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

by Dorothy Mack

  Never had Angelica seen Giles so boyishly carefree and happy. His touch had the effect of melting her tension and bringing her alive to the sensual pleasures of the colours, scents and music. As they whirled about the beautiful room, Angelica forgot everything but the delirious joy of moving in his arms to the pulsating rhythm of a waltz. Giles attempted no conversation, but his eyes and mouth were smiling in complete physical enjoyment. In that moment she, too, ceased to worry about her role as hostess and gave herself up to sheer enchantment. She hoped devoutly that the dance would never end. Giles felt her relaxation and drew her fractionally closer.

  “We may set a precedent by enjoying our own ball,” he murmured, noting with amusement her guilty little start on being recalled to a sense of her duties. She protested mildly, but he laughingly insisted on finishing the dance.

  After the delightful waltz with her husband at his charming best, Angelica’s nervousness dissolved and she proceeded to enjoy the rest of the long evening. Her instinctive concern for the welfare of her guests made her a natural hostess, and now the quiet charm that had been masked by tension earlier reasserted itself as she circulated among the several hundred people crowding her reception rooms. With the press of social duties, she caught only brief glimpses of Giles and Lydia throughout the evening.

  Giles had insisted on providing a substantial banquet in the supper room, as well as the decorative little cakes and ices favoured by some hostesses. Their guests did full justice to the tempting array of hot and cold dishes, and Angelica had the felicity of receiving several compliments from the grateful male guests.

  At the end of the long, tiring evening she and Giles acknowledged a pleasant weariness, but Lydia was still bubbling with excitement. Had not Giles taken pity on his drooping wife and ordered her to bed, she would have been let in for a lengthy post-mortem with her sister-in-law. As it was, she slept the sleep of the just until Jenny bounced in to waken her.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Lydia’s ball marked the beginning of the hectic round of social activities which followed the launching of a debutante into the life of the ton during the London season.

  Her sister-in-law, soaking luxuriously in a hot tub placed in front of the fireplace where a cheerful, crackling fire burned, was thinking of her now with affection. How Lydia loved the social whirl! She was a gregarious little thing and derived almost as much pleasure from a daytime gathering of gossiping females as from the more formal activities that included the gentlemen. Her unaffected manners and vibrant good humour assured that she would be a success even with the more critical feminine element. Angelica had been in no doubt that the dancing black eyes and petite but perfect figure would draw male admirers by the score. Her prophecies had certainly been vindicated — young men buzzed around Lydia like bees round a garden. If her healthy fortune rendered her eminently eligible in the marriage mart, it was her vivacious charm that won her a coterie of admirers. She never lacked partners at Almack’s or any of the private balls, and had received two offers of marriage within a fortnight of appearing on the scene.

  To her credit, she refused to have her head turned by her popularity. Here the innate shrewdness Angelica had recognized as part of her makeup stood her in good stead. She had half-expected the first proposal from a titled suitor who had, in the vulgar parlance, brought an abbey to a grange and had been hanging out for a rich wife to restore his fortunes. She turned a deaf ear to his protestations of undying affection but dealt more kindly with the besotted youth who was suffering all the pangs of calf love within a month of being rusticated from Cambridge. He remained a devoted member of her train despite his chagrin at being refused.

  Angelica herself could have done with a bit less of the social scene. She was of a more serious nature than Lydia and found the endless round of frivolous encounters somewhat trying, but these thoughts she kept to herself. She made all the expected responses albeit somewhat mechanically. Fortunately, one or two gentlemen had made the startling discovery that the Viscountess Desmond had an inquiring mind and appreciated being talked to as though she possessed some intelligence. Partially because she showed herself somewhat impatient with the flowery style of exaggerated compliments which passed for conversation between members of the opposite sex, she was attracting a select circle of more conversable admirers to her side. They tended to gravitate toward her at assemblies and greatly relieved the tedium she was too well-bred to show.

  Giles escorted them only occasionally. He disliked Almack’s and greatly preferred the company of men with similar interests in sports or politics. Angelica, soaking lazily in her scented bath, acknowledged with a small sigh that she greatly preferred her husband’s company to the most brilliant social gathering. However, he had married her to provide a sponsor for Lydia’s debut, and she was resolved to do her best for the girl.

  Annie had been called away to settle a dispute below stairs, and Angelica had almost dozed among the bubbles. Shifting position slightly, she shivered in the now coolish water and decided hastily to bestir herself. Some of her hair pinned carelessly atop her head had come out of its pins and was clinging damply to her neck, adding to her discomfort. A huge bath towel lay folded neatly on a footstool, warming by the fire. She could just reach it by kneeling and leaning over the bath. Slightly breathless she grasped it finally and rose to her feet, releasing a cloud of lavender-scented bubbles. She was struggling to unfold the massive towel when she became aware of the opening of the sitting room door. She spoke without ceasing her activities with the towel.

  “What took you so long, Annie?”

