Wedding of the Season: Abandoned at the Altar

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  They sat down, and Julia pulled a box of matches and a silver cigarette case from the pocket of her skirt. “Want one?” she asked, flipping the case open to display half a dozen neatly rolled cigarettes.

  He shook his head, and she extracted one for herself.

  “So,” he said as she put away the case and opened the box of matches, “were you being sarcastic just now when you said Trix was being sensible?”

  “No, no, you misunderstand me.” Julia lifted her cigarette to her lips, pulled a match from the box, and used the heel of her boot to strike a flame. She lit the cigarette, then waved the match out and blew smoke in a sideways stream. “I do think it was sensible of her to accept Trathen. I was agreeing with you.”

  He grimaced, and she saw it.

  “Well, what do you want me to say?” she asked, pulling a bit of tobacco from her tongue with the tips of her fingers as she spoke. “I mean, Trathen’s a bit stiff, a fact you’ve no doubt observed for yourself, and he’s terribly proper—insists on the old school tie, you know,” she added, taking on an arch, painfully aristocratic accent, “and everything according to cricket. Pays attention to who’s the right sort and the wrong sort, and disapproves a bit when people shake hands at breakfast.”

  His opposite, in other words.

  “Still,” she went on, “he might be wound a bit tight, but he’s a good man. He’ll make Trix a fine husband.”

  “Fine husband?” Will made a sound of disbelief.

  “Yes. Trathen is the epitome of the perfect British gentleman—honest, honorable, loyal, and true.”

  “He’s a prig.”

  “Compared to you, perhaps,” she conceded, not sounding particularly impressed.

  “Damn it, Julie, the man makes her eat caviar!”

  “He does?” She sat up a little straighter. “What a cad!”

  “Do be serious, will you? I saw them together, and I couldn’t believe it. He’s so damned superior and highbrow.”

  “There are worse sins. He’s a powerful man with a wide sphere of influence. Not only is he a duke like you, but he’s also got oodles of money, and property all over the kingdom. And he truly cares for Trix.”

  Will began to feel quite depressed.

  “And he’s terribly good-looking, too.” Julia took a puff on her cigarette, pausing a few seconds before she added, “Too bad he’s as dull as Fordyce’s sermons.”

  He gave a shout of laughter, cheered a little bit.

  Julia grinned back at him, wrinkling her pert nose in rueful fashion. “I say that purely out of spite, but I can’t help it. The man dislikes me.”

  “Dislikes our Julie? Not so!”

  “It’s true, Will. I fear I’m everything he most disapproves of. I drink and I smoke—horrors!—and I drive motorcars very fast. Worse, I taught Trix to drive and gave her a motorcar of her own. He’s forever after her to give it up. That didn’t endear me to him. Then, of course, there’s all the scandals I’ve caused.”

  “Like dancing the fandango on the tables at Maxim’s?”

  “Heard about that, did you?” She sighed. “My reputation has spread all the way to Egypt, I see. Mind, I’ve no intention to become a demimondaine. Things aren’t that bad, at least not yet. But you’re right—that’s the sin that probably did it for me as far as Trathen’s concerned.”

  “Because it made the papers?”

  “No, because he hates dancing.” When Will laughed again, she said, “He does! I don’t know why.”

  “It might make him perspire?” Will guessed.

  “Dearest Will! No, it can’t be that, for Trathen’s quite an athlete. Made the quarterfinals at Wimbledon just last year. No, I think it’s because underneath all the ducal hauteur, he’s afraid of looking a fool.”

  Will grinned at her. “So that means we roll back the drawing room rug tonight?”

  She laughed. “I fear we shall be a bad influence upon each other this week and rag him mercilessly.” She chuckled and took a pull on her cigarette. “Poor fellow.”

  “Beatrix will come to his defense, I’m sure.”

  He hoped he said it lightly enough, but he could feel Julia’s shrewd gaze on him, and he didn’t look at her. He didn’t want her to see his face just now.

