Marigold's Marriages

by Sandra Heath

  “Yes, Marigold, I would.”

  “But, Alauda ...”

  “Alauda has nothing to do with this.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I have already said so.” Rowan held her eyes. “I know that for Perry’s sake you wish to accept, and yet you hesitate. Why? Is it because you shrink from attentions you may find disagreeable? If so, let me assure you that my demands for your favors will cease before the end of this month.”

  It was such a very odd thing to say that she looked curiously at him. “What do you mean?”

  “You will find out soon enough, so I will not bore you with the details.”

  His refusal to explain made her draw back from the edge. “I—I need time to consider ...”

  “Time is the one thing I cannot allow, Marigold. You must answer me now, or forfeit your chance. After all, I may sleep on the matter and wake up of a different mind.”

  “Which statement reduces this whole thing to the farce I suspected all along, sir,” she replied angrily,

  “If it appears farcical, I apologize, because believe me, I am serious. So what is your answer? Will you honor me with your hand? For your son’s sake I advise you to think carefully before you decline.”

  She tried to read his eyes. What manner of man was he? Another Merlin? Or someone with whom she could at least come close to being happy? Her head warned against the former, but her heart leaned toward the latter.

  “The seconds are ticking away, Marigold,” he pressed softly.

  The robin fluttered down to the grass only yards away from them, and sang a little song. Marigold once again threw caution to the winds. “I accept, Lord Avenbury,” she answered, hardly able to believe any of this was happening. The robin flew away, but his song echoed joyously around the grove.

  Rowan smiled, “A sensible reply.”

  “Or a completely lunatic one,” she observed. She must have taken leave of her senses! She’d known him for a few hours, and yet had agreed to marry him! What else could she be but moonstruck? Then an obvious question belatedly struck her. “When do you wish this, er, contract to be solemnized?”

  “How very formal you are.”

  “I don’t know how else to be, sir.”

  “That will soon be rectified. As I said before, time is the one thing I cannot allow, so I intend the marriage to take place in a few days.”

  “Why won’t you explain more? What will happen before the end of the month?”

  Instead of answering, he suddenly drew her closer, and put his lips to hers. It was the sort of kiss to melt her soul, for it was lingering, teasing, sensuous, and filled with sweet promise. A warm ache began to seep deliciously through her; it was the ache of desire, and all her willpower was required to prevent her from slipping her arms around him and returning it in a way that was not at all demure.

  He relaxed his hold, and stepped back. “There, Marigold, we have sealed our betrothal with a kiss,” he said softly.

  Her senses were in chaos, and she avoided his eyes in case he realized the sort of response he had aroused in her. A sudden breath of wind rustled through the Druid Oak, and her gaze was drawn toward it. She saw the golden mistletoe swaying on the jagged branch.

  Chapter Seven

  Later that day Rowan took Marigold to see Perry. The great round tower of Windsor Castle was very white and majestic against the clear blue June sky as the curricle swept over the bridge across the Thames, on its way to Eton College.

  Marigold’s gauze scarf streamed in the breeze as the team of grays kicked up their hooves. She wore her lilac silk pelisse and matching gown, and gripped the rail tightly as the curricle skimmed around a corner. If she had wondered if the past twenty-four hours was only a dream, she could wonder no more, for on her finger was a diamond ring Rowan had purchased for her at a fashionable Windsor jeweler.

  Right now, however, her thoughts were of Perry. Her astonishing betrothal was for his sake, yet how was she going to explain it to him when she still hardly knew what to make of it herself? She glanced down at the ring, and wished again that she knew Rowan’s reasons for marrying her. His vague replies about honor and having nothing to lose didn’t explain anything, she still didn’t know why he was doing it.

  But she did know it was a very unequal bargain for him. When the story got out, society would think the same, and the new Lady Avenbury would be greeted with a scandalized stir. She was thirty years old, penniless, and not a great beauty, nor did she even have a great lineage to commend her. She claimed to have been widowed for only a month, yet as things stood, the law would not only call her a liar, but also brand her son illegitimate.

  So why, why did one of England’s most handsome, sought-after, and wealthy lords choose to make her his bride after a few hours’ acquaintance? Oh, it would engross drawing room conversation for weeks!

