The Fall of a Saint

by Christine Merrill

  And I will make you pay for what you have done.

  Chapter Three

  Was he sorry he’d asked? Not really, Michael reminded himself. If there was even the remotest chance that he might gain a son from it, he was content to be married. The identity of the bride hardly mattered.

  Of course, it had not mattered before. Evelyn had been suitable and he had liked her well enough. But he did not think that what he’d felt for her could be called love. He was not even sure he’d have recognised that feeling, had it come to him.

  He was quite sure, however, that he did not feel that particular emotion for Madeline Cranston. But marriage to her was the right thing to do. He could not choose another woman, knowing that this one existed and he had been the ruin of her.

  He had made his bed with the unmaking of hers.

  Of course, she had not asked for this situation either. She had looked horrified when he’d first suggested the plan. It proved she was not some empty-headed fortune hunter. But she was a lady and in this predicament because of him. He owed her. He must content himself with the fact that she was educated and not unattractive.

  In fact, she was quite fetching when he could admire her unnoticed. She was more delicate than the women he normally favoured. The locks of chestnut hair that were not concealed by her bonnet formed lazy spirals, as though begging to entwine a man’s finger. The brown eyes and gentle smile were just as lovely as he’d have hoped to see from a woman waiting for him at the altar.

  It was only when she looked at him that the softness in her eyes became stony and the warmth of her smile turned glacial. It worried him that in the two weeks that he’d known her, the mother of his child had made no effort to be likeable.

  A fortnight was no time at all. Soon she would see that he was not the beast she thought him. And then they might forge some truce for the sake of their child.

  But suppose she did not mean to forgive him? To be tied to a woman who hated him for an indefinite future was as final as a trip to Tyburn. Worse yet, it was a repetition of his parents’ marriage and the path he had vowed to avoid.

  Even to the last steps, in the courtyard of St George’s, Sam was questioning his plan. ‘Are you sure, Michael, that there is no other way?’

  ‘Are you suggesting again that I buy her off?’ He stared steadily back at his brother, hoping that it would silence him.

  ‘Of course not. The incident in Dover was badly handled by both of us. And now that you have found her again, you are not attempting to shirk responsibility. But she did not ask for marriage, Michael. Only that you care for the child. A settlement would have been sufficient.’

  Damn Sam for offering such a reasonable solution. He could have given her what she sought, adequate funds to keep herself and raise his natural child. They’d never need see each other again.

  Then he imagined his firstborn separated from him by a barrier of illegitimacy. His error might stand between the boy and his birthright. How naive he had been three months ago to think that a bastard would be nothing more than a demonstration of his virility with his half-brother as proof of how much trouble that might cause.

  If there was to be a child, he could not imagine it anywhere but under his own roof. ‘There is no other way that I wish to go,’ he said, knowing it for the truth. ‘I mean to marry the girl and protect the child.’

  If his own childhood had taught him nothing, then Miss Madeline Cranston, soon to be her Grace the Duchess of St Aldric, would stand as a fresh reminder to him of what happened to those who strayed too far from the path of virtue. One might end up in a church, exchanging cursory vows with a stranger. But it was also a chance to start fresh. He would find a way to make peace with his wife. He would have the son he hoped for. The boy would be raised in an environment that was as far from his own childhood as humanly possible. That thought lightened his spirit as nothing else could.

  Sam did not share his grand vision. His concerns were firmly grounded in the present. ‘Was it really necessary to make such a public display of the wedding?’ he asked. ‘Pomp and circumstance will create more problems than they solve. Too many people have come to me already, asking about the woman and how you met her. How am I to answer them?’

  ‘Ignore them. Soon there will be another scandal to attract the attention of the ton gossips and this will be quite forgotten.’ Or so he hoped. When he’d offered for Miss Cranston, he’d imagined a quick ceremony in the family chapel would suit, and had pulled strings to get the special licence in record time. But that did not please his betrothed. Only the best church would do. And new wedding clothes, along with a full trousseau.

  When he had reminded her that such things took time to arrange, she had responded, without a smile, that what was needed was money. She’d smoothed a hand over her still-flat belly and reminded him that time was of the essence. And since he had promised her whatever she wanted...

  It had taken bribes, bonuses and additional fees all around. But the wedding and the pomp surrounding it had been ready within a week.

  It was the first step towards a brighter future, he reminded himself, and fixed his face in the distant smile that would block even his only blood relation from prying further. ‘If others ask about the circumstances of our meeting, our marriage or our future, you may tell them that it is none of their business. If they do not respect that, then tell them to come to me with their questions.’

  ‘They wouldn’t dare,’ said Sam with a shake of his head.

  ‘Exactly.’ His brother was still too new to the family to understand how best to use the power of name and rank. ‘The matter is closed.’

  As long as they did not go to the duchess for the story. She might reveal the truth out of spite. She was waiting for him at the altar, watching him with a smile and a gracious nod.

