Edward, who stood right beside his fiancée amid the throng lined up to welcome Joan and her new husband to the wedding breakfast.
“Might we finish this discussion later?” Joan asked as Dante handed her down. “For the present, we have more good cheer to endure.”
Twelve
“Too bad you couldn’t have ended up with the likes of her.”
Uncle Valerian’s comment had been made with enough half-soused jocular bonhomie that several heads turned in Edward’s direction. Thank heavens Mama and Dorcas were trying to draw the notice of some countess or other.
“I am content with my choice,” Edward said, a diplomatic overstatement. Dorcas had a tendency to manage—witness her insistence that she join this outing in the North, and Christmas only two weeks away.
“I am content with your choice too,” Uncle said, lowering his voice. “Get your hands on those settlements, my boy, and my contentment will bloom into glee.”
Because that remark had also, no doubt, been overheard, Edward allowed his smile to become naughty. “It isn’t the settlements I’m longing to get my hands on.”
That was not quite a lie. Dorcas had permitted him only chaste pecks to her rosy cheeks—three so far. Miserly little gestures that did not bode well for the succession Edward was intent on securing.
While Joan looked radiant, and when her new spouse had kissed her on the lips as they’d descended from their coach, the bride—without blushing—had kissed him back and cradled his cheek as if her every wish had come true in the church an hour past.
A fine show, but Edward gambled it was mostly show when he cornered the bride between well-wishers at the wedding breakfast.
“Where is your new husband?” Edward asked, sliding into the empty seat beside Joan. “He leaves his treasure unguarded on the very morning he acquires it?”
“Hello, Edward. My brother and father have taken my husband to introduce him to Their Graces. Perhaps it’s your fiancée who should take more notice of your wanderings.”
Her smile was positively diabolical, suggesting… Edward slapped aside the notion of Joan and Dorcas whispering in some corner.
“There’s a duke here?”
“Moreland and his lady, a charming older couple who’ve formed a connection with the MacGregors. Her Grace enjoys the braw, bonnie lads in their kilts.”
The wedding party had sported a small army of those.
Joan beamed in the general direction of a knot of people, one of whom was her plebeian—braw, bonnie, kilted—choice of a husband.
“You received my latest note, my lady?”
She took a nibble of cake off her husband’s plate and chewed slowly, as if assessing the strength of the vanilla flavoring in the frosting. “Did you send me felicitations, Edward? I would have thought Lady Dorcas might have handled that formality for you.”
Lady Dorcas, who was watching this exchange with undue interest from two tables over.
“I am happy for you, Joan. Sincerely happy, but you and I have matters to discuss if you are to have any chance at happiness as well. I have your drawings, and the lower orders are known to be possessive and old-fashioned regarding matters of chastity and marital fidelity.”
Edward had made a life’s work out of reading his mother’s expressions, and he was becoming adept at reading Dorcas’s as well. If Joan were truly unconcerned about her evening in Edward’s private parlor, if she were daring him to start scandal, she would have laughed, patted his hand, or asked him to renew her acquaintance with Dorcas.
Instead, the lady’s gaze went to her husband, who was smiling at something a tall, lean, older gentleman had said.
“You were naughty, Lady Joan, very naughty, and while you might feel compelled to confess that naughtiness to your new husband—wedding nights can be so awkward, can’t they?—you won’t want your lapse bruited about among Polite Society. You will meet me the day after tomorrow at the tea shop just off Wapping near the green. Three of the clock, sharp.”
“How do you know I’m not off on a wedding journey?”
Not a go-to-hell, not a slap to the face. He wished she’d do both, and he wished ladies’ fashions were a lot more profitable than they had been in recent years. He also wished Dorcas’s casual perusal wasn’t turning perilously close to inconvenient curiosity.
“Nobody travels with the Yule season approaching, and your Scotsman will make a great fuss over the New Year, as they all do. Your family will want to make sure he doesn’t gobble you up whole, too, so for the next few weeks, you and I can see a bit more of each other.”
