As for himself, Elliot had offered Evie and the children the protection of his name, and he now bore an obligation to make it a name worth having. He therefore resolved to dispel some of the uglier accusations hanging over his head—those that were undeserved, at any rate. Then he could begin his courtship in earnest, wooing his wife slowly and somehow convincing her of his willingness to change.
No, not to change. He would convince her—somehow—that a part of him was, in truth, the man she had fallen in love with.
.
14
The quality of mercy is not strain’d, it droppeth as the gentle rain …
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
O n the occasion of Lord Rannoch’s wedding day, the skies poured forth in torrents. A bad omen from heaven, some said. Not a bit of it, countered his friends. ’Twas the devil shedding tears for the loss of his emissary on earth, since the marquis, or so they held, was a changed man. Rannoch, however, was left alone to stare blindly through rain-washed windows in a state of suppressed agitation, counting the hours until the appointed moment, his knuckles white with a worry he dared not name. His was a dangerous gamble, and for once Rannoch was all too aware that he cared very deeply about what was at stake.
His vigil was scarcely a solitary one. Every determined dowager and inveterate gossipmonger in London waited, too, with one ear pressed to the ground in a fervid effort to confirm the most titillating scandal to reach London in a month or more. The rumors spun wild and fast, shouted in gaming houses, then whispered in drawing rooms, each more outlandish than the one before.
The marquis of Rannoch had compromised a country innocent … The marquis of Rannoch was finally marrying his mistress … No, not the one he’d murdered, some silly foreign chit who’d foolishly flung herself beneath his boots and was now about to be well and truly trampled … No, indeed, that was not it at all! The marquis was taking revenge on the earl of Trent by seducing his niece and seizing his heir …
The talk went on and on, with far too much of it, in the bride’s conflicted opinion, all too true. For her part, Evangeline tried to spare no thought for the machinations of the beau monde, focusing instead upon the weather, which she, too, feared was something of a portent. Numbly, she rose, bathed, and dressed, going through the necessary motions, until at last, mere moments before the ceremony was to begin, she found herself staring through the rain at the church, terrorized by doubt. And what should she expect, given the way she had allowed herself to be seduced into accepting Rannoch’s marriage offer?
As she stepped into the crumbling old church in Wrotham-upon-Lea, a visceral stab of fear pinned her feet to the threshold. On the second rush of uncertainty, she wondered if it was too late to cry off. Standing close behind, as if frustrated by Evangeline’s cowardice, Winnie gave an impatient shove against the small of her back, and Evangeline stepped tentatively through the door and into the unknown.
The marquis stood before the altar, looking resolute and resplendent in clothing far more elegant than anything Elliot Roberts had ever worn. Rannoch’s every garment, from the perfectly tailored trousers to the rich superfine coat, bespoke his true standing as a wealthy, privileged peer who would be denied nothing. How easily the contents of a portmanteau had transformed the handsome but otherwise unremarkable Mr. Roberts into the indomitable marquis of Rannoch! How hard, how determined his eyes now looked … and what a pity she had not noticed them sooner.
As if he could hear her thoughts, Rannoch lifted his gaze to meet Evangeline’s, heating her with his intensity. Evangeline tried to steady herself and look past him, deep into the shadows of the chancel, determined that the marquis would never know how profoundly he affected her. But he did affect her, damn him. It was beyond her understanding, this perplexing mix of need and desire she felt but would never confess. Despite his deception, Evangeline found herself obsessed by a man reputedly so depraved that, under ordinary circumstances, she would have walked a wide circle merely to avoid brushing him with her skirt hems. But the circumstances in which she now found herself were far from ordinary. She was walking toward the altar. Toward him.
Panic surged through her again, and Evangeline tried to force herself to relax. She drew a deep, deep breath. She told herself not to be foolish. She reminded herself that she was marrying for her brother’s sake and that whatever Rannoch’s purpose in wedding her, Michael would be a vast deal safer with the marquis than with her father’s family. Of that much she was unaccountably certain. Perhaps Rannoch did indeed wish to annoy Lady Trent, but he meant Evangeline’s brother no harm.
