The Memory of Your Kiss

by Wilma Counts

“No. Just a visit, though I did ask her to look over the arrangements for the wedding breakfast to be held in the ballroom.”

  “I take it she approved?”

  “Yes. Bella is not hard to please.” Henry emitted a derisive laugh. “I will not face the sorts of problems in this marriage that plague our prince and future king.”

  “His troubles are largely of his own making. He never has treated his wife with the degree of respect a wife rightly deserves.”

  Henry gave him an oblique look. “Princess Caroline is not blameless, you know. Her behavior often has tongues wagging.”

  “I daresay she retaliates in the only way she knows how—or can—when he so openly flaunts his mistresses.”

  Henry laughed. “You’re right. The prince is not a paragon of discretion.”

  Realizing that this conversation might veer into an area Henry could find uncomfortable, Zachary changed the subject to a safer area of public discourse: the ongoing conflict between the king’s conservative Tory government and the Whigs, supported by the monarch’s rebellious heir.

  Well after midnight they finished the bottle of cognac and Zachary was feeling quite mellow as they said their good-nights. The drink had not truly worked its magic: His last thought before sleep overtook him was of Sydney.

  The next morning Zachary donned his dress uniform and sat in Paxton’s best carriage opposite his cousin who was dressed in the fashionable pantaloons and tailed coat of formal town wear. Zachary thought the care Henry had taken in his appearance might indicate a deal of respect for his Bella beyond what he demonstrated in casual conversation about his bride.

  As the two cousins stood at the altar of the parish church, Zachary looked over the small group assembled to witness the ceremony. He guessed there were, perhaps, thirty people gathered here. Well, Henry had said it was to be a small, private affair. Then his glance fell on two members of the group on the bride’s side of the church. Herbert Carstairs and his mother. What were they doing here? Was Sydney here too? Might he see her again? He looked more closely at the guests, but did not see her.

  Suddenly it hit him. Sydney—his Sydney—had been promised to another before her sojourn in Bath. In one of those intuitive moments that suspend time, it occurred to him that Henry’s Bella could be his Sydney. Please, God, no! Feeling as though some giant had dealt him a blow to the midriff, he sucked in a deep breath, but he had no time to adjust to that horrifying idea before he saw her. Sydney, preceded by her cousin Celia, appeared on the arm of a tall, thin man with a shock of white hair. But it was Sydney who commanded Zachary’s attention. Sydney in an ivory silk gown, the style of which even he recognized as belonging to a bygone era. She was, quite simply, beautiful. As he looked closely at her face, he thought he detected signs of fatigue or stress—a tenseness about her eyes and mouth. Then her gaze went from Henry to him and he saw a wisp of a sad smile of recognition.

  Had she known all along? Had Bath been a weird sort of game she played? Those trips about town? All those hours together? A grotesque joke at his expense? Just an adventure before settling into the humdrum of married life? The interlude that had affected him so profoundly had been a charade to her. He recalled her response to his kiss. No. That at least had been genuine. Maybe.

  Anger and doubt assailed him. So long as her future had been a vague unknown, he had accepted it. But now? His own cousin? He thought fleetingly of making a scene when the minister got to that part about “anyone who had objections to this union.” He winced inwardly as her father placed Sydney’s hand in Henry’s. Zachary recalled clearly the feel of that hand in his own.

  Then the bride’s father stepped into place as the clergyman announced the intention of this man and this woman, Henry Matthew Alistair Laughton and Sydney Isabella Waverly, to enter into the holy state of matrimony. Well, that explained the confusion over her name. Zachary struggled to maintain his composure, drawing upon years of experience in observing military decorum—of not flinching in seeing a man flogged, of fighting on, directing others even when a friend’s death rattle seemed to drown out all other noises of battle.

  He could do this. He would do it.

