbling only a little, she’d signed the page.
Married a whole hour now, she shook her head and stifled a giddy laugh. Despite any lingering doubts, she felt like the Cinderella of the French fairy tale, wearing the most beautiful gown she’d ever owned, awaited by a prince out of a dream. Perhaps this was all enchantment, and would dissolve when the clock chimed midnight.
She looked at her heavy gold ring. No, this prince had really taken Sarah Wellingford to wife—and by midnight, should have made her his wife in fact as well as name.
Heat warmed her cheeks and sent a rush of prickly anticipation through her veins. She recalled the kiss in the carriage when, overwhelmed by the gift of the Wellingford deed, she’d abandoned maidenly restraint. Drawing upon instinct, she’d tried to give Nicholas back some corresponding measure of delight.
Chloe Ingram’s image intruded, and her warm glow dimmed. What had she been thinking, to kiss him like the veriest lightskirt? Had he not told her several times what he prized most was her calm, well-bred reserve? “Lord save me from a spirited, passionate wife,” he’d said.
She owed it to him to control herself and remember that preference. She also owed, and would bend every effort to give him, what Chloe Ingram could not: a son and heir. She sighed. Despite her best intentions, she suspected responding with well-bred reserve to Nicholas’s touch was going to prove her hardest challenge yet.
Nicholas swung his mama through the last bars of the waltz. She fanned herself as he led her back to the table.
“No, Nicky, not another morsel! I declare, I’ve already stuffed myself outrageously.”
“Sarah will be pleased you’re enjoying it. She’s been working like a Trojan.”
“I daresay you don’t know the half of it,” his mother replied. “I talked with Lady Sophrina, and I’m amazed at what Sarah’s accomplished. Do you realize none of these rooms have been opened for years, and just a week ago were shrouded in Holland covers? Half the furniture is hired—and the servants! She’s been juggling three sets of them all week like a master acrobat at Astley’s. My darling, you’ve not married a treasure, you’ve wed a miracle!”
“I’m beginning to believe that,” he murmured.
Leaving her with a kiss, Nicholas strolled back to the dining room, where Ned and Hal awaited him.
Sarah appeared at the archway between the dining and dancing chambers, the gathering glow of the candles sparkling on the sheen of her gown. As the bride, she was the focus of all eyes, but she didn’t demand that attention. Indeed, she seemed more the gracious hostess ensuring the comfort of her guests than the star of the festivities.
So modest and lovely, so serenely competent—everything he wanted in a wife. A mellow feeling of self-congratulation warmed him.
Ned looked in the direction of his gaze and smiled. “To think, someone once likened her to ‘Ice.’”
“Not ice,” Hal said. “Sunshine.”
“She is indeed. Gentlemen, I’m a lucky man.”
As Nicholas took another sip from his wineglass,
he heard Hal’s hiss of indrawn breath, and Ned’s “Good God!”
Turning to see what had disturbed them, Nicholas choked on his wine. Before his astounded eyes, the midnight figure of Sir James Findlay led Sarah into a dance.
Nicholas leapt to his feet, upsetting his wineglass. “The bloody bastard! I’ll rip his arms off!”
Ned trapped the spinning goblet while Hal grabbed Nicholas’s shoulder. “Steady, Nicky! Can’t mill the man down. Upset the ladies.”
“Lord, yes,” Ned seconded. “’Twas appalling ton for Findlay to appear uninvited, but you can’t brawl over it. Not at your wedding dinner!”
His body taut with rage, Nicholas tried to brush off Hal’s hand. “You don’t know what he did to Sarah.”
“Sit, then, and tell us.” Ned pulled his sleeve. “Lady Jersey just noticed Findlay, and is looking straight at you. Don’t offer her grist for the gossip mill.”
Nicholas sat. Briefly he related the incident at the duchess’s ball. As Ned muttered a curse and Hal turned a stony glare on Findlay, Nicholas ended with his warning to his wife’s former suitor.
“He thinks himself clever, the miserable cowardly bastard, certain I won’t cause a disturbance at my own wedding feast.” Nicholas clenched his fists, the urge to pulverize Findlay making it nearly impossible for him to stay seated. “I must do something, surely you see that! ’Tis a clear challenge! I cannot let it go unanswered.”
