The Substitute Bride: A historical romance with a spirited Regency heroine

by Dorothy Mack

  Coming so soon after their contretemps on the stairs, Angelica was scarcely mollified by his compliment on her good taste and was decidedly provoked by the assumption, or rather command, that she allow him to pay for her clothes. Hot words of denial were trembling on her lips, but the viscount forestalled an answer by walking over to his aunt and assisting her out to the dining room. Perforce Angelica and Lydia followed, and the former had time to reconsider any rash words she might have regretted. However, she was determined to refuse to have him act as her banker and impatiently awaited an opportunity during dinner to make this clear to him. This was not made easy for her because the viscount seemed to be in rare good humour and he dominated the conversation, including the three ladies in all his remarks. Indeed he was so charming and entertaining that Angelica would have enjoyed the meal more than any she had partaken of in his company, had she not been existing in such a state of nervous agitation ever since their return that afternoon as even precluded any appreciation of the marvellous dinner set before them by one of the finest chefs in London.

  She ate little, not even tempted by her favourite buttered crab. It was not until she was pretending enjoyment of one of the fancy little pastries that an opportunity arose to speak privately to the viscount, when for the moment Aunt Minerva was plunged into an anecdote about her mother for Lydia’s ears alone.

  Now that she had his ear, however, she found it extremely difficult to formulate the sentences which would convey gratitude for his thoughtfulness while firmly refusing his offer to buy her clothes for the ball. Disconcerted by the unwavering regard of those cold eyes, she realized she was faltering badly but kept her chin high and her voice low as she ended by saying in a rather pleading tone, “You must see, my lord, that I cannot allow you to purchase my clothes.”

  “Why not?” Both voice and manner were bland, almost bored, and she was exasperated beyond all bearing.

  “Because I am not one of your dependents, my lord. You pay me a generous wage for my services. I cannot accept personal gifts.”

  “A ball gown would not be a gift; it is a uniform in which you perform your duties as companion to my sister. As such, you can’t look like a poor relation.”

  “You have paid me the compliment of saying that I am always appropriately dressed, my lord. Am I to understand that you did not mean these words?” The green eyes were faintly contemptuous.

  “No, my dear, I was not lying to you.” The dark eyes were faintly smiling, and his voice was almost gentle as he answered the implication. “The clothes you have are eminently suitable and attractive, but you do not have enough for the life you are now leading. Do not deny it,” he said imperatively as her lips parted. “You make your own gowns, I understand?”

  “Yes, and I have recently purchased some beautiful Italian silk from which to fashion a gown for Lydia’s ball. I promise you it also will be suitable and attractive.”

  “I’m sure it would be if you had the time to spend on the making, but with Jenny’s lessons in the morning and Lydia’s activities taking up much of the rest of your time, when do you propose to work on it?”

  “Why I … I often have an odd hour here and there.”

  “Yes,” he cut in brusquely, “I daresay you could manage to finish this particular gown, but what of the others you will need? I have not seen another pelisse than the grey.”

  Her colour was now high but she answered quietly. “My lord, I think perhaps you forget that my duties with respect to Lydia are only temporary. In less than one month, Lady Barbara will assume the role of companion and chaperone, and I will no longer need a large supply of clothes.” She took a deep breath to gather the strength to finish what must be said since he refused to understand her position.

  “There is another point which a gentleman might overlook, but I must bring it to your attention.” She met his gaze steadily. “A governess — even a governess-companion — is not expected to dress in the same style as her charge. Indeed, to do so would cause a degree of unfavourable comment among those who will be Lydia’s hostesses, which I cannot believe you would care to subject me to. Do I make myself clear, my lord?”

  There was complete silence for a moment. Her glance did not falter, although his expression was now thunderous.

  “Very clear, if you mean to imply that the gossips would have you my mistress living under my own roof.” A vein in his forehead twitched and his lips thinned to a dangerous line, but his voice was quite gentle when he added, “I beg your pardon, Miss Wayne. Certainly I have been about the town long enough to have realized that I would indeed be exposing you to the cruel tongues of the so-called cream of society. The fact that I wanted you to outshine them should not have blinded me to the realities. We will speak no more of this for the moment.”