  And somehow he did, even to the point of handing Henry the heirloom ring at the proper moment and watching, fascinated, seeing only their hands as Henry slipped it on her finger. He stood stoically as Henry kissed her. Then the bridal party retired to the vestry to sign the church registry, first Henry, then his bride. As Sydney handed the pen to Zachary, their hands touched and, for just a moment, his gaze held hers. Was it regret or resignation he saw there? Or was that merely what he wanted to see? He signed quickly and handed the pen to Celia.

  Then it was over.

  But no. There was still the wedding breakfast. For the return trip to the Hall, he found himself in a carriage with Henry’s younger sisters with whom he had only this morning become acquainted. They reminded him of his own sister, Julia, and he only half listened as the two girls giggled and gushed over the beauty of the bride and the ceremony itself. They were polite in trying to include him in their conversation and he was pleased to be able to respond in a normal tone.

  Unlike Zachary, Sydney had been prepared for their meeting again—and the circumstances under which it would occur. She had spent a mostly sleepless night before that long, long journey down the aisle of her father’s church. She had worked hard to school her emotions since her sojourn in Bath. Then yesterday, in an instant, all that effort had been shattered.

  Along with her father, Geoffrey and Marybeth, her aunt Harriet and her cousins, she had visited Paxton Hall in part to check on seating arrangements at the post-wedding breakfast. After showing the visitors the more public rooms of the Hall, Lord Paxton accompanied Sydney and her aunt to the ballroom, leaving the vicar and the younger visitors in the music room with his sisters. In the ballroom, they found a long table at one end of the room, with a number of smaller tables spread along the side walls, each providing seating for eight people.

  The room itself was magnificent. One long wall had several large windows and two sets of double French doors leading to a large and well-tended garden. Opposite that wall were three large tapestries between which were large mirrors that would at night reflect the light from two large chandeliers. The other walls were covered in green and gold embossed silk; the painted ceiling, like the tapestries, depicted scenes from Greek mythology.

  “What a beautiful room,” Aunt Harriet exclaimed. “I remember attending a ball here soon after my brother moved to Devonshire. You have done a marvelous job of preserving it, my lord.”

  “My father had the tapestries cleaned and mended. They date from the fifteenth century. And, please, Mrs. Carstairs, call me Henry. We are to be family, after all.”

  “Why, thank you. Then I shall be your aunt Harriet as well as Sydney’s.”

  Henry smiled and shook his head, but looked with affection at his fiancée. “I am forcing myself to think of her as Sydney. To me, she has always been Bella. I keep forgetting.”

  They all smiled at this, then Sydney, observing the linens, fine china, and table decorations, said, “I had not realized this breakfast would be quite such an elaborate affair. There must be a hundred places set here!” She felt a little overwhelmed and some of her trepidation must have shown in her voice.

  “Never mind, my dear. Stevenson and Roberts, along with Mrs. Knight, have everything in hand,” Henry assured her, naming his steward, the butler, and the housekeeper. “Besides, you know almost everyone—tenant farmers, Paxton Hall servants, village people, and so on.”

  With a gentle hand at the small of her back, he guided her to the head table and began to point out who would sit where. Sydney took it all in, but only half listened until he said “—my cousin Zachary, here, next to you—”

  “Your cousin who?”

  “Zachary. Zachary Quintin. His mother is my aunt. You will like him. Army man. With Wellington.”

  “I—I know him,” Sydney said.

 
; “You do?”

  “We met in Bath,” she said, trying to quell the surprise and panic she felt with knowing that Zachary would see her being married.

  “What a small world it is,” Aunt Harriet said. “Lieutenant Quintin is a particular friend of my son.”

  “Had I known you were going to Bath, Bella—uh, Sydney—I would certainly have made him known to you,” Henry said.

  “It happened very quickly,” Sydney said, still trying to absorb this news. Zachary. He would be here. Tomorrow. Oh, dear God.

  Aunt Harriet cast Sydney a questioning look, then launched into babbling about soldiers coming to Bath to convalesce from war wounds. Sydney was grateful for time to pull herself together and wondered just how much her keen-eyed aunt knew of what had passed between her and Zachary.

  “Such a pity so many of them must return to the battlefields,” her aunt was saying.

