Monday's Child (Heroines born on each day of the week. Book 2)

by Rosemary Morris

  “Thank you, Pringle,” Helen murmured. She stepped from the cool interior of the house out into the sunshine.

  * * * *

  Langley cursed fate. He had tried to make Helen understand that before now, marriage to her would have been selfish. His nostrils flared. In spite of his disappointment, he respected her refusal to reject Dalrymple.

  Distraught, he wanted to gallop away from Brussels, away from the bride and groom. Impossible! People knew of the strong bond forged between himself and Rupes since they went to Eton, after which they shared the same campaigns. In all probability, if he did not smile and congratulate Helen after her wedding, and attend the ball, speculation would be rife.

  He cursed himself for being an arrogant fool. He should not have intervened on Helen’s wedding day. But not for a moment had he imagined she would reject him now that he could provide for her and his family. Of course, if she had accepted his proposal, scandal—which would have shocked his mother—would have ensued. His jaw tensed. If it would help, he would swear, get drunk or—what?

  The high collar of his uniform seemed to strangle him. He choked back the tide of thwarted love. Helen, he groaned inwardly, knowing she would always be embedded in his heart. Mothers were right to tell sons and daughters that love was too painful to be a necessity for marriage. Well, one day he would marry and have an heir, but never again would he risk his heart.

  Damnation, why could he not have won the lottery before Helen accepted Dalrymple’s proposal? He would always regret his father’s folly.

  His mouth formed a grim line. Well, she chose Dalrymple. Maybe she loved him. The possibility lacerated his heart.

  * * * *

  At the British Embassy, Helen entered the large parlour prepared for the wedding. Her fingers clutched Cousin Tarrant’s arm. For the first time in many years, she missed her mother. Not the one who drank to try and forget her grief, but the tender parent she used to be, before she lost her sons and husband.

  Oblivious to the few guests, she walked down a short aisle toward the drumhead altar, behind which the Glory Boy’s chaplain stood. Only Dalrymple, who waited as straight as a lance in the uniform of The Glory Boys, commanded her attention. For a moment, she faltered. He turned. His eyes widened at the sight of her. A joyous smile brightened his handsome face. Her grief over Mister Barnet’s death, and her turmoil caused by Langley, dispersed along with her momentary panic.

  She stood beside her bridegroom, who clasped her hand in his strong one. Yes, she could rely on this officer for all the days of her life. Every vestige of strain flowed away. Her mind cleared. The clergyman spoke. “I am required to ask anyone present who knows a reason why these persons may not lawfully marry, to declare it now.”

  Did she imagine Langley staring at her back with the hope that she would refuse to marry Dalrymple? Conscious of his presence, she straightened her spine.

  Later, she could not remember making her responses, but when the service ended she became aware that a thorn in her wedding posy had pierced flesh as tender as her bruised heart.

  Georgianne came forward to embrace her before Cousin Tarrant congratulated her. He moved aside to make way for Sir Charles, the ambassador. “A long life and happiness to both of you.” He kissed her cheek, and then made way for Langley.

  “Congratulations.” His lordship spoke in a clipped tone of voice. “Mrs Dalrymple, please give me a favour which, like a knight of old, I may carry into battle.”

  Her hand tightened on her bridegroom’s arm.

  Dalrymple laughed. “Will you not give the Major one?”

  She forced herself to uncurl her fingers. From the posy, she plucked a golden-hearted rose, its stem entangled with a sprig of rosemary.

  Langley bowed. “Thank you, rosemary for remembrance.”

  Her gaze lingered on him as he made his way out of the parlour.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  14th June, 1815

  “A triumph, dearest. I cannot count the number of guests who congratulated me on the decorations and supper. I swear there is not a morsel left of the dishes prepared by the Indian cooks.” Georgianne sank onto a chair in the ball room.

  “Yes, so I have been told,” Helen responded. “I have been besieged by compliments from gentlemen who served with the army in India.” She smiled at her bridegroom who stood next to her.

