by Burke, Darcy
Mother turned, her eyes wide and her mouth agape. “What have you done?”
“Yes, gel, what have you done?” While Mother sounded aghast, Father was clearly annoyed.
“I’ve decided to marry Axbridge instead of Sir Duncan. I do not care to be dictated to—I’m a widow with a mind of my own.”
“You’re a widow with extensive debts,” Father said icily. “Is Axbridge aware of that?”
“Indeed I am, and it’s not an issue.” Axbridge’s tone was even and warm, almost congenial, as if he sauntered into drawing rooms and told men he was going to marry their daughter immediately all the time.
Father strode toward her. “We have an agreement with Sir Duncan.”
“It hasn’t been formalized,” Emmaline said. “I am free to marry Axbridge, and that is what I will do. Now. You are welcome to stay and witness the ceremony. If not, I shall ask Cutworth and my maid to attend us.”
Mother rushed across the room to her side. “Emmaline,” she whispered. “Think of what you are doing. This man killed your husband. What kind of marriage will you have?”
“One that is based on clear expectation. I have negotiated precisely the kind of marriage I want—something I could never do with Sir Duncan.”
Mother blinked at her. “You will regret this just as you regretted marrying Lord Townsend.”
“Regret is a harsh word, Mother. If I were unhappy with Sir Duncan, as I fully expected to be, would you have regretted forcing me to marry him?” Emmaline didn’t wait for an answer. She walked toward Axbridge and greeted Mr. Smithson. “I am ready whenever you are.”
“Excellent,” Mr. Smithson said. He looked toward Emmaline’s father in question.
Father cleared his throat. “Come, let us stand in front of the hearth.”
He didn’t mean to try to stop her?
They moved into position, and Mr. Smithson opened his prayer book. Emmaline stood opposite Axbridge, and her pulse beat even faster. She felt as though she’d run up three flights of stairs.
He looked down at her—he was considerably taller than she—with a placid, near-pleasant expression. The darkness was gone from his gaze. Did he think things were settled between them, that this ceremony would somehow right the grievous wrong he’d done her? She had a lifetime to find out. And to disabuse him of such nonsense.
Mr. Smithson began the ceremony. Emmaline had heard it all before, of course. How different that had been. She’d been joyously happy as she’d gazed at Geoffrey in anticipation. They’d followed the rules of propriety on their journey north, in part because the Duke of Clare had caught up to them and ensured the wedding occurred without incident. Clare’s wife had become one of her closest friends, despite the man’s involvement in the duel that had killed Geoffrey.
Emmaline didn’t blame Clare. He was a man of honor, as evidenced by his behavior when she’d eloped with Geoffrey. He hadn’t tried to stop them. On the contrary, he’d made sure she was safe and that no one changed their mind.
Wasn’t Axbridge a man of honor? He’d challenged Geoffrey over a matter of honor. The exact reason still wasn’t clear to her. Geoffrey had only managed to say a few things to her before dying. He’d apologized and told her she’d deserved better. Then he’d damned Axbridge to hell.
“I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it.”
Mr. Smithson’s recitation broke into her thoughts. The secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed… Emmaline didn’t think her heart had any secrets. She’d loved Geoffrey openly and without hesitation. Maybe secret love was better. That way no one knew if it caused you pain.
After a brief pause, Mr. Smithson continued. He addressed Axbridge, asking him to recite the vows that would bind them. After promising to do his part, Mr. Smithson turned to Emmaline and asked the same of her. “Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony.” He barely hesitated before continuing, but Emmaline quashed a sense of blasphemy given that she had no intention of living “together” with this man. “Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him, in sickness and in health; and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as you both shall live?”
“I will.” Again, a sense of unease crept over her, but she quickly shrugged it away. These were pretty words, and plenty of people ignored them. She was all but certain Geoffrey hadn’t been faithful.
