She looked across at Ayersley. As long as they both lived.
She must have spoken “I will.” She must have, because the ceremony did not come to an embarrassing halt. The next thing she knew, Tom was relinquishing her icy hand to Ayersley’s warm one. The earl smiled down at her. She wanted to smile back, to give him the same look of bridal joy she had dreamt about with George, but she was so frightened, she couldn’t make the muscles of her face obey.
It was time for Ayersley to slip the wedding band on her finger. Roxana did her best to hold still, to make it easier for him, but her hand shook just the same.
“With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, amen,” Ayersley said, still holding the ring on her fourth finger. Perhaps he was only trying to hold her up, to prevent her from falling to the floor in a faint. She must have been deathly pale, to judge by the way her brain reeled from impression to impression.
Please, she implored God, don’t let me swoon in front of all these people. Just let me get through this ceremony, and I can worry about the rest of it later. Unable to focus, she took her cues from Ayersley, kneeling when he knelt and standing when he stood.
Then it was all over, somehow. They were man and wife. Everything came to life again around her. Fanny, her bridesmaid, hugged her while she stood in a daze. Ayersley’s groomsman—he’d wanted her brother Tom, but Roxana had pointed out that Tom must give her away, so a cousin had been recruited—pumped the earl’s hand. Her eyes sought out her mother in their pew. Lady Langley waved. Roxana tried to smile, and her flowers slipped from her shaking hands. Ayersley and his cousin almost knocked their heads together, stooping to pick them up.
Soon her mother and brother were swallowed up in a flood of guests, accepting congratulations right and left.
“It’s time to sign the register,” Ayersley said quietly into her ear.
Roxana nodded. Details. How odd that he should be the more focused one, when she had been a bride a thousand times in her imagination.
Her mouth was dry. But at least the church service was over. No thunderbolt had been hurled from heaven, to strike them down for having vowed to love one another. They had survived the wedding. Now only death could part them.
* * *
As Alex left the church with his new bride for the wedding breakfast at Riddlefield, confusion arose over who should go in which carriage. In the end Miss Sherbourne and his groomsman rode with them. For once, Alex did enough talking for everyone. Now that the ceremony was behind him, he was so relieved and so happy, he couldn’t hold the words in.
“I felt sure something would go wrong—pouring rain or a case of the chickenpox or a broken carriage axle or something—but it all went off without a hitch. And how very pretty you look, Miss Sherbourne! I’m most grateful to you for standing witness—and you, too, Rob. Sorry to drag you up before the whole church when you weren’t expecting it, but I couldn’t have asked for a better groomsman. Consider me officially in your debt.” He hardly sounded like himself at all.
With the usual country informality, the party was already underway when they arrived at Riddlefield. Noise greeted them even before they reached the front door. Tables had been set up in the supper room, and guests spilled out onto the terrace. The whole house rang with the hubbub of laughter and animated conversation.
Alex had no sooner stepped into the house with Roxana than a crowd of well-wishers surged around them. Accepting congratulations, he was smiling so much his face hurt—at least, until he saw Tom’s fair head bobbing through the crowd. Alex thought he was merely coming to add his good wishes, but he thrust a glass of champagne into his sister’s hand.
“Drink this,” Tom ordered Roxana. “You look like death.”
Surprised, Alex glanced at her. She was as white as paper.
“Exactly what a bride hopes to hear on her wedding day,” she told Tom with an admirable show of spirit. But she drank the champagne, so quickly she winced as if the bubbles stung her nose.
Eventually they were allowed to sit down. Food was set in front of them. There were toasts, led by Rob, his groomsman. Rob rose to his feet and rapped on his glass with a spoon until the escalating noise died down. Then he went on to salute them, “the happy couple,” paying Roxana such a smooth and charming stream of compliments she must have wondered how he and Alex could possibly be cousins. Since it was the last day of August, Rob ended his toast with an old country saying—”Whoever wed in August be, many a change is sure to see.”
Alex couldn’t remember any of the other toasts, although he believed they included a large measure of well-wishes and even occasional shouts of “hear, hear!” He was asked to speak, and he got up and fumbled his way through a heartfelt but no doubt stilted speech about how pleased he was everyone had come to share in his happiness. He looked over at Roxana as he finished, only to find her staring off into space with a bewildered look.
When the speechmaking died down and he’d taken his seat again, he leaned toward her. “Are you all right?” he asked quietly. “Would you like to go home?”
“Home?” Her eyes flew to his face, as if she had just realized for the first time her home was no longer at Riddlefield, but at Broadslieve now with him. “No. Oh, no, Ayersley. Let’s not leave yet.”
He simply nodded. She’d sounded so horrified, he was sorry he’d asked.
* * *
Roxana wanted to blame her confusion on the champagne Tom had given her, but she knew that would be dishonest. Her wedding breakfast felt strange, as if it were happening to some other person, not to her. Again and again she tried to snap out of it, but the differences between this wedding and the one she’d always imagined had her in a fog. Who were these statesmanlike Londoners? Where were the soldiers? Where was George?
