by Jane Feather
“Why would he choose to walk?” Meg wondered. “He’s going to get wet.”
Arabella gave a short and rather mirthless laugh. “Jack Fortescu is a law unto himself—besides, it doesn’t seem to rain on him. Haven’t you noticed?”
Meg gave this due consideration. “I suppose it’s true,” she agreed. “There’s not a spot of water on his coat, and his lace is just as crisp as it was when he put it on. Everyone else is looking limp and bedraggled and the duke doesn’t have a hair out of place.”
“The devil looks after his own,” Arabella said.
“I trust that was in jest,” Meg said.
“Of course it was,” Arabella said with a somewhat unconvincing laugh.
Meg’s speculative gaze rested on her friend’s face for a moment. She had supported Arabella’s decision to accept the duke’s proposal. Like Arabella, she had seen it as the lesser of two evils, but if she had thought her friend actively disliked Jack, she would have forcefully tried to dissuade her. She had discounted Arabella’s occasional half-laughing comments about the duke’s aura of menace . . . the sense she had of something sinister about him, because Arabella herself hadn’t seemed to take her own comments seriously. But there was something about the duke that was hard to define, and that made her uneasy sometimes.
But Arabella had been running her own life for many years now, Meg comforted herself. She knew what she was doing. She knew what she was giving up, just as she knew what she was gaining.
“I shall miss you when you go up to London,” she said, taking Arabella’s hand in a quick clasp.
Arabella returned the squeeze but her expression lightened and a sparkle appeared in her eyes. “Maybe you won’t,” she said with a mysterious air. “I had a thought about that.”
Meg looked interested. “What thought?”
“Well, once I’m established in Town, a full-fledged duchess, why shouldn’t you come and pay an extended visit? You’ve been lamenting the dearth of good marital prospects in Kent, so why not come up and try your luck again in Town? Your father won’t object to your staying with me, will he?”
“No,” Meg said thoughtfully. “I’m sure he wouldn’t. But I don’t know, Bella, London Society is such a miserably self-centered universe. I didn’t fit in before and I don’t suppose I will on another try.”
“I’ve been thinking about that too,” Arabella said, withdrawing her hand from Meg’s and tapping two fingers into her palm for emphasis. “I didn’t fit in either the first time, but just think, Meg, we were ingenues and we refused to toe the line. But a duchess and her dearest friend wouldn’t need to toe the line, wouldn’t need to be quite so boringly conventional. We might make a stir.”
“Mmm.” Meg nodded slowly. “A stir?”
“Well, I intend to make my mark,” Arabella stated. “I intend to have a political salon and become someone very important.”
Meg looked at her in some awe. Arabella rarely failed to achieve something she’d set her heart on. “I suppose that would be considered making the best of a bad job.”
“Precisely. If I’m sacrificing myself on the altar of matrimony, I might as well make it work for me.”
Meg raised her eyebrows at this but said nothing as the carriage drew up at the house. The coachman let down the footstep and assisted the ladies to the ground. Arabella shook out the flounces of her skirt, reflecting that making her mark in Society was only one of the things she intended to use this marriage to achieve. Jack Fortescu, Duke of St. Jules, had gambled his way into the earl of Dunston’s fortune. Maybe the earl’s sister could give the duke a tiny taste of the bitter bit. How would he feel if he saw his wife, his victim’s sister, gambling away his own ill-gotten gains? It would have to gall him, and he’d had everything his own way for too long.
The servants had hurried back from the church and were gathered in the hall, waiting to offer their congratulations to the bride and groom. Franklin looked surprised when Meg and Arabella stepped down from the carriage and there was no sign of the groom, but since everything about this marriage was beyond his ken he merely greeted them, offered his own congratulations to Arabella, and escorted her into the house.
“His grace is walking back,” Arabella explained.
“Just so, your grace,” Franklin said, bowing low, as if it was a perfectly reasonable explanation.
Arabella blinked at him. “That’s not necessary, Franklin. Lady Arabella will do as well as it always has done.”
