The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh: The Cavanaughs Volume 3

by Stephanie Laurens

  Her gaze on the greenery, she sank onto the leather and took a moment to steady her over-tense nerves. But the momentous moment wouldn’t be denied; she drew in a long breath, refocused her wits, marshaled her courage and her determination, and shifted her gaze to Frederick as he sat in the chair opposite.

  His expression remained impassive, but his eyes said he was watchful, waiting to learn what this was about.

  She’d resolved to be honest, open, and direct; he deserved nothing less. Her head erect, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, she drew breath and plunged in. “Yesterday, you floated the idea of us making our engagement real.” She met his eyes. “Were you serious?”

  Hope surged through Frederick; instantly, he suppressed it and evenly replied, “Entirely. And I haven’t changed my mind.” When she didn’t immediately go on, he prompted, “You said you would think about it.”

  She gave a tiny nod. “I’ve carefully considered the prospect—all the various aspects of it—and I have…certain reservations.”

  He would have been stunned had she simply agreed. “Such as?” He kept his tone as undemanding as he could.

  Yet rather than answer the straightforward question, she continued, “My reservations arise from the considerations that I’ve previously noted are too complicated to explain, which is something that hasn’t changed. However”—she paused to draw in a tense breath before continuing—“my reservations can be overcome if you will agree to a stipulation—an agreed condition.”

  He masked his surprise. “One stipulation—one condition?”

  Her nod was decisive and definite; from her expression, from her eyes, he could tell that she’d thought this through, and whatever her condition was, it was critically important to her.

  He inclined his head. “And that condition is?”

  Her gaze turned inward, and she hesitated, he sensed to gather her courage as well as her words, then she refocused on his eyes and said, “I need you to promise—on your honor—that you will never, ever, fall in love with me.”

  He stared at her and didn’t move so much as an eyelash. He’d heard her words, had absorbed them, but for a long moment, he couldn’t make sense of them.

  Then he did.

  His gaze was locked with hers and hers with his; he looked deep into her eyes—and felt as if the earth shifted beneath his feet.

  Understanding slammed into him. He felt like sucking in a sharp breath, but controlled the urge and, more slowly, expanded his chest. To gain time—to give him a chance to regain his balance—he arched a noncommittal brow. “That’s it?”

  The tension gripping her was palpable. Without shifting her gaze from his, she nodded. “That’s all I need to be certain of.”

  His wits were still reeling. How many gentlemen of his age and ilk would be thrilled to have such an ultimatum placed before them? He didn’t doubt that her condition was, indeed, an ultimatum; if he didn’t grant her stipulation, she wouldn’t agree to be his wife.

  He couldn’t resist asking, “Doesn’t it strike you that, in this day and age, your stipulation is a rather odd demand for a lady to make of her would-be husband?”

  Her eyes narrowed, and her chin tipped up a notch. “Regardless, that’s the promise I require before I will feel free to accept your proposal.”

  Free of what? “Why such a condition? Are you already in love with someone else? Or is some other gentleman in love with you? In the circumstances, those are highly pertinent questions.”

  Temper glimmered in her fine eyes and overrode the tension that until then had bound her. “No, I am not in love with any gentleman. Nor is any gentleman in love with me. I believe I can assure you on both those counts with absolute certainty. As for the reasons behind my stipulation, as I’ve already stated, those are too complex to explain.”

  He hadn’t expected her to capitulate and reveal all, but it had been worth a try.

  He studied her—the now-stubborn set of her delicate chin, the vibrant life he’d managed to spark in her eyes—and tried to piece together what her stipulation said of her and her reasons for avoiding matrimony… Why did she fear love? What danger did she see in him loving her? What threat did she perceive?

  Given the personal reality he’d only just fully grasped, those were, arguably, the most pertinent questions.

  But she was waiting, and he could delay giving her his answer for only so long. Yet…

  Gentling his tone to one of supplication, he asked, “Can I ask why—why you feel the need for such a stipulation?”

