Secrets of a Scandalous Bride

by Sophia Nash

  The three great men behind her, the husbands of her dearest friends, all wore serious, purposeful expressions. There was not a hint of their usual relaxed demeanor. They looked like officers on a mission. And suddenly, she did not doubt for a moment that someone had drafted them. Or rather that someone—Rowland—had impressed them. It was actually quite convenient, for she had a task they would help her carry out—one that she dared not reveal until there was no further time for argument.

  A tremor raced up her spine. Had he read her letter? Had he believed her?

  She was escorted up the left branch of the grand curving staircases. The second-story paintings of Atlas struggling to carry the world and one of the archangel Michael seemed to mock her ascent.

  Her future beckoned beyond the open door in front of her. More hushed voices greeted her as she entered the royal chamber. She glanced past the court crowd only to see the man who would be her husband, standing before the empty throne on the slightly raised dais.

  He smirked in that odd fashion of his and she made her way ever onward. A thousand eyes peered at her as she accepted the hand he offered. He nodded a silent greeting after her curtsy.

  It was then that she noticed the two portmanteaus behind Pymm. The guineas. Pymm saw her glance and his sour countenance affirmed her guess. Atlas would be astonished by the weight that had just dropped from her shoulders at that moment. She stepped back to Luc, Michael, and Quinn for a last word.

  “After the Prince Regent confers the duchy, the archbishop will come forward. When he does, I would ask you to discreetly transport those portmanteaus to Manning’s. Under guard.”

  “Elizabeth—” Quinn began.

  “We’re pack mules? Not saviors, then?” The duke shook his head in disgust.

  Under their probing eyes, she continued. “The wedding has been moved forward.”

  Michael intervened. “What have you done?” He was the only one whose expression gave her pause. There was something in Michael’s face that would always remind her of Rowland.

  She held his gaze. “It was my choice. Don’t ever doubt it.”

  For once, luck was on her side. The entrance of His Royal Highness the Prince Regent saved her from continuing. She moved to join the general. With great royal pomp, the prince waddled forward, his jowls swaying.

  It was as if a great invisible scythe parted the crowds before His Highness. As he passed, they all bowed and scraped. And finally Prinny was in front of Leland Pymm and Elizabeth, and they swept lower than anyone.

  The prince smiled benevolently as he levered himself onto the magnificent throne and nodded his approval. The Duke of Wellington stood at the Prince Regent’s elbow, dour and silent.

  Upon the prince’s command, a court speaker unfurled a scroll. His deep baritone informed the glittering crowd of Pymm’s numerous victories and heroic efforts through the last decade and a half. He recited the string of Portuguese and Spanish battlefields that would always represent the nightmares of Elizabeth’s past: Vimeiro, Corunna, Talavera, Busaco, Albuera, Ciudad Rodrigo. She nearly faltered at the mention of Badajoz.

  These names were nothing more than faraway, romanticized battles to the people in front of her. Through sheer force of will she kept her tears in check. The recitation of the general’s accomplishments droned on like a deafening army of insects on a summer afternoon.

  And then it was over. With the sweep of his hand, the Prince Regent placed the invisible mantle of a duchy on Leland Pymm’s dubious shoulders. He was now the Duke of Darlington, seventeenth in line to be king. The patent letters of nobility were transferred to the newest duke of the realm, who accepted the documents with a tremulous simper and haughty bow.

  Pymm turned to her and nodded toward the Archbishop of Canterbury, who stood a few feet behind the throne.

  “I would ask the court’s indulgence,” Pymm addressed the crowd with exaltation mingling with reverence. “The Prince Regent and the archbishop have graciously agreed to overlook the late hour. The latter has come to execute a surprise event this evening.”

  The words were fitting. Execute, indeed, thought Elizabeth unemotionally.

  Murmurs of curiosity floated from the beau monde before them, and Elizabeth was forced to realize that everything she had planned was about to come to fruition. Her mouth was so dry she could barely swallow. The general’s eyes roamed her face, his expression triumphant.

  She would never understand why Leland Pymm wanted her, a woman who wanted no part of him. Ah, but such was the nature of an obsession, of course. There was no rhyme or reason to his fixation.

