The pair of them reached out, covering his hand with their own. They stood for a moment in silence before parting, almost embarrassed by the display of feeling. Oliver cleared his throat and Jake slipped the signet back into his pocket.
‘Partaking of spirits in a church?’
Apparently, they had been too preoccupied with the past to notice that the bride and her family had finally arrived. Georgiana’s stepmother had caught them drinking and was staring at Fred as if he had just confirmed every horrible story she had heard about his family.
The bride, however, gave a longing look at the flask as it disappeared back into Jake’s pocket, as if wishing she could finish what was left.
He hardly blamed her. He had a good mind to request that Jake pass it back so he could share it with her. What were they doing? Even had they felt affection for each other, they had nothing in common. When he looked at her, young, untried, and fresh-faced in a primrose-yellow dress and a coronet of wildflowers, he felt a hundred years old. He was hardly that. He was not yet thirty. But he had seen too much and done too much to have anything at all in common with a green girl.
As she so often was, when he’d seen her in public, Georgiana Knight was pouting, frowning, and snapping at her stepmother, like the child she was. Lady Grinsted was frowning as well as she fluffed the sleeves of the bride’s gown and tried to adjust the flowers in her hair. Her father walked two steps behind the pair, purposely oblivious to the drama playing out under his nose.
‘Apologise to Major Challenger for our late arrival,’ Lady Grinsted said with a brittle smile and a jab of a pin in Georgiana’s blonde hair.
‘It is Mr Challenger,’ Georgiana corrected, staring at the uniform he had chosen for wedding clothes. ‘The war has been over for some time.’
‘Now is no time to argue semantics,’ her stepmother hissed. ‘Apologise to him.’
‘It is not as if he could start without me,’ Georgiana supplied, glaring at him as if daring him to say otherwise. ‘And you should be the one to apologise, Marietta. The delay was not my fault. If you would have allowed me to choose my own clothing unchallenged, we would have been here half an hour ago.’
‘A day dress that is months old—’
‘Barely worn,’ the girl interrupted. ‘And it favours me.’
‘You should have bought a new gown. And woodbine and speedwell for flowers?’ Marietta said with a sniff of disgust. ‘You look as though you picked them out of the garden.’
‘Because I did,’ the girl replied.
‘There were roses and orchids in the hothouse on the roof.’
‘Where they can stay,’ Georgiana finished. ‘Since you like them, I left them for you to enjoy, now that you are finally to be rid of me.’
Had the delay seriously been about something so trivial as the choice of flowers? She was lovely just as she was, the very picture of the bride he’d have wanted, had he wanted to marry at all. He failed to see what difference it made what she wore. He had promised to marry her and would have done so had she arrived wrapped in a grain sack.
Or in a sheer dress that barely covered her charms. Why, of all times, was he imagining how she had looked on the night he’d made the offer? The thoughts he’d been having before he’d learned her identity were not appropriate for a church.
Nor were they appropriate if he planned to leave his virgin bride untouched, as she had demanded. It should not matter, for he liked her no better than she did him. But he had never imagined that he would be denied the one clear advantage that one was supposed to gain by marrying. The whole thing was giving him a headache. Or perhaps it was the heavy scent of the Viscountess’s perfume, which was redolent of the flowers she had been forcing on her stepdaughter.
He turned to Georgiana, forcing a smile. ‘You look perfectly charming.’ If everything else was a lie, at least that was true. ‘If the guests will take their seats, let us get this over with.’
CHAPTER FIVE
As they stood before the altar, Georgiana sneaked a sideward glance at the man next to her, torn between amazement and frustration. It didn’t bode well for their future that he could not manage to make it through the ceremony without a drink. Perhaps he was every bit as bad as the rest of his family, who were known far and wide for their excesses in all things.
Nor did it encourage her when he had announced that they needed to ‘get it over with’ as if he was being forced to take medicine or do something equally unpleasant. He had followed that insult by taking a long look at his watch, to give her one last reminder of their late arrival.
If it had been up to her, they’d have been early and done by now. But, as usual, the preparations had devolved into an argument with Marietta. Perhaps, just once, her stepmother had been right. Standing next to Frederick Challenger, George began to wonder if her choice of gown and flowers had been too plain. While she had chosen muslin and wild flowers, her future husband was resplendent in full military uniform.
She would not let her head be turned. All men looked dashing in a red coat and tasselled Hessians. It was easier to think that than to notice how handsome he was. Though the war had ended some three years ago, the return to civilian life had not made him soft. The body under his uniform seemed to be nothing but muscle and sinew, as ready to vault into the saddle and take up the sword as it had been at Waterloo.
But it had been his face that had drawn her attention when she had first seen him at a ball some weeks before. Even when his brow was furrowed in irritation with her, there was an intelligent light in his dark brown eyes that made her want to know him better. Though his smile today was false, it was still nice to look on. There were no lines about the mouth to indicate habitual frowning. His lips were neither too firm nor too soft. His light brown hair was recently cut and combed smooth. But she could see a faint wave in it, as if it had taken his valet some effort to gain control of the wildness. He was freshly shaved as well, cheeks smooth and clear. As they had moved together to stand before the bishop, she’d got a faint whiff of lime cologne.