  He could almost see the answer forming in her eyes: Because I…

  Yet after a long moment of studying him, she said, “Perhaps one day I’ll be able to explain it to you, but at this point, my stipulation is the assurance I require in order to see my way clear to agreeing to your proposal.” She paused, then added, “I need that promise, and I need to believe you will adhere to it.”

  He couldn’t claim she wasn’t being clear. And regardless of the oddity of her request, courtesy of the startling epiphany her making that request had brought crashing down on him, he was in a position to give her an answer he prayed she would accept, although the devil was in the phrasing. Holding her gaze, keeping his own rock-steady, he said, “On my honor, I promise that, should we wed, I will not, thereafter, fall in love with you.”

  As he understood it, falling in love was one of those acts that, once committed, had to be reversed before it could be repeated.

  When she continued to stare at him, a frown forming in her eyes, he arched a brow at her. “Will that do?”

  Stacie wasn’t sure how to answer. He’d given her what she’d asked for, and she certainly didn’t doubt his honor, yet for some reason, she was…not as assured as she needed to be. She studied his—as ever, uninformative—face, fleetingly compressed her lips, then replied, “I would feel a lot more comfortable—a lot more assured—if you will further agree that, if in some benighted future you do unintentionally fall in love with me, you will agree to a divorce.”

  He snorted dismissively. “In our circles? You know that’s not going to happen.”

  She wasn’t surprised by his refusal. She grimaced and shifted in the chair. She felt restless, on edge—on the cusp of seizing something she only now realized she truly and quite desperately wanted. It hung there, the ultimate prize, almost within her grasp, yet there was just one tiny, quibbling hurdle…

  Abruptly, she flung her hands in the air and met his eyes. “Suggest something, then—some penalty that will convince me beyond all doubt, reasonable or otherwise, that you will exercise all your considerable willpower and take any and every step necessary to avoid breaking your promise not to fall in love with me.”

  His eyes narrowed on her face. After a tense moment, he nodded. “Very well. I swear that if, once we are wed, I break my promise and fall in love with you, I will donate my entire collection of musical texts to whomever you wish.” His words were clipped, carrying a definite edge. He almost glared as he pointedly arched his brows at her. “Good enough?”

  She glanced at the shelves lining the room.

  As if reading her mind, he stated, “This isn’t my collection—it’s at Brampton Hall.”

  “I see.” She replayed his words. She knew how much his collection meant to him; it embodied his chosen life-purpose. He would never willingly give that up or even put it at risk, not for any price. She couldn’t ask for a more cast-iron guarantee.

  His promise was enough to vanquish her lingering fears.

  Before she’d left her room that morning, she’d made a pact with Fate, that if he gave her the promise she needed, she would accept his assurance, take his proffered hand, and marry him.

  Her heart broke free of the shackles she’d placed upon it and soared.

  She met his eyes and let him see her burgeoning happiness. “Thank you.” Formally, she inclined her head to him. “Given your agreement to my stipulation and your promise, I would be honored to accept your suggestion to make o
ur engagement real.”

  “And subsequently, marry me.” His gaze steady on her eyes, he waited.

  Smiling now, she nodded. “Yes.” When he still waited, she parroted, “And subsequently, marry you.”

  Although apparently satisfied, he raised a staying hand. “Having reached that point, I find that I, too, have a stipulation to make.”

  She widened her eyes at him. “What?”

  “That we marry as soon as possible—by special license.”

  Something like panic fluttered in her chest; she’d assumed they’d have an engagement that ran for months. “Why?”

  Because I want my ring on your finger before you have a chance to change your mind. Frederick knew better than to utter those words. Instead, he advanced another equally valid reason. “Because once the ton—let alone our families—hear of us setting a date, we won’t be allowed a moment’s peace.”

  Chapter 13

  Six days later, Frederick stood facing the altar in St. George’s Church in Hanover Square, praying that Stacie hadn’t changed her mind and wishing the ceremony, at least, was over.