  “But are we not lucky to have them performing as they do for our sake?” Henry said.

  “Indubitably,” Aunt Harriet said.

  When the three of them rejoined the others, Sydney had herself under control and could marvel with the others about the coincidence of Zachary Quintin’s being Henry Laughton’s cousin.

  “My grandfather, the sixth earl, disapproved of his daughter’s marriage to a man he thought of a ‘nabob’ and because of that, my father was never very close to his sister,” Henry explained. “Sad, isn’t it, what happens to some families?”

  Later that night—the eve of her wedding—Sydney had tossed and turned in her bed, beset by doubts. Was it right to marry Henry feeling as she did about Zachary? And, really, how did she feel about him? How did she feel about either of these men? Yes, there was this incredible chemistry between her and Zachary. That kiss in the park had shaken her to the very core of her being. She loved the fact they seemed to understand each other on some fundamental level she had never known with another human being.

  But she had known Zachary only a matter of weeks—less than a month. With a seven-year age difference, she and Henry had never been close as children, but she had known him virtually her whole life. Yet what did she really know of this man she was to marry? She knew Zachary’s taste in art and what books he liked; they shared an interest in history, even if they did not always agree on who were the positive and who the negative players on history’s stage. Was Henry a reader? Did he even like literature—let alone was he able to quote well-known works?

  Oh, do stop, she told herself. This was an exercise in futility. There was no point in considering what might have been. She had given her word. Under no circumstances could this well-reared vicar’s daughter ever subject her intended husband, her father, her family, to scandal. Nor was it merely the threat of scandal that gave her pause. Henry could and would protect her, her father, Geoffrey and Marybeth—and he would do it now. Zachary was returning to the war for God alone knew how long. And only God knew how much time her papa had left.

  Thus ran Miss Sydney Waverly’s thoughts throughout the night before her wedding. By morning, she was sure she had gained firm control of herself and not only her future, but also those of Geoffrey and Marybeth.

  Then she saw Zachary standing next to Henry and she faltered, but only momentarily. He looked splendid; his impeccable red-coated military uniform was a stark contrast to the conservative civilian wear Henry wore. She tried to read his expression, but couldn’t. Her gaze shifted to Henry. She saw only friendly welcome in his eyes. Her hand trembled on her father’s arm and he placed his other hand over hers.

  “Courage, my love,” he whispered. “It will be fine. You’ll see.”

  And suddenly, it was. She repeated her vows in a strong voice and signed the registry with a steady hand, though she admitted to herself the familiar sensation she felt when her hand touched Zachary’s at the signing. In the carriage on the way to the Hall, refusing to let herself consider what the rest of the day and night held for her, she sought diversion in small talk with her brand new husband.

  With a gesture to the window, Henry said, “Happy the bride the sun shines on.”

  Was he nervous too? She smiled. “And the groom, I hope.”

  “We shall have decent weather for the drive and our stay at Tarrenton—perhaps it will even hold as we go on to the sea.” Sydney knew Tarrenton, a manor house with extensive acreage, was another Paxton property located thirty miles from Paxton Hall.

  “I shall enjoy it in whatever weather we find,” she said. “I love the sea, especially when it is stormy.”

  “My wife—the consummate rebel.” Henry took her hand in his and continued to hold it until the carriage swung into the driveway. Aware of and nervous also about the great changes the last hour had wrought in her life, Sydney clung to his hand, grateful for the reassuring contact.

  The wedding breakfast, about which Sydney had previously harbored a good deal of apprehension, turned out to be rather fun for her. Henry had been right: she knew these people and they not only wished the bridal couple well, but did so with gusto. There were many toasts, but later Sydney remembered only the first one. Zachary’s.

  “To my cousin Henry and his delightful bride. May their trust in each other and fidelity to the vows they took today see them safely through any turbulence in the sea of life. May neither of them ever be tempted in any way to alter the regard they have only for each other and the honesty and integrity with which they begin their married life.”

