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

by Dorothy Mack

  Angelica met her sympathetic eyes briefly. She was grateful for Lydia’s affection and concern, but could not burden the younger girl with the reasons for her present unhappy mood.

  “I have the headache a little tonight,” she evaded. “A good night’s sleep will put me to rights again. Goodnight, my dear.”

  But later, in the misty green boudoir that usually soothed her spirits, she admitted to herself that the restorative sleep she had spoken of so confidently was going to elude her for quite some time. She had quickly dismissed Annie and sat musing at her dressing table, abstractedly brushing her hair while unseeing eyes gazed unhappily back at her from the mirror. Her black anger at Giles’s cruel words had quickly burned itself out, leaving behind humiliation that he could think such a thing of her but faint bewilderment, too. Surely he did not believe in his heart that she would be so disloyal? It occurred to her that jealousy might have prompted his remark, but her brain dismissed this forlorn hope impatiently, allowing her to derive no comfort therein.

  He did not love her, so how could he be jealous? Then possessive, perhaps? Giles, with two unhappy experiences behind him, could be expected to be more sensitive about his honour than another man. Still her mind balked at accepting that he might honestly believe her capable of such treachery. She had thought he knew her better, that he had showed understanding and even respect for her in the beginning of their marriage. Even without love, she had been so happy with his companionship.

  That never-to-be-sufficiently regretted night had changed everything. A flush crept up from her neck emerging creamy-white from a froth of apricot ruffles as, brush stilled, she relived for the thousandth time the experience that had meant so much to her and so little to him. Rather worse than little, because he had altered toward her directly afterward.

  How could he be so tender and ardent in his love-making that night and then turn so frigid toward her at their very next meeting? It was impossible to avoid the mortifying conclusion that she had not pleased him. But he had not acted so at the time — indeed, far different.

  She knew Giles to be experienced with women. Perhaps he found her deficient in some way, but how was she ever to remedy this if he never gave her any indication of what was wrong? Despairing as this thought was, it was worse to consider that very likely Giles preferred this state of affairs and had no slightest desire to come to a better understanding or forge a closer relationship than the state of cool civility under which they had dwelt for almost two months. The fierce pride that had managed to sustain her in the beginning was no longer sufficient. She was finding it increasingly difficult to pretend to a non-existent calmness and serenity of spirit in her daily routine. She felt smothered in a thick fog of depression with diminishing strength with which to battle through the mist. How was she to spend the rest of her life living with a man who treated her with the cold courtesy of a stranger without turning bitter and acidulous in her other relationships? She had married Giles knowing full well that he did not love her, but she had foolishly hoped their friendship would deepen into a real affection. Now she had even lost his friendship, and the pain of it would be her constant companion.

  She sighed deeply and resumed brushing the long, silken hair. No good could come from morbidly dwelling on this state of affairs. Better to think about the baby who would need her care and love. She was indeed fortunate that she would at least have Giles’s child. It must be a boy; somehow she was instinctively positive the baby would be a boy.

  The eyes in the mirror, which had become narrowed and dreamy with inner seeing, suddenly widened in surprise as they met the shadowed dark ones of her husband.

  “Giles! I … I did not hear you come in,” she stammered, laying the brush down with meticulous care as his presence in her room set her nerves tingling. Her hand crept up to her throat in an ineffectual gesture to ease the uncomfortable tightening sensation that increased as he took two more steps forward and stopped, looking down at her soberly, his hands jammed into the pockets of his wine-coloured dressing gown. She was totally conscious of her tingling body clad only in diaphanous apricot silk, but incapable of movement of any kind.

  “I was home early, waiting for you to come in so I could apologize for what I said this afternoon.” His voice deepened to passionate intensity. “You must believe that I never really meant what I implied. It’s just that I have no memory of that night, and at first I could not connect your news with myself. I know that is no excuse for insulting you, my dear, and I earnestly beg your forgiveness.”

  All colour had fled her face at his words, but she managed to echo faintly, “You — have — no memory…?”

  He turned away abruptly, pulling his hands from his pockets and consciously relaxing the clenched fists.

  “No,” he said through clenched teeth, “and I had no desire to recall such shameful conduct.” He turned and faced her, eyes black with intensity. “Good God, I never — forced a woman in my life, foxed or not. I couldn’t face the thought that I’d hurt my own wife, when all I ever desired was to take care of you almost from the moment you entered my house.”

  “Giles!” She rose swiftly from the chair and came toward him, her pride washed away by a wave of sympathy for his self-disgust. The green eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “You didn’t rape me, my dear, nor did you hurt me except for what was inevitable. Foxed you certainly were, but as soon as you realized I was frightened, you became as — as considerate a lover as any woman could wish.”

  “Angel!” A light flared in his eyes and he grasped her shoulders urgently, searching her face intently, then suddenly his own darkened again. “Then why did you cry, Angelica? Don’t deny it —” this as she shook her head helplessly, eyes averted. “I saw your face when I awoke; it was all tearstained, and there was blood on your mouth. Why would you cry yourself to sleep if I had not been brutal?”