“I suspect you’re going to have to get used to it,” Meg murmured.
“But I’m still the same person,” Arabella protested. And then wondered if that was true. She did feel as if some profound changes had occurred in her since Jack Fortescu walked into her life. But perhaps she was confusing changes in herself with the massive changes that had happened in her life.
And the most dramatic personal change had not yet occurred, she thought as Jack and the rest of the wedding party came into the house. She was as yet a wife in name only. But not for much longer. She took a glass of champagne from the tray that Franklin proffered and watched Jack thread his way towards her, taking a glass for himself in passing.
“Where are the dogs?” he inquired. “I was sure that they’d walk you down the aisle.”
“They would have done, given half a chance, but they rolled in the midden this morning and reeked to high heaven, so one of the grooms had to give them a bath. Mrs. Elliot won’t let them into the house until they’re dry.” Keep the conversation on this ordinary plane and everything would be fine, her nerves completely under control, she told herself.
But Jack clearly had other ideas. He lightly touched her glass with his own. “How do you feel?”
“The same as always,” she returned. “Should I feel any different?”
“Perhaps not yet,” he said, tuning in to her earlier thought.
Her skin prickled and her stomach seemed to drop. She felt her cheeks warm, and couldn’t tear her eyes away from the steady gaze that held hers. She moistened suddenly dry lips with the tip of her tongue. He raised an eyebrow and deliberately bent to kiss the corner of her mouth. “I always find anticipation sharpens the pleasure.” Then he strolled away to greet his guests.
Meg, who had been watching the byplay with curiosity, came over to Arabella. “I don’t know whether he has the devil’s protection, but he’s devilishly handsome,” she observed in a low voice. “I wonder what kind of a lover he is.”
“That’s the least of my worries,” Arabella said, absently touching the corner of her mouth where the sensation of that kiss seemed to linger. She was remembering that moment in the garden when she’d realized that Jack Fortescu, the sheer power and magnetism of the man, could swallow her whole. She was much more worried about her soul than her body.
“Is there anything I can help with?” Meg asked. “I don’t think I can give you any practical tips, since one night of passion with a gondolier who spoke no English doesn’t an expert make, but I can listen.” She smiled encouragingly at Arabella over her champagne glass.
“Now, what are you two whispering about?” Sir Mark came over to them, his eyes grave although he managed a smile. Like all of Arabella’s friends, he had his doubts about this arrangement.
“If only you knew,” Meg whispered, and Arabella felt her tension dissipate at the ridiculous idea of the baronet being a party to their conversation.
“You mustn’t monopolize the bride, Meg,” her father declared, bestowing a kiss on Arabella’s cheek. “Congratulations, my dear. You look radiant.”
Arabella smiled her thanks at the conventional pleasantry. Brides were supposed to be radiant on their wedding day but she was fairly certain the platitude did not apply to her. She certainly didn’t feel radiant. Her stomach was in knots. She glanced across the room to where Jack was moving among the small group of guests. He acted as if he’d been the lord of Lacey Court all his life, she reflected with a now familiar surge of confused resentment. Lord of Lacey Cou
rt and earl of Dunston. But resentment was immediately followed by the realization that she was now and forever the undisputed lady of Lacey Court and no one could take that away from her.
The wedding feast continued throughout the afternoon as course after course appeared on the dining table. Arabella had told Franklin and Mrs. Elliot that there was no need to go to any extraordinary efforts, but Franklin had his own views on what was right and proper for Lacey hospitality, even if the wedding itself was such a hastily contrived affair, coming on the heels of a death in the family. There was to be no official mourning for the dead earl, but there would be an official celebration for his sister’s wedding. Doggedly he opened bottles of the best burgundy that had been laid down by Lady Arabella’s father. The old earl would have insisted upon it when his daughter became a duchess.
As the afternoon waned, Lady Barratt rose to her feet and came around the table. She gave the groom a vague smile and then bent to whisper in the bride’s ear. “Arabella, my dear, you must allow me to act as your mother. It is only right that you should have someone to prepare you for your wedding night.”
