by Jane Goodger
“It was a lovely ceremony, was it not?” she asked, after he’d settled down next to her in the carriage that would bring them to her parents’ home for the wedding breakfast.
“Lovely,” he said dryly. “Perhaps it would have been far more effective had you dragged a cross along behind you.”
Her cheeks turned pink and her jaw moved the tiniest fraction into a mulish expression. “You needn’t be blasphemous,” she said, completely ignoring the meaning behind his words.
“And you needn’t act as if you’ve just been married to the devil.”
She took a breath as if she were about to give an angry retort, but instead she deflated a bit. “I am sorry for the delay. Please don’t take it personally. It had nothing to do with you.”
Her little speech was particularly disheartening, because how could she possibly think that her clear reluctance to marry him was something he should not take personally? What on earth could be more personal than getting married? “You have no understanding of me at all, do you?” he said, angrily. “Do you have a single thought that doesn’t concern how you feel? Do you know how humiliating it was for me to wait for you, knowing that everyone in the church knew you were being forced to this? You, my dear wife, are perhaps the most self-centered thing God has created.”
She looked at him, finally, in complete shock. “It seems to me that you are getting all the benefit of this union. And that is patently unfair.”
“I have just made you my duchess,” he said, flabbergasted at her remark.
She actually let out a snort, leaving him so completely baffled he could hardly speak. Before he could deliver a tirade, the carriage came to a stop in front of the Fifth Avenue house, making a path through yet another throng of onlookers. “Do you think they are here to see Elizabeth Cummings?” he asked, his voice hard and uncompromising. “They are here to see the Duchess of Bellingham. Perhaps you should remember that.”
With that, Rand stepped from the carriage, trying to keep the grim look from his face as he handed his new bride down. Despite everything, he was still very much aware that appearances were paramount and even if he wanted to throttle his bride, no one would ever know such errant thoughts had crossed his mind.
A wedding breakfast followed, with the bride and groom congratulated a dozen times by the dignitaries who’d attended the ceremony. She stood by him in the receiving line giving all the proper replies, even smiling and looking up to him on occasion. All very proper. But they hadn’t kissed and no one had demanded that they do so. This was no ribald celebration but a dignified acknowledgment that America’s royalty had tied itself to British royalty.
He wanted to shout at her for being so damned proper, even though he knew she was doing what she had been trained from birth to do. She carried herself with the dignity of a duchess and for the life of him he didn’t know why he found it so irritating.
Maggie told herself, perhaps a dozen times, that the earl would be returning to England and she would never see him again so she certainly shouldn’t look forward to seeing him now. At least not to the degree that had her heart racing and her entire body heating to the point of discomfort. But the sight of him in the church with his fine coat and tails, his blond hair slicked brutally back, his face freshly shaven, it was enough to make any girl’s heart flutter. Her heart, which had been fighting her growing attraction, was beating madly.
“I do feel sorry for them,” he said as he sipped champagne.
“Because they are not in love?”
“Because they are married,” he replied, making Maggie frown.
“I’d forgotten how against the institution you are. I daresay if I was forced to marry, I wouldn’t find the duke all that objectionable. And if I were a man, I would count my blessings to be married to someone as lovely as Elizabeth.”
Lord Hollings raised an eyebrow, the way he always did when he disagreed with her. Maggie couldn’t help think that if they were ever to get married—which they certainly would never—they would have several one-sided conversations. Lord Hollings could say more with that raised eyebrow than she could in a three-minute monologue.
“You carry a tendre for our duke?”
Maggie narrowed her eyes, knowing he was simply being contrary. “You know I do not. I’m madly in love with you,” she said, clearly letting him know she wasn’t anything of the sort. “It was your letters. So romantic.
So filled with promise and adoration.”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have written at all,” he said, a bit shortly.