  The Prince Regent chuckled. “Never has there been such an eager bridegroom as you, Darlington.”

  Pymm beamed at the prince’s use of his new title.

  Prinny grinned. “I am all amazement. Do tell the rest of the gentlemen here what powers of persuasion you used to encourage your modest fiancée to forego the pleasure of a wedding tomorrow in St. George’s—every young lady’s dream?”

  “Why, Elizabeth did not want to inconvenience Your Majesty by begging your presence again tomorrow morning.”

  The prince chuckled and shook his head. “I see. She is impatient for her wedding night too.”

  Elizabeth felt the heat of a blush rise to her cheeks.

  “No fool is she,” the prince continued. “For she should secure you before another fair face steals away England’s favorite son.”

  A few titters fluttered from the audience, but they were soon quieted by the archbishop, who had glided forward in his blue-and-silver vestments.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Elizabeth spied the empty space where the two portmanteaus had rested in the shadows well beyond the throne. Her friends had accomplished her bidding. She could finally draw a breath, despite the long corset that constricted her.

  Her feet leaden, she quickly glanced to where the trio had been, but could only find Quinn, supporting Ata, whose expression was deathly pale.

  She swiveled her head toward Leland and encountered the same expression he had worn when he had informed her that her father was dead. The day he had insisted she must marry him. The day he had lied to her, insisting those were her beloved father’s last wishes.

  His pristine white gloved hand stretched out to her. Beckoning her. A sudden coldness enveloped her and she stepped forward to meet her fate. She slipped her hand into his.

  She had been to so many weddings of late that when the familiar words began to roll off the archbishop’s tongue, they meant nothing to her. She was chilled despite the heavy gown. Her feet were numb to the bone.

  The archbishop asked if there was any man who knew of an impediment to the marriage. Her last hope was dashed when the chamber remained filled with the vast silence of ignorance.

  “Leland Reginald Pymm, Duke of Darlington, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together in God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee unto her, so long as…” The Archbishop of Canterbury’s voice trailed off.

  It began with the smallest tapping sound echoing from somewhere. Growing louder within seconds, the noise became more distinct. Footsteps running…

  A few murmurs drifted from the courtly guests. The Prince Regent flicked a glance toward the royal footmen, who rapped their golden staffs against the marble floor to silence the crowd.

  A pounding at the secured doors threatened to interrupt all.

  Leland ignored it, plowing forward quickly. His voice was almost inaudible, the ever-louder whispers echoing from the stone walls of the Gothic chamber. “I, Leland Reginald Pymm, the Duke of Darlington, take thee, Elizabeth Ashburton, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for—”

  “It appears someone is late,” the Prince Regent said, forcing Leland to stop his vows.

  “Of course, we will ignore it. I will continue,” the general, now duke, demand
ed, his fury barely concealed. “For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish…”

  Like an ancient battering ram of centuries past, the pounding intensified.

  “Guards,” the Prince Regent waved his hand, his good humor unwavering. “Yes, yes, open the doors. Let us see who the madman is who would dare to interrupt my dear Darlington’s wedding. And someone better have died, or soon will.”

  “Your Majesty,” Leland whispered harshly, “I would prefer to continue. Elizabeth, your vows.”

  The prince sighed. “Yes, but I prefer to see who this fellow is. Then I shall decide if he is to be put in shackles or taken to my jester to become his apprentice.”

  The doors opened, and Elizabeth’s vision tunneled to the man standing in the gap. Oh God. No.

  The figure of the man she had not known if she would ever see again advanced. Slovenly. Drunkenly.

  She had never seen him like this—his gait uneven, his hair disheveled, his neck cloth undone, his visage wild. He appeared every inch a gin-house reveler. Absolute blind dread consumed her.

  In the course of the next few hellish moments she registered three things. First, the Prince Regent displayed a mixture of four parts astonishment to three parts curiosity. Second, unchecked rage overflowed Leland Pymm’s face while he squeezed her hand, unrelentingly. And last, Rowland Manning appeared ravenous to eclipse every last scandal she had created this wedding season. With a vengeance.