  “I daresay she would, although . . .” Julia paused, and there was something thoughtful in her voice that made him slide a sideways glance at her profile. “I’m not sure he’d need defending,” she said. “Trathen may be a stuffed shirt, hopelessly old-fashioned and honorable, but he’s not a pushover. He’s not easy.”

  Will tensed. “You mean he’s a tyrant?”

  “No, no, that’s not what I mean at all. How can I explain?” She paused, smoking quietly as if considering the question, then she said, “Trathen may never be the life of the party or the soul of wit. But he’s also the sort who, to borrow from Tennyson, would ride into the jaws of death with the six hundred. The sort who’d stand like Henley’s ‘Invictus,’ head bloodied and unbowed, no matter what was flung at him.”

  “It sounds like you actually admire him.”

  Julia made a wry face. “Nauseating, isn’t it, given that he dislikes me so much, but there it is. Trathen’s a true pukka sahib, and that’s a rare breed nowadays.”

  Will thought of Beatrix on the Maria Lisa, eating caviar and drinking lemonade, and he spoke before he could stop himself, asking the question that he’d been shoving out of his mind ever since January. “Is she in love with him?”

  “What a tactless question!”

  “Is she?” he persisted, not even sure why he wanted to know, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

  “Heavens, I don’t know.” She took another puff of her cigarette, studying him through the haze of smoke. “Does it matter?”

  “Does it matter?” he echoed, rather taken aback. “She’s going to marry the fellow. You’re part of her family, you love her like a sister. Don’t you think it matters?”

  “Not really, no. Love can be . . . rather awful. I tried it once, and I can’t say it has much to recommend it.”

  She tossed the cigarette end to the ground and extinguished it beneath her shoe, then tucked her arm through his and stood up, taking him to his feet as well. “Play Trathen a spot of tennis, do. He trounces Paul and Geoff all the time from what I hear, and Marlowe doesn’t play, so you’re the only one with a prayer of taking him on. I’ll even help you,” she added. “I’ll distract him by lifting my skirt and waving a shapely ankle in his direction at opportune moments.”

  Will laughed, his good humor slightly restored. “And shall we dance tonight?”

  “No, I’ve got a better idea. We’ll play that new music from America—what’s it called? ragtime?—on the piano. And we’ll sing naughty comic songs. That will shock him right out of his puritanical British sensibilities.”

  “You’re a woman in a thousand, Julie. And you have heaps of money. Would you marry me and fund my excavation so I can avoid this ghastly business and go back to Egypt?”

  “Darling, you know I’m already married! As to the rest, I’m mired in debt now that Yardley’s cut off my allowance. But,” she added as Will opened the door for her, “if you’re willing to be seen by some hapless chambermaid at a third-rate hotel, coming out of my room at three o’clock in the morning, Yardley might be moved to divorce me at last, naming you co-respondent. Then I’d be free to marry someone else who’s disgustingly rich, and I could give you all the money you need.”

  “You’re a brick, Julie. I’ll keep your offer in mind.”

  Will’s room at Pixy Cove had been redone since his last visit six years earlier. The cherrywood furnishings were the same, but the dark velvet and heavy brocade were gone, replaced by a lighter theme of white walls, marine-blue fabrics and a few touches of red and yellow. He suspected that Emma, Lady Marlowe, was the one responsible, and he applauded the change, for now there was nothing but a thin stream of yellow chiffon on either side of the windows to blunt the stunning view of the Bab
bacombe coastline.

  One of his black evening suits had already been pressed and laid out on the bed, and his trunk was in a corner, showing that Aman had already unpacked his things.

  He walked to the open window and stuck his head out. Sure enough, the oak tree was still there, halfway between his window and Paul’s, with heavy branches that hung over both. He smiled, remembering all the nights they’d climbed down this tree for a midnight swim. Sometimes Trix, Julia, and Marlowe’s two youngest sisters had joined them, but it had been much harder for the girls to sneak out, since they didn’t have an oak tree ready to hand. Trix, always the most practical of the group, had eventually gotten hold of a rope ladder, enabling the girls to enjoy midnight swims, too, until she’d been caught with it by Marlowe’s grandmother. She’d been severely punished for it, too, and Antonia had threatened not to let her come to Pixy Cove the following year. But that hadn’t stopped her from sneaking out to meet him in later years for things much less innocent than a swim in the sea.