  Unfortunately, it had yet to start. To his right stood Percy, with George beyond him, and at his back were ranged the select few who had been invited to witness this most restricted of ton events.

  The wedding of Lady Eustacia Cavanaugh and Frederick, Marquess of Albury, was destined to set a new record for the smallest of haut ton weddings, much to the relief of both principal participants.

  Six days of what Frederick mentally termed “fuss” were about to reach their culmination. Impatience of an unfamiliar sort pricked and prodded; he accepted the absolute necessity of the event, yet wanted it over and done with.

  From the moment Stacie had walked into his mother’s drawing room and into his life, she’d flung challenges his way, intentionally or otherwise. First, it had been luring him into performing once again before the ton, then she herself had become the source of subsequent challenges—to protect her reputation after they’d been discovered in a compromising situation, then to learn the secret of why she refused to marry, and ultimately, to persuade her to accept that they were a well-nigh perfect match and agree to marry him.

  Now, to cap it all, she’d presented him with the challenge to beat all challenges—to overcome her irrational fear of him loving her before she realized he already did.

  When she’d demanded he promise not to fall in love with her, it had been impossible to ignore the reality that, at some point over the previous weeks, he’d fallen victim to Cupid’s bow. Without a whimper, without any real resistance; Stacie had woven a web of enthrallment, and he’d willingly succumbed.

  At least, courtesy of her stipulation, he now had what he suspected was a reasonably accurate understanding of the root cause of her resistance to marriage, and to his mind, the implications weren’t all bad.

  Once he’d had a chance to reflect on her apparent aversion to him loving her, it hadn’t required any huge deductive leap to guess that her father had loved her mother and that her mother had betrayed that love, causing her father untold pain. He’d confirmed with Ryder and Rand that Stacie had been devoted to her father, that he and she had been especially close. Put that together with the constant refrain that most likely had filled Stacie’s ears ever since she could comprehend speech, namely that she was an exact replica of her mother, and the demand Stacie had made of him no longer seemed so strange.

  The aspect of that which had given him most heart was that making such a demand of him was the equivalent of seeking to protect him. Stacie cared for him at least that much—enough to take steps to ensure that, by her reasoning, she wouldn’t be able to cause him the same hurt her mother had visited on her father.

  To his mind, that was a very large step in a positive direction—one he could work with and build upon. Now all he had to do was untangle her thinking and convince her that, despite the physical similarity, inside, in her character and in her heart, she wasn’t and never would become a reincarnation of her mother.

  Even if he loved her.

  If he’d read what Stacie had revealed correctly, she saw him loving her as some sort of catalyst that would draw forth and feed the darkness of spirit that had characterized her mother. It would, therefore, be necessary to hide the true nature of his feelings until he’d convinced her that there was no danger in him loving her—until he’d overwritten and erased her mistaken belief that she would ever transform into a malignant harpy.

  Luckily, hiding all softer emotions—more or less pretending not to love—was virtually a stock-in-trade for gentlemen like him. Indeed, in that regard, his late father had provided an exemplary role model; Frederick had never doubted his father had loved his mother, and his mother hadn’t, either, yet no one viewing Frederick’s father in public would have described his feelings toward his marchioness as noticeably warm.

  Beside Frederick, Percy shifted, then whispered, “I haven’t forgotten the ring.”

  Frederick nodded. It was the second time Percy had told him that; his friends were more nervous than he was. He was the first of their number to marry; no more than he had they played these roles before, and the last days had been enough to make anyone’s head whirl.

  It had been Wednesday morning when Stacie had come to see him, and after she’d agreed to marry him, they’d gone straight to Raventhorne House, where their news had been greeted with great elation and with very pointed congratulations directed his way. He’d left Stacie surrounded by her family and gone to the Old Deanery in the City to call on his distant connection, Charles Blomfield, currently the Bishop of London. Subsequently, armed with a special license, he and Stacie had visited the Rector of St. George’s, Reverend Hodgson, and settled on the date and time. After that, they’d returned to Albury House and broken the news of their impending nuptials to his mother—who hadn’t known whether to be thrilled that he would be married so soon or miffed for the same reason.