“Perhaps not,” Maggie said, meaning it. Because every time one of his letters arrived, her silly heart would beat faster and her hands would tear open the letter, only to be treated to a line or two. “Seeing the sights of your capital. What a muddy, bug-infested place it is.” “The heat here is unbearable. I do believe I am cooking. Though Charleston is rather pretty.” And so on.
“Do you mean that? I only wrote to you because you are the only other person I know here,” he said, far more seriously than she’d heard from him before.
“I liked your letters,” Maggie said honestly. “They made me laugh. With Elizabeth under lock and key, they truly were the only thing I had to look forward to. There. Have I redeemed myself?”
“I think you gushed a bit much for sincerity.”
Maggie smiled. “If someone apologizes, you really should be more gracious, sir.”
He grinned down at her. “I shall try to be.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she missed him, but she froze there, suddenly finding it impossible to speak at all. She did not want to like him more than was convenient. But it was too late, she realized. She liked him far too well and knew for a long time after, every man who danced with her, who tried to entertain her with their wit, would pale in comparison to the earl. He was, by far, the most fascinating man she’d ever met. And he was leaving, and she would never see him again, so it would do no good to throw caution to the wind and make a fool of herself over him.
Lord Hollings sneezed at that moment, sloshing a bit of his champagne onto Maggie’s gown. She let out a little cry of dismay, then laughed.
“My mother told me in no uncertain tones that I was not to have champagne this morning. She told me it was far too early for alcohol, and now I shall smell as if I’ve been imbibing all morning. You, sir, will have to explain,” she grinned up at him, her smile faltering a bit at his serious, almost angry, look. “What is wrong?”
“Do you always have to be so bloody charming?” he asked, sounding angry. “I just spilled my drink on you and you’re laughing like some simpleton.”
Maggie could feel the blood drain from her face. His anger was as unexpected as it was irrational. “I’m sure I don’t like to get upset over something so small,” she said, feeling her eyes prick slightly. Then she smiled, a full-blown, full-of-joy and completely false smile. “If you want a better reaction, next time you should spill the entire glass, not just a few drops.”
Her smile seemed to make him even angrier, so she kept it plastered on her face.
“If I was ever to spend any length of time with you, I am quite certain you would drive me batty.”
“Then it’s good that you are leaving soon,” Maggie managed to say cheerfully, even as she felt her throat begin to close. She would not cry. She would not let him know how hurtful his words were. “There is my mother talking with Mrs. Wright. She insisted I be particularly nice to her, because Arthur has been so attentive lately, so I think I shall go over to say hello. If we don’t get an opportunity to speak again, I hope you have a wonderful trip home. Good-bye, Lord Hollings.”
Edward watched her walk toward her mother feeling completely out of sorts. He had been an utter cad and he didn’t know why. No. He did know. He knew all too well what was happening to him and he didn’t like it at all. Damn the girl for getting to him, for making him think of things he did not want to think about for another ten years. At least. Thank God he was
leaving within days. He could ill afford to become a love-besotted idiot, which could happen if he remained in Maggie’s company.
He’d missed her on their tour. Desperately. Which was why he insisted they extend it until right before the wedding. It was selfish of him, but Rand hadn’t seemed to mind all that much as he was already dreading the social whirl that surrounded his visit. Those letters, God, those ridiculous letters he’d written. He didn’t know why he bothered, but he hadn’t quite been able to stop himself. Because he knew if he wrote, even a line or two, he’d get pages back from her. Pages and pages of nonsense and wit that was distinctly Maggie. They were well-read now, secreted in his baggage where they would remain until he returned home. And then he would likely burn them. Or not.
Bloody hell.
As if against his will, he watched as she did, indeed, say hello to Mrs. Wright, then continue toward the back of the house. She looked, even from the back, upset. She should be.
He stalked after her, not knowing why, not knowing what he intended to say, but when he caught up with her, she was waiting her turn for the loo.