Mr. Smithson asked who gave her to Axbridge to be married, and her father said, “I do” in a clear and robust tone. He must’ve completely gotten over any reservation he’d had.
It was time to pledge their vows to each other. Mr. Smithson indicated for Axbridge to take her hands in his.
His fingers were bare, as were hers, and she realized it was the first time they had ever touched skin to skin. He was warm and firm, almost reassuring. She didn’t want to be reassured by him.
Axbridge repeated after Mr. Smithson, promising to have and to hold her from this day forward, for richer for poor, and all the other nonsense, including loving and cherishing each other until death. His gaze was intent, and she could almost believe he was in earnest.
When it was her turn, she dutifully said her part, but she stared at his ear while doing so. As soon as she was finished, she snatched her hands away.
Mr. Smithson withdrew a gold band from his pocket and set it on the open prayer book lying across his palm. “Bless this ring and this marriage,” he said.
She didn’t remember that part from Gretna Green.
Axbridge picked up the ring and slid it onto her finger. “With this ring, I thee wed.” His eyes bored into hers. The darkness hadn’t returned, but there was an intensity that unsettled her. “With my body, I thee worship.” A shiver shot up her arm from where he touched her. She’d expected this to sound like a transaction, and yet with every word Axbridge uttered, she was ensnared in something she hadn’t expected—and didn’t want: anticipation. “And with all my worldly goods, I thee endow. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, Amen.”
He withdrew his hand. The ring fit her perfectly. She could hardly wait to take it off.
Wait, was that what she planned? Emotion rioted inside her.
Mr. Smithson pronounced them man and wife, and the remainder of the ceremony droned on, giving her a headache by the time he produced a register for them to sign as well as a copy of the lines for them to sign and for Emmaline to keep.
“I offer my heartiest congratulations to you both,” Mr. Smithson said, smiling at first Emmaline and then Axbridge.
The marquess looked as calm and serene as he had when he arrived, while Emmaline was near to bursting with…with what? Apprehension? Anxiety? Unease? All those things and so much more.
“Thank you,” Axbridge said. “If you’ll wait for me downstairs in the hall, I will be along shortly to convey you back to the church.”
Mr. Smithson nodded before bidding everyone good day and leaving.
“This requires a toast at the very least,” Father said.
Axbridge glanced at her briefly, then shook his head. “You don’t need to go to the trouble.”
“It’s not every day my daughter marries a marquess.” Father grinned at her, his eyes animated with enthusiasm. “Emmaline’s done better than any of her sisters.” He called for Cutworth, who was lurking outside the door. “Bring wine.”
The butler took off with alacrity. Emmaline noticed Axbridge’s mouth tensed—just slightly, but she caught it. He turned to Emmaline. “Would you care to accompany me now, or should I send my coach later this afternoon?”
“I need to pack my things. I would appreciate you sending the coach back.”
“Your every wish is my fondest desire.”
She narrowed her eyes at him slightly. Did h
e need to talk like that? Maybe he was just trying to impress her parents. Ha! He’d apparently already done that by the sheer nature of his title.
“In that case, I agree that we don’t need a toast,” she said, referring to his wanting to satisfy her wishes. “Father, you and Mother can celebrate while I pack my things. I’m sure you’ll be delighted to have the house to yourselves again.”
Mother’s lips pursed, and she blinked before narrowing her eyes for just a moment. “We will miss you, Emmaline.”
“You were expecting me to go—this is just a bit sooner.” Emmaline pulled her mouth into a fake smile.
There was a beat of awkward silence in which everyone looked at each other. Axbridge coughed delicately and turned to Emmaline. “I will see you later this afternoon, then.” He executed a neat bow, then offered the same to her parents.
Father slightly frowned as he shook Axbridge’s hand. “You won’t stay for wine?”
“I’m afraid not. I have other matters to attend.”
Mother didn’t hide her dismay as she practically glared at the marquess. “I daresay marrying our daughter should be your most important matter today.”
