Regency Wagers

by Diane Gaston

  His brows knit together, and his blue eyes looked piercingly at her. ‘I am sorry,’ he said.

  One tear rolled down her cheek.

  Chapter Two

  Each rut and furrow in the long road back to Bath jarred Emily’s already aching heart. She managed to feign composure, although she imagined jagged pieces of her heart dropping like bread crumbs all the way back to Scotland.

  Her husband, with amiable formality, made polite conversation. Asking after her comfort. Desiring to assist her. Apologising for the tediousness of the journey. She thought she would go mad with it.

  Such a journey together in a snug carriage might have become a treasured interlude, a bridal trip as pleasant as a Parisian sojourn or a Venetian gondola ride. Instead, gloom permeated the atmosphere, and Keating’s solicitude did nothing to banish it.

  The carriage dipped in what must have been a very deep rut.

  ‘Are you all right, my dear?’ Keating asked. ‘I dare say the roads are in a fair way to impassable.’

  ‘I am not harmed in the least, sir,’ she replied. Not harmed by the road, perhaps. With her husband, it was more difficult to say.

  His words were all that was proper, but he seemed as distant as Buenos Aires or even the Sandwich Isles. Places reached in dreams. She might as well be alone. She had been alone the past two nights when her husband thoughtfully arranged separate rooms. ‘For your comfort,’ he’d said.

  Her comfort, indeed. It simply gave him an excuse to avoid repeating the act that consummated their marriage.

  Men were supposed to desire that act. She must have done something wrong, however, something so objectionable he could not bear to bed her again.

  Between the bumps in the road, she tried to devise some manner of discovering what she’d done to displease him. She could not think of the correct words to form the question and thus remained silent on the subject. It put her to the blush to even contemplate speaking to him about what they had done. And what if speaking of it would be considered too forward? What if performing the act with her had been distasteful to him? How could she bear it?

  Eventually the golden buildings of Bath came into view, shimmering in the sunlight of the crisp autumn day. They passed the King’s Circus, proceeding up Brock Street. Her insides twisted into knots as their carriage pulled up to a building on Thomas Street where Keating leased a set of rooms.

  ‘We have arrived,’ he said in a tone she thought nothing less than ominous.

  He spoke a few words to the coachman and picked up their travelling bags, carrying them into the building himself. They walked silently down a hallway where Keating set down their baggage and rapped on a door. An ancient man, thin as a stick and dressed in a nearly threadbare coat, stuck his head out.

  ‘My lord.’ The man spoke as if Keating had merely spent a morning at the Pump Room instead of several days’ absence. He gave a dignified bow and batted not an eyelash at Emily, half-obscured behind the Viscount.

  ‘Bleasby.’ Keating’s one-word greeting managed to convey genuine fondness, even amusement at the butler’s ability to remain composed. He stepped aside and brought Emily forward. ‘I have brought my…my wife, Bleasby. Lady Keating.’ Her husband presented her without actually having to look at her. ‘Bleasby is our trusted butler, my dear.’

  Bleasby maintained the hauteur of a high man in the servants’ quarters in light of what must have been a very big surprise. He barely flickered an eyelid.

  ‘Delighted to meet you, Bleasby,’ Emily said.

  The old man executed an arthritic bow. ‘Very good, my lady.’

  Bleasby reached for the baggage, but Keating had already retrieved it. ‘No. No. Do not attempt moving these.’ He placed them inside the doorway. ‘I will attend to them directly. Is my mother in?’

  ‘In the parlour with the ladies,’ Bleasby answered.

  ‘Ah,’ he said with a cryptic nod. He turned to Emily. ‘My dear, I suspect it would be better for me to seek a private audience with my mother and aunts. I hope you do not mind.’

  What she did mind was being called ‘my dear,’ as if he could not trouble himself to recall her name.

  ‘I am sure you are right,’ she said.

  Would his mother despise her for agreeing to the impropriety of an elopement? Would she think Emily had put him up to the mischief? She could not recall ever seeing the now Dowager Lady Keating. The aunts had not looked formidable, however, at least from a distance.