“Come with me,” he said, and walked down the palm tree–lined hall. He hadn’t seen so many bloody palm trees since he’d done a tour in India. Thankfully, she followed, because he would have dragged her down the hall if she hadn’t. When he was quite certain they were alone, he put his hands on her shoulders, crushing the puffy sleeves there.
“I don’t love you,” he said, giving her the tiniest shake.
She lifted her chin. “I don’t love you, either.”
“And I shan’t get married. Not for years and years.”
“Good luck finding someone who will put up with your overbearing attitude.”
“Even if I did get married, I wouldn’t marry you,” he said, rather desperately. “Because I…I…”
Her eyes glittered, but he wasn’t certain it was from anger or tears. “Because you?”
“Because I couldn’t bear it,” he said, somehow losing a bit of his voice.
“Am I that awful?”
He closed his eyes briefly. “You must know you are not. Not in the least,” he said softly. “Leaving you will not be quite as easy as I thought.”
She gave him the smallest of smiles. “But you will leave.”
He swallowed, feeling miserable. “I will.”
“We’ve one here from the Duke of Manchester,” Rand said, handing the telegram over to her. She took it dutifully, as she did everything, which made him fairly dread what was coming this night. The last thing on earth he wanted in his bed was a dutiful wife. If he could only recapture what they’d had during their picnic. Then again, the months may have distorted that memory, turned it into something it wasn’t. Perhaps he hadn’t seen the passion in her eyes, perhaps she was giving him the dutiful reaction she thought she ought to.
“Queen Victoria,” he said as he handed over to her yet another telegram. They’d gotten a stack of them, all arriving at Elizabeth’s home just hours after the ceremony.
“Oh,” she said, taking the paper from him and reading over the words. “Have you ever met the queen?”
“I have, but not in my capacity as duke. I was a member of the Life Guards and we were often assigned to guard the queen and her entourage. You will be presented to court sometime after our arrival home.”
Her eyes grew wide. “I will? I don’t…”
“I will have someone come to tutor you. By the time you are presented, you will feel comfortable with the ceremony. My cousin, Sandra, can help you. Countess Dalton. She’s married to Lord Dalton, Earl of Sharing.”
“I’ll never get all this straight.”
He smiled as he looked through the stack. “Before you know it, it will be second nature to you. Sandra can assist with that, too. Her children are grown and she has nothing to do but meddle in other people’s business.”
“Oh.” She sounded very uncertain and very young, and he reminded himself that she was just nineteen and without her mother or father for the first time.
“Why did you cry?” he blurted out, even though he knew the answer. “No. Don’t answer. Please.”
“May I answer?”
He didn’t like this meek girl. She may have acted meek in front of her mother, but he knew for a fact she was not meek. He would not have her acting so in front of him.
“Of course.”
“I did not want to marry you.”
So, she was not meek after all. He really should have prevented her from answering.
“But we are married. No one rescued you. You said all the proper lines, as did I. I’d like a better reason. An honest one.”
A line formed between her brows. “There is nothing more to it than that.”
“Do you still fancy yourself in love with Ellsworth?” he asked, steeling himself for her answer, unsure whether he would believe her no matter what she said.
She let out a small gasp. “No.”
“Have you seen him since he left Newport?”
“I don’t know why it matters, but no.” She acted as if he were offering her the greatest insult.
“It matters, my dear, because one of our primary duties is to produce an heir. I would like that heir to have Blackmore blood.”
It took perhaps three seconds for her to realize what he was hinting at.
“You are fully horrid.”
“No. I am cautious. A man in my position must be cautious. I want the truth. Have you seen him?”
Her cheeks were full of color, but he could not be certain whether it was from anger or shame. “I have given you my answer.”
She pulled up a hand to her throat, no doubt imagining that the massive pearl necklace wrapped around her neck was becoming restrictive under his questioning. He stared at her until she finally relented and looked him in the eye.
“We will find out tonight, won’t we,” he said, feeling surly and out of sorts.