  Hypocrite, he wanted to shout. The loathing looks she gave him when they were alone were nothing like this one, which would seem to a bystander to be quite innocent.

  In turn, he smiled back at her, playing the part of the eager bridegroom that society expected to see. He continued to smile as the bishop droned on about the sanctity of marriage and the need to procreate. The man had no idea what he was talking about. In Michael’s experience, there was nothing particularly sacred about the unions he had seen. If his father had been a faithful man, he would not have left Sam as an unacknowledged, bastard son. Mother might have been quite different, as well. Michael had often imagined what it would be like to have an actual brother. But considering the chill silence that separated his parents when they were forced into company with each other, the lack of a sibling was not so very surprising.

  Did his new bride have family? He had not thought to enquire. They were not here, at any rate. Nor were there friends. Perhaps she was as alone as he, the poor thing.

  His mood softened. Then she turned slightly to look up at him. From a distance, the lavender gown she wore and the flowers in her hands reminded him of a petit four: small and sweet. But as he looked closer, the image faded. Though the colour suited her, the eyes staring up into his were dark, bottomless and intimidating.

  She must have been a fine governess, he thought, for she was using her quelling stare upon him. He was far too old for that trick to work. The fierceness of her was an interesting counterpoint to her delicacy. He normally favoured fair women, but this one might have changed his mind. For all her dark looks, she had a sweet face and eyes that would melt him if she tried entreaty instead of demand. The child would not be unattractive, but possibly not tall. She was slight, fine boned and, thankfully, still slim. No one would suspect a pregnancy.

  For a while. He felt another possessive thrill at the thought. It would not do to advertise her condition just yet. With Parliament out of session, they could retire to the country, finishing out the term of gestation in privacy. He had no desire to visit Aldric House, fo
r the place held nothing but bad memories. Perhaps the future there could be different. The thought of the months ahead and the reward at the end of it had him feeling as giddy as a child waiting for Christmas.

  ‘Your Grace.’ The bishop’s whisper hissed through the quiet of the church.

  The vows. He had not been listening. Madeline glared all the more, as though he were the stupidest child in the nursery.

  He smiled apologetically. ‘If you would repeat the question, your Eminence?’

  The bishop did as requested and Michael turned his attention to the business at hand, answering and repeating as charged with what he hoped was a confident voice.

  Madeline Rosemary Cranston’s voice was quieter, but no less steady.

  Rosemary. Another omitted detail about his new wife. He would pay attention from now on. She might not enjoy his company, but he would give her no reason to fault it. When the bishop called for it, he offered the ring of braided gold that his mother had worn, watched as it was blessed, then took it back, slipped it onto her finger and promised to endow her with all his worldly goods.

  There. The job was done, the knot was tied. They knelt and were prayed over.

  * * *

  Maddie seethed. He was the one who had wanted this wedding and he had not even been listening to the vows. To fumble over a simple ‘I do’ was a slight almost too great to bear. It was proof that he did not care about her at all. The marriage was just one more step that stood between him and his precious heir.

  She calmed herself again, for it could not be good for the baby to always be so angry. The child had given her no reason for such bitterness. Its father had. But she would not blame an innocent.

  The bishop was going on and on about fruitfulness and praying that God would endow her with a large family.

  Her stomach twisted. One child with this man was more than she wanted. She had accepted that she was to live and die alone. The love she’d saved for the family she would not have with Richard would be doled out, a little at a time, to the charges she educated, for there would be no children of her own.

  It seemed the baby she’d wanted would come after all, in a sham marriage to the stranger who had ruined her. It is not too late to stop this. The bishop had not finished the ceremony. Doctor Hastings had sworn to help her. He and Evelyn were there as witnesses. She had but to announce that she could not go on and they would take her in.

  But what good would it do her to be alone to raise a bastard? The duke had made his feelings clear. He would persist until she surrendered and legitimised the child.

  Now the bishop was speaking of submission, which was even worse than children. If St Aldric’s goal was to have a woman in his bed, who had promised at an altar that she would not refuse, then she had played right into his hands.

  A promise given under duress was no promise at all, she reminded herself. But all the same, her thoughts wandered back to that night, to awakening with a stranger.

  She had been asleep and dreaming. It had been her favourite sort of dream. Richard had returned to her, just as he had said he would so long ago. Everything would be right at last. There was no job ahead of her, no more difficult children to teach. No more sour-faced parents expecting Miss Cranston to tend to the education of offspring that they could not be bothered to spend time with. After years without hope, she would be a bride.

  And yet she had hesitated. ‘I thought you dead,’ she had whispered to him. ‘In the Battle of New Orleans. There was no word of you after.’

  ‘I am not dead,’ he assured her. ‘Just sleeping, as you are now. I am coming back to you. We will marry, just as I always promised. But tonight, it will be as it was before I left.’