He needn’t have bothered putting on airs for this sham of a wedding. He had looked just as good at Almack’s and even better at the club, where she had seen him without the benefit of coat, cravat, or a razor.
His pleasant appearance did not make up for the fact that he had been annoying in all those places. He had shown nothing but contempt for her since the first time they’d laid eyes on each other. He had laughed at her, mocked her in public, and scolded her when they were alone together at the club. Was it really worth a lifetime’s sacrifice to get away from Sir Nash? If not for the threat of him, George would not be marrying a man who disapproved of her every bit as much as Marietta did.
She glanced over her shoulder at her stepmother who was glaring at her from the first pew. No matter what happened from now on, that woman would have no more say in her life or future. She was still furious that George had managed the narrow escape from Sir Nash’s impending proposal. The accepted offer from Mr Challenger had resulted in the biggest row of her life. Marietta had alternated between shrieks of rage and fits of tears, demanding that George write a letter of refusal, immediately.
When that had failed, she had begun on Father, hanging on his arm and proclaiming that her cousin’s heart would be broken by the jilting of the faithless Georgiana. He must contact Mr Challenger immediately with the news that she was otherwise engaged.
Father had looked from one to the other of them and sighed. Then announced that George was marrying and leaving the house, just as Marietta had wanted. Since it appeared that she had finally found a man she was willing to accept, he had no intention of reopening the matter. Then he had locked himself in the study to avoid further discussion.
As for her own opinions on the marriage? After the initial offer, even Mr Challenger had not enquired on those. The morning after the embarrassi
ng interlude at Vitium et Virtus, he had come to the house and spoken to Father, just as he’d promised.
When he had done with that, he’d stopped to speak to her, where she had been loitering in the corridor outside the study. He had promised to arrange for the licence and announcement and put an allowance at her disposal should she need it for wedding preparations. Then he had given her his direction so she might contact him once the rest of the plans had been finalised.
And that had been that. It had all been arranged through a series of notes passed between the two households. Beyond the stack of curt but polite replies written in a bold, masculine hand, she had not seen him in the flesh, in public or private, since that morning.
He had been conspicuously absent from the routs and dinners she had attended, denying her even the usual aggravation of his censure. She had been left alone to weather the flurry of congratulations for her impending marriage along with the curious questions that often accompanied them. When had they met? When had he offered? How had they managed to carry on a flirtation under the very noses of the Almack’s patronesses without anyone in London guessing the truth?
She had smiled brilliantly and lied through her teeth. It would serve Mr Challenger right if word got back to him of their romantic meetings in Vauxhall and unchaperoned moonlight rides. If he had wanted another version of their courtship, he should have been there to help her invent it.
She felt a sudden, sharp elbow in her side. Her soon-to-be husband had caught her wool-gathering at the altar. She turned back to the ceremony and saw the expectant look on the face of the bishop. She had missed something, she was sure. ‘Could you repeat the question?’ she asked, as sweetly as possible.
‘Will you, Georgiana Hortensia Knight, take this man…?’
Blast.
Of all the time to let her mind wander, it had to be during the vows.
‘I will,’ she said, relieved that this bit was over at least.
And now, it was Mr Challenger’s turn to answer. He stood beside her, back straight, shoulders squared as if Wellington himself would be delivering the sermon.
Suddenly, there was a snore from the Challenger family pew.
The bishop froze, mid-word, glancing past them at the Earl.
There came another, prolonged snort that ended in a muffled curse.
‘Dear Lord, Weston. Of all times.’ Perhaps the Countess had intended her remonstrance to be a whisper, but in the cavernous interior of the church it carried like a shout.
‘It is damned early to be up and about,’ the Earl said in his defence. ‘Since he wasted the money on a special licence, we could have done this in the afternoon, when we were all awake.’
‘If you had not got so drunk last night, a morning wedding would be no problem.’
Beside them, the Earl’s heir tapped once on the floor with his gold-handled walking stick as if the sound of ebony striking the marble floor was in any way a discreet warning. In trying to silence him, his wife let out a hissing noise that rebounded off the vaulted ceiling.
From the next pew, Mr Challenger’s younger brother let out an embarrassed sigh and the younger sisters began to giggle, unable to help themselves.
The man beside her took a deep breath, swelling to become even more fearsome and impressive than she’d first imagined. Then he turned with military precision to glare at his family. ‘Silence!’ He delivered the command in his best battlefield roar.
It was as if the entire congregation had turned to stone. His friends were gaping, open-mouthed. When the effects of the shout wore off, the Earl winced at the pain in his brandy-soaked skull. The Countess looked as if she had just bitten down on a lemon. The rest of the family had fallen into white-faced, wide-eyed, terrified silence.
From beside Mr Challenger, his dark-skinned friend Mr Gregory let out a low chuckle. It was cut short by a sudden elbow to the ribs from the Duke of Westmoor.
