Brenda Hiatt

by Scandalous Virtue

  What he felt for Nessa was doubtless similar—mutual respect and admiration…with some lust thrown in as well, yes, but that was simply because she was female and beautiful.

  “Will dinner in an hour and a half suit you?” he asked as they reached the house. “I generally dine early in the country.”

  For the first time since leaving the center of the maze, she met his gaze, her eyes still oddly shadowed. “That will be fine. I’ll go upstairs to change.” She started to turn away, then stopped. “Thank you, Jack, for showing me the maze. Fox Manor is a lovely estate.”

  He smiled, trying to lighten her mood. “I’m glad you approve, as you will be mistress of it inside of a week.”

  Her attempt at a smile in return was not particularly convincing. “So I shall. Until dinner, then.” With only a faint rustle of her skirts, she turned and was gone, leaving Jack to his own, rather disturbing thoughts.

  During dinner, Nessa still appeared strangely subdued to Jack. She responded to Lady Branch’s continued queries with perfect politeness but no elaboration. When Jack and Creamcroft joined the ladies in the drawing room after the meal, she was quietly engaged in reading and acknowledged his appearance with only a nod before returning to that pursuit. When the gentlemen suggested the ladies join them at whist, Nessa demurely echoed her sister’s refusal, leaving them to piquet to while away the evening.

  Jack found himself completely unable to concentrate on his cards—a novelty, that, making him glad they had agreed to imaginary stakes. The ladies retired early, leaving him none the wiser as to the reason for Nessa’s change of spirits.

  Early the next day, guests began arriving for the wedding, keeping Jack busy with greetings, as well as last-minute questions from the butler and housekeeper. Relatives he had not seen in a decade or more—as much by their choice as his—greeted him in return with smiles and congratulations which rang hollow to his ears. By early afternoon he felt decidedly out of sorts, restraining himself from outright rudeness only by extreme effort.

  Nessa, however, was magnificent. Dressed in a gown of subdued rose and modest cut, she acknowledged all introductions with exactly the right blend of deference and assurance. Her voice soft and well modulated, she responded to even impertinent questions with unruffled dignity.

  When Jack’s mother stepped forward to play hostess, Nessa calmly moved to the background. When Lady Branch retired to fortify herself before dinner, Nessa effortlessly moved into the breach. Not even Lady Creamcroft was a more perfect model of proper English womanhood. She was behaving just as Jack had hoped she would, and there was growing respect in even his Aunt Gwendolyn’s eyes—she who had frequently urged his grandfather to cast Jack off entirely. That respect began to extend to him as well, in perfect accordance with his plan.

  So why was he so damned irritated by it all?

  Shortly before dinner, Harry and Lord Peter arrived. Jack’s spirits lifted at once as he hurried out to the graveled drive to greet them. “Come in, come in!” he cried jovially. “Finally, some relief from this plague of relatives besetting me!”

  Harry shook his hand enthusiastically. “Respectability not all you’d hoped, eh? Don’t say I didn’t warn you. One good thing about being a black sheep—relatives generally pretend they don’t know you.”

  “Buck up, Jack,” Lord Peter advised him with a slap on the back. “It’s only for a few days, after all—or are this lot staying till the New Year?” They all headed up the front steps.

  “Heaven forbid! No, all but one or two will leave a day or two after the wedding, at latest. They feel obliged to turn out en masse to officially sanction my return to the family fold, but not to disrupt their own holiday plans—thank God!”

  “Unless you can drive them away even earlier.” Harry grinned with anticipation. “I’ll help in any way I can, of course.”

  Jack chuckled. “Hope I won’t have to ask that of you. Seriously, though, Nessa—Lady Haughton—is doing a stellar job of keeping them all under control, and off my back. She may have raised a few eyebrows in London, but she still has the propriety thing down pat, believe me. Even Aunt Gwendolyn is in raptures over her.”

  “Sounds as if your plan has been a stunning success,” Peter congratulated him.