Because she was the bride, and it was her wedding day, Edward leaned over and would have kissed the lady on the cheek, except a large hand clamped down on his shoulder.
“Ach, get yer own lady to take liberties with,” said a jovial male voice. “I can assure you this lady is spoken for and will remain so for the rest of my natural days.”
Edward rose to greet the groom, the first time he’d come face-to-face with the man—or face to chin, for Joan had married a veritable brute.
“Edward, Viscount Valmonte, at your service. Old friends like to offer good wishes on such a felicitous day.”
How it galled to play the pretty, but from the calculation in Hartwell’s eyes, Edward could not be certain—not absolutely, positively certain—that the groom’s jocular warning hadn’t been in deadly earnest.
Which was good. If Joan had a jealous husband, she’d be all that much more likely to meet Edward’s demands.
Edward bowed to the lady. “Happy Christmas, Lady Joan.”
He sauntered back to the company of his fiancée, whose cheek he did kiss, right there in public, where Dorcas couldn’t do a damned thing to stop him.
***
Dante’s objective was simple: he wanted no dirty looks from the new Mrs. Hartwell come morning. How to achieve that goal as yet eluded him.
“You’ve married a lazy man, Mrs. Hartwell.” He confessed that sin while taking Joan’s cloak from her shoulders. They’d seen the last of the guests off, smiling and waving in the chilly afternoon air as clouds had hastened the early darkness common in December.
“You’re not lazy,” Joan said, more tiredly than loyally. “If Hector had his way, you’d do nothing but work. How did I get mud on this hem?”
“I am lazy. Hector equipped me with a list of the wedding guests, and in the time I might have memorized the names of every wool supplier in the realm, all I could keep straight is that Moreland is the one with the pretty duchess.”
Of all the titles who’d come to see Lady Joan Flynn’s hasty wedding, the duke and his lady had seemed to genuinely wish the couple well.
“Her Grace took an interest in Balfour’s situation.”
Much of Society had taken an interest in Lady Joan Flynn’s downfall, though they’d at least been polite about it. One well-dressed, smiling lord or lady after another had found a moment to accost Joan, while Dante had been dragged from guest to guest by Balfour’s family. He’d not known whether to return to her side and force her to present her lowborn spouse to her friends, or leave her in peace to make what excuses she could.
“The maids can tend to your hem in the morning,” Dante said. “I’ve left instructions we’re not to be disturbed.”
The day had been a progression of revelations, such as any wedding day between relative strangers might be. Joan had been a beautiful bride, for example. Not pretty, not well dressed, not even blushing, but beautiful.
“But my hooks—”
Beautiful, though not eager. Dante twirled a finger. “I’m competent to unhook a dress, if you’ll permit it?”
“Of course.” She presented her back and swept her hair from her nape, the gesture brisk and…unseductive.
“Are you nervous, Joan?” He started at the top, grateful that the myriad hooks meant this wedding night could get off to an unhurried start.
“I’m still Lady Joan, not that it matters.”
He suspec
ted it mattered a great deal. “I’m nervous, my lady. The vows cannot be consummated without your participation.”
The nape of her neck turned an interesting shade of pink. “One gathered as much.”
He rested his cheek against the bump at the top of her spine, wishing she’d turn around and gather her husband into her arms. “Promise me, no dirty looks in the morning.”
She didn’t laugh—perceptive of her. “I’ll want the lights out.”
Dante went back to unhooking her dress, because he’d progressed less than halfway down her long, graceful back. “We can manage in the dark.”
Though her request made him uneasy. Whose face would she rather see on her wedding night? Prancing lordlings by the dozen had bowed over her hand, and Valmonte had been on the verge of stealing a kiss.
“We can even manage so you need not see my face at all,” he said, though the offer made him angry.
More hooks came undone, while Dante realized he’d made an offer he could not support. If Joan wanted him to toss up her skirts and rut on her from behind, like some ram after the ewes in spring, he could not accommodate her.