  Memories of their secret meetings at Danbury, Sunderland, and here at Pixy Cove when they were teens flashed across his mind—the garden, the maze, the wine cellar—anywhere they could escape chaperones and be alone for a kiss, a touch. As far back as he could remember, Beatrix had been the only thing he’d been willing to come home for, the bright spot of his life every summer. Now, it was the opposite, because he still wanted her, he couldn’t have her, and life was just hell.

  He closed his eyes, memories triggering the same desire for her he’d felt as a randy youth, the same desire he’d felt on the boat a short while ago. It had been hard enough to forget those midnight trysts while he’d been hundreds of miles away, but now, when she was so near, when he could look into her dark eyes and smell the scent of her skin, when she was about to marry someone else, it was agony.

  He opened his eyes, staring out at the rugged coastline of inlets and caves and tide pools they’d explored together all the summers of their childhood. How, he wondered, feeling suddenly desperate, how was he going to get through the next twenty-eight days?

  He couldn’t leave. He couldn’t avoid her while he was here, and even if he could, he doubted it would matter. Pixy Cove wasn’t like Egypt. Here, memories of her were all around him. And if all that wasn’t enough to tie him to her for the coming weeks, there was pride. Damned if he’d go running off like a tongue-tied boy in short pants whenever he saw her. Damned if he’d let people see that it hurt. No, no matter what it cost him, he had to stay, he had to smile and pretend to be glad for the happy couple and play the role expected of him—the role of a good sport.

  A flash of white caught his eye, and when he looked down, he saw her walking across the lawn in her tailored yachting suit. She wasn’t alone, of course. Trathen was right beside her like a shadow.

  Will flattened his palm against the glass, reminding himself that Trix was better off with the other man. Trathen would take care of her, and he’d never sneak her away for a quick kissing session in the wine cellar or a midnight tryst in a Babbacombe cave. But as Will watched the pair stroll across the lawn arm in arm, the satisfaction of knowing he’d always be the only man who’d ever been able to coax Trix into disobeying the rules wasn’t much of a consolation.

  Chapter Seven

  Beatrix could not sleep. She changed positions, she counted sheep, she tried to think of other things, all to no avail. The image of Will standing by the rail of the Maria Lisa watching her was burned on her brain, and no matter how she tried, she could not rid herself of that image and go to sleep.

  She’d been able to read his expression as plainly as she could read a book, for she’d seen that look many times—across the table at a dinner party, during a waltz, in the moonlit gardens at Danbury House.

  Desire.

  So long since she’d seen him look at her that way, and yet she’d recognized it at once, felt its impact as she always had before. Aidan had never looked at her quite like that, in a way that burned through her clothing, through her skin, into her very heart and soul. Even now, lying in bed and trying to sleep, she felt the euphoric thrill of that look, the same thrill she’d felt so long ago. Sleep was impossible.

  She finally gave up trying. She flung back the sheet, got out of bed, and walked to the window. Dawn was breaking, and the seemingly endless stretch of ocean and sky shimmered before her, a dozen shades of gray. Soon, however, it would be gold and pink and vermilion, all the shades of sunrise would reflect off the water and light the scattered clouds. It was going to be breathtaking.

  Beatrix ran to her armoire. She slipped into undergarments, donned a simple shirtwaist, skirt and protective smock, then pinned up her hair and laced on a pair of boots. She paused by the various boxes of art supplies her maid had placed beside the writing desk in her room, then she glanced at the window. She wouldn’t have much time, she knew, and after considering her options a few more seconds, she grabbed one of her wooden paint boxes, scribbled a note for her maid, and left her room.