Mr Challenger gave them one last glare foul enough to make sure they all remained still. Then he turned back to the bishop and said, in what he probably thought was a calming tone, ‘Please proceed.’
The bishop hesitated for a moment more, as if he were standing out in a storm, waiting to see if lightning would strike again. Then the ceremony continued. He was prattling on about love and obedience and several other virtues that George was sure did not pertain to the arrangement that she had negotiated with Mr Challenger.
But for today, she would smile and nod along. She would agree to each question put to her and focus on the only vows that truly mattered. Once they were married, they would leave each other alone.
The plan was simplicity itself and infinitely preferable to being trapped cheek by jowl with a man she did not like. Why, then, did it make her feel so empty to contemplate it? Before she had come to the church, she’d calmed her nerves by remembering that she had no real expectations of what marriage was supposed to be like.
Her parents had been happy, of course. Then, Mother had died. Her father and Marietta were happy, at first. And then, they were not. It was quite possible that true happiness was a fragile thing, not meant to last the lifetime of the union.
But to begin and end a marriage in antipathy seemed so wrong. Perhaps it would be possible for some little bit of affection to grow between them. If she made an effort not to annoy him and he did not speak too often, or cause aggravation to her, they might learn to be comfortable in each other’s presence. It would be nice if he accompanied her when she received an invitation to a ball. Even better if he was willing to partner with her in a dance or two. If she tried it, she might like walking at his side as well as she had several other less handsome but more personable men she’d met this Season.
But there would be no children.
The realisation brought with it a strange emptiness. She had always assumed that, some day, she would have them. What better way was there to know that one was truly grown up? When she became a mother, people would stop treating her as a child. But Mr Challenger had stressed that he did not need an heir. That meant that they would not be performing whatever mysterious acts resulted in children. And he would never think of her as anything more than a useless child.
‘You may kiss the bride.’
Her cogitation came to an abrupt halt. The ceremony was over. At the encouraging of the bishop, he was about to do something that she had not allowed any man to do in her life. He had touched her shoulder and was turning her to him. Now he touched her chin so she had no choice but to look up at his face.
His eyes truly were amazing, so dark and deep that she could stare into them for ever and never grow tired of the view. And for a moment, she was sure that her fears were baseless. Everything would work out between them. At least for a single moment, she would hold the full, romantic attention of a gallant soldier, a worldly and not too gentlemanly gentleman, a near perfect specimen of masculinity.
She closed her eyes and waited for something that was guaranteed to be a primer-perfect first kiss.
Then, as usual, Frederick Challenger ruined everything.
It was the sort of kiss one gave one’s worst aunt when forced to make nice. Or perhaps a sister, when one was still in the schoolroom and hated all females, especially ones in the family. He kissed her as if he had wanted to be anywhere but at the altar with her. He all but proclaimed his unhappiness with the union in front of both his family and hers.
She was sure her cheeks were burning red with embarrassment and not the just-kissed flush she’d been hoping for. Now she had to walk down the aisle with him and pretend that everything was fine. She would have to sit beside him at breakfast, eat cake, and drink champagne, and act as though she had not just made the worst mistake in her life by marrying him.
She should have thrown this first precious kiss away on a flirtation, months ago, instead of saving it for a husband who would neve
r feel anything for her but contempt. At least, then she’d have had a pleasant memory to sustain her through a lifetime of misery.
She must not let this moment become even worse than it already was. She would not let Frederick Challenger or anyone else see how much he had hurt her. As they walked to the registry to sign their names in the book, she raised her chin and willed the burning shame into cold, hard anger. Today, she would accept the felicitations on her marriage with a smile. She would eat her wedding breakfast with relish, even if it choked her.
But when they got home, wherever that place turned out to be, she would make it clear that, no matter what she had said at the altar, hell would freeze before she offered the odious man at her side love, honour, or obedience.
CHAPTER SIX
George toyed with the wilting bouquet in her hands, watching the cascade of flower petals falling on a low table in Mr Challenger’s town house. It would be sensible to begin thinking of this as her home as well. After all, her clothing and material possessions were currently being unpacked by servants in the rooms around her. But such an easy adjustment was probably impossible. After less than a day as a wife, she’d had enough of marriage to last her a lifetime.
The wedding breakfast had been as awful as she’d expected it would be. Mr Challenger had been polite enough to the servants at the hotel where the meal was held. But he had not said two words together to his parents or older brother and offered nothing but sharp admonitions to his younger siblings that they mind their manners and not annoy the other guests. And though she had come to them offering warm smiles and congratulations, he had stared through his sister-in-law as if she was not even there.
George had almost come to miss the old, obnoxious Frederick Challenger who would have cut her dead as well. The new one spoke to her with distant courtesy, but refused to look her in the eye as he did so. He made sure that her glass was full and that her plate held the choicest dainties on the table. Then he ate, head down, knife and fork clicking against china as rhythmically as a machine, until the meal was over.
Convenient Bride for the Soldier & the Major Meets His Match & Secret Lessons With the Rake (9781488021718) Page 6