  Thereafter, the family matriarchs—his mother and Mary—had taken over proceedings and dictated how things would be. He’d left Stacie to her sisters-in-law’s devices, called on Percy and George and enlisted their support, then gone on to Moreton in Savile Row. The tailor had been quietly thrilled to receive Frederick’s order of a new dove-gray morning suit and had assured him it would be delivered on Monday.

  Frederick’s next stop had been Aspreys; after finalizing his purchases there—the ruby parure and a worked gold band the same size as the ruby ring—he’d deemed his preparations complete and had retreated to his study at Albury House.

  He felt sure Stacie’s preparations had been a great deal more complex and harried—he’d known better than to inquire about her gown—yet although his mother and Mary had insisted on celebratory family dinners on Friday and Saturday evenings, those had merely replaced the events he and Stacie had had scheduled. That had suited him and Stacie both, and with Sunday being a day of rest even among the ton, and no one expecting them to attend events yesterday, the lead-up to the wedding had been not just swift but also largely out of sight of society.

  Given that Stacie had specifically requested a small, intimate, family wedding, and Frederick had wanted the knot tied as quickly as possible, they had both managed to get what they’d wanted.

  Frederick had been idly listening to the organ, critically noting the organist’s shortcomings, when the music paused, then resumed with the opening chords of Mendelssohn’s wedding march. Frederick had chosen the piece; he’d felt it fitting to have Stacie walk down the nave to him to the music of one of his favorite composers.

  The change in tune meant that she was on her way. A sudden sense of teetering on some precipice seized him. He hauled in a slow breath, steeled himself, and turned.

  All he could see was her—a slender yet curvaceous vision in ivory, pearls, and lace, with the finest of lace veils draped over her face and her glossy dark hair. Tiny seed pearls were liberally sprinkled over her bodice and gleamed from the folds of her ski
rt, while larger pearls circled her throat, bobbed at her ear lobes, and anchored the veil in her hair.

  She was Venus-Aphrodite translated to the here and now, and she stole what little breath he’d managed to draw in and left him giddy.

  He was vaguely aware of a young girl-child—presumably Ryder and Mary’s daughter—cavorting ahead of Stacie and scattering white rose petals with gay abandon. Stacie was leaning on the arm of some man—Ryder, Frederick supposed—but he couldn’t shift his attention from her enough to be sure.

  As the music played and Stacie drew nearer and he could finally make out her eyes, large and shining behind the fine veil, the only thought that surfaced through the fog of his entrancement was that hiding his feelings for her had just become much harder.

  Through her fine veil, Stacie studied Frederick as he watched her slow approach, and sensed more than saw that she’d succeeded in claiming every last iota of his attention. Sylvia, Felicia, and Mary had been right; all the hours she’d spent at the modiste’s in pursuit of garnering just that reaction had been worth it.

  She’d asked Ryder to walk her down the aisle, while Rand had accompanied her in the carriage to the church. Clarissa was dancing ahead of her, dispensing rose petals with unrestrained alacrity, while Mary walked a yard to the right to ensure her daughter adhered to their script.

  Her nephews, Julian and Arthur, were acting as trainbearers, and Felicia and Sylvia, her matrons of honor, were following the pair.

  This was the wedding she’d never thought to have, and in her eyes, it was perfect. Small, intimate, undemanding—an event she could enjoy without worrying who might think what. Only thirty guests, gathered in knots to either side, had been invited; all were either her family or Frederick’s.

  This was one journey she’d never thought to take, pacing down the center of St. George’s nave to where Frederick waited, his eyes on hers, his hand rising and extending toward her as Ryder lifted her fingers from his sleeve and placed them in Frederick’s outstretched hand.