  His eyes concentrated on her face. “I am proud of you. I can’t count the number of ladies who asked me if I would allow you to design the décor for their balls.”

  Georgianne fluttered her ivory fan. “What did you reply?”

  “I said that Mrs Dalrymple does not need my permission.”

  Aware most husbands believed they had the right to control every aspect of their wives’ lives, Helen his generosity warmed her heart. “Thank you,” she whispered. She transferred her gaze to the wooden figure of the blue boy, the main feature in the ballroom thronged with gentlemen, either wearing colourful uniforms or well-tailored civilian clothes, and bejewelled ladies in elegant gowns.

  The crowd near the door parted and the Duke of Wellington entered. In accordance with its instruction, the orchestra played Handel’s See The Conquering Hero Comes.

  Georgianne stood. “How provoking of the Field Marshall to arrive after Tarrant and I decided he would not attend, and after we had received all our guests,” she murmured. “Look at him. ’Pon my word, while troops mass, one would think His Grace has nothing better to occupy himself with than balls and routs and I know not what else.”

  Dalrymple looked gravely at his sister-in-law. “If he seemed alarmed and did not assume a high-spirited façade, ma’am, French spies would soon report to Napoleon that our field marshal is rattled.”

  “How astute you are,” Georgianne commented. “But where is Tarrant? Ah, there he is greeting His Grace.”

  Followed by Helen and her new brother-in-law, Georgianne crossed the floor to receive her illustrious guest, whom she had known since childhood.

  “No need for formality,” Wellington remarked, when Georgianne executed a graceful curtsey.

  Her eyes laughed up at him. “I regret I don’t have a wreath of combined myrtle and roses to crown you.”

  His Grace laughed while Dalrymple bowed and Helen curtsied.

  “My felicitations,” the great man boomed.

  Gratified by his attention, Helen smiled. “Thank you.”

  “Amazing.” The Duke looked around the ballroom. “I like the Hindu God, and the elephants. Quite takes me back to my days in India. Congratulations, Mrs Tarrant, you have outshone every other hostess.”

  “Thank you for your kind words.” Before Georgianne could say more, the Duchess of Richmond joined them.

  Wellington bowed and greeted her. “Splendid, is it not?” He waved a hand at the painted hangings on the walls.

  The sparkle left the duchess’ eyes. “Compared to this ball—which will be remembered for many years—I fear mine will fade into insignificance.”

  “Of course not.” Wellington turned his attention to Helen. “Dalrymple, don’t allow your bridegroom to neglect his duty. Tomorrow, ensure he attends Makelyn’s review in the Allee Vert in good time.” He nodded at Cousin Tarrant, who stood beside Georgianne. “Glad you and Langley are here. By God, Peninsular veterans know their duty unlike many of the new fellows.”

  “Mrs Tarrant, I look forward to seeing you at my ball,” the Duchess began. “Bring the bride and bridegroom with you.” She patted Helen’s arm. “I wish you and your captain everything good. Now, Captain, dance with your bride.”

  Helen glanced up at her husband’s happy face. His smile warmed her heart. She tingled remembering their only kiss. Helen put the tips of her fingers on his arm.

  Dalrymple smiled when they took their place in the centre of the ballroom floor. “Our first waltz as husband and wife.” He held her a little closer than the prescribed distance between partners.

  “The first of many,” Helen replied, relieved by the Duke’s
assurance that the Duchess did not need to cancel her ball since Napoleon posed no immediate threat. However, at the thought of the inevitable invasion of France, her hand trembled in Dalrymple’s.

  “Are you tired?” her bridegroom asked.

  It was not the right moment to mention war. “Only a little.”

  He guided her toward the door. “Perhaps it is time to escape. I am sorry there is no carriage to carry you off on a wedding trip.” His eyes shone. “We must make the best of our situation.” To the strains of the music, he guided her out into the hall.

  As if on well-oiled wheels, Fletcher stepped forward. “Captain, please follow me.”

  Pringle came to Helen’s side to accompany her upstairs.

  She pressed a hand over her heart which beat faster than usual. Her footsteps slowed. She lost sight of her bridegroom before reaching the landing and turned toward the left.