“I like your face very well,” she said. “But I’m not…”
She wasn’t in love with him, which notion shouldn’t bother a man who’d used his wedding breakfast to make the acquaintance of dukes, earls, and viscounts. “You’re not what? Not ready? Putting off the intimacies won’t make them any easier. Not for me.”
“I’m not pretty.”
Of all the daft—
Six more hooks to go, and Dante dispatched them in silence. Rowena’s looks had been average—pretty enough—but she’d been so confident of her father’s affections, of her entitlement to deference as a function of her father’s wealth, that pretty hadn’t come into it.
Not ever.
“No, you’re not pretty.” He pushed the sleeves of the dress off her shoulders, slowly, slowly, revealing pale skin and elegant curves. “You’re beautiful. Pretty is for schoolgirls, shopgirls, and debutantes. Pretty is for bouquets and hillsides. You have dignity, poise, charm, wit, and courage. God save me from a wife whose sole attribute is mere prettiness.”
He’d puzzled her. In the cheval mirror, he could see auburn brows knit and mental gears turn—while he tried to undress her.
“You’re handsome, though,” she retorted—accused. “All the ladies were inspecting you today, admiring your kilt—and your knees.”
Her comment laid a trap of some sort, one neither a homely husband nor a handsome one could crawl out of with her regard for him intact.
He started on the bows of her corset cover. “I’m relieved to have their inspection over with, if you want the truth. Relieved the ceremony is behind us. This is a fetching dress.”
“I hadn’t time to add much lace,” she said, reminding him that clothing and fabric served in conversation with Joan much as the weather might for others. “Mama thought my dress plain.”
“She said it was daringly elegant. I heard her.” At least three times. While the marchioness had no doubt been sincere and well-meaning, each repetition had left Joan more nervous and uncertain. “The color is lovely on you.”
Dante had just unknotted the lacings of her stays—she apparently didn’t believe in lacing herself to oblivion—when Joan turned to face him.
“You truly like this color? As greens go, it’s on the pale side.”
She was pale, and the strain of the day put shadows beneath her eyes. Perhaps she fussed her clothing because that was something a woman could control, even a wealthy, titled woman.
“Demure, not pale,” he said, thanking whatever merciful deity had inspired his vocabulary. “But, Joan?”
“Mr. Hartwell?”
“You need not be demure with your husband. You can be honest. If the notion of coupling with me horrifies you, then say so. It’s been only ten days since you boarded my train, and there’s still some time when uncertainty—”
The god of inspired vocabulary had dispensed a solitary favor and then fled the scene. Dante fell silent rather than do greater damage.
Lady Joan stood before him, her bodice gaping away from her underlinen, her hem sporting a few dashes of mud. Between uncertainty and fatigue, Dante endured a stirring of sentiment—longing, protectiveness, affection—despite their circumstances.
Despite everything.
“I want to have a wedding night with my wife, but more significantly, I want her to enjoy that wedding night. If that means we wait, then I will wait.”
If heaven were merciful, maybe he’d wait only until morning.
Joan was not inclined to offer him ready assurances. Hope sank, but didn’t go completely under, because the lady was still standing before him in dishabille, looking both puzzled and determined.
“I am not pretty, but you are handsome. We’ll muddle through, Mr. Hartwell, and without anybody handing out dirty looks in the morning.”
He’d amused her. Thank heavens, he’d amused her.
“Help me with this infernal neckcloth thing,” he said, lifting his chin. “Hector knotted it up as if he wanted to strangle me.”
Because Dante did not use a valet, and knew nothing of what was fashionable, while Hector had studied up on the matter of cravats and neckcloths and ties prior to the wedding.
“It’s a jabot,” she said, “old-fashioned and French, owing to the formality of the occasion. You might need it if we’re ever to present you at court.”
“Now you’ll give a poor Scottish lad nightmares on his wedding night.”