  Elizabeth stared at the tableau of humanity before her and knew without a single solitary drop of doubt that this was exactly how souls felt upon facing judgment at the end of their mortal stay. And there was no one to help her. Even Luc, and Michael, who had suddenly reappeared—now haggard yet resolute, stood lurking just inside the doorway, apparently unwilling to stop him.

  She felt dredged in guilt. They were all there because of her. And she was about to dishonor them due to their association with her. She was certain her past sins and all her actions were about to be argued and dissected in her presence. And she was mute to stop it.

  Pymm cursed softly under his breath and looked at her darkly.

  “I swear I know not why he is come,” she whispered. “I made a bargain with you and I intend to follow through with it. I—”

  “Mr. Manning,” the Prince Regent called out, with another chuckle. “I’m all amazement. Oh, perhaps I should not be—not after the spectacle in St. George’s. Your manners shall ever and always be lacking, even if you are a damned fine horseman. Off with you, man. There’s no place for you here in your condition—even if you were invited.”

  Rowland ignored the prince, daring to reel forward, crossing the expanse of gray marble flooring, only the sound of his uneven steps echoing in the vast chamber. As he passed, several guests grimaced in reaction to his apparent aroma.

  A wild smile spread across his dark face as he lurched to a stop in front of the entourage. “Ah, but Your Majesty will loikes what I ’ave to say.” Rowland’s slur of cockney betrayed him.

  “Silence!” The prince’s humor had vanished on a whim, as it was disposed to do.

  Rowland swayed and scratched his head. “Can’t figure why no one wants to talk wiv me ’bout it.”

  The prince nodded almost imperceptibly toward the guards, who immediately left the doorway to apprehend Rowland.

  Elizabeth darted another glance toward Luc and Michael, who moved not a muscle to stop the insanity. A small smile formed on Pymm’s lips.

  And then the crowd parted and Ata tottered forward, her cane tapping those poor souls who did not make way for her. Sarah stood beside her.

  “Majesty,” she said in a gentle tone Elizabeth had never heard her use.

  The prince raised his quizzing glass to his eye. “Who is that?”

  “The Dowager Duchess of Helston.” Her deep curtsy left her floundered on the floor. Elizabeth tried to rush to help her regain her footing, but Leland’s hand stopped her.

  “Ata?” The prince’s smile returned and he crossed the distance himself to help her to her feet.

  “I would beg your indulgence, Your Majesty. I am an old woman with few amusements left to me now.” Her forlorn expression was so well done, Elizabeth’s jaw dropped. “May we not hear what that man has to say? He has me curious.” She had the extraordinary audacity to whisper something more into the royal ear.

  Pymm blustered his objection but the prince chuckled. “You were always the queen mother’s favorite.” The prince sighed heavily. “Oh, all right. I suppose he must be given a few moments of leniency for winning the Gold Cup. If he chooses to use up any good will he gained in that endeavor by making a drunken fool of himself here and now, then that is his choice.”

  “My thoughts exactly, Your Majesty,” Ata murmured with a tiny smile.

  “Majesty,” Rowland bowed with as little elegance and as much exaggeration as a drunken dockside laborer. Not once did he look at Elizabeth.

  “Yes, yes, get on with it, Manning.”

  “A question fer the grand Duke of Pymmslydale.”

  Leland stepped forward, his chin jutting out. “That’s Darlington. And if you had a particle of sense, you would know that men of your ilk are not wanted here.” A sneer marred his cool performance.

  Ata tapped her cane on the floor. “What is your question, Mr. Manning?”

  Rowland straightened and pulled on the ends of his improperly buttoned waistcoat in a show of exaggerated bravado. “I should loikes to know why the general be marryin’ a bloody traitor to the crown. An’ doin’ it tonight instead o’ tomorrow loikes it was planned.”

  Rowland’s furious eyes bore into Elizabeth’s, and in that moment she knew he was as clearheaded as she. And he would never forgive her.

  She felt lighter than the floating ash of the battlefields of her past.