  ‘I shall be but a moment.’ He took two long-legged strides before pressing his fingers to his temple and turning back. ‘Bleasby, convey Lady Keating to…to the library and see to some refreshment.’

  Bleasby limped, staggering a little with each step. Emily found herself wishing to give him her arm to lean upon, but the library was just around a corner. The small room had shelves, but no books to speak of and no fire in the grate. Managing to retain his dignity in spite of his infirmities, Bleasby limped out, closing the door behind him.

  Emily stood in the centre of the room. She’d not even removed her hat and gloves. She could barely form a coherent thought. Her throat tightened and tears sprang to her eyes, blurring her vision.

  No, she scolded herself. She would not become a watering pot like her sister Jessame, who wept over the slightest difficulty. Jessame had shed buckets at her wedding, a modest affair in St George’s Church at the end of her first Season. Jessame’s husband had been perfectly respectable, though a good dozen years her senior. If their father had ever thought to milk that gentleman’s fortune, he’d been sadly mistaken. Jessame’s Viscount had whisked her away from the family with creditable success. Emily had had barely more than a letter or two from her sister since.

  She dug into her reticule for her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes with its corner. If only she could be more like her other sister, Madeleine, who’d been daring enough to land on her feet after being banished from the household and passed off to everyone as dead. Madeleine had lived in sin with a man, borne a child out of wedlock, and still managed to marry well.

  But what did it gain Emily to think of Madeleine marrying Devlin Steele? She’d once had the fantasy he would marry her, but discovering her sister alive and sharing his house had put an end to that. In truth, her parents’ reprehensible behaviour had killed that illusion.

  They had let her believe Madeleine dead for three years, when, in fact, they’d simply given her to Lord Farley, a man twice her age and a scoundrel.

  How could Emily remain under her parents’ roof after learning that evil? How could she resist the escape Lord Keating offered when he pressed his suit?

  Her husband entered the room, looking a little grim. His interview must not have gone well.

  ‘Come,’ he said.

  She followed him, but paused before they entered the parlour. ‘Shall I remove my coat and hat?’

  He had the grace to appear abashed. ‘By all means.’

  To her surprise, he assisted her. His hands only lightly brushed her shoulder when he helped her off with her spencer, but an echo of his touch lingered as he escorted her in to the parlour.

  The parlour was another small room, but rendered cheerful by a flickering fire and personal items placed about the room. A chair held a piece of mending in progress. A copy of La Belle Assemblée lay open on a table.

  Less cheerful, three ladies stood awaiting her entrance as if expecting a dragon to appear.

  Keating brought her to them, first to a regal-looking woman with dark hair shot through with silver and the same startling blue eyes as her son.

  ‘Mother, may I present to you my wife, the former Emily Duprey.’

  Emily found not a hint of friendliness in those eyes. ‘Ma’am,’ she said softly. ‘I am pleased to meet you.’

  Lady Keating did not speak, but accepted the hand Emily extended to her.

  Keating continued to the elderly ladies standing next to his mother. One, as if made of only bone and skin, leaned heavily on a cane. The other ap
peared sturdier, but was hump-shouldered and bent over.

  ‘Let me present my mother’s aunts,’ Keating said. ‘Lady Pipham and Miss Nuthall.’

  Miss Nuthall glared at her, but Lady Pipham regarded her with a shy smile.

  Emily extended her hand to each of them, shaking gently, a little in fear of breaking them. ‘I am honoured.’

  The arthritic butler at that moment entered, carrying a tea tray, the cups rattling like window panes in a storm. Emily held her breath as he made his precarious way, sure the pot, cups and small plate of ginger cakes would topple on to the floor. Keating took it from his hands and placed it upon the table. The butler bowed himself out of the room.

  ‘Shall we sit,’ said the Dowager Lady Keating. She dipped gracefully on to a satin-covered armchair. The elderly ladies found chairs for themselves, but sat with more effort.

  Lady Keating added with a note of sarcasm, ‘I suspect you need refreshment after your long journey.’