  Henry, leaning back in his chair to speak to a guest on the other side of Celia who sat next to him, seemed not to have heard Zachary’s toast. Sydney nodded and smiled and said all that was proper, but later she wondered if there was some double entendre to his remarks.

  And much, much later, she was sure there had been.

  Sydney gave herself up to enjoying this party, refusing to allow the disconcerting presence of one Zachary Quintin to deter her. She was aware of him seated next to her; she sensed the warmth of his body. Occasionally, their arms chanced to touch. There was an instant in which she caught the familiar scent of his shaving soap. There was so much she wanted to say to him, but this was neither the time nor the place. And, in truth, what was there to say? The meal and toasts over, the glasses were refilled again and again. Musicians had played softly throughout the meal and now played country dance tunes and many of the guests formed sets while others merely mingled and chatted.

  Sydney was determined to make this an enjoyable occasion, not only for herself, but especially to assure her father that she was happy, for, after her return from Bath, he had seemed nervous about whether she would be content with her lot in life. Had he suspected something had happened to her in Bath? She and Henry led the first dance set and after that she took part in others as well. She was pleased to find herself able to meet Zachary in the twists and turns of one dance set with a cool detached demeanor—at least outwardly. She struggled to control her inner emotions.

  During a lull in the festivities, Sydney sank into a chair next to her father. “How are you faring, Papa?”

  “Quite well, my daughter. Quite well.”

  “You are not getting overly tired, are you?”

  “No. No. I am thoroughly enjoying myself. I had a nice chat with Lieutenant Quintin. I met his mother years ago. Nice lad. He danced with Marybeth.”

  “He did?” It occurred to Sydney that she had never been his chosen dance partner. “So what did you and he talk about?”

  The vicar chuckled. “Would you believe the relative merits of The Iliad and The Odyssey? I accused him of military prejudice in his preference for a war story. Fine topic at a wedding celebration, eh?”

  Sydney laughed and kissed his cheek. “Oh, Papa.”

  He put his hand on hers and gazed into her eyes. “Bella, you are happy, are you not?”

  She held his gaze, trying to project her sincerity. “Of course I am. Could any woman ask for more?”

  It had been a rhetorical question, but he took it seriously. “Maybe—” he started, st
ill holding her hand.

  She leaned close and kissed him on the cheek again. “Do not worry yourself, Papa. It will be fine. I promise.”

  Sydney was also keenly aware that this was her first public appearance as the Countess of Paxton. It was important that these people, almost all dependent on the earldom to some degree, see her changed status as a positive factor in their lives. To this end, she made sure that she and her new husband had a personal word with everyone.

  When she and Henry had changed into their traveling clothes, they returned to the party to bid their guests farewell and endure a good deal of merriment at their expense. They also had private moments with their family members.

  “Zachary, feel free to stay here at the Hall as long as you wish,” Henry said.

  “My ship sails in three days. I shall leave in the morning,” Zachary said as he shook hands with Henry. He then lifted Sydney’s hand to pass an air kiss over it. She squeezed his fingers for a moment as he held her gaze and said in a husky voice, “I do wish you both every happiness.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  There was a flurry of good-byes as the newlyweds settled into the traveling coach with a driver and two outriders to accompany them. Henry’s valet and Sydney’s maid had been sent on ahead an hour earlier.

  As Sydney poked her head out the window for one last good-bye, she caught sight of Zachary standing behind the crowd. He leaned against one of the columns of the portico on the Hall, arms crossed over his chest staring at the ground. Her heart wrenched at the bereft expression on his face.

  It was the last she would see of him for nearly four years.

  CHAPTER 8

  Determined that she would be a good wife to Henry, Sydney had few reservations about her coming wedding night. She knew essentially what to expect—had she not assured her father that she knew about “the birds and the bees”? Still, she was nervous; she did know the basics, but there were glaring gaps in this part of her education.

  Maisie, who had helped her into and out of the wedding gown, then into her travel clothes, now helped her remove those and don a sheer silk and lace concoction that was intended as a nightgown. Sydney felt suddenly shy in front of the maid and tried to cover her embarrassment with small talk.