“You’re right, something must be done,” Ned agreed. The three men looked toward the waltzing couple. A strained smile on her face, Sarah appeared to be holding the baronet off while he leaned close to murmur in her ear.
Ned’s jaw set in a grim line. “Something shall be done. But not by you.” He rose and tapped Hal on the shoulder. “That’s why a man has friends, eh, Waterman?”
Hal nodded and stood, his hard gaze on Findlay while with one large hand he held Nicholas pinned to his chair. Growling in frustration, Nicholas leaned back.
“’Tis bloody unfair for you two to have all the fun, but I suppose I must bow to discretion.”
“That’s the ticket,” Ned said. “Play the happy bridegroom. Hal and I will handle Findlay.”
Nicholas smiled grimly. “Don’t kill him. I shouldn’t wish my best friends to have to flee abroad. Short of that, you have my encouragement to deliver a memorable lesson.”
“Bastard,” Hal spoke up, startling them. His unblinking gaze never left the baronet. “You distract Sarah. I’ll take Findlay.”
Ned’s lips curved in a slow smile. “Be gentle with him, Hal—for now. You sometimes forget your own strength.”
“Time he tangled with someone stronger.”
Despite his friends’ wise counsel, Nicholas could not relax and mingle with the company. Wine, guests, music forgotten, he focused on the drama unfolding before him.
While Ned bowed and inclined his head to Sarah, Hal surreptitiously clamped a bearlike hand on Findlay’s elbow and marched him toward the hall. Ned caught the sleeve of an Oxford friend, passed him Sarah’s hand and motioned the couple to dance. Then he followed Hal.
Had Nicholas not been watching closely, he would never have noticed that while Hal bent down, seeming to offer a solicitous ear to some vehement comment Findlay was making, he delivered a vicious left hook to the baronet’s stomach.
Behind the animated figure of Ned, who was playfully batting the shoulders of a friend he’d hailed, Nicholas saw Findlay crumple like a folded greatcoat over Hal’s arm. Hal scooped the smaller man off his feet and bore him away.
Satisfaction warmed Nicholas, to cool at the memory of Sarah’s distressed face. As soon as she finished this dance, he would escort Sarah off the floor, perhaps spirit her away to enfold her safely against his chest.
At last the music ended. As he walked to fetch his wife, a group of Wellingfords approached. Trying to recall last night’s introductions, he decided the older girl must be Sarah’s next eldest sister, Meredyth, and the younger two…? No, not the dazzling Elizabeth. Probably the sixteen-and fifteen-year-old lookalikes, Cecily and Emma.
“Lord Englemere, you must have some of this ice Timms just set out,” one of the girls—Cecily?—cried.
Blue eyes starry, her twin—Emma?—made a sweeping gesture. “So much delicious food, the lovely music, and such elegant ladies and gentlemen. Surely not even Almack’s or—or the prince’s court could be any finer!”
The elder girl laughed and shook her head. “You must remember, Emma, Lord Englemere has doubtless tasted any number of ices from Gunter’s, and probably visits often at Carlton House. Our reception is not nearly so grand.”
“Perhaps, but ’tis undeniably more elegant,” Nicholas replied. Noting out of the corner of his eye that Sarah was being led into another dance, he accepted the bowl and waved them all to a seat. “‘Lord Englemere’ makes me sound old and cross. Why not—” the memory it brought back set him grinning “—call me ‘Uncle Nicholas’?”
One sister gasped, and both turned round saucer eyes to Meredyth. “Might we dare?” Emma breathed.
“Are you sure, my lord?” Meredyth asked. “’Twould seem rather forward.”
Nicholas shrugged. “I see no reason not.”
“Capital!” Cecily clapped her hands. Emma giggled, blushing, and lowered her eyes.
“Here, Colton.” Cecily waved to her brother. “Only listen, Lord Englemere has said we might call him ‘Uncle Nicholas.’ Is he not vastly condescending?” She turned sparkling eyes back to Nicholas. “I’m so glad Sarah married you instead of that nasty Sir James!”
Nicholas started as Meredyth murmured a reproof. How did the girls know of Findlay?
“Well, I am,” the irrepressible Cecily was replying, “and you must be, too. He’s just as rich, and surely nicer, and much handsomer, I dare swear.”