  Her eyes slid surreptitiously toward Rowan’s face as he tooled the grays along the cobbled street. His profile was matchless—strong, firm, and yet finely molded too in that oddly aristocratic way that so set his class apart. His top hat was, as usual, tipped back on his tousled dark hair, and the folds of his brown silk neckcloth fluttered a little as the curricle raced toward the college. His hard, lithe body set off his tight-fitting sage green coat and cream breeches to perfection, and his skill with the ribbons was such that he hardly seemed to instruct the flying team.

  What sort of marriage was theirs going to be? All she had to give was herself—and he had already warned that he intended to take her—but how did she feel about it? Her reaction to his kiss told her she was greatly attracted to him, but it was many years since she had last graced Merlin’s bed, and even longer since she had known pleasure there.

  Yet pleasure there had once been. If the kiss by the Druid Oak was a guide, then it seemed the sensuous side of her nature had certainly not withered along with her love for Merlin. Not only that, it was set to bloom again with Rowan, Lord Avenbury, whose lips had almost robbed her of all restraint. But there was Alauda to beware of. Beware, Marigold, beware, she warned herself.

  Suddenly his hazel eyes swung to meet hers. “Have you studied me enough, Marigold?”

  “Forgive me, I—I didn’t mean to stare.”

  “Oh, yes, you did. And I know what you were wondering.”

  “You do?” Color warmed her cheeks.

  He laughed, and did not trouble to lower his voice to reply. “You’re wondering if the kiss by the oak was a prelude to a veritable symphony of fleshly pleasures.”

  “Hush!” Marigold was hugely embarrassed, for a lady just emerging from a haberdashery heard, and was shocked.

  Rowan merely laughed, and raised his voice still more. “The answer is yes, Marigold, for when we are married, I intend to make passionate and lengthy love to you!”

  Two gentlemen on the pavement turned in astonishment as the scarlet curricle dashed past, and one of them raised his hat and shouted approval. Mortified, Marigold gazed fixedly ahead. “Why do you not print a broadsheet and distribute it throughout the town?”

  Rowan chuckled. “Forgive me, but I simply couldn’t resist.” He became more serious. “Joking apart, I trust I have answered your unspoken questions?”

  “Only some of them.”

  “Other answers will be forthcoming in due course, I promise.”

  “But not yet.”

  “No, not yet, for I’m not quite ready to tell you everything. I will though, you have my word. And when I do explain, please try to understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  He didn’t say anything more, but tooled the team even more swiftly along the cobbles. Several minutes later they reached their destination, not the college itself, but the residence of Dr. Bethel, the classics master, with whom Perry and his friend and classmate, Percy Bysshe Shelley, were lodged. It was a three-storied town house in a quiet cul-de-sac, and as the curricle came to a halt, Marigold was startled to hear screams, shouts, and the frantic quacking of an angry duck emanating fr
om an open window on the top floor. More than that, a cloud of foul-smelling smoke billowed out over the leafy street.

  She alighted anxiously. “The house is on fire!” she cried, gathering her skirts to rush inside, but Rowan vaulted swiftly down and held her back.

  “It isn’t a fire. From the smell of it, I’d hazard it’s a scientific experiment that has temporarily bested its creator,” he reassured her.

  “But, Rowan, I—

  He interrupted her. “Believe me, Marigold, all will be well. The smell is only too familiar, because as a boy I once attempted precisely the same experiment. My lodgings were somewhat odiferous for a few days, but that is all. Although what in God’s name a duck has to do with it, I cannot imagine.”

  Suddenly a man’s angry voice carried plainly to the pavement outside. “Mr. Arnold and Mr. Shelley, how many times have I remonstrated with you concerning dabbling with chemicals and keeping creatures in your room?” Whoever it was then had to shout as the quacking became positively hysterical. “Mr. Shelley, will you kindly keep your bird under control!”

  Gradually the clamor of quacks died to an occasional grumble, and a boy spoke. “But, Dr. Bethel, it isn’t my bird!”

  “Which leaves me to presume it must be yours, Mr. Arnold?”

  Perry answered. “No, Dr. Bethel.”