  She drew a ragged breath of relief and switched the subject to one of the paintings over which they had disagreed that afternoon. He made a polite effort to follow her lead but was rather abstracted for the rest of the meal, scarcely responding to Lydia’s sallies.

  Angelica was most grateful to find he was not joining the ladies in the sitting room that evening. Although she had thoroughly enjoyed the exhibition, the scenes following their return had been of such a nature as to destroy her usual peace of mind. She felt thoroughly enervated and had no other wish than to retire to bed. Listening to Lady Orbridge’s well-modulated voice reading again from Miss Austen’s sympathetic story did have a soothing effect on her chaotic thoughts eventually, and when at last they retired for the night, she was calm enough and tired enough to fall asleep immediately, leaving any problems for the future.

  CHAPTER SIX

  One morning a few days later, the viscount was on his way out of the house, having just left his aunt. It was his custom to call on her briefly each day before beginning his activities. She never came to the breakfast room but was served in her boudoir by her Maggie, who had waited upon her since they were children together.

  Chuckling over a particularly pungent comment Aunt Minerva had made about the Duke of York, Giles quietly closed the door to the apartment and made his way toward the front entrance. A whisper of sound caught his attention, and he paused to watch Jenny’s teacher come slowly out of the library, her skirts gently rustling as she walked. She failed to see him, engrossed as she was in turning the leaves of a book. He stayed silent, following her graceful passage with eyes which were no longer cold.

  Suddenly, near the foot of the stairway, the slim figure stiffened and, to his surprise, she flung a hand over her mouth as if to stifle a cry. Her rigid stance was eloquent of fear, and he started to move toward her when a sound from the upper hall drew his eyes up the stairs. There was a sudden flash of red and white, but before his dazzled brain could make sense of what his eyes were beholding, the colours resolved themselves into the small, laughing form of his daughter careening down the balustrade at a frightening speed. His throat was suddenly dry and his muscles tautened for action, but she was already safely down and enfolded tightly in the arms of her governess, who had dashed the book to the floor and caught the child as she was about to shoot off the newel post. The impact sent them both to the floor, Jenny pink-faced, still laughing excitedly. Angelica’s face was remarkable for its pallor, and as he came up to them she was saying in a hoarse voice:

  “Jenny, dearest, are you all right? Are you sure nothing hurts? Oh, whatever possessed you to do such a dangerous thing? You must promise me never, never to attempt that again. You might have been badly hurt.” She seemed unable to move for the moment. Jenny scrambled nimbly to her feet, regarding the sitting figure in mild puzzlement.

  “But, Angel, you did… Oh, hello, Papa, did you see me slide down? Did you see how fast I came down?” She was dancing around her father’s silent form, tugging at his arm to attract his attention from her governess, whose eyes were closed and whose hand was groping for the post. Finally released from his trance, her father assisted Angelica to rise and, feeling her tremble, kept a sustaining arm abo
ut her waist while he frowned at his excited daughter.

  “Jennifer,” he grated harshly, “if you ever do anything like that again, you will remain all day in your room for one entire month, do you understand me?”

  The child’s beautiful eyes filled quickly with tears.

  “But, Papa,” she protested, “it wasn’t hard, I wasn’t afraid, and besides Angel said —”

  “Jennifer, I will speak with you later. You will return to your room immediately and await me. Immediately.” His stern voice had its effect. The tears spilled over and an unhappy little girl dashed back up the stairs, sobbing.

  Angelica’s hand clutched at his sleeve. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Please, my lord, it was all my fault. Don’t be hard on her. She thought — but I never realized — it was said so absently… Oh, the blame is all mine.” She was wringing her hands in her distress, and the trembling had increased.

  He bent over to retrieve the book and led her unresisting form back to the library. “Do not speak just yet. You’ve had rather a shock, and you are too upset to make sense. Sit here and don’t talk.”