  After a second or two, when no skirts rustling across the carpet proclaimed Annie’s approach, she glanced over her shoulder and instantly froze with horrified embarrassment. The towel slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers. Lounging in the doorway with his arms across his chest, calmly watching her struggles with the towel, was her husband. His eyes glinted with unholy amusement as the hot colour flooded over her throat and face.

  “Venus rising from the sea,” he murmured, straightening up and sauntering toward her with a lazy smile on his lips. “You do rather resemble a Botticelli, my love. May I be of assistance?”

  Perhaps it was his casual attitude or perhaps the arrogant little smile, but Angelica’s frozen blood came rioting to flaming life. It pounded erratically through her veins and her magnificent green eyes flashed pure fury.

  “No,” she snapped through gritted teeth, “just go away. A gentleman would have left instantly.”

  This shot glanced harmlessly off the tall figure reaching for the fallen towel.

  “But I am not a gentleman, my love. I am your husband, remember?”

  He paused for a second before straightening up with the towel, and his eyes, dark and dangerous, met hers on a level. She drew an involuntary breath of cold fear and snatched the towel.

  Like a compass needle to north, his glance had flashed to her suddenly heaving breasts and tautened stomach muscles.

  “Even lovelier than I dreamed.” His insolent eyes raking her glistening form belied the soft, caressing tone.

  She was struggling frantically to cover herself without letting the folds of the towel fall into the tub, greatly impeded by the anger that was causing her to tremble violently.

  He misunderstood the trembling.

  “You will catch your death. Get out of that tub.”

  “When you get out of this room,” she flared, sending him a glance that should have reduced him to ashes. Reading his intentions in his eyes, she took a hasty step backward. “Don’t dare touch me!”

  He laughed recklessly and, gripping her around the waist with fingers that bit cruelly into her flesh beneath the damp cloth, swung her effortlessly up and out of the bath. He released her waist to encircle her dripping form with his arms while he arranged the voluminous towel around her, pinning her arms underneath it. Thus secured, she could only glare up at him in impotent fury. A little flame glowed in the black eyes staring down at her. She
tried to turn her head, but he took one hand from around her back and gripped her chin roughly. Instantly his mouth covered hers with brutal pressure.

  Unlike the kiss on their wedding day which she had frankly enjoyed, this one was solely a struggle for supremacy. His lips were bruising hers and she fought frantically, first to release herself and then just to get her breath. Never before had she been forcibly made aware of the tremendous strength a man possessed, and, realizing how ineffectual were her own puny efforts to combat him, she went cold with panic. The shudder that rippled through her body communicated itself to him, and she was free so suddenly that she sagged and would have fallen if he had not steadied her with his hands on her arms for a minute.

  He was looking at her rather anxiously, but Angelica was too involved with her own fury to notice. Tears of rage were coursing down her cheeks. Although the towel had loosened during their struggle, she still could not free a hand to wipe them away. He made a tentative motion toward her face with a hand wanting to be gentle, but the fingers curled back as her slight figure stiffened and jerked aside. Her face whitened with fear, but it was sheer bad temper that glittered icily green in her eyes. The beautifully modelled lips drew away from clenched teeth almost in a snarl.

  “I hate you!” She almost spat the words out. The anxious look in his eyes had been replaced by startled amusement as he realized he was being treated to a rather unladylike display of Italian volatility hitherto wholly unsuspected in his serene, well-bred wife. So far, her voice had been kept low, but the hint of hysteria in her manner warned him to make his escape.

  Ignoring her outburst, he smiled and said coolly, “I’ll leave you to compose yourself, my dear.” He bowed mockingly and sauntered to the door to his apartment.

  His coolness served as further fuel to her rage. Wresting one hand free from the enveloping towel, she glanced wildly around for a weapon and spotted a hairbrush on the footstool.

  It cracked against the doorframe a scant three inches from his head as he opened the door.

  “Temper, temper,” he said soothingly, watching with amusement as she hastily re-draped the damp towel which her exertions had once more caused to fall. He hesitated in the doorway as if undecided whether to resume hostilities, but just then the sound of a door opening, followed by the rustling of petticoats in the sitting room, decided the issue.

  The door closed softly behind him as Annie entered her mistress’s boudoir. Her distracted apologies came to an abrupt halt once she appreciated the picture of Angelica, whose damp, dishevelled hair was streaming over a thoroughly wrinkled towel ineffectually covering her still dripping form as she stood stock-still, staring at the door leading to her husband’s bedchamber. Fortunately, her infuriated expression and blazing eyes were hidden from view.

  “My lady, you’ll catch your death. Come over here to the fire.” Putting her hands on Angelica’s shoulders, she felt her quiver and led her unresisting to the warm hearth, scolding all the way. After a brisk rub with the towel, she seated her on the footstool and proceeded to dry the heavy hair. Angelica made no response to the scolding monologue, and eventually this unusual restraint slowed Annie’s tongue. Covertly she studied her mistress’s pale, set face and burning eyes and promptly rang for tea. Angelica gave a shuddering sigh and seemed to become aware of her surroundings. She thanked the old nurse for her efforts with a faint smile that did not reach her eyes.