  ‘You are very kind,’ said Emily.

  To her relief, Keating sat next to her on a sofa. She did not know if his support was genuine, but she welcomed it. The news of their marriage had obviously not been met with happy wishes.

  Lady Keating poured. ‘You understand this news of your…elopement comes as a great shock to us. Guy was not reared to perpetrate such folly. Indeed, he gave us no idea of this plan.’

  ‘I am sorry it distresses you,’ Emily said. ‘It was not our intention to do so.’

  ‘It is not quite the thing, you know,’ added Miss Nuthall. ‘A Gretna Green wedding is not quite the thing. It is not done in our family.’

  Lady Pipham murmured, ‘There was cousin Letitia…’

  ‘Never mind her,’ said Miss Nuthall repressively.

  Keating rubbed his brow. Emily wished he would speak, because she did not know quite what to say. None of her exact attention to behaviour in polite society quite covered this situation. Lady Keating handed her the cup of tea and she sipped, relieved at having something else to do.

  ‘Our housekeeper is preparing a room,’ Lady Keating said. ‘The chamber adjoining Guy’s. It shall be ready directly.’

  Had Lord Keating—Guy—given instructions to put her in a separate room? It was the way of married people in society, she knew. She was uncertain if she were pleased or disappointed that he’d not insisted she share his room.

  ‘I hope this will not inconvenience you,’ she said politely.

  ‘My daughter will have no room.’ Lady Keating folded her hands in her lap, but her fingers pressed into the skin.

  ‘Oh!’ exclaimed Emily. ‘I am sorry—’

  ‘No need,’ said Keating quickly. ‘Cecily is at school and has no need of a room here.’ He paused. ‘As you well know, Mother.’

  Emily had not even known Keating had a sister. She opened her mouth to remark again upon this, but stopped herself. It would not improve matters to admit she knew so little about her husband. She took another sip of tea.

  ‘Dear Cessy,’ murmured Lady Pipham.

  ‘Tell me, Miss Duprey—’ began Lady Keating.

  Her son interrupted her. ‘She is my wife, Mother.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ She smiled, but mirthlessly.

  ‘Perhaps you could call me Emily, if that would be more comfortable for you.’ Emily truly sympathised with Lady Keating. It must be difficult to give up one’s title and status without warning, and to a stranger as well.

  ‘Emily.’ The Dowager pronounced her name with asperity. ‘Do your parents know of this…this escapade of yours?’

  Emily felt her face flush. ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘I am a little acquainted with your mother,’ said Lady Keating with disapproval. ‘And my husband spoke of your father on occasion.’

  Oh, dear. The discreditable Baron and Baroness Duprey were obviously not a desirable connection, but Emily was well aware of that fact. Her parents were a blight upon herself as well.

  Keating stood. ‘I will check on your room.’

  Half an hour later Guy settled his wife into the bedchamber prepared for her. He could barely speak, he was so ashamed of his mother’s shockingly poor manners. Even Aunt Dorrie had been disagreeable. He knew the news of his elopement would upset them, but he’d no idea they would behave so abominably. He marched back to the parlour.

  His mother looked up from reading her magazine. ‘Is your wife quite comfortable in Cessy’s room?’

  ‘My…wife is due any room I wish to rent for her,’ he snapped.

  ‘Then perhaps she will take over all these rooms, and we shall be on the street.’ His mother’s voice caught on a strangled sob. ‘How could you do this, Guy? Marry into such a family and court such scandal? The Dupreys are not good ton at all. He’s a gamester, you know, and she is said to drink.’

  ‘The daughter had pretty manners, though,’ murmured Lady Pipham.

  Guy walked over to his frail great-aunt and placed a kiss on the cap covering her thinning white hair. ‘Thank you, Aunt Pip.’

  He stood next to Aunt Pip’s chair, regarding Aunt Dorrie and his mother. These three ladies had always doted upon him and his sister Cessy. His mother had never made any secret of her hope for a fantastic match for him, teasing him to offer for young ladies whose papas would never have given him the time of day. The sad state of the family finances could easily be guessed by anyone who had encountered the perennially unlucky and now deceased Lord Keating and his elder son.