  She subsided gratefully into the green plush chair he had indicated, since her knees seemed temporarily unable to bear her weight. While she was fighting the waves of faintness that washed over her, the viscount was pouring amber liquid into a glass, which he presently pressed into her shaking hand.

  “Drink this,” he commanded, then as she took one small sip and shook her head distastefully, “Every drop of it, mind. It will steady you.”

  He watched her for a moment as she slowly swallowed sips of the fiery liquid, and, satisfied that she had conquered the faintness, walked back to the side table and quickly poured a substantial amount into a second glass for himself. He swallowed it in two gulps, replaced the glass carefully and, still watching her intently, pulled a chair near hers and sat down leaning forward, with his arms on his thighs and his hands linked loosely between his knees.

  Angelica was thankful that he had stopped looming above her. In her present guilt-ridden state, his size and air of leashed power frankly terrified her. His shoulders were extremely broad beneath the beautifully cut olive-green coat, and the fawn-coloured knitted breeches hardly concealed the muscular thighs of an athlete. His tasselled Hessians were polished mirror bright. His whole appearance from spotless cravat to equally spotless boots bespoke perfection and neat propriety, although there was nothing of the dandy about him ever. His hair was worn rather shorter than the prevailing mode, kept rather rigidly under control as opposed to the carefully contrived windswept effect achieved by most pinks of the ton. For once, the harsh features were softened by a look of concern, and Angelica was rather stabbingly aware of his strong masculine aura. Those compelling, night-dark eyes held hers against her will, and she felt the hot colour rise from her throat to her eyebrows. Her breathing quickened painfully.

  Fortunately, he misinterpreted the betraying colour. “Thank heavens you are beginning to get some colour back,” he said, relieved. “That wretched child of mine frightened you rather badly, I’m afraid.”

  His matter-of-fact tone succeeded in snapping the spell which his very presence and unusual concern had woven about her but brought her back to a sense of the enormity of the situation. Her voice shook as she said, “Oh, my lord, it was all my fault. I hold myself entirely to blame. Oh, my wretched tongue!”

  In her agitation, the fingers of both hands had clutched the stem of the empty goblet she was still holding until the knuckles showed white. He reached over and loosened the cold fingers gently and removed the glass. Her eyes followed the hand that placed the glass on a nearby table then came anxiously back to his face. She was totally unaware that his other hand was grasping one of hers in a firm clasp.

  “Why are you to blame, ma’am? Did you give Jenny permission to attempt that rather spectacular feat?” The very blandness of his tone brought an indignant gasp to her lips.

  “Of course not! How could you think such a thing?”

  “Oh, I don’t, I assure you, but you seem so sure that you are to blame for her exploit.” One eyebrow lifted.

  All her momentary indignation drained away, leaving her contrite once more. “But I am, you see. Jenny was admiring a sampler of mine one day and asked me how old I was when I had embroidered it. I was looking for my scissors at the time and answered absently, and totally stupidly as it turned out, that I had done it when I was ten years old as a punishment for sliding down the balustrade.” Her eyes were raised imploringly to his. “I never dreamed that my careless remark could have such a consequence. You can’t condemn me more than I blame myself, my lord. I should have realized that such an enterprising child as Jenny would have seen a challenge in my foolish statement.”

  He laughed in genuine amusement. “If you had known her better, I daresay you might have guessed how she would react, but you have not been here very long, and I understand she has been unusually well-behaved since you arrived. Such an unnatural situation could never long endure. Do not feel too guilty; no harm was done after all.” His voice held admiration. “She’s pluck to the backbone, my little Jenny. Doesn’t know the meaning of the word fear.” A teasing smile played about his mouth, quirking up one corner. Angelica dragged her fascinated gaze from the suddenly boyish lips and started as her surprised eyes fell on her hand still imprisoned in his large one. Blushing, she withdrew hers gently, still unable to look at him. At the sound of his laugh, she did look up.

  The teasing smile was still there. “You must have been a little devil despite your singularly inappropriate name. Tell me, was it worth the punishment — sliding down the rail, I mean?”