After what seemed an eternity, Evangeline reached the altar. Rannoch stood more stiffly now, his expression guarded, his narrow eyes assessing her. Gus stood at his side, but otherwise the marquis was completely alone. No friend or relative had darkened the church door. Why was that? Evangeline dimly felt her breathing grow shallow. Was Rannoch truly so wicked he had no friends? No family who cared? And what was she about to leap into?
Think, breathe, don’t panic, she ordered herself, but her mind would not obey. What did she know of him, really? That he had a child … Zoe. An uncle … wasn’t it Hugh? And a mother, the dowager. But where were these people? She was surrendering her very life to … to whom? A veritable stranger.
In a great black cloud, doubt and fear swirled up to seize her. Evangeline scarcely realized her knees were beginning to buckle until Elliot slid a strong, steadying hand beneath her elbow, pulling her up and drawing her to his side. To the casual observer, the gesture might have seemed possessive, almost sweet.
“Breathe!” He softly mouthed the word, his eyes narrow, his expression inscrutable.
Suddenly, Evangeline felt the air rush back into her lungs. A faint sound of relief escaped Elliot’s lips. As if on cue, the vicar flipped open his prayer book and began.
Passages were read, responses were exchanged by rote, and Evangeline remembered little else about the ceremony until sometime near the end, when a protracted silence fell over the church. Elliot stared expectantly down at her, his mouth tight. Had she done something wrong? Behind her, Winnie gave an impatient hiss. Elliot’s jaw was rigid, one small muscle jumping almost imperceptibly. Finally, he simply reached around to take her left hand in his right, lifted it, and slid a wide band of sapphires onto her finger.
Blinking uncertainly, Evangeline stared down at the ring, only vaguely aware of having spoken her vows. She stared up at Elliot, and the magnitude of what they had just done hit her. Quietly, his gaze drifted over her face, as if searching for something. Fleetingly, the mask of ruthless arrogance slipped, and for one infinitesimal moment, Evangeline saw uncertainty in his eyes.
The knowledge brought her a small measure of comfort, and she watched in fascination as he looked up from her hand, closed his eyes, and swallowed hard. A few more words, the vicar snapped shut his book, and Elliot’s eyes flew open to stare into the depths of her own, then quickly shifted away. Evangeline choked back her own fear and studied him—her husband—more closely, increasingly certain of what she had glimpsed.
It was that tender, perplexing mixture of confusion and desire which she had so often seen in young men, like Gus or even Theo. An awkward, almost adolescent rush of doubt, which could cut an inexperienced lad to the quick, leaving him feeling insecure and inadequate. Most assuredly, it was not the sort of emotion one would ever associate with the marquis.
Doubt returned. She must have been mistaken. And indeed, Elliot’s sense of determination seemed very much intact. Evangeline could feel it, thrumming through the stillness about them while he gripped her elbow stubbornly, as if daring her to step away.
The vicar waved his hand one last time, and Elliot bent to kiss her quickly, sealing their vows forever with lips that were cool and firm. “Courage,” he whispered grimly as his mouth left hers, and Evangeline managed an unsteady smile. And then it was done. She was Elliot’s in the eyes of God, and now she must make the best of it.
Together, they dashe
d out into the downpour, Elliot’s arm wrapped securely around her, his ring snug about her finger. Someone—perhaps one of the conspicuously absent relatives—had had the forethought to send Elliot’s enormous traveling coach up from Richmond. The sight of the elegant equipage, with its subtle but unmistakable Armstrong crest, had caused quite a stir in the tiny Essex village. He urged her quickly into it now, clambered up after her, and settled onto the opposite seat. Then, in a tender, companionable gesture, he draped his hand lightly across Evangeline’s knee and leaned forward to watch Winnie bounce up into Peter Weyden’s barouche.
Through the fabric of her clothing, Evangeline felt Elliot’s touch warming her skin. Outside, the cold rain pelted down in a steady tattoo upon their carriage roof as, across the narrow churchyard, Evangeline saw Etienne staring disconsolately at the back of Winnie’s cloak. Then, slowly, he, too, turned away to climb up into a third carriage with the others.