  Emily Duprey had been a godsend, though he doubted God would approve of his methods of snaring her any more than his mother and great-aunts would. Or he himself.

  ‘Emily is a respectable girl, Mother,’ Guy said. ‘No scandal attaches to her, and I’ll wager you will not complain when her money pays your bills.’

  ‘Money? Hmmph!’ His mother glared at him. ‘The family is headed for River Tick.’

  ‘The family may be done up, but Emily has an inheritance,’ he continued. ‘If anything, our marriage prevents her father from throwing away her fortune on his gaming.’

  Aunt Dorrie stared at him with a horrified expression. ‘Can you mean you eloped with that girl for her money? It is the outside of enough.’

  The dignified, but impoverished and impractical Miss Nuthall was indeed correct to a fault about his motive for marrying Emily Duprey. By God, the ladies knew their finances were in a sad way, even if they did not know the true extent of their difficulties. Why would they fault him for marrying his way out of it? Was this not preferable to his father and brother’s empty promises of fortune at some faro bank?

  His grip tightened on the arm of Aunt Pip’s chair. ‘My reasons for marrying Emily Duprey are none of your concern, and I will thank you to accord her every courtesy in this house.’

  Aunt Pip bent her head. Aunt Dorrie and his mother glared at him.

  ‘We have no choice, do we?’ his mother whispered.

  ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘You do not. I must also tell you that I took the liberty of asking Kirby to attend to Emily.’

  His mother straightened in her chair. ‘You gave my maid to that girl?’

  Guy gritted his teeth before speaking. ‘I borrowed her. And you would have done better by offering my wife her services yourself. You have been sadly remiss in hospitality, Mother.’

  His mother did not even have the grace to look ashamed.

  Guy forced himself to take a breath and to regain some composure lest he say more to his mother than was prudent. He knew she had always been unrealistic in her aspirations for her children. He could forgive her wishing he’d made a better match.

  Still, she ought to have been kinder to Emily. There was no excuse for her rudeness. Her open disapproval made the whole business worse.

  If his mother insisted upon keeping her head in the clouds as she had done during her marriage and the succession of her eldest son, it was none of Guy’s problem. Rupert had been as big a wastrel as their father, but their mother thought the sun rose and set upon his sallow complexion and b
loodshot eyes. To be fair, she could never think ill of any of her children, nor begrudge them any of their heart’s desires. Why, she’d insisted upon sending Cessy to that dashed expensive school. Until his marriage, Guy had been racking his brains as to how to pay the fees.

  Emily walked back in to the parlour, where there remained a tense silence. Guy’s stomach clenched as it always did when he saw her. Would his guilt over marrying her ever dissipate?

  She addressed his mother. ‘Lady Keating, thank you so much for the services of your maid. She was most helpful.’

  His mother barely looked up. ‘You are welcome, I am sure.’

  Emily turned to Guy. ‘I wonder if I might speak to you a moment, sir?’ She looked as if the tension in this household had indeed taken a toll.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, conscious that her discomfort ultimately lay at his door.

  He stepped out into the hall with her. ‘What is it, my dear?’

  She winced a little. ‘I…I think I should call upon my parents. It is not yet the dinner hour, and I might still find them at home. I feel it my duty to inform them of…of my marriage.’

  He nodded. ‘I will go with you.’ Another unpleasantness to endure this day. Might as well get it done with.

  She looked faintly surprised. ‘Do you wish to come with me?’

  He tried to smile at her. ‘It would be shabby indeed if I allowed you to go alone.’

  A ghost of a smile flitted across her face. ‘I thank you. I need only don my coat and hat.’

  She fled back to her room and Guy found his own coat and beaver hat.

  Minutes later they were on the street. Her parents’ rooms were close by, but in a more fashionable building. As they walked in the fine autumn afternoon, Guy could think of nothing to say to her, except to warn her of cracks in the pavement or bid her take care as they crossed the street.