Devil take it; I have not been plagued by unwanted cockstands since I left my early twenties.
“Lady Annabelle.” He inclined his head.
“My lord,” she replied.
“May I offer you this bouquet as a token of my esteem?” He held out the winter flowers.
She came forward and took the proffered bunch, studying the makeup of the floristry.
“How very appropriate; my family and friends know me as Holly, since my birthday is in December and it is my second given name. This is…thoughtful of you. Thank you, my lord.”
“I hope you will dispense with ‘my lording’ me all the time and begin to call me Gregory. Might I have the privilege of addressing you as Holly?”
“Perhaps, once we are formally betrothed.”
Irritation pricked him at her doggedness. Might as well get the business of asking her over and done with. His manhood subsided to a comfortable size.
“Lady Annabelle, I should very much like to take you as my wife. Do you accept?” he asked formally.
She made a moue of her lips and cocked her head.
“Well, that was far from romantic. Would you like to try again, perhaps if you knelt?”
He seethed. He’d half a mind to toss the minx across his knee and discover for himself whether her derriere was as round and peachy as her cheeks. His cock seemed to like that idea because he was once again disconcertingly hard.
Plunging a hand into his coat pocket, Gregory removed his paternal grandmother’s engagement ring, a cushion sapphire surrounded by diamonds. This was not the same ring he had bestowed upon Bunty at the time he’d proposed to her. No, he had given his first wife his maternal grandmother’s ring, a single large diamond which she had worn into her grave, much to his mother’s disgust. He had felt unable to remove it from his dead wife’s finger. Bunty had loved that ring, and as far as he was concerned, it was a part of her.
He reached between them and took Holly’s left hand in his palm and flipped the button on her glove open; her pulse moved rapidly under the soft skin of her inner wrist. He bent his head to meet her hand and pressed his lips against her pale flesh, then tugged each finger of her glove until, with a final pull, he removed it entirely. He smiled as she expelled her breath in a small gasp at his daring.
He slid the ring onto her finger; it was a perfect fit. Her father had lent him a ring of hers in order for Gregory to have his grandmother’s sized. He leant in and kissed Holly’s cheek.
“Shall we send word to your parents?” he asked.
She seemed to have lost the power of speech and nodded. He moved swiftly to the bell cord, tugging it firmly. Within moments, the lord and lady of the house arrived. They had obviously been waiting for the signal to join them. Holly duly held out her hand so her parents could inspect the ring. After exclamations and congratulations, they seated themselves about the refreshment table, and tea was served up with a selection of dainty pastries and sweetmeats.
Oscar Lushington rose; he suggested both gentlemen retire to his study to discuss the matrimonial contract. Gregory knew that now the engagement was finalised, he needed to drop a proverbial stone in the pond.
He waited until Oscar Lushington had poured them both a brandy and then made a request. Lushington paused in the act of lifting his brandy goblet to his lips.
“You want to marry this week? What about the banns?”
“I have a special licence; we can be wed tomorrow if we wish.”
Oscar took a large gulp of his drink.
“My wife won’t like this one bit, nor, I suspect, will Holly.”
“She will do as her father commands,” Gregory stated, taking a sip from his own glass.
Lushington snorted.
“It never seems to work that way in this household,” he informed his guest with a despairing shake of the head.
Without waiting for Gregory’s comment, he spoke again.
“My daughter is a good girl, but she is used to getting her own way. I have never had any reason to deny her. You will indulge her as her husband and continue to cherish her?”
Gregory buried his nose in his goblet, wondering how to phrase his reply.
“Mounthurst?” his host queried.
“I shall endeavour to do so, yes. However, I am not an overly indulgent man. I do not tolerate disobedience, but you need not fear, for I am not a violent man. Your daughter shall have every inconsequential object she desires and as many gowns as she cares for.”
Oscar Lushington frowned. “You do not harbour a tendre for her?
Gregory again took a moment to formulate his reply.
“I admire both her spirit and her beauty. I am in need of a male heir, and you are an old and respected family. Annabelle is young and strong. It is a good match.”
The protective instinct of a father leapt to the fore and prompted Oscar’s response. “I had heard that your first wife died in childbirth. You have my sympathy sir, for I suffered the same fate. I have been lucky enough to find another perfect helpmeet. If you thaw a little, and give my daughter the chance, I am certain she will bring you happiness.”
Gregory did not like to be criticised, but he supposed he did sound a trifle frosty.
“I can see my honesty has upset you. May I add that I will be a gentle and caring husband so long as Annabelle behaves as she ought.”
“And should she get into mischief?”
“I would never brutalise her, Lushington, if that is what you are implying, but should my wife require correction then she will receive it. Does that answer your question?”
“What form might that correction take, may I ask?”
Gregory bit off his instinctive response which was that it was none of Lushington’s damned business. Instead he answered his future father in law in measured tones. “If my wife pushes me too far then I shall take her across my knee.”
“Holly has been gently raised; I have never so much as lifted a finger to her!” Oscar exclaimed.