Startled, Arabella looked up into the kindly face hovering over her. “My dear ma’am, that’s so kind of you, but really it isn’t necessary. I’m no ingenue debutante, you know.”
“That may be so, my dear, but your mother would expect it of me.”
Arabella hoped desperately that Lady Barratt did not intend to launch into an explanation of the mechanics of the marriage bed. A bout of hysterical laughter was the last thing she needed. She said only, “I thank you, ma’am, you’re very kind.” She glanced at Jack, who sat beside her. He was doing a very creditable imitation of ignoring this sotto voce conversation.
Except of course that he knew exactly what was going on. He laid a hand on her knee beneath the table. The unexpected touch made her jump. She could feel the heat of his hand through the thin muslin of her gown. Throughout the feast he had said and done nothing to imply any intimacy between them and she’d been grateful for the consideration. They were too small a group for intimacies to pass unnoticed, however casual they might appear, and what wouldn’t have embarrassed her among strangers would certainly do so in front of her friends.
For an instant he increased the pressure on her knee, then leaned sideways and kissed her ear. The fine hairs along her spine lifted. “I’ll encourage the gentlemen to take an early departure. They’ll take their womenfolk with them in short order.”
“They look set into the port,” she murmured doubtfully.
He shook his head with a dry smile. “Have no fear, my dear, a bridegroom on his wedding night is not to be delayed.”
The knots in her stomach tightened and her scalp prickled. It sounded as much like a threat as a promise.
Lady Barratt smiled around at the gathering. “Gentlemen, pray excuse us.”
“Yes, of course, my dear ma’am.” Sir Mark got to his feet. “Arabella, my dear, you know I have always thought of you as a daughter, and I know I speak for us all when I say we wish you good fortune and happiness.” He raised his glass, and David and Peter Bailey, now on their feet, raised theirs and drank to her.
Jack took up his glass, said quietly, “I accept the responsibility, gentlemen.” He felt David Kyle’s eyes brightly intense staring at him as if they would see into his heart, a heart the vicar considered to be as black as pitch. Jack had no illusions about that. He held the vicar’s gaze until it dropped, then he drank. He caught Meg Barratt looking at him across the table and he thought he read both warning and challenge in her bright green eyes. She too was daring him to hurt her friend. He held her gaze, but unlike the vicar’s it didn’t waver, and in the end he was forced to turn aside as he took his seat again.
Arabella exchanged kisses with the wedding guests and allowed Lady Barratt to escort her from the dining room. It was only when her ladyship automatically turned towards the east wing that she realized she had made no provision for conjugal apartments. Her mother had had the bedchamber adjoining her husband’s. The duke now occupied the earl’s suite, but the adjoining room was closed up, left just as it had been after her mother’s death.
All her possessions, her clothes, nightclothes, everything she needed, remained in her own bedchamber, and Lady Barratt, whose familiarity with the layout of Lacey Court went back to the days when she and Arabella’s mother were close friends, was proceeding inexorably in the wrong direction.
“Lady Barratt . . . ma’am . . . I will be using my own chamber tonight,” she said.
Lady Barratt turned around, her eyes widening. “My dear, don’t be absurd.”
“There hasn’t been time to make the necessary arrangements,” Arabella said in a rush. “But the duke understands. He knows I’ll be in my own chamber.” She wasn’t at all sure that he did know this. There’d been no discussion but he would be within his rights to assume that she had instructed the household to make the correct disposition.
“Your husband can’t be expected to roam the corridors in search of his wife,” Lady Barratt declared. “A wife’s bedchamber must be easily accessible at all times.”
Arabella said pacifically, “I’ll arrange matters properly tomorrow, ma’am. There really wasn’t time before.” She turned back to the west wing.
She entered her bedchamber and then stopped on the threshold, gazing around in bewilderment. “What’s happened? Where is everything?” The armoire stood open and empty, the linen press likewise. Her brushes and combs were gone from the dresser, and Becky was busily stripping the bed of sheets and hangings.