It really was over. Elliot’s coachman gave a shout, and they lurched forward into the rain. Evangeline gazed across the narrow compartment to study her husband’s profile, which seemed oddly softened by the light of the overcast morning. Tentatively, she brushed her hand across his, just as she heard Etienne’s door thump closed.
Elliot dropped the curtain and lifted his gaze to stare at her, his expression almost vulnerable, as if her simple touch had been a needed sign. Then, without another word, he pulled Evangeline across the width of the coach and into his lap, just as he had in the library but a few short days earlier. Elliot cradled her, her head upon his shoulder, his left hand threading lightly through her hair, as they made their way back to Chatham Lodge.
They were halfway home before he hesitantly spoke. “I truly feared you might refuse me, Evie,” he whispered into her hair. Elliot’s lips brushed lightly against the pulse of her temple, and one hand came up to lift an errant strand of hair to his lips. “It seemed you might bolt back down the aisle and out of my life—or refuse my ring.” She angled her head to look up at him.
Finally, he spoke again, staring not at her but into the depths of the carriage, the strand of hair still wrapped loosely about his long fingers. “I could not have borne it, Evie,” he quietly added. “I could not.”
Evangeline did not know how to respond. Impulsively, she touched her lips to the hard line of his jaw, drawing in the warm scent of his skin, feeling a hint of stubble against her lower lip. Sharply, Elliot exhaled, then made a little choking sound in the back of his throat as he turned his lips to take hers. Evangeline came up to meet him, one hand sliding up his lapel and around his neck.
He kissed her once, lightly, almost gratefully. And again, much deeper, more demanding. Willingly, Evangeline opened her mouth, drawing him into a kiss rich with need. Elliot answered, surging inside, crushing her mouth hungrily beneath his. His fingers skimmed the turn of her jaw, slid through her hair, then cradled her face, and Evangeline purred with pleasure. His mouth was sweet and hot, his breath warm and fast. She pressed one palm against his shirtfront, thrilling at the rapid beat of his heart beneath her hand.
Whatever he was, whatever he had been, she could not deny her desire for him. She simply prayed that it would be enough, then gave herself up to Elliot’s ravening mouth and let his caresses soothe her uncertainties as his words could never have done. Impulsively, Evangeline let her fingers slide seductively down to skim beneath the bearer of Elliot’s trousers. Abruptly, he sucked in his breath, the raw, ragged sound of a desperate man, and Evangeline decided that, for the moment, she would allow herself the luxury of believing that perhaps—just perhaps—she was the luckiest woman on earth.
It was nearly dusk before the progression of traveling coaches and baggage carts straggled through London and rumbled over the river, and it was past dark by the time they reached Richmond. In a whirlwind of frenetic activity, much of it directed by Evangeline, the children were unloaded, the baggage carts emptied, and the wide-eyed servants brought forth to make their bows. A bevy of housemaids escorted children up to bed, footmen toting trunks in their wake.
To Evangeline, it seemed the day might never end, despite Elliot’s admonitions to go up to bed, and it began to feel as if she might soon see dawn’s light while still in her wedding dress. Already weary from the wedding, Evangeline breathed a sigh of relief when at last she found herself alone, able to collapse onto the drawing-room sofa with a much-needed glass of wine.
After ordering Evangeline to rest, Elliot had gone off in search of his uncle Hugh, who apparently did indeed exist but who had made it a lifelong policy to avoid churches in general and weddings in particular. The children were undoubtedly asleep, and at last a sense of calm had settled over the house. Languidly, Evangeline let her eyes drift over the well-appointed room. A bank of four deep, well-dressed windows overlooked a landscaped lawn which rolled toward the Thames. The walls were hung in a soft yellow wallpaper, and the Turkey carpet might have ransomed a minor sultan. Strath was vast, but managing such a place little worried Evangeline, who had supervised large, cumbersome households since her mother’s death.
The thought, however, of being alone with her new husband had given her pause. Two days before the ceremony, she had announced that the children would accompany them to Richmond. Only Winnie would remain behind at Chatham with Gus, who was studying for his return to school at Michaelmas term. To her surprise, Elliot had cheerfully agreed and immediately solicited everyone’s help in acclimating Zoë to family life.