  “Yes. Yes, indeed,” agreed Jack, stifling a sigh. He led them through the front hall, barely hearing their comments on its noble proportions. “Dinner will be served in under an hour. Care for a glass of sherry first, or would you prefer to go up and change?”

  “Sherry for me,” said Harry predictably.

  “A quick glass, but then we really must get out of our dust before meeting anyone.” Lord Peter gestured at Harry’s boots and trousers, as well as his own.

  A few voices still emanated from the parlor, so Jack bypassed it in favor of the library. Already he felt in better spirits and less out of his element with the arrival of his friends. Perhaps the next two days would not be so insupportable after all.

  Nessa was heartily tired of playing the proper hostess, but at least it served as an effective distraction. Of course, the role was more properly Lady Branch’s, but as she often abdicated in favor of her bedchamber, the task fell to Nessa—when one of Jack’s aunts did not step forward, which they frequently did.

  It had taken some effort, but she finally had all of the names and relationships sorted out. There was Lady Gwendolyn, the late Lord Foxhaven’s eldest sister, an intimidating dragon of a woman who could have made even Lord Haughton cower, Nessa was sure. Then there was Esther, the Dowager Lady Foxhaven, widow of Jack’s Uncle Luther, a frail, soft-spoken woman of middle years. It appeared neither she nor Luther had ever taken up residence at Fox Manor, due to their mutual ill health, which necessitated a seaside abode.

  Lady Margaret, sister to Luther and Jack’s father, was second only to Lady Gwendolyn in overbearing importance. Her husband, Lord Garvey, though standing more than six feet tall, seemed almost afraid of his diminutive spouse. Add to that various cousins—children and grandchildren of Lady Gwendolyn, their spouses and children, as well as Lady Margaret’s younger brood—and Fox Manor was filled to capacity, large as it was.

  Now, however, on the very eve of the wedding, Nessa’s conflicting emotions were in such a state that she scarcely trusted herself to manage any conversation beyond polite nothings. Fortunately, little more seemed required of her, and most of the guests retired early to their beds as the wedding was to take place at nine o’clock the next morning.

  Nessa, resigning herself to sleeplessness for yet another night, pulled out some embroidery. On arriving in London, she’d been pleased to discover that, contrary to her father’s strictures, this activity was not considered the least bit improper by polite society. After two or three months of practicing it, however, she’d decided it was one of the duller pursuits open to ladies—which made it perfect for lulling herself to sleep on this, her last night of relative freedom.

  Needlework did nothing to occupy her thoughts, however, which persisted in replaying the days immediately before and after her first wedding. Determined to block out her father’s lectures and her mother’s advice, and especially her memories of the marriage bed, she set the embroidery aside and took up pen and paper.

  With sudden fancy, she decided to write a letter to herself—a letter from the woman she hoped to be twenty or thirty years hence, offering advice to the woman she was now. Writing quickly, she captured her hopes and dreams on paper as though they had already occurred. She wrote about the births of her three children, a campaign to see English girls better educated, the acquisition of a dog and a cat, which she’d always been forbidden.

  Weaving this rosy future for herself as though it were a memory to look back on, she felt her eyes grow heavy. She extinguished the candle and climbed into bed, to fall into a deep, refreshing sleep, untroubled by her fears of the morrow.

  When her abigail awakened her at dawn, her anxieties came crowding back. Thrusting them to the back of her mind, she allowed he
rself to be dressed, curled and adorned for the looming ceremony. She couldn’t help but be pleased by the effect of her ivory silk gown, overlaid by costly ivory lace and accented at neckline, wrists, and hem with tiny seed pearls. Her veil, of matching lace, cascaded from her chestnut curls to the floor, where it trailed behind with her silken train.

  Prudence was to act in the stead of their late mother, but thankfully subjected her to little in the way of motherly advice. “I need not tell you what to expect, as you’ve been married before,” she said, tucking back a stray wisp of Nessa’s hair a few moments before they were to go down. “Besides, I doubt not our mother gave you the same advice she gave me upon my own marriage. ’Twill still hold good.”