  “No, to the right, madam,” Pringle directed.

  Helen hesitated before she followed the woman, who opened a door at the end of the corridor. “Your new apartment, madam. Mrs Tarrant considered your old one unsuitable for a married lady and gentleman. She prepared this as a surprise for you and the captain.”

  Apprehensive, Helen lingered at the threshold. One of the reasons she married was to become mistress of her own household, and here she was, still obliged to her sister and Cousin Tarrant. Every muscle tensed. She could not force herself to step over the threshold. For the first time in her life she would be alone with a gentleman in her bedroom.

  “Come,” Pringle urged.

  Helen entered the bedroom. The scent of beeswax candles sweetened the air. Vases filled with fragrant red roses adorned the mantelpiece. A bower for a bride.

  Pringle pointed to the right of the room. “The Captain’s dressing room is through that door, and yours is through the opposite one. Please follow me, madam. Mrs Tarrant wants you to be comfortable. Your parlour is next to your dressing room.”

  “Oh.” Helen battled nervousness. She wanted nothing more than to get into bed on her own and go to sleep.

  Pringle closed the bedroom door. “There’s a bowl and a pitcher of water behind the screen if you wish to wash your hands and face, but first allow me to help you take off your wedding gown.”

  Like a puppet, Helen stood still while Pringle disrobed her, but her mind would not be silent and submissive. A wave of grief for Mister Barnet swept through her. He approved of her decision to marry Captain Dalrymple, but neither of them could have forecast Langley would win the lottery and be in a position to marry her.

  “You’re nearly ready, madam,” Pringle announced, the fine linen nightgown lavishly trimmed with ribbon and lace in her hands. Pringle drew it over Helen’s head and fastened the mother of pearl button at the throat. “Please sit down at your dressing table.”

  Pringle removed the pins from her hair, then brushed and plaited it. What would happen when Dalrymple joined her? What would they do? What would they say?

  “You are shivering, madam. A glass of wine to warm you before you go to bed?”

  Helen opened her eyes wider. To bed? Now? “No, thank you, Pringle. I have drunk enough this evening.” The spectre of her mother in her cups, ever present, she always drank sparingly.

  The dresser opened the door to the bedroom. Helen shook her head. “I must wash my hands and face.” She retreated behind the screen, sponged her face and soaped her hands, careful neither to splash water onto her nightgown nor wet the long sleeves. Glad to be alone, she took her time rinsing her hands. She squared her shoulders, chastising herself for being a fool. Dalrymple’s kiss had thrilled her and she anticipated more kisses from her captain, the personification of gentleness. Her fears were foolish.

  She dried her hands and entered the bedroom.

  Pringle bustled in after her, and laid a dressing gown at the end of the bed. She turned back the sheet and quilt. “Why not get into bed while you wait for the captain, madam?”

  Helen’s sense of humour bubbled up. The woman sounded like a nursemaid coaxing a reluctant child. How inappropriate for her to be so amused at such a crucial time in her life. She should thank her dresser for her discreet suggestion.

  A knock on her bridegroom’s dressing room door. Her heart seemed to beat an irregular tattoo. Pringle said something. Dalrymple’s deep voice answered.

  Alone with the man to whom she would be answerable for as long he lived, Helen clenched her fists. Except for murder, a man could treat his wife as he wished. Ridiculous to imagine Dalrymple would turn from a tender giant into an ogre. Never before could she have imagined being so missish.

  * * * *

  “Dalrymple,” Helen whispered.

  “Please call me Marcus.”

  “Very well.”

  “Thank you.” He smiled at her. “I love your musical voice. Now, please humour me by sitting opposite me.”

  He would never tell her how hard he had found it to make this decision.

  With fluid grace, his wife walked toward the empty chair. Heat surged through him. He wanted to draw her down onto his lap but resisted the temptation. However, the touch of her delectable curves might change his mind. Thinking of them, he swallowed hard. “Perhaps I am selfish to have married you on the brink of invasion.”