  Angelica’s courage was gone, and she could not swallow the remnants of her pride to confess the truth. She remained silent, but he shook her slightly, repeating his demand:

  “Why did you cry?”

  “All — all women cry on their wedding night,” she assured him, trying to keep her voice from trembling “It does not mean anything.” She tried desperately to meet his intent gaze, but her lashes fell before the demand in those near-black eyes. “Please, Giles, you’re hurting me.”

  His grip on her loosened perceptibly, but that inquisitorial stare never wavered. After a moment, when she continued to evade his glance, he forced her chin up with the knuckles of one hand.

  “No,” he said deliberately, “not all women cry, unless they dislike their husbands intensely.” His faint inflection made a question of the accusation.

  Stung, she retorted hotly, “Or unless they realize they are just a substitute for another woman.” She rushed on now as though a dam had broken, heedless of his dumbfounded expression. “You called me Alicia when you were falling asleep, and I knew then that you had been pretending I was your first wife all the time you had been making love to me.”

  The tears were running unchecked down her face now, and she was too upset to struggle as he gathered her up into his arms. He sat in the large chair, cradling her head against his shoulder and tenderly smoothing her loosened hair back from her wet face. He did not speak until she had succeeded in controlling the tears, but his arms were eloquent of comfort and protection. As she grew calmer, he murmured thoughtfully:

  “I can’t imagine why I would call you Alicia, because except at the very beginning I was never happy with her. It took very few weeks for me to realize that she had no love for me at all, or later, for Jenny either. The marriage was completely empty, and I never planned to marry again. However, one does grow lonely, and when I saw that Lydia really needed a chaperone for her come-out, I cynically decided to select a suitable female to serve as companion for both of us. I stupidly believed I could never love again you see, Angel, so I had no qualms about offering my name and possessions to a decorative young woman whose
eyes were equally open and whose affections were, I was well aware, unengaged. I wanted no emotional demands made on me, and I thought Barbara would make none.”

  His arms tightened convulsively around her and he continued somewhat jerkily, due to the fact that his lips were feathering kisses along her cheekbones, sending shivers down her spine. “But I reckoned without love, my darling. You had not been in my house above a sennight when I realized I couldn’t marry Barbara.”

  Angelica had been listening dazedly, with green eyes huge and questioning, but here she interrupted, “But you decorated this room for Barbara; you were still planning to marry her until she eloped with Sir Anthony and you asked me to substitute for her.”

  “My foolish child, I hate to contradict you, but do you honestly believe this misty green room, which exactly matches your eyes when you are thoughtful, was meant for anyone except yourself?” His lips were caressing the tiny hollow beside her mouth. She shivered with delight and her arms wound themselves around his neck, but still she lingered outside the gates of paradise.

  “What would have happened if Barbara had not eloped?” she whispered haltingly.

  “I was not pinning all my hopes on Haring’s infatuation. If he had not come up to scratch, my darling, much as I would have deplored the tactic as unbecoming a gentleman, I’m afraid I should have given Barbara cause to break our engagement by flaunting my alleged mistress before her eyes in public. She had not been my mistress for some time, but no one knew that. I felt sure Barbara’s pride, plus her very real indifference to me, would overcome any maidenly shrinking from scandal.”

  His mocking voice grew husky with feeling. “I could not lose you, Angel. I would have done any desperate thing to induce you to marry me, but I feared to ask for your love in the circumstances, so I played on your soft heart and your sense of duty. I intended to woo you slowly, because I didn’t want another wife who pretended to love me. I did not want anything from you that was not freely given. Then I got drunk and ruined everything, or so I thought.” Gently drawing her head back with a hand entwined in her hair, he searched her countenance probingly and said quietly, “You do love me, do you not, Angel? I haven’t been wrong again?”

  The tears were shining in her eyes again, but this time they were tears of joy.

  “I think I have loved you since you rescued me from the lake ten years ago.”

  His eyes blazed triumphantly down at her. “Show me,” he demanded huskily, and his mouth came down on hers in a warm, thrilling kiss to which she responded with an intensity born of all the pent-up longing of the lonely weeks since he had last caressed her. She was breathless and shaken when at last he released her lips to kiss the enticing hollow of her throat, where a pulse was beating wildly. She seized the opportunity to whisper anxiously:

  “You … you don’t really wish there wasn’t going to be a baby, do you, Giles?”

  “Of course I don’t, my foolish little love. It’s high time Jenny had a brother or sister.” His lips quirked in the lopsided grin that was the first thing she had learned to love about him. “But you won’t mind if I hope for a son first, will you, love?”

  “It will be a son,” she assured him, smiling shyly into his tender, amused eyes. He continued to devour her face, and as his eyes darkened with passion, she lowered her lashes in confusion, the delicate colour fluctuating over her cheeks and the breathless sensation creeping back.

  He rose from the chair abruptly, carrying the delightful burden easily.

  “Come, my darling,” he whispered, striding to the bed, “you are one memory ahead of me.”

  *****

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  Copyright © Dorothy Mack, 1977

  Dorothy Mack has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales are purely coincidental.

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-913335-36-6