  Nessa stared at her sister. “Prudence! Never tell me you still abide by, ‘Think pleasant thoughts and don’t move too much!’”

  Prudence’s cheeks flamed scarlet. Without meeting Nessa’s interested gaze, she replied, “If it was good enough for Mother, why should it not be good enough for her daughters?”

  Sudden panic gripped Nessa. “But…but Philip loves you! Surely that must mean…that is…” Prudence’s averted face reddened further, so she desisted. “I just thought that might make a difference, that’s all.”

  “I…have no complaints,” said Prudence breathlessly. “But we must hurry downstairs. The carriage to take us to the chapel will be at the door by now.”

  No complaints, Nessa mused as she obediently accompanied her sister from the room. Did that mean Prudence found the physical aspects of marriage less unpleasant than she had, or was that merely a polite nothing to get her to drop the subject? She wished now she had attempted a discussion on this topic with her sister earlier. It was too late now.

  The carriage was indeed waiting, along with others already crammed with house guests. The day was overcast and windy, with an occasional spate of freezing drizzle. Had the day been fine, many of the guests would no doubt have walked, as the chapel was less than half a mile from the house. Nessa did not see Jack, and supposed he must have gone ahead to the chapel already.

  The drive lasted only moments. The carriage door was opened by two liveried footmen, then Lady Gwendolyn hurried Nessa through a faceless crowd into an anteroom in the ivied stone building.

  “All is in readiness,” she told Nessa, raking her from head to toe with a critical eye. Apparently satisfied, she informed her in a gentler tone that she was to remain there until the organ music began in a few moments.

  Too preoccupied to reply coherently, Nessa merely nodded, and Lady Gwendolyn conducted Prudence from the room to her appointed place near the front of the chapel. Prudence sent Nessa what was no doubt intended to be an encouraging smile over her shoulder as she left the anteroom, but Nessa felt no noticeable abatement of her nervousness.

  Had she been insane to agree to yet another marriage—a lifetime of servitude—so soon after gaining her freedom from her first one? And what of the physical side? Though Jack had presented his offer as a means to benefit them both, she had no doubt he would claim every right as a husband. What she couldn’t decide was how she felt about that.

  The next five minutes seemed an eternity, as the rest of the guests filed into the church and took their seats. Finally the music began. Nessa closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and stepped out of the anteroom as though going to the gallows.

  Philip awaited her at the rear of the chapel, as he was to give her away, and the sight of his kind face bolstered her spirits somewhat. Taking his extended arm, she paced slowly up an aisle that seemed impossibly long for such a small church.

  Suddenly aware of all eyes upon her, Nessa lifted her chin and then her eyes. There, next to the altar, stood Jack, looking supremely handsome in a dark blue superfine coat and knee breeches. His face was as serious as she’d ever seen it, though when she caught his eye the familiar twinkle was still there.

  He turned to face the altar as she reached it, but that one glimpse had fortified her. The ceremony itself was a blur, Nessa far more aware of the man by her side than anything the vicar was saying. Still, she managed to repeat the proper words at the proper times, and could not suppress a tremor at the sound of Jack’s voice doing the same.

  In less time than it seemed she had spent traversing the aisle, the ceremony was over. Lifting her veil, Jack bestowed the requisite kiss. Though it was more ritual than real, a mere touch of his lips upon hers, she was forcefully reminded of other kisses they had shared—and would share again. They turned to face the guests, who murmured their approval.

  Nessa’s thoughts flew ahead to the coming night, and she knew her cheeks betrayed her, but the onlookers appeared to find her blushes charming as Jack led her back down the aisle. Emerging into the wintry daylight, they were greeted by shouts of congratulation. Gathered about the little church were dozens and dozens of people no longer faceless—tenants and other local folk, ready to welcome the new Marchioness into their midst.

  Though she smiled and waved, Nessa could not help remembering a similar scene outside the village chapel at Haughton six years ago. That crowd had seemed less cheerful than this, though perhaps that had been due to her own depressed and fearful spirits. Then, as now, she had been overwhelmed at the prospect of her new responsibilities as Lady of the Manor.