  “Selfish?” she repeated, while she perched on the edge of the chair.

  “Yes,” he replied, determined to control his passion. “I love you so much, I was frightened to wait.”

  Helen’s eyes rounded. “You! Frightened?”

  “Yes, I feared you might marry someone else. So many gentlemen, with far more to offer than I, admire you. I feared you would break my heart by accepting one of them. I took no more interest in the prospective wives, whom my mother introduced me to, than they did in me.” He smiled. “As I became better acquainted with you, I sensed your kind heart, appreciated your talent, and fell in love with you. I wanted you to be my wife more than anything else in the world. Tonight, I know I am the luckiest man alive.”

  Her green eyes soft by candlelight, Helen looked deep into his. “I hope you will never regret marrying me.”

  “How could I? But I suspect I shall regret the waste of this night.”

  His bride frowned. “I don’t understand?”

  “I know the precise relationship between husband and wife is not explained to most young ladies. However, I am sure you know they share a bed, and as a result, have children.” In response to his urge to make love to Helen, he looked at the wall behind her. “In the Peninsular, too many married men were killed leaving widows and orphans to mourn them. None of us know what the future holds. I don’t wish to father a child who might not have an opportunity to know me.”

  “I-I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say nothing.” He stood and held out his hand. “Come.”

  Helen slipped her hand into his and allowed him to guide her across the room.

  * * * *

  Before they got into bed, Dalrymple drew Helen into his arms. “One kiss,” her bridegroom murmured. His face swooped closer to her. He cupped the back of her head with one hand and kissed her, even more passionately than he had the first time.

  Why had she feared him? She knew he would never deliberately hurt her.

  Dalrymple released her mouth. “My love, you are worn out by your grief over poor Mister Barnet’s death, the wedding, the preparations for the ball and the ball itself. Get into bed and sleep as peacefully as a princess.” His rueful smile enhanced his charm. “My queen, queen of my heart, come to bed, and please allow me to hold you in my arms.”

  Wonderful to look up at a man taller than herself, instead of looking down on one. Wrapped in his love, she felt feminine and protected.

  * * * *

  Helen turned over and opened her eyes. Slowly she returned to full consciousness. What had awakened her? The sound of a door closing? Comfortable and warm, she turned her head to look at Dalrymple. Where was he? Her mouth curved in a smile. Last nigh
t she fell asleep with her head nestled on his chest, her apprehension calmed by his strong arms. Half asleep, she closed her eyes and stretched.

  A door opened. She must have dozed. Dalrymple, in his uniform that flattered his fine figure, walked quietly to the bedside. He bent and pressed a kiss on her forehead. Helen opened her eyes and smiled at him. She reached up and drew his head down to kiss him on the cheek. “Good morning, husband.”

  He returned her smile. “Good morning, my sweet siren. You have years ahead in which to tempt me.”

  “But I am not a siren,” she protested, still sleepy.

  “I am not sure. Your voice is part of your allure.” Dalrymple sat on the edge of the bed. “Will you invite me into your parlour to breakfast with me before I attend the review?”

  “Of course.”

  Helen sat up, completely at ease with her bridegroom. Whatever passed between them in the future, she would never fear him. “You are so nice, Dalrymple.”

  “Thank you for the crumbs from your table, but please call me Marcus.” His eyes glinted. “One day, I hope to prove I am more than nice.”

  “How?”

  His eyes burned like a forest fire. “It is my secret.”

  A knock on the door heralded Pringle’s arrival. Granted permission to enter the bedchamber, the dresser announced breakfast awaited them.

  There was, Helen decided as she poured coffee for Dalrymple, distinct pleasure in attending to a husband’s needs while he ate a hearty meal.

  “Thank you,” he said, when she handed him the cup. “I shall return as soon as I may. What will you do in the meantime?”

  “Supervise the servants who are clearing the ballroom, after I ride in the Allee Vert and watch the review.”

  “With your groom in attendance.”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. I want you to be protected at all times and would prefer you not to ride alone. Brussels is full of soldiers, some of whom are undisciplined.”