Father patted her shoulder. “Don’t bedevil the man. He’s our son-in-law now.” He turned a wide smile toward Emmaline’s new husband. “Welcome to the family, Axbridge. I daresay Emmaline has chosen better this time around. In fact, I would almost thank you for ridding her of that rogue she chose first.” He had the callousness to laugh.
Axbridge, however, had the sense to say nothing. His face was an impassive mask as he turned and took his leave, passing Cutworth carrying a tray.
Emmaline scowled at her father. “And I will thank my husband’s murderer for delivering me from your machinations.”
“Former husband, my dear.” Father gave her a meaningful glance tinged with warmth. He was happy with how things had turned out, and she was fairly certain nothing she could say or do would alter that.
Emmaline quashed her anger and disappointment and started from the room.
Mother caught up to her just inside the doorway. “I truly want you to be happy, Emmaline.” Her expression was tentative, even soft.
Emmaline knew her mother was genuine, that she loved her, even if she often had a frustrating way of showing it. “Axbridge will give me the autonomy and position that I require. I’ll be far happier with him than I would have been with Sir Duncan.”
She lingered a moment before turning and quitting the room. To say she’d be far happier was laughable when she doubted there’d be happiness involved at all. But perhaps she’d be content.
With your husband’s murderer?
Her step faltered as she reached the stairs.
What had she done?
Chapter 4
“You’re going to wear a groove into the floor, my lord,” Tulk said from near the front door where he stood sentinel.
Lionel paused in his pacing to blink at his butler. “Your wit astounds me.”
“As it should.” He fell silent for a moment, but Lionel expected he would say more and wasn’t disappointed. “You’re quite nervous.”
Agitated was a better description. “Have I ever been married before?”
“There’s no need to be sarcastic.”
If not now, when? Today seemed a perfect day for cynicism. He’d just married a woman who despised him, consigning them both to a lifetime of mutual disregard and acute discomfort. Lionel tossed his butler an irritated glance. He’d revealed the nature of his marriage to Tulk and to his valet, Hennings. The rest of the staff were simply told that Lionel had found a wife and married her immediately.
Lionel stopped pacing in the center of the hall. “How did the meeting with the staff go? No one raised any eyebrows?”
Tulk suppressed a laugh. “Of course they raised eyebrows. You’re suddenly married, and they will shortly have a new mistress to serve.” He studied Lionel intently for a moment. “They support you wholeheartedly and want you to be happy. Mrs. Wells is thrilled you took a wife. She found it rather romantic that you wed by special license.”
Romantic? Yes, Mrs. Wells, who’d overseen Axbridge House for the past twenty-five years, often pressed him about having a family and this…arrangement would upset her. She’d learn the truth at some point, of course, but for now, Lionel wanted to see how this arrangement would proceed.
The sound of a coach in the street caused Lionel’s pulse to gain speed.
“Your bride, I believe,” Tulk said, moving to the door. He opened it wide, and Lionel moved outside onto the top step.
One of her father’s footmen opened the door to the coach, and Lionel wondered if she was alone inside. Perhaps her mother or her father—or both—had insisted on coming with her. He could see her father doing so. He’d been disgustingly pleased with having a marquess as a son-in-law. It was clear he possessed no regard for his daughter’s feelings. Unless she’d told them she was happy with the union. He somehow doubted that. She’d made it sound like a business arrangement, which he supposed it was. Nevertheless, he’d found her father’s behavior insulting to her, and whatever their marriage was based upon, he wouldn’t allow anyone to denigrate his marchioness.
She stepped from the coach, and tipped her face up to the lightly clouded sky. She was exceptionally pretty with soft, feminine features in an alluring heart-shaped face framed by a few blonde curls. Pale, slender brows arched over her sky blue eyes, a small, unassuming nose sloped toward pink bow lips. Her cool gaze did nothing to detract from her beauty. In fact, it might have made her even more attractive—a woman he needed to woo. And those were the best kind.