  Ten minutes later, art box slung over her shoulder, she was descending the iron ladder to Phoebe’s Cove. Her favorite of the many isolated coves along Babbacombe Bay, Phoebe’s Cove was also one of the prettiest. Marlowe had named this particular spot for his youngest sister when he’d bought the place two decades earlier, and it had always been a favorite bathing spot, for it was a deep inlet surrounded on three sides by caves perfect for exploring, a little stretch of sandy beach for building sandcastles, and a calm, deep, turquoise pool of water for swimming. Massive rocks jutted out of the sea beyond the cove, adding to the spectacular beauty of the scene. Beatrix selected her spot, sat down on the sand, and opened her art box on her lap. She removed her set of pastels and a sheet of drawing paper, then closed the box and placed her art materials on its closed lid.

  She glanced at the horizon, chose a color, and began. She sketched quickly, striving to capture the scene before the sun rose too high, and as she worked, she managed to forget about Will. Intent on her task, she was able to blot out the image of his face and the desire she’d seen there. She was able to rid herself of the vestiges of girlish euphoria he’d once been able to evoke just by looking at her. She forgot the past and how he’d been able to send her pulses racing just by touching her hand, or start her heart hammering with a brush of his lips against her neck, or make her shiver by whispering her name.

  As she worked, she was able to regain her former contentment with her decision and her future, a future with Aidan, a future that would have none of the agonizing insecurity and dark passions of her past. With Aidan, she would have something far more durable—friendship and affection. As she drew the scene before her, Beatrix’s mind also began to find a proper perspective. She attained a calm and serene state of mind.

  Then Will showed up and ruined it.

  “Pretty as a picture.”

  She gave a start at the sound of his voice, and when she glanced over her shoulder, she found the cause of her night’s insomnia standing only a few feet away.

  “You again!” she cried, tossing down her pastel in utter frustration. “What are you doing here?”

  As she spoke, she gave a quick glance over his body and realized in dismay that he was barely even dressed. He was wearing nothing but an old white linen shirt, a pair of dark, disreputable football breeches, and scuffed leather loafers. Slung over one shoulder was a towel that answered her question even before he spoke.

  “I’m having a bathe, of course,” he answered, giving her a look as if he thought her a hopeless pudding head. “Why else would I be down here at this hour of the morning?”

  She scrambled to her feet, watching in dismay as he shrugged the towel off his shoulder, kicked off his loafers, and yanked his shirttails out of his breeches.

  He was undressing, she realized in horror as she watched him unbutton his cuffs.

  “This has always been my favorite spot for sea bathing,” he went on, lifting his hands to undo the three buttons of his shirtfront.
“Don’t you remember?”

  She hadn’t remembered, not until this very moment, probably because ever since his return home, her brains had ceased to function properly. But as he crossed his arms and grasped the hem of his shirt, she somehow managed to find the wits to speak.

  “Stop!” she gasped, appalled. “You can’t bathe here. Not right now. I’m painting the sunrise.”

  “So?” He pulled the shirt up over his head and tossed it aside. “I won’t stop you.”

  Beatrix wanted to reply, but anything she might have said was lost at the sight of his bare chest. She knew she should not stare, but she simply did not have the ability to tear her gaze away. As a young girl, she’d caught glimpses of him without his shirt, of course. When he and Paul were boys, they’d often gone sea bathing without their shirts, but they’d been forced to abandon the practice of swimming bare-chested even before she and the other girls had exchanged their pinafores for long skirts. It had been somewhere between fifteen and twenty years since she’d last seen Will without his shirt. She swallowed hard. His body was very different now.

  His shoulders and chest were wide, tanned by the hot Egyptian sun and shaped by years of hard excavation work into a bronze wall of muscle and sinew. His chest tapered downward to an absolutely flat stomach, and his trousers were slung low on his lean hips, revealing the deep indent of his navel and the shadowy hint of dark hair below it. Her gaze dropped another notch, she gave a choked sound and hastily forced her gaze back up, but she only managed to get as far as the flat brown disks of his nipples. She could feel her face growing hot.

  “You can’t—” She stopped, her protest caught in her dry throat, her gaze riveted to his chest, the heat in her face spreading through her entire body. “We’re alone.”

  “Alone? Trix, how can you say that? What about the pixies?” He bent to retrieve his shirt, flipped back the cuff, and pulled a small metal object from a fold in the fabric. “I even remembered to bring a pin.”