  She smiled and let her phantom lover ease her back onto the mattress. There was no pain, as there had been that first time. She was ready for him. She had been waiting for so long, for the long, slow glide of his body in hers. He was lying on top of her, his warmth taking the last of the chill from the winter air.

  She wrapped her arms around him, feeling the warm solidness of a man, whole and undamaged by battle. Two arms held her. Two legs tangled with hers. The lips on her throat were full and hot, the tongue tracing designs to the open neck of her nightshirt until it found her breast. If only for a little while, she was young again and happy. She sighed in relief as he entered her. She had been so lonely for so long....

  She had given herself freely to him, returned his kisses and stroked his body, encouraging him to do as he would with her. She had climaxed with him, even as she realised that the voice crying out in triumph with hers was unfamiliar.

  Then she had opened her eyes.

  She was shaking again, with shame and self-disgust. She could pretend that the fault was all his, but that was not the whole truth. She had lain with a stranger. Worse yet, she had enjoyed it. She was everything she feared, a woman of no virtue and loose morals, no better than her mother had been.

  Not now. She was in a church in London. Dover was as much a dream as Richard had been. She ordered her body to be still, but it would not obey, any more than it had on the night she had met the duke. She had been a fool to search out St Aldric and an even greater fool in marrying to spite him. If she was not careful, she would fall into his bed again, though there was no real feeling between them.

  This could not go on. There must be some way to turn back the clock and return to the life she’d had. It had not been happy, but at least it had been predictable. She had but to open her mouth now, before the bishop pronounced the final words, and tell them it had all been a terrible mistake. But she could not bring herself to speak. She was trembling so hard she was surprised that the whole church did not see it.

  Now she was swaying on her knees, very close to a full swoon. She gripped the communion rail before her, watching her knuckles go white with strain. Her vision narrowed as though she was at the end of a tunnel, looking down at the finger wearing the heavy gold ring.

  The man at her side had noticed. He reached out and laid a hand over hers, as though he sought to comfort her.

  She froze. If she put a stop to this, all of London would hear of the mad girl who had left St Aldric at the altar. She would be left with a bastard and a reputation not just tattered, but notorious. And he would grow in estimation to a tragic figure, undeserving of such horrible treatment. Beside her, St Aldric smiled and withdrew his hand. He thought he had quelled the shaking with his reassurance.

  The man was insufferable. He had despoiled her memories of Richard and made her doubt her own heart. Then he’d left her in a delicate condition. He had trampled her life into dust. And now, though he cared less about her than he did the baby she carried, he thought all could be made right between them with a sham ceremony and a pat on the hand.

  No matter what might lie in her future, she would waste no more time in fear and trembling over the likes of St Aldric. And in marrying him, she would teach him the lesson he should have learned in the schoolroom: to do unto others as you would have others do to you.

  Chapter Four

  Michael stared into the glass before him, wishing that it held gin instead of champagne. It was far too early, in both the day and the marriage, to seek alcoholic remedy to the problems before him. If his current surroundings were a reflection of his future with Madeline, a strong drink at breakfast might not go amiss.

  A church ceremony had cured the creeping sense of guilt he’d felt since the night in Dover. He had thought the worst was finally over and his life could return to normality.

  But when Michael glanced out over the decoration of the feast she had arranged to celebrate their nuptials, he could find nothing normal in it. He must thank God for her good taste, he supposed. It could have been worse, had the surroundings been ugly. Of course, the level of excess was totally inappropriate for a wedding breakfast, which, in his opinion, should
be small, tasteful and over quickly.

  This had all the trappings of a masquerade ball. She had thrown wide the doors and cleared half the rooms in his town house to hold the crowd she had invited. Then she’d had the servants set every table in the place for guests. Every surface was decked with mountains of flowers, tropical orchids drooping on long stems from the midst of profusions of greenery. The walls were hung with ribbons and gold cages containing pairs of annoying, but beautiful, parrots.

  Everywhere he turned little red faces looked down at him with beady black eyes. And whistled and chirped.

  ‘Could we not have had doves?’ he blurted, unable to contain his annoyance. Then, at least, the sounds would have been soothing.

  ‘But, darling, doves are so common.’ She gave him a pout worthy of a courtesan. ‘And you said I could have anything. The guests are quite envious of it.’

  The females, perhaps. All around him he heard awed whispers.

  Lovebirds.... Very rare.... Straight from Abyssinia.... She bought every one on the boat....

  The males looked as he felt, as though they were longing for a stiff drink to dull the effects of the squawking on their nerves. At least they did not have to pay for the damn things.

  ‘It is a pity there was not time to teach them to speak,’ she said.

  He hid the flinch. With the evil smile she wore, he could imagine what she wished them to say. She wanted choruses of high-pitched voices accusing him of actions he could not defend. And doing it in front of what seemed to be half of London.