Too bad she was likely unwooable.
He moved forward, intending to meet her, but she hesitated. He stopped and waited for her to approach. She walked slowly up the stairs.
“Welcome to Axbridge House.”
She looked up at the façade, but her features were impassive. Her gaze met his with ample frost.
He stepped to the side and gestured for her to precede him into the house.
Tulk bowed. “Good afternoon, my lady. We are delighted to welcome you.”
Lionel moved in behind her. “This is Tulk. You’ll find he’s an excellent butler. Do not hesitate to ask him for whatever you need.”
She blinked up at him, clearly amazed by his height. “Thank you.” She flicked a glance back toward the coach, where another woman had disembarked. “This is my maid, Lark. I assume you have a suitable room prepared for her.”
Tulk inclined his head. “Of course, my lady. The housekeeper, Mrs. Wells, will be along shortly to show her up.” He looked toward the back of the hall. “Here she comes now.”
Lionel introduced the housekeeper to the new lady of the house. Mrs. Wells greeted her with charming enthusiasm, but Lady Townsend didn’t so much as smile.
No, not Lady Townsend. Lady Axbridge. But was he really planning on referring to his wife as Lady Axbridge?
Emmaline.
Emma.
Em.
A selection of endearments rose in his mind. His father had called his mother “my heart.” Her death when Lionel had been nine had driven father and son even closer together as they’d shared their overwhelming grief. When Lionel thought of his childhood, warmth filled his chest. However, it was quickly chased away when he realized he wouldn’t have the same kind of family. Not with…Emmaline.
“Come, Lark,” Mrs. Wells said. “I’ll show you Lady Axbridge’s chamber and then your own.”
Lark, a pert-nosed woman with bright blue eyes, perhaps a few years older than Emmaline, shot an inquisitive glance toward her mistress who answered with a nod. The two retainers started up the stairs.
Lionel pivoted toward his new wife. “Shall I give you a tour?”
She avoided his gaze. “I’d prefer Tulk or Mrs. Wells provide it, thank you.”
He hadn’t really expected her to thaw, but he’d hoped for maybe just the semblance of congeniality. At least she wasn’t be
ing hostile. “Might we speak for a moment in my office?”
Her eyes, flickering briefly with surprise, found his. She nodded infinitesimally.
It would be natural to offer her his arm, and indeed, he started to, but he stopped himself. “If you’ll just follow me,” he said instead.
He led her to the left, through the drawing room and into his office, which occupied the back corner of the ground floor. It wasn’t overly large, but it offered a decent-sized library in addition to his desk. A seating area provided a cozy place to read in front of the hearth. He gestured to the settee. “Would you care to sit?”
Her gaze roved the chamber, but again he had no idea of her impression. “No, thank you. What do you wish to discuss?”
Lionel went to the hearth and leaned against the mantel, crossing his arms over his chest. “I thought we should communicate our expectations.”
She went to one of the bookshelves and perused the spines. “I expect our interactions to be minimal.”
“Does that include meals? I take breakfast in my sitting room and other meals in the dining room.”
“Do I have a sitting room?”
“Not at present. My parents shared a chamber and a sitting room.”
She turned, her brows arched. “I will not be sharing anything with you.”
He tried not to let her disdain—which was wholly expected—bother him. “I didn’t think you would. There is a second bedchamber on the first floor—my mother used it as a painting studio. I’ve had it refurnished as your bedchamber.” That had been no mean feat considering the brevity of their engagement. “The sitting room is between the bedrooms—you are welcome to use it when I am not. I generally only take breakfast there.”
“That will be sufficient, thank you. I suppose I could take breakfast in my chamber or the dining room and other meals in the sitting room.”
He still didn’t have an answer to his earlier question. “So our minimal interactions will not include meals?”
“I would prefer that, yes.”
“You really intend to spend our entire lives separately?”