  Chapter 17

  Leland Pymm gaped like a cod hauled onto the bow of a vessel. And Rowland Manning held the gaff. He could only hope the general was sufficiently stunned. Otherwise, there was no question as to who would be filleted and served to the royal entourage.

  He dared not soften his heart to Elizabeth’s deathly pale visage. The numerous gasps created a vacuum of silence. Every pair of eyes jerked to the new duke.

  “I beg your pardon,” Pymm said in haughty splendor. “First you dare come here in such a disgusting fashion, which shows your contempt for His Majesty, and then you interrupt my wedding. And now you dare to…” The general’s words slowed and his brow furrowed.

  Rowland would not give him a moment to decipher his actions. He pointed a shaky, accusatory finger at his beloved. “She be a traitor to every man, woman, and child in this kingdom. Drag ’er to the Tower, Majesty. And then ’ang her fer crimes against the crown.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Rowland spied Helston’s face, white as chalk, seconded only by the dowager duchess’s stunned expression. Even his half brother appeared unnerved.

  Rowland pressed forward, ever forward with his rambling charade. He was far too deep into the sucking mud to pull himself out. “Majesty, we canna blame the general. He be blinded wiv ’er beauty. She be a cunnin’ liar.”

  Surely, nothing before had ever rendered the Prince Regent speechless.

  It worked to Rowland’s advantage, for he was not interrupted. “General, you’ll join wiv me in condemning ’er, won’t yer? Or ’as she duped you as she ’as so many other poor sods?”

  Pymm’s cold eyes glinted. “I told you already. I do not answer to bastards,” he said harshly. “And I never will.”

  “One would hope you have some sort of proof, Mr. Manning,” the prince said dryly, recovering his voice. “Otherwise, it is you who will be dragged to the Tower.”

  Rowland watched in horror as Elizabeth’s lips parted of their own accord at the Prince Regent’s words. “Your Majesty, Mr. Manning is—”

  “Not finished.” Rowland’s harsh words echoed in the chamber. If he failed in this he would never forgive himself.
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br />   The Prince Regent glanced first at one then the other of them. “By all means, Mr. Manning, do continue. How can I refuse a man so determined to make an utter fool of himself?”

  He pointed again toward Elizabeth, praying no one would see through his camouflage. “Her mother be French. She told me ’erself. I wager there be more to it. Spyin’ is wot she be doing.” He added a nasal whine to his ridiculous words. “And she only fancies high-flown frog food. Upon my honor, ’tis true.”

  The teetering emotions on Pymm’s countenance terrified Rowland like nothing else. The general’s lips formed a grim line, and remained firmly closed.

  And then, his half brother strode forth, to stand beside him. “Your Majesty,” Michael began solicitously. “I do beg your pardon, but I fear I must intercede—explain, if you will. My poor brother is besotted with Miss Ashburton. I should not say it, but I must, to clear the air. It must be obvious to everyone here that he has formed an obsession with her—”

  “’ave not,” Rowland said with a hiccough.

  “He formed an obsession,” Michael patiently began again, “when Miss Ashburton graciously agreed to ride Vespers during the Gold Cup, and—”

  The chamber erupted in shocked sounds. The Prince Regent chuckled. “I knew you looked familiar, Miss Ashburton! I told you I never forget a face.”

  Michael cleared his throat loudly. “In any case, I’m afraid this is partly my fault, since I suggested she ride the horse when the jockey fell ill. I’m certain my brother will regret this unfortunate display in the morning.”

  “Will not,” Rowland insisted unsteadily. “She be a frog lover. And the worst sort o’ flirt. On yer honor, ain’t she, General?”

  Pymm grimaced, and yet his eyes took on a fevered intensity as he stared back into Elizabeth’s unblinking, shocked expression.

  The Prince Regent finally regained his voice. “This is becoming tedious, Mr. Manning. General Pymm would never betroth himself to a traitor to England. Now, you’ve had your say. And you’ve proven you are once again not fit company. I’m appalled by your feeble attempt to malign this poor woman, whose only crime was to try and help a ne’er-do-well such as yourself. You should be ashamed, Manning. General, if anyone has ever earned the right to rebut or even…well, is there anything you would like to say to this man before I have him tossed out on his ear?”