She was never going to be George’s wife, not now. She had married the man he called that killjoy. But then, Ayersley had made an even greater sacrifice, hadn’t he? She had no right to feel sorry for herself.
The worst part was, it wasn’t mere self-pity. There was real dread. With George, her wedding had always beckoned gloriously from the future, the stuff of daydreams and romantic fantasies. Yet here she was, married to the Earl of Ayersley, this man who felt more like a childhood acquaintance than a lover—married now, this minute. And tonight would be their wedding night.
Before the wedding, Ayersley had sent a message asking if she would like to take a honeymoon trip to the Continent, to Paris or Florence. The idea of going away with him to some foreign country, spending their days and nights alone together there, had made her stomach ache. She’d insisted they put off any trip until the spring. The weather would be milder then, she’d scribbled back, as if September were the dead of winter. Now she could almost wish they were going away after all. Broadslieve was too near, too soon, too real.
The afternoon sped by. Harry was allowed down with his nurse, the bride’s cake was cut and more glasses were drained. She and Ayersley separated to circulate among the guests. He talked a little with her brother Tom, while neighbors offered her their best wishes. Mrs. Truitt boomed out a prediction the two of them would have their nursery filled in no time, and Fanny interrupted a fledgling conversation with Mr. Dean to declare with admirable loyalty she’d never believed a word of those silly rumors.
Eventually, however, no excuse remained for them to stay. The party had lasted far longer than most such celebrations did. The day was largely spent. She couldn’t put off their departure any longer.
By that time, only a handful of guests lingered among the drained bottles and deserted tables. They followed the wedding couple outdoors to see them off.
Roxana’s mother broke down as they were leaving. She adored Ayersley and had given their marriage the most enthusiastic of blessings, but Roxana was her only daughter. As her new husband handed her into the closed carriage, Lady Langley began to cry.
“
Oh, Ayersley,” she said, wiping her eyes, “do be good to her.”
But if she had hoped for some eloquent reassurance, she was not to have it. All he said was, “I will, ma’am. I promise.” Then he stepped in after Roxana.
They started off, and the onlookers tossed rice at their departing carriage. Lady Langley began to weep more loudly. Roxana stuck her head out the window so she could see her as they drove away. Her mother was standing in the drive, waving after them. Tom put a comforting arm about her shoulders as Harry jumped up and down, shouting energetic goodbyes.
Roxana’s eyes grew misty. Her family. If they were going to miss her, she was going to miss them a thousand times more. She leaned out as far as possible, and waved and waved until they were completely out of sight.
When she pulled her head back inside to sit with her shoulder brushing Ayersley’s, she was biting her lip. If their leave-taking had lasted one second longer, she would have started bawling. She wanted to race back and tell her mother how much she loved her.
But she took a few slow breaths and willed back the tears. She didn’t want Ayersley to think he had saddled himself with a watering pot.
“Goodbyes are always difficult,” he said beside her.
She simply nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She would never forgive herself if she actually began to sob. After all, it was not as if she would never see her mother again. She could visit Riddlefield whenever she wished. She was moving to a house only two miles away.
Unfortunately, at that moment it did not feel like a mere two miles. To her overburdened heart, it felt as if she were going to her doom.
Chapter Ten
Virgin me no virgins.
—Philip Massinger
Alex checked the clock. It had taken him no time to change for bed, but he had promised himself he would wait fifteen minutes before knocking on the door to Roxana’s bedroom. He didn’t want to look too eager or make Roxana feel rushed. After more than five years of frustrated longing, he could endure a fifteen-minute wait, even if every second did feel like torture.
Dinner had gone as well as could be expected. They’d had a good deal to talk about. Comparing notes on the wedding breakfast had occupied several minutes. Discussing the transfer of Roxana’s belongings had taken up several more. He’d asked about her new rooms, and she had enthused about them at great length. But dinner had eventually ended, and conversation in the drawing room had quickly dwindled into nervous commonplaces. At last Roxana had announced her intention to retire. Schooling his expression to a polite mask, he’d agreed to join her shortly.
Alex picked up the candle, checked the clock and set it down again. He still had twelve minutes to go.
He only hoped he wouldn’t make a fool of himself. He meant to make the experience as good for her as possible, of course, but he was less worried about that than he was about the making-a-fool-of-himself part. He possessed a tolerable amount of experience, so it wasn’t as if he had no notion how to go about the thing. Still, none of those times had been with a tenderly reared young lady. None of those women had been his wife. And this was Roxana.
He sat down on his bed, and only seconds later restlessness made him get up again. In an effort to make the time pass, he began reciting to himself whatever verse he could call to mind—scraps of Shakespeare, Milton, Pope. Somehow he ended up on the Beatitudes, and had to stop when he reached Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God. Knowing Roxana was undressing on the other side of the door and they were about to spend their first night together, he felt sadly unqualified to see God at any time in the near future.
Alex checked the clock again and stifled a groan. Still another six minutes to go.
* * *
Roxana had asked her abigail to make the move to Broadslieve with her. As Mary took the pins from her hair, Roxana tried to pretend they were back at Riddlefield and this was a night like any other. This was familiar, was it not? Mary was brushing out her hair.