She draped the lacy French thing over his shoulder, as if it were a pet. “What next?” she asked, stroking the lace. “Is this where we climb under the covers and become man and wife?”
He wanted more than that for her and for himself too, but had no clue in which direction more might lie. “You didn’t enjoy your wedding day, did you?”
Another stroke of pale fingers over lace. “Today wasn’t awful. My family loves me, and that was…was a gift. Even my sisters.”
He unpinned a spray of lily of the valley from her hair. “You seemed happy enough at the church.”
“I had you beside me at the church.”
He passed her the little bouquet, a bit wilted but still fragrant. “I’ll be beside you in that bed, too, and in life. The two go together, and you’ll be beside me.”
Dante looked forward to that, in fact, but didn’t push his luck by telling her as much. Instead, he turned her by the shoulders and nudged her in the direction of the bedroom.
“I’ll call for you in a few minutes,” she said, apparently grasping his scheme. “When I’m under the covers.”
“I will not cross that threshold until you summon me.”
But they would emerge from their bedroom as man and wife—if he didn’t bungle this wedding night too.
***
How had Joan not realized what a good-looking fellow she’d married? In his wedding day finery, Dante Hartwell had been the handsomest man of the entire gathering—tall, muscular, broad-shouldered, and imbued with a sort of bodily confidence even Tiberius didn’t manage in a kilt.
Far handsomer than Edward Valmonte, who’d looked effete in his gray morning attire and white gloves.
Clothes did not make the man, Joan decided, hanging her wedding finery in the wardrobe, though they might do a great deal for a lady. Her dress needed more lace, another flounce at the hem, another dash of piping or embroidery, but she hadn’t had time to create that additional camouflage.
Now, her only camouflage would be darkness.
She peeled out of the rest of her clothes, tended to her ablutions, and donned the sheer nightgown she’d chosen from her trousseau. In darkness, the embroidery on the hems and seams would go unappreciated by her husband, but Joan would feel it against her skin.
In the next room, Mr. Hartwell stirred, possibly banking the fire or pouring himself a drink.
For warmth, Joan also put on the silk-and-velvet night robe
that went with the nightgown, then brushed her teeth and took down her hair.
A bride was to leave her hair unbound.
A bride was also supposed to be chaste and at least infatuated with her groom, if not in love with him.
Joan braided her hair, climbed onto the bed, and called to her husband. “Mr. Hartwell, you may join me.”
He sauntered into the bedroom interminable moments later, waistcoat undone, the first few buttons of his shirt open, cuffs turned back. “You don’t dither about before bed. That’s a fine quality in a wife.”
Dithering would not have solved anything, would not have made the specter of Edward Valmonte and his presumption any easier to banish.
“Do you need help getting undressed?” Though clearly he had the process under way without her help.
He peered in the general direction of the bed. Joan had turned the lamps down, but the fire in the hearth still cast some light. “Stay where you’re warm, lass, and I’ll be along shortly.”
Joan’s feet were cold, and the rest of her wasn’t exactly cozy, either. The notion that Dante Hartwell would join his body to hers—and this time spend his seed inside her body—was neither repugnant nor enticing, but merely…odd.
Water splashed, then a toothbrush tapped against a basin. The mattress dipped long moments later.
“Are you nervous, lass?”
She’d dodged that same question previously. “Yes. You?”
“A wee bit. I’ve admitted as much.”
He settled about two feet away, which wouldn’t do much to warm Joan’s feet.
“You’ve done this before,” she pointed out.
“Not for quite a while.” He kindly did not remind Joan that she’d apparently done it before too, which was the very reason they were sharing a wedding night.
That lowering piece of self-castigation illuminated an insight for Joan: Edward Valmonte had stolen her good name, and he still threatened her future. Joan might placate Edward with more designs or with money, but under no circumstances could she allow Edward to taint the intimate aspects of her marriage.
What A Lady Needs For Christmas Page 20