“And your wife…?” Gregory hated how personal this conversation had developed, but Annabelle was to become his property after they were wed, and her father would no longer have any rights over her. Lushington’s questions were an affront to him as a gentleman.
“Well, once or twice, if you must know, but understand how young she was at the time of our marriage and…”
“Quite!” Gregory downed the last of his drink. He closed the distance between them, and proffered his palm.
The two men shook on the proposal.
“Friday, St Georges, eleven o’clock. I wish you good day, sir.” Gregory turned and left the room, his future father-in-law stood gaping after him.
Gregory retrieved his greatcoat and hat from a footman and exited the house. There was a great deal to arrange before Friday.
Chapter 4
“But what on earth am I supposed to wear?” Holly wailed for the umpteenth time.
“I repeat, I am sure the estimable Mademoiselle Adele shall be able to create a dress before Friday,” her father blustered.
“Oscar, I have explained that no modiste worth frequenting could possibly create a wedding gown of quality in such a short space of time.” Henrietta sounded thoroughly irritated, and well she might. The whole idea seemed ridiculous. Had the man lost his mind to expect a wedding five days hence?
“What about the gown you wore on our wedding day, Hetty? As I recall, it was your grandmother’s. I remember that was a pretty enough confection. Holly can simply have the thing adjusted.”
Both mother and daughter stared at him, utterly speechless. Oscar obviously took their silence for approbation and left.
“Mama, what am I to do?” Holly moaned after he had gone.
“You know, your father might have found a solution, dear. My great-grandmother, Estelle, had her wedding gown made with an abundance of embellishment made from highly prized Flanders lace.”
“Where is the gown now?” Holly asked. She was keen to see if such a dress woul
d suffice.
“Pull the cord, and we will have the footman search the attics,” her mother said.
“I shall go with them,” Holly answered and tugged the bell.
“Oh no, it will be filthy up there!” Henrietta exclaimed in horror.
Nevertheless, Holly prevailed. Enlisting the help of her maid, Matilda, she followed a footman up the many stairs that led to the great attic. After an exhausting couple of hours, they finally located a trunk hidden in the farthest reaches of the lofty space. On investigation, it appeared to contain a gown made up of mostly stiff and aged, yellow lace.
Matilda shook out the heavy garment. The footman carried the dress as they descended through the house and returned to the family salon where tea had already been set. Holly, her mother, and Matilda pored over the material. The previous colour showed bright along some of the hidden inner seams. It was evident the gown had once been a vibrant yellow with silk panels embroidered with flowers. The cloth had turned a soft gold, while the lace appeared more cream than the original white. The maid suggested various alterations which could be made to the ancient garment.
“But it is all faded and horrid!” Holly complained.
“I promise I can do something with this garment, milady. It is not as damaged as first appears, and the lace is now a charming colour. Once sponged and starched, I can sew a new panel into the stomacher. Let me take the gown away and alter it.”
“An excellent plan, Matilda, and if Holly still dislikes the dress after you have finished the alterations, why then she can wear one of her ballgowns bought for her season,” Hetty enthused.
“Yes, Matilda, take it away and do what you can, and thank you.” However, she was not convinced it would do.
“Oh, Mama, this is going to be a disaster!”
Her father had once again entered the room. “Your stepmother is correct, and this is a very good marriage. As your parents, we want the best for you, my dear. I insist you accept that we have your interests at heart and enter the match we have brokered for you. Now be a good girl and pass me some of that fruit cake.”
Oscar crossed the floor and, flipping out his coat tails, seated himself before the fire. Holly knew from his tone that it was his final word upon the subject. She resigned herself to the inevitable.
Rolling the dry fruit cake around in her mouth, she reflected that this was not at all how she imagined her wedding would be. Tears of self-pity swam in her eyes, and she asked to be excused and went to her chamber where she indulged herself with a satisfying temper tantrum that involved thumping her pillow shams with closed fists and weeping noisily. Once the maelstrom had passed, Holly realised the expended emotion hadn’t helped her feelings one bit. She still felt depressed, alone, and rather lost.
When next she saw the wedding gown, she had to admit that Matilda had done wonders with the archaic dress. The maid had replaced the central panel with one of Moiré silk in a soft primrose yellow. Touches of primrose-yellow ribbon and the addition of some creamy faux pearls added to the front of the exposed inverted ‘V’ of the under skirt made all the difference. The lace panels and froth of lace at the wrists had been sponged and starched.
“Matilda, you are a genius!” Holly praised as the maid helped her into the delicate garment. It flowed over her crinoline and fitted her like a glove. It was not a dress she would have worn by choice for her wedding day, but it was unusually pretty, and she rather liked the style. Instead of the prim neckline she was used to, the gown hugged her breasts, displaying their plumpness in a daring décolleté. Holly was delighted. The garment may be old-fashioned, but it showed her feminine assets quite provocatively. She rather thought Lord Caulderbury might appreciate her in the dress. Irritation prickled at her mother’s loud intake of breath.
“I do not remember the dress being quite so risqué. I remember now that I wore a fichu. I also have a lace mantilla that will cover you, dear. Matilda, could you fashion a fichu for Holly?” Hetty fussed.