“’Tis most unbecoming for you to discuss him so.” Meredyth gave Nicholas an apologetic look. “The girls need taking in hand, I fear. Sarah schooled them after we let—after our governess left, but I’m afraid in her absence their education has been rather neglected.”
“That bang-up bay team is yours, is it not, Lord—Uncle Nicholas?” Colton asked as he joined them. “And the shiny black phaeton? Oh, to drive such a rig!”
“As if he’d let a cow-handed bantling like you handle them,” Cecily muttered.
“Children!” Meredyth protested, her face flushing. “What must Lord Englemere think, to hear you brangle so?”
Nicholas smiled at Colton. “Perhaps we’ll have a go at the ribbons sometime later.” Suppressing a grin when Colton leaned behind Meredyth to stick out his tongue at Cecily, he continued casually, “I’m flattered you all prefer Sarah’s final choice. Had she written you about Sir James?”
“Oh, no, Sarah never mentioned him in her letters,” Cecily chimed in. “Lady Sandiford told us.”
“Lady Sandiford is our neighbor,” Meredyth explained. “Although she resides mostly in the country now—”
“No blunt,” said Colton.
“—she has many good friends in town, who send her all the news,” Meredyth concluded, frowning at Colton.
“Yes, and when her friends wrote her Sarah was about to make a match with a wealthy man, she came straightaway to tell us the good news,” Emma expounded. Her brow crinkled thoughtfully. “Although she hardly called on us at all before, these three years since Sinjin left.”
“That’s her son—Viscount Sandiford, a captain in the Tenth Hussars,” Colton inserted.
“And so handsome in his uniform,” Emma murmured.
A handsome soldier. Nicholas’s smile faltered.
“I don’t think she was happy for us at all,” Cecily objected. “Leastwise, not for Sarah. Why else would she tell us what a good match Sir James was for a plain, penniless girl, despite his tarnished reputation? And the things she hinted about his dead wives! Even if ’tis uncivil to say so—” she glanced at Meredyth “—she was always mean to Sarah, and that’s the truth.”
&nb
sp; “She likes Elizabeth,” Emma put in. “When we called on her together, Lady Sandiford was always quite gracious.”
Cecily snorted. “Only if Sarah had just gotten a letter from Sinjin, and she wanted to pump you for news.”
“The grandest letters—calvary charges in the thick of the action.” Colton sighed worshipfully.
“No, she truly likes Elizabeth.” Emma returned to her point. “Don’t you remember she said how marvelous it would be if Elizabeth and Sinjin made a match of it?”
“Piffle,” Cecily retorted. “Just shows what a looby she is, when everyone knows Sinjin really loves—ouch!”
In the sudden silence, Cecily’s small exclamation rang in his ears. His stomach lurched, and only with difficulty did Nicholas keep the polite smile plastered in place.
“Lord Englemere can’t be interested in country gossip,” Meredyth said quickly. “Come along, children.” She slanted him a glance. “They are such chatterers. ’Tis quite…overwhelming, when one isn’t accustomed.”
“I expect,” he managed to choke out.
“Colton, you must fetch Faith, if she is to have some ice.” Dipping a curtsy, she motioned her siblings away.
Nicholas leaned back against his chair, the celebrated ice melting to a sugary dribble in his bowl. Sarah’s neighbor a handsome soldier—a handsome soldier who loved her, if the impetuous Cecily’s unspoken assertion could be credited. God in heaven, this couldn’t be happening.
Numbly he rose and stumbled past the chatting guests, down the stairs, into the garden. This time, he couldn’t fend off the searing memories.
Lydia, the radiant bride reveling in the attention of the entire Upper Ten Thousand who gathered to celebrate their nuptials. Lydia, whose sweetness soured and whose pettishness grew week by week as she increasingly complained that he was neglecting her for his fusty papers, his friends, his library, his meetings with the solicitors.
Business compelled him to remain in town after the Season, and weary of the constant harangues, he rented her the town house in Bath for which she pleaded. And found when he joined her there, a week earlier than expected, not his beautiful, pouting wife, but a note she’d left with the butler a bare half hour before his premature arrival.
The Wedding Gamble Page 10