But Mary couldn’t sense her desperate wish for routine and thus refused to play along. She told Roxana about the servants’ new livery, a gift from the earl in celebration of his marriage. She talked about her new quarters and how agreeable they were. She admired Roxana’s bedchamber, a spacious room decorated in Pomona green and cream, with a sumptuously hung tester bed that stretched to the coffered plasterwork ceiling. She kept marveling at everything about the day—Roxana’s wedding gown, the walk to church, the guests from London, even the finely sewn lawn nightdress Roxana was wearing now—until Roxana wanted to scream.
When Mary withdrew, Roxana did not know whether to be glad or sorry. Mary’s chatter with its constant refrain of new, new, new was no longer pounding in her head. But now Roxana was alone with her thoughts. And soon—too soon—she would be alone with her new husband.
She got up from the dressing table and paced, hugging herself in trepidation. She had to stay calm. She could depend on Ayersley to be considerate. He wouldn’t linger unnecessarily over what they were about to do. This last part of their wedding day, the consummation, wouldn’t take long, or so Mama had assured her.
Her mother had broached the subject only that morning. Despite all Roxana’s years of interest in vulgar on-dits, the full details had come as something of a shock, though her mother had promised it was not so very bad. It never hurt as much after the first time, she’d said, and it seemed to relax the man. He would probably sleep when it was over, and Roxana could keep her mind on the cheering possibility of a baby. She had patted Roxana’s knee and smiled at her as she said it.
Somehow, Roxana had not felt especially reassured.
A knock sounded on the door, bringing a stab of panic. Mary had draped her dressing gown over the back of a chair. Roxana resisted a cowardly urge to dash to it and throw it on. She was not sure what to do. Should she go to him? Should she be sitting on the bed? Lying down? She simply remained standing where she was, rooted to the floor.
“Come,” she called, a betraying quaver in her voice.
The doorknob turned and Ayersley, carrying a candle, stepped through the door connecting his rooms to hers. He wore a dark blue dressing gown with a white nightshirt peeping out at the neck and wrists, and his dark hair was slightly rumpled. Since he normally went about looking as proper and tightly buttoned as a parson, it jarred her to see him in his nightclothes.
Wearing a strained expression, he set his candle down carefully on the little table by the bed.
“If you could see your face,” she said with a nervous laugh. “Don’t worry, Ayersley. I’ve been told what to expect.”
He grinned—one of those rare, swift grins that completely transformed his looks. “Actually, I’ve been struggling all day not to look too eager.”
Eager? Roxana gulped. He was such a respectable sort, she had hoped this last part of their wedding day might be little more than another detail to him. But then, Mama had explained men felt differently about such things than ladies did.
He glanced about them at her room. “May I tell you something?”
She nodded mutely.
“All day, I’ve been battling the oddest sensation. I keep thinking this is a dream. In fact, I expect to wake up from it at any moment.”
“I’ve been feeling the same way.” Except she would have described it as a nightmare—one of those disturbing encounters in which the safe, predictable world had gone unsettlingly awry.
He gestured with a tilt of his head toward his bedchamber. “I’ve had those rooms for more than seven years now. I’ve always thought of this side of the door as mere vacant space. Now someone belongs here. I have a wife. And she is you.”
“Yes.” Roxana clenched her hands at her sides and did her best to smile. He was being so kind, as if he really didn’t mind spending his wedding night with her instead of the girl he’d hoped to marry in London. She wanted to return that kindness. But she had barely been able to tolerate George’s kisses, and she’d loved George. How could she do what they
were about to do, when Ayersley was merely an old family friend?
No, he was more than that now. He was her husband. But it was hard, even with him facing her in his nightclothes, to imagine doing something so intensely personal with him. She could only pray he would get it over with quickly.
He studied her face, and his smile slowly faded. “I’d hoped you might feel more at ease now that the wedding is behind us, but you don’t, do you?”
She ducked her head and looked down at her bare feet. “I admit I’m a trifle nervous. Unsure of myself, more than anything.”
He stepped closer and took her frozen hands in his. “You mustn’t worry. I don’t expect you to be an expert.”
Roxana pulled her hands free and paced to the fireplace. “I’m trying not to worry, but it all seems so—so undignified. I have a crystal-clear memory of Tom’s dog, behaving with complete abandon whenever a particularly tempting leg caught his fancy. It’s essentially the same thing, is it not?”
Ayersley made a choked sound, though whether it was a laugh or a protest, she couldn’t tell. “I trust it will be a little different.”
She wished she hadn’t said something so gauche. Of course it wouldn’t really be like Shadow’s unseemly performances. After all, this was Ayersley. He’d even done this before, it appeared. But tonight was uncharted territory for her. She’d never allowed herself to think this far, all those times she’d imagined her wedding day. Even loving George as she had, the idea had frightened her too much.
Well, she was going to have to get over her fears at once. It was her duty to be a real wife to Ayersley. Doubtless all brides had qualms. She had to make the best of it. She had to.
She hadn’t realized she was wringing her hands until Ayersley’s blue eyes lingered on the gesture. “You look as if you’re awaiting your own execution.”
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