She jerked her gaze away, no doubt terrified at the thought of what was going to transpire that evening. Perhaps she would never love him, perhaps she would never even like him, but he would show her pleasure. If they had only that, it would have to be enough.
Rosebrier, her family’s country retreat in Long Island, had always been Elizabeth’s sanctuary. It was the one place she could go as a child and not be constantly supervised. She could slouch, climb trees, skip rocks in the pond with her cousins, and fish with her father. Those idles ended when she reached the age of fourteen, the age her mother had decided she was more young lady than girl. Instead, she had to stay indoors and read, or walk sedately around the grounds under the sharp eye of Susan, who was at all times under the sharp eye of her mother. Their holidays thereafter became all the more dismal because she had such lovely memories of being there as a child. Even with those restrictions, Elizabeth felt more at ease, more like her true self.
And now, Rosebrier had become something else entirely. It had become the place where she would become a woman, where she would spend the first days of her marriage, where she would lose her virginity. It had become a place to dread, for if there was one thing Elizabeth dreaded more than the wedding itself, it was the wedding night.
Her mother’s talk had, perhaps, bothered her more than anything. “Do what he wants you to and it won’t be entirely unpleasant. And a child could come of it.” She wished she had an older sister or cousin, someone to give her a bit more information than that. What, exactly, did “do what he wants” mean. Was she to do anything? Jump off the roof, perhaps?
It was the “do what he wants” that bothered her so. She was so sick of doing what everyone wanted of her. Marriage was to be just another long string of “do what he wants.” Would she ever get to do what she wanted?
Still, when they reached Rosebrier late that afternoon, she smiled. It was the most informal of the Cummings’ homes, a sprawling shingle-style home tucked in the woods, but within walking distance of the sea. Some day, the duke promised, they would have a more el
aborate wedding trip. But for now, they would stay at Rosebrier for a week, then live in the Waldorf Hotel until it was spring and the seas were more calm. She dreaded the sea voyage to England nearly as much as her wedding night.
Rosebrier’s lights were ablaze in anticipation of the arrival of the Duke and Duchess of Bellingham, bringing yet another smile. How pretty the house looked, lit up and decorated for the holiday. There would be a large Christmas tree in the main parlor and no doubt her mother had ordered the entire house strung with holly and garland. Elizabeth was grateful that darkness had fallen and the residents of the small town surrounding Rosebrier were at home. She was so tired of smiling and waving to crowds of curious people. When they pulled up in front of the house, a light snow was falling.
“It’s snowing,” she said, delighted. It was Christmas Eve and it was snowing. She should be like Maggie, who dwelled only on life’s happiness. She ignored the sharp pang of homesickness—it was ridiculous, really, as she had only been away from home for mere hours. But she knew from this day forward, she would have no more days of shopping with Maggie, no more nights of operas or dinner parties. It suddenly didn’t matter that she’d sometimes disliked formal nights out when all she had to look forward to was living in a foreign country with a man who seemed to dislike her as much as she disliked him. Imagine hinting that she’d had relations with Henry! She conveniently and firmly refused to think about their meeting, or the necklace that still dangled from her neck.
“Is there a local church we might attend for Christmas mass tomorrow?” he asked, as the door of their carriage opened.
“Mother said it would be too disruptive for us to attend mass in town. And I shall be so tired.”
For some reason that made him smile. “I should hope so,” he said. She blushed, of course, just as he had intended. “Besides, no doubt God will forgive us. We did attend church today.”
A footman handed her down, welcoming “Her Grace” to Rosebrier and Elizabeth had to stop herself from laughing out loud. It sounded so very strange to be called anything but Miss Cummings. They walked up the wide porch together, strangers heading for their wedding night. Newport seemed so far away, Elizabeth truly felt she did not know this man beside her. She didn’t know his favorite color, the foods he loved, how he liked his tea. Would he send their children away to boarding school? Did he even like children?