  “Then may I inquire to whom it does belong?”

  “We don’t know, sir,” replied the first boy. “We, er, found it in the room.”

  There was a heavy silence, broken only by a quack or two. Then Dr. Bethel spoke again, and very testily. “I came in here and found you two seated on the edge of a satanic circle, with blue flames, smoke everywhere, and this poor creature in the middle of the circle! Why, sirs, I wonder you bothered with such mild magic, why didn’t you go straight to the pentagram and sacrificial cockerel? A devil or two would certainly enliven afternoon tea, but a demon duck seems something of an anticlimax!”

  Rowan hid a smile, but Marigold had grown more and more dismayed. What on earth had been going on here?

  Perry protested. “Dr. Bethel, we don’t know anything about the duck, it just appeared! Anyway, it’s a drake.”

  “Duck, drake, what does it matter? The fact remains that I do not believe you, Mr. Arnold, instead I think you and Mr. Shelley brought the unfortunate creature here for your sorcery.”

  The duck began to quack belligerently. “No, sir, I swear it!” Perry cried. “It—it must have flown in through the window, and we just didn’t see it because Bysshe’s chemical experiment had caught fire and produced so much smoke.”

  “And that is your explanation?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You must think I also believe the moon to be made of cheese! I’m sorry, gentlemen, but this behavior is simply not good enough, nor is your conduct in general. Last week you contrived to use a gunpowder device in order to blow up an old tree stump at the college, and now it is ducks and devil worship!”

  Marigold’s hand crept worriedly to her throat. Chemicals? Gunpowder? Devil worship? Ducks?

  “We weren’t worshipping the devil, sir, we were trying to raise a Celtic god,” protested Bysshe.

  “I don’t care what you were attempting to raise, sir, I only care that I don’t wish it to materialize in my house!” cried the furious master. “This is the final straw, you leave me no choice but to report you to Dr. Keate!”

  Marigold’s lips parted. The formidable Dr. Keate was in charge of the entire Lower School at the college, and in Perry’s letters was described as a “flogger.”

  Seeing her expression, Rowan smiled a little. “Well, if they’ve been doing all that, they deserve it,” he murmured.

  “Perry was always so quiet,” she said bemusedly.

  “Boys grow up, and I fear that dabbling in things such as this is part of that process,” he replied, endeavoring to reassure her.

  “Clearly you speak from experience.”

  “Well, I have to confess that I was indeed a boy once,” he answered dryly.

  “A devil-worshipping boy?”

  “Naturally, along with searching for the secret of alchemist’s gold, trying to communicate with spirits, and frightening my unfortunate friend witless with imaginary monsters. But I promise I no longer communicate with Beelzebub and his lieutenants, indeed I’ve quietened considerably in my old age. Come on, let us enter this abode of hellfire and demon ducks.” Adjusting his top hat, he offered her his arm.

  Slowly she slipped her hand over his immaculate sleeve, and they went up the flight of three shallow stone steps to the dark blue door. Rowan raised the gleaming brass knocker, and rapped it twice. After a moment a rather flustered maid admitted them.

  The shadowy hall behind her was hazy with the noxious smoke, and there came the clatter of footsteps and the sound of renewed quacking as the harassed Dr. Bethel, clad in his black master’s robe, ushered the two miscreants—one of whom carried an indignant mallard drake under his arm—down the staircase to his study on the ground floor.

  That Peregrine was an Arnold there could never be any doubt, for he was tall, handsome, bronzed, and golden like his sire and uncle, but there, as Marigold had happily observed on countless occasions, the similarity ended.

  Perry wasn’t sly and cruel, but warm and thoughtful, and he had her expressive green eyes rather than the cold amber of Merlin and Falk. He wore a short charcoal tailcoat and gray pantaloons with Hessian boots, and a sky blue waistcoat with a plainly knotted neckcloth.

  Marigold glowed with pride. How handsome he was, and how much more handsome would he be when he was a man grown. He was a veritable Greek god in the making. Oh, how many hearts he would break when he entered society. The train of thought broke off sharply as she realized what a difference her brief acquaintance with Rowan had made. From the depths of despair and want, suddenly she was again anticipating her son’s entry into society!