Becky jumped guiltily. “His grace . . . your grace . . . his grace said we should move everything into the chamber next to his,” she said in a rush. “He told us this morning, before he went to the church, m’lady . . . your grace, I mean. His grace told Mr. Franklin, when Mr. Franklin said your grace had given no instructions.”
This title was extraordinarily cumbersome, Arabella decided. She frowned at the denuded chamber. When it came to giving unilateral orders, it seemed that the duke took seriously his position as master of the house. She would have appreciated being consulted by someone before her entire possessions were carted away. Why had Franklin not mentioned it?
“It seems your husband thought of everything, dear,” Lady Barratt said in approving tones. “Most unusual for a man to have the ordering of such household matters.”
“The duke has the ordering of everything,” Arabella said with more than a touch of acid.
“I think you’ll like the new chamber, your grace,” Becky said rather timidly. “All the hangings are fresh, and Ben and me have been working all day getting it right. All your things are there, and there’s new candles, and a fire in the grate to make it all cozy. It being such a miserable day an’ all. And I just took hot water up, just a few minutes ago.”
“Thank you, Becky,” Arabella said with a warm smile that masked her true feelings from the girl. “I’m sure you’ve done wonders.” She turned on her heel, her companion following her.
Her new bedchamber was certainly cozy and warm. Arabella wondered where the new hangings had been kept. She’d never seen them before. Thick embroidered cream damask hung around the bed and draped the long windows, much grander than the plain taffeta of her old room. The rich colors of the Aubusson carpet glowed in the candlelight. It was very much the chamber of a mature married woman, with none of the remnants of her childhood that had adorned the room she had slept in since she left the nursery. She felt suddenly bereft.
“Now, let me help you get ready,” Lady Barratt said. “The duke will be up shortly and he must find you suitably prepared.”
Lamb to the slaughter, Arabella thought, but pasted a smile on her face.
Lady Barratt held up the ivory silk peignoir that Becky had laid out on the bed. “Yes, this is most suitable,” she said. “Very pretty. Now, I think a little sprinkle of rosewater on the pillow . . .”
Arabella allowed herself to be undressed and clothed in
the peignoir. Fortunately the older woman seemed to require no responses to her stream of observations. “Now, you must await your husband in bed, my dear,” Lady Barratt stated, once Arabella was arrayed in the peignoir.
Arabella was about to say she would sit by the fire, when there came a discreet tap on the door and Franklin’s solemn tones. “Lady Barratt, your husband awaits belowstairs.”
Jack had certainly moved matters along, Arabella reflected. They’d been upstairs barely half an hour. But now the time had come to put this marriage beyond the reach of annulment.
“I’m grateful for your kindness, Lady Barratt,” she said with a warm smile, kissing her.
Lady Barratt returned the kiss and then turned back the coverlet. “There you are, dear.” She smoothed out the pillow. Compliance was the quickest way to get her out of the room and Arabella climbed into the unfamiliar bed.
Lady Barratt tucked the coverlet in and then kissed Arabella again. “You are the image of your mother,” she said, misty-eyed. “Oh, dear, I remember my own wedding night so well.” She hurried to the door. “Be happy, my dear.”
As soon as the door closed, Arabella jumped from the bed. She had no intention of lying there like a staked goat awaiting her fate. She smoothed out the coverlet again, then sat down at the dresser. Two tall candles in silver sticks stood to either side of the mirror, their golden flames reflected in the glass. Her countenance had a soft glow in the flattering light, and her hair, well brushed, hung in a loose glossy mane down her back. Her eyes seemed larger than usual and she thought there was a spark in the tawny depths . . . a flicker of anticipation, perhaps? Or was it apprehension? Dear God, she didn’t know how she felt.
She heard sounds from the adjoining chamber, footsteps, a low murmur. Jack and his valet, the overly superior Louis. Surely he wouldn’t stay next door throughout this ritual deflowering? She had an absurd urge to giggle at this description of what she was awaiting. Obviously a lunatic reaction, she thought distractedly. Perhaps she’d had too much wine.