  Suddenly, for no apparent reason, she was absurdly happy. The dimple appeared in her left cheek. “Yes, it was,” she said frankly. “It was rather like flying, and to be perfectly truthful, I had done it more than once before I was caught.” Her expression sobered abruptly. “Do you know, this is the first time I have ever realized how brave parents are. I don’t know how my mother bore it, knowing I was running around after Billy, getting up to all sorts of mischief. I never half appreciated the freedom she allowed me. It must have been very difficult for her. I was completely terrified when I looked up and saw Jenny at the top of the stairs and comprehended what she meant to do. I could not move or even call out.”

  He interrupted her. “Doing nothing was probably what saved her from a nasty accident. If you had startled her, she might easily have lost her balance and fallen.”

  She shuddered then squared her shoulders and rose from the chair. “In any event, sir, you will not be harsh with her will you, now that it is obvious how she came to do such a foolhardy thing?”

  He responded to the entreaty in her voice and eyes. “Of course not, but she must be made to promise that she will not do it again.” He rose to his feet and motioned to her to precede him from the room. “Do you think history should repeat itself in the form of punishment also?” His eyes gleamed with humour and hers smiled up into his gaily.

  “I’m afraid Jenny is not so handy with her needle as I was, my lord. May I suggest perhaps a handkerchief to be hemmed for her papa? And if she promises not to do it again, you may rely on her not to break her word. Jenny is a very truthful child.”

  She could not fathom the changing expressions in the dark eyes of the man climbing the stairs at her side. Pain at first, or pride, perhaps. She was mystified but realized intuitively that his thoughts had wandered to another time and place. She had sensed this withdrawal in him as early as that first interview in the room they had just left. Something had scarred this man. It must be related to the death of his beautiful young wife, of course. She was still puzzled, though. Grief was perfectly understandable and a lingering sadness, but could it account for the moody silences and flashes of bitterness? Why would not his memories just as often be pleasant ones? She could not recall ever having seen him in one of his withdrawals wearing a reminiscent smile or even a mildly pleasant expression. His m
oods seemed all darkness and shadow, pain and regret.

  The silence had lengthened when on arriving at the second floor, he put out a hand to detain her as she would have moved toward her own room. She looked at him questioningly. His eyes bored into her face.

  “You have a fondness for Jenny, have you not, Miss Wayne?”

  Some of the reliefs she felt at his return from his dark vision must have been evident in her voice. “Of course I do, my lord,” she replied, smiling warmly. “Jenny is a very lovable child, and I thoroughly enjoy my association with her despite being practically frightened to death earlier.”

  He did not respond to her light tone but continued to look searchingly at her for some few seconds. He said simply, almost humbly, “Thank you,” then left her abruptly and walked rapidly toward the nursery.

  Angelica stared after him, bemused by his changing moods until, recalled to the present, she quickly entered her sitting room. She wandered aimlessly around the pleasant little room then sat down on the settee. Her unseeing eyes were on the hanging cabinet, which now displayed the lovely Lowestoft pieces that had been her mother’s delight. Never had she expected to see the man she had mentally called arrogant discard his mask of indifference to thank her with what she could only consider humility for her small services to his daughter. She had felt that his affection for Jenny was deep but deplored that reserve which characterized his behaviour even with his adorable daughter. Observing them together before dinner on several occasions, the strange thought had occurred to her that he was actually afraid to reveal his love for the child. Earlier, she had dismissed the thought as the ridiculous fancy of her imagination. But now she wondered again about his relationship with his daughter. Why would he fear to demonstrate his love for the little girl who so obviously adored him? She recalled his grim expression when in their initial interview he had said Jenny must not grow up to think her beauty entitled her to have her every wish gratified. She had been a bit startled at his vehemence at the time. Could it be he really thought natural expressions of paternal affection would prove harmful to the development of Jenny’s character? She was reluctant to credit that so intelligent a man might hold such a nonsensical belief but could propose no other explanation to account for his deliberate reserve.