  Her glance moved to her son’s companion in crime. Percy Bysshe Shelley—he of the mallard—was thin, freckled, and awkward, with a long face and a markedly large nose. He was dressed in a navy blue coat and fawn pantaloons, and his neckcloth had come undone due to the constant exertions of the wriggling drake. His blue eyes were wide and rather startled, and his shoulder-length brown hair hung in curled girlish profusion.

  Her first impression was that he seemed even less likely than Perry to be a blower up of tree stumps, a raiser of devils, or conductor of dangerous experiments.

  Dr. Bethel, a small, mild-featured man with graying hair and a worn expression, had clearly been driven to the end of his tether by his two high-spirited charges. “Well, sirs, well, sirs,” he was saying, “I begin to hope you will both succumb to this epidemic of chicken pox and have to be sent home to recuperate, for I believe that is the only way I will again enjoy some semblance of peace!”

  Perry suddenly saw Marigold. “Mama!” he cried, and forgot Dr. Bethel as he ran to hug her. But then he realized she wasn’t alone, and drew back in puzzlement, looking at Rowan. “Sir?”

  Marigold hastened to effect an introduction. “Rowan, may I present my son, Peregrine Arnold? Perry, this is Lord Avenbury.”

  Perry looked inquiringly at Marigold the moment she addressed Rowan by his first name, but remembered his manners, and bowed his head. “I’m honored to meet you, sir.”

  “I’m honored to meet you too, sir,” Rowan replied.

  Before anything more could be said, the drake began to quack frantically. Perry’s friend struggled to silence it as it flapped and struggled in his arms, and he eventually kept it quiet only by clamping his hand tightly over its bill. Two feathers drifted to the floor as the unfortunate mallard continued to wriggle, but at last it subsided, contenting itself with a series of darkly disgruntled half quacks that told everyone exactly what it thought of the human race.

  As soon as he had the disheveled drake more or less under control, Percy Bysshe Shelley stepped excitedly toward Rowan. “Lord Avenbury? The Lord Avenbury?” he breath
ed, as if in the presence of a supernatural being.

  Rowan was clearly dismayed, although he hastily dissembled. “Well, I know of no other Lord Avenbury.”

  “The cursed lord? The one whose ancestor brought the vengeance of the druids upon his line? The one who fears nothing and gazes death in the eye without a flicker of fear or remorse?” The boy spoke with almost ghoulish relish, but then had to grapple again with the determined mallard.

  Perry rounded sharply on his friend. “You shouldn’t ask such things, Bysshe!”

  But Bysshe only pressed the question. “Are you that Lord Avenbury?”

  Rowan glanced fleetingly at Marigold. “Yes, I suppose I am indeed that Lord Avenbury,” he murmured reluctantly.

  She looked at him in astonishment. Cursed lord? She certainly did not believe in such things, but it was clear that the subject rattled him considerably. When Falk had referred to him as doomed, she had presumed it was on account of Alauda’s proven record of casting unwanted lovers aside. Maybe that wasn’t Falk’s meaning after all. And when she thought a little more, that very dawn she herself had seen Rowan look death in the eye without a flicker of fear or remorse!

  Bysshe was too excited to halt now. “I have Stukeley’s book on the curse, indeed I believe I know it line for line.”

  Rowan looked as if he could have strangled the boy. “That wretched little scribble has an annoying habit of surfacing now and then,” he said, then cleared his throat and firmly changed the subject. “Now then, Mr. Shelley, I fancy it is time you extended a suitably contrite apology to Dr. Bethel.”

  Loath to abandon such an intensely interesting subject, but afraid to argue with a peer of the realm, Bysshe turned to the master. “We’re truly sorry, sir,” he said dutifully, looking every inch the picture of schoolboy guilt. Perry murmured the same words, then fixed his gaze firmly upon the floor.

  The drake flapped as Dr. Bethel drew a regretful breath. “Forgive me, my lord, Mrs. Arnold, but as you will have gathered, there has been yet another unfortunate occurrence here today. I regret that I can no longer let such matters pass, indeed I have no alternative but to report both your son and Master Shelley to Dr. Keate.”