  Annie no longer expected her mistress to confide her problems to her as had been her invariable custom at the Court. It had soon become apparent that the young girl had changed in some subtle fashion since entering the viscount’s household. That something was troubling Angelica she did not for a moment doubt, and she sighed heavily for the old days when she had always known how to comfort a frightened or distressed little girl. Now the role of comforter belonged to her husband, and no one would convince Annie that he was not in some way responsible for her mistress’s present unhappiness. She knew what she knew, and Angelica betrayed none of the radiance one might expect in the adored bride of a fond husband. No one would drag one syllable from Annie’s lips, but she had not been born yesterday, and she was perfectly aware that there were no signs of the viscount’s having visited his wife’s bedchamber on any but the one occasion. Her thoughts kept pace with her brisk movements as she tidied the room.

  Angelica, gratefully drinking the sweet tea, eyed the impatient movements of her tirewoman with affection. Thank goodness she did not have to make conversation for a while. For the first time, she felt no regret that Giles was dining away from home that night. She needed time to gather her courage before seeing him again. Also, she needed to forget his abominable behaviour and her own loss of control. She was already exceedingly sorry for her childish display of temper, but Giles in one of his sardonic humours always had a disastrous effect on her own disposition. In general, she succeeded very well in concealing the hurt she felt at his occasional mocking treatment of herself, but today she had gone up in flames at the pain of being kissed as a form of punishment. If she had managed to retain her sense of humour when he first appeared in the doorway, the rest of the unfortunate scene need not have happened. After all, Giles had been most complimentary, and she had been aware for some time that he found her attractive. Why did it upset her so that Giles might desire her solely for her physical attributes? Certainly it was vastly preferable to indifference. She sighed deeply, aware that she was unreasonable in wanting nothing less than his love before surrendering to the desire she realized he sometimes felt for her. If she were really his wife, might he not come to love her in time?

  At this point in her reflections, it became time to dress for dinner. She and Lydia were scheduled to spend the evening at Almack’s escorted by the accommodating Lord Robert. She roused herself from her unprofitable musings to decide on the correct attire for an insipid evening.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Several hours later, Angelica was being readied for bed by Annie after an evening that had thoroughly fulfilled her expectations. She yawned daintily as Annie brushed out her hair and put it into one long braid for sleeping. Recognizing the sea-green confection she had worn on her wedding night, she made a wry face behind Annie’s back but submitted docilely to having it put on her.

  The sound of a door opening immediately followed the click of the sitting room door closing behind Annie. Standing in the middle of the room retying the ribbon binding her braided hair, she glanced in astonishment at the tall form of her husband in the doorway between their rooms, clad in a wine-coloured dressing gown.

  Her first thought was that he, too, wanted to apologize for their contretemps earlier. The green eyes softened and a tentative smile hovered briefly on her lips. As he advanced silently into the room, however, she stiffened and her eyes grew wary. There was something odd about his appearance tonight. His throat was bare, as if he found his clothes restrictive, and his hair looked as if he’d been running his fingers through it.

  “You don’t seem particularly pleased to see your husband, madam wife.” He stopped a scant two feet away from her and stared intently down into her uneasy face. There was a certain rigidity in his bearing, and his speech had seemed slightly slurred.

  A little nerve started beating in her throat. Angelica had never seen Giles even slightly on the go, but suddenly the suspicion assailed her that he was more than a little foxed.

  She took an involuntary step backward, but Giles’s hand shot out, seizing her wrist in a merciless grip. Instantly she was imprisoned in a ruthless embrace, her arms pinioned against her sides by an arm of iron. If she had had any doubts about his condition, the dangerous glittering in his eyes and the fumes of brandy assailing her nostrils would have confirmed them. Her natural fears were secondary to a feeling of sick disappointment as she stood there silent and motionless in his arms, her accusing eyes challenging his.

  “Don’t look at me like that. It’s more than time you learned what it means to be a wife, and I am just in the mood to enl
ighten you.”

  This time when his mouth fastened cruelly on hers, she remained passive in his grip by a great effort of will. To struggle would very likely inflame him further, and in any case, Angelica was rendered almost apathetic by unhappiness. Apart from the consciousness of being physically abused, she hated the feeling of being no more than an object to him — it diminished her in her own eyes.

  The punishing kiss went on for an unconscionable time. When at last he did release her lips, it was only to jerk her head back roughly with a hand in her hair so he could assault her throat with those burning lips.

  “Well, my love, why aren’t you struggling as you did earlier? I’ll enjoy taming you, you green-eyed witch.”

  His fingers were fumbling with the buttons at the front of her robe. The cold mockery in his voice and eyes finished what the brutal kisses had begun. Tears of defeat ran unchecked down her cheeks.

  “Please, Giles, not like this.” These, her first words since he had entered the room, were whispered brokenly, uttered in despair for the feelings he was killing.

  Tears splashed onto the hands at the neck of her robe, and they ceased their movement immediately. A shudder of revulsion shook his frame. For a long moment he looked into her tear-drenched eyes, and slowly the fire burned out of his.