“No! I will agree to wear a shawl or mantilla, but there will be no fichu, Mama!” Holly was determined that having been forced into such an unseemly fast wedding, she was going to have her way on this point of principal.
“Well, well, we shall see,” Henrietta prevaricated.
Holly spun about to face her stepmother.
“I have no trousseau, no guests, and no time to enjoy being courted throughout a normal-length betrothal. I am forced to wear an outmoded, hand-me-down as my wedding dress and rushed to the altar as though I was some sort of fallen woman. I refuse to wear a fichu, Mama!” She stamped her foot with emphasis.
Clearly somewhat taken aback by her stepdaughter’s unusual ferocity, Hetty readily agreed.
Chapter 5
Good grief, whatever is the chit wearing?
A character from the new series by Charles Dickens, Great Expectations, came to mind—Miss Havisham. He stifled an undignified chortle with a cough when the lace-enshrouded figure made her way down the aisle towards him followed by her pretty, much younger, half-sisters acting as bridesmaids but wearing ordinary dresses. He supposed that was his fault for insisting on a hasty marriage, but he had his reasons for needing to be back at Lamberhurst before Christmas. Three very good reasons which he did not wish to disclose to his newly betrothed until he was ready. He gave Oscar a glacial, calculating stare as the man placed his daughter’s gloved hand onto his arm. Had the man broken his word? Her innocent gaze gave nought away.
The light within the church was dim, the air arctic, his breath vaporised into clouds in the chill. It didn’t help that the pews were only half full on the bride’s side and totally empty on his; bodies generated heat and warmth. Still, the gloom of the place reflected his mood. Gregory was swamped with guilt. The overwhelming sense of duty barely outweighed his sense of disloyalty to Bunty.
His bride stood at his side, and he met her nervous glance. Neither smiled.
The rector began the address.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…”
He tuned out the man’s sonorous words, struggling with overwhelming memories of a far happier wedding day, one in June that seemed not so very long ago…
A bride dressed in pink and white, her head piled high with gleaming mahogany curls that tumbled from an impossible height; Bunty holding a fragrant bouquet of pink and white roses almost as large as herself. Her bow lips parted in an engaging smile. Soft sherry-coloured eyes that looked up at him as though he had just slayed the proverbial dragon for her.
Oh, dear God…what am I even doing here? Bunty…
“My lord, I ask again, do you take this woman to become your lawful wife?”
He came back to the present with a jolt that the rector was prompting him for a response.
“Err, yes, of course I do,” he replied.
After that, Gregory forced himself to concentrate and follow the service to its conclusion. As they left the church, it began to snow. It seemed to him that everything about this day was arctic and grey.
It wasn’t until they arrived at the Lushington’s London house that he realised he’d not yet kissed his bride—furthermore, he’d no wish to. His servants divested them of their outer clothing, and he turned, surprised to see his new wife wearing a rather romantic and fetching gown. With the enveloping lace removed, he saw the dress hugged her upper body, flaring out widely from the waist; his gaze was instantly drawn to her low décolleté, revealing the pale lush hillocks of her breasts. Immediately, his manhood sprang to life. He cursed his shaft which seemed to have developed a mind of its own; did the damned thing have no sense of loyalty? He’d enjoyed a very carnal marriage with Bunty and he found the idea of bedding another woman repellent. It seemed his cock had no such sentiment. Shame on his fickle member.
His bride blushed. Standing still, he stared at her in a gauche way that was quite unlike him.
“My dear, that gown is most becoming,” he said, managing to gather his wits. Gregory threaded her hand through his elb
ow and led her forward into the hallway where guests were lined up ready to greet them.
Dancing followed the wedding breakfast. Tradition demanded that he opened the dance; he led his bride onto the floor for the first waltz.
“What are our arrangements, my lord?” she asked after their first turn about the floor.
“You have me at a loss. What arrangements are you alluding to?”
She frowned. “Since you insisted that we marry in haste, I assumed that you had made plans. Are we to travel abroad, to Paris maybe?” She sounded hopeful.
“No, there will be no travel, other than to Lamberhurst, my country seat. I have pressing reasons to return to Hertfordshire as soon as possible.”
“Oh. So we are to have no honeymoon.” The statement was said with obvious disappointment.
“No, no honeymoon. Annabelle…”
“Holly, if you please,” she interrupted.
He tensed. “Very well, Holly, there shall be no honeymoon. We will stay at my London house tonight and repair to Hertfordshire on the morrow.”
“Why the haste, my lord. Surely we have time to take a short honeymoon? I suggest we stay on in London for a while. We can join my family on Christmas Day and…”
“Confound it! You have my answer, and that should be an end to it.” The dance concluded, and he led her from the floor with a stiffness that should have repelled further argument. He had not reckoned upon his new wife’s tenaciousness.
“Mama, you will side with me. My bridegroom tells me we are to have no honeymoon. None whatsoever. I have suggested that we stay on in London and join you and Papa for Christmas. What say you?”
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