  As it had turned out, Lord Haughton had scarcely allowed her any such responsibility. At Fox Manor, however, things would be different. Thank goodness she’d had those last months at Haughton Abbey to teach her what her duties were and how to perform them!

  She was brought back to the present with a welcome start as Jack handed her into the carriage, now decorated with hothouse flowers and greenery. Had it been so before? She hadn’t noticed.

  Once they were shut inside, she breathed a small sigh of relief. At the same moment, Jack breathed a larger one. Their eyes met, and they began to laugh.

  “’Tis wearing, is it not, living up to the expectations of others?” he asked. “We have the rest of the day’s festivities to get through yet, but for this brief moment, at least, we can relax.” He then knocked on the little door at the top of the carriage and told the driver to take his time.

  “I’d forgotten how very public a wedding is,” Nessa confessed. “By the end of the day, both our faces will ache from smiling.”

  Jack sobered. “So you smiled for most of your first wedding day, did you? I suppose I should be glad to know that.”

  “Smiling because one is expected to is far more tiring than smiling because one is happy.” Nessa remembered vividly her exhaustion at the end of that earlier wedding day, after hours of striving to appear the perfect, happy bride for fear of her father’s or husband’s censure should her smile slip. Then, despite her efforts, she recalled how that day had concluded. She managed not to shudder.

  “Then I shall take it as a personal affront if you are too wearied by bedtime,” Jack said with a wink. “Not that I intend for that to be too many hours distant.”

  Nessa was spared from replying by their arrival at Fox Manor. It was just as well, for his mention of bedtime, on the heels of her unfortunate recollection, rendered her speechless, a cold hand of apprehension gripping her by the throat. Resolutely, she swallowed her fear and allowed Jack to help her from the carriage, to be met by yet another noisy throng.

  The tenants, she knew, had been bidden to a sort of auxiliary wedding breakfast, laid out in the ballroom. Many had either run ahead of the carriage or gone directly to the house, for dozens of people were here already. Women curtsied and men doffed their hats as she passed, some murmuring well-wishes and blessings. Her heart swelled, crowding out anxiety for the moment.

  She had nearly reached the wide steps, the crowd growing thicker all the time, when she heard a young woman’s voice from somewhere behind her.

  “I dunno, May. She seems a slip of a thing to be woman enough for our Jack! Mayhap he’ll need us still.”

  It took every bit of Nessa’s control and breeding to pretend she had not heard, wh
en her instinct was to turn and locate the speaker. Nervous titters and shushing sounds followed, but she had no doubt the comment had been intentionally audible. Keeping her benevolent smile pinned to her face, she proceeded through the open doors of Fox Manor—her new home.

  Taking up their posts by the door, she and Jack welcomed every guest, noble, gentry, or common, as they filed past. Though she tried to squelch the impulse, Nessa could not quite help scrutinizing every maid of above average appearance, and wondering.

  More than one such examined her in turn, with an expression less than welcoming. Surely, though, it was natural that the local lasses would idolize Jack, and resent the woman who put him out of their reach forever? Even unrealistic fantasies—as theirs must have been!—would be only reluctantly abandoned. Nessa chose to interpret the occasional hostile stare as a compliment to Jack rather than an insult to herself. In time, she would prove herself to the villagers—all of them.

  Finally the interminable receiving line was at an end, and she and Jack were free to join family and gentry in the dining room. Nessa was ravenous, as there had been no opportunity for more than a cup of tea before the ceremony. Now it was near noon. So many polite comments were addressed to her, however, requiring equally polite responses, that she was unable to do more than snatch an occasional bite from her plate.

  This carnival atmosphere was not at all what she remembered from her first wedding breakfast—but then, Lord Haughton would never have dreamed of inviting any commoners into his house except as servants. Only family and the more prominent local gentry had been present at the ceremony or reception. With him and her own father presiding, of course hilarity had been out of the question.