Evangeline tried to relax. After putting down her wine and toeing off her slippers, she tucked her feet beneath her skirts and let her head drop down onto the softly padded arm of the sofa. From this new angle, however, something very strange caught her eye, and all thought of relaxation vanished.
On the dimly lit wall to the left of the sofa hung a huge painting. The work was richly mounted in a gilt frame which was elaborately carved and at least twelve inches deep. The cost of the frame very nearly exceeded the price of the painting, for Evangeline could fairly guess at the value of such a fine mounting … and she knew to the very ha’penny just what the marquis of Rannoch had paid for the canvas.
How could she not? The painting was hers.
Evangeline closed her gaping mouth and stared in astonishment. Of all her works, she knew that The Fall of Leopold at Sempach was her very finest, the long-awaited culmination of years of painstaking study. Evangeline had been a little saddened while watching Peter’s workmen crate it for the trip to London, and a part of her had hoped that he would be unable to sell it for the impossibly high price she had set. Her prayers had been in vain, for the work had been snatched up, still in its original crate, by a nameless man who paid Peter in gold and carted it away, sight unseen. At the time, it had been most puzzling.
Before Evangeline could assimilate the extraordinary happenstance of finding the battle of Sempach raging across her husband’s drawing-room wall, a soft knock sounded, and a round-faced chambermaid poked her head through the door. Despite her confusion and fatigue, Evangeline managed to dredge up a name to go with the face. “Yes, Trudy?”
The girl bobbed a quick, deep curtsey and looked around. Obviously, she had expected Elliot. “Beg pardon, my lady, but his lordship said as how I might bring Miss Zoë down to him? She’s a bit too excited for sleep just yet.”
From behind Trudy’s starched skirts, a tiny face in a white nightcap peeped out.
Evangeline came swiftly to her feet and flew across the distance to the door. “And who wouldn’t be! After such commotion, I daresay I shan’t sleep, either.”
Trudy wavered uncertainly in the door as Evangeline knelt to look at Elliot’s daughter. Zoë Armstrong was plump and china-doll pretty, with a perfect bow mouth, wide brown eyes, and a mop of wild chestnut curls no nightcap could ever suppress. They sprang out in all directions, giving one the impression of having disturbed a woodland sprite from her slumbers.
Evangeline extended her hand. “Good evening, Zoë,” she softly said. “I am …
Evangeline.”
For the space of two heartbeats, Zoë stared at the outstretched hand, then crossed her arms stubbornly over her tummy. Her bottom lip protruded into a querulous expression, which made her look so much like her father that Evangeline was compelled to choke back a giggle.
The girl narrowed her gaze skeptically and stared at Evangeline. “My papa,” she finally proclaimed, “says that I am to have some cousins to play with. And a mother, too.”
“And so you shall,” agreed Evangeline. “As to the mother, why… I suppose your papa meant me. Shall you mind it very much?”
“Have you brought the cousins?” asked Zoë intractably, as if negotiating with a horse trader. She studied Evangeline with unveiled suspicion, and this time Evangeline saw her husband’s flashing eyes.
“Oh, indeed I have,” answered Evangeline gravely. “A whole carriage load. More than you can count, I daresay.”
“Hoo!” said Zoë dismissively. “I doubt that! I am seven years old. And I can count to five hundred. And do sums.”
Evangeline strove to look mightily impressed. “Can you, indeed?” she asked.
Zoë nodded and finally took the outstretched hand. Evangeline rose from her crouch on the floor and steered the child toward the sofa. “I confess, Zoë, I am all astonishment at such skill. I was given to understand that you had no teacher, and so I have brought one with me. But perhaps you have no need of him?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Zoë admitted, as she clambered up onto the sofa. She wiggled back and forth until she was comfortable and sat, bouncing one foot up and down with restless energy. Evangeline took the seat beside her. “I suppose I might need one,” the child continued, “for I’ve not had a governess in ever so long … not since Papa set Miss Smith on fire.” The minx beamed mischievously.
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