Improperly Wed

by Anna DePalo

  Buoyed by a surge in magnanimity, she’d agreed to have a drink with Colin. Their drinks had naturally progressed to dinner and then time at the gaming tables, where she’d been impressed by Colin’s winnings.

  At the end of the evening, it had seemed like the most natural thing in the world to continue up in the elevator with him to his luxury suite.

  She’d teasingly suggested that she couldn’t sleep with him unless they were married. She’d gambled on her pronouncement being the end of the matter. After all, she’d recently broken up with a boyfriend of more than a year with nothing to show for it.

  Colin, however, had shocked her by upping the ante and daring her to go to the Las Vegas Marriage License Bureau with him. They’d turned around and headed back downstairs.

  She’d been by turns amused and horrified by their escapade, especially when they’d started hunting for a chapel. She’d never been in an iconic Las Vegas wedding chapel. One had been too easy to find that night.

  Later, of course, she’d blame her uncharacteristic actions on having had a drink or two and on the crazy Vegas environment. She’d point the finger at just having turned thirty and losing another boyfriend. She’d place fault on the increasing pressure from her family to marry well and soon, and on the fact that most of her wellborn classmates from Marlborough College were already engaged or married. She’d even blame her surge of goodwill toward Colin, who’d helped her land business at the cocktail party. Basically, she’d found everyone and everything at fault—most of all herself.

  In the morning, her cell phone had rung, and she’d blearily identified the call as being from her mother. It had been as if someone had doused her with icy water while she’d still been half-asleep. She’d come back to reality with a shock, and had been truly horrified by what she’d done the night before. She’d insisted on a quick and quiet annulment without anyone being the wiser.

  At first, Colin had been amused by her alarm. But soon, when it had become clear that her distress wasn’t temporary, he’d become closed and aloof, thinly masking his anger.

  Belinda dropped her hand from her forehead, and in the next moment, she was startled by the ring of her cell phone.

  She sighed. She supposed it was a good thing to be jostled out of unhappy memories.

  Locating the phone on top of her dresser, she confirmed what the ring tone was telling her—it was Pia calling.

  She put a Bluetooth device in her ear for hands-free listening so she could continue packing while she talked.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in Atlanta for a wedding?” Belinda asked without preamble once she had her earpiece in place.

  “I am,” Pia responded, “but I have until the end of the week before the pace picks up for Saturday’s main event.”

  She and Pia and their mutual friend, Tamara, had gotten to know each other through charitable work for the Junior League. All three of them had settled in New York in their twenties, soon after university. Though they’d chosen to live in different Manhattan neighborhoods, and were busy pursuing different careers—Tamara’s being in jewelry design while wedding planning had always been Pia’s dream—they had become fast friends.

  Though Tamara was the daughter of a British viscount, Belinda had not met her as part of the aristocratic set in England because Tamara had grown up mostly in the United States, after her American-born mother had divorced her titled husband. Too bad—her free-thinking bohemian friend would have been a breath of fresh air in Belinda’s stilted, structured adolescence. Tamara had never met a trend that she didn’t want to buck—a trait that Belinda couldn’t help but admire. Pia was more like herself, though her friend came from a middle-class background in rural Pennsylvania.

  “Don’t worry,” Belinda joked, guessing the reason for Pia’s call, “I’m still alive and kicking. I intend to be granted my freedom from the marquess if it’s the last thing that I do.”

  “Oh, B-Belinda, I-I-I wish there was something I could do,” Pia said, her stutter making a rare appearance.

  “Colin and I made this mess, and we’ll have to be the ones to clean it up.”

  Belinda regretted the repercussions for Pia’s wedding-planning business from the nuptial disaster on Saturday. She’d thought only of helping her friend’s career when she’d asked Pia to be her wedding planner instead of her bridesmaid—despite knowing Pia was a dyed-in-the-wool romantic. Unfortunately, none of her plans for Saturday had worked out well.

  Damn, Colin.

  Since she’d had a three-way phone conversation with Pia and Tamara only yesterday, and Pia had just arrived in Atlanta for business today, Belinda sensed there might be more reason for her friend’s call than an opportunity to chat.

  Because she was not one to skirt an issue, unless it involved her husband—not to be confused with her groom—she went straight to the point. “I know you wouldn’t be calling without a reason.”

  “W-well,” Pia said delicately, “I wish this conversation could take place at a later time, but there is the issue of what announcement to send, if any, with regard to Saturday’s, er, interrupted nuptials. And then, of course, the wedding gifts—”

  “Send them all back,” Belinda cut in.

  She was an optimist but also a realist. She didn’t know for sure how long it would take to bring the marquess to heel at least long enough to grant her an annulment or divorce.

  “Okay.” Pia sounded relieved and uncertain at the same time. “Are you sure, because—”

  “I’m sure,” Belinda interrupted. “And as far as a statement, I don’t think one is necessary. A wedding announcement would no longer be appropriate obviously, and anything else would be unnecessary. Thanks in part to Mrs. Hollings, I believe everyone is in the know about Saturday’s events.”

  “What about you and Tod?” Pia asked. “Will you be able to, ah, patch things up?”

  Belinda thought back to the events of Saturday.

  Outside the church, Tod had caught up with her, apparently having exited the confrontation with Colin soon after she had. They’d had a short and uncomfortable conversation. While he had tried to maintain a stiff upper lip, Tod had still seemed flabbergasted, annoyed and embarrassed.

  She’d handed his engagement ring back to him. It had seemed like the only decent thing to do. She’d just discovered she was still married to another man, after all.

  Then she had ducked into the white Rolls Royce at the curb, relieved to have attained privacy at last. She had been quivering with emotion ever since Colin’s voice had rung out at the church.

  Belinda sighed. “Tod is perplexed and angry, and under the circumstances, I can hardly blame him.”

  She winced when she thought about her glaring omission—not telling him about her elopement. Her only excuse was that she could hardly bear to think about it herself. It was too painful.

  She hadn’t been able to live down her uncharacteristic behavior, and then it had come barging in in the form of a tall, imposing aristocrat who aroused passionate reactions in her.

  Pia cleared her throat. “So matters between you and Tod are…?”

  “On hold. Indefinitely,” Belinda confirmed. “He’s waiting for me to resolve this situation, and then we’ll decide where we’ll go from there.”

  Pia said nothing for a moment. “So you don’t want to issue any public statement…for clarification?”

  “Are you volunteering to be my publicist?” Belinda joked.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time I issued a public statement or a press release for a bride,” Pia responded. “Media relations is part of the job for society wedding planners these days.”

  Belinda sighed. “What could I say, besides confirming that I am in fact still married to Easterbridge?”

  “I see your point,” Pia conceded, “and I don’t disagree. But I thought I’d give you the opportunity to respond to Mrs. Hollings if you want to.”

  “No, thanks.”

  The last thing Belinda wanted was for this scand
al to play out in the media. After all, a public statement by her might just invite Easterbridge to issue his own clarifications.

  She would try to deal with Colin privately and discreetly—even if she had to go beard the lion in his den. She wanted to avoid further scandal, if possible. She knew it was a slippery slope from retaining lawyers to sending threatening letters and ultimately going through an ugly and public divorce.

  “What the devil has gotten into you, Belinda?” Uncle Hugh said, coming around his desk as Belinda stepped into the library of his town house in London’s Mayfair neighborhood.

  The mark of disapproval was stamped all over her uncle’s face.

  She was being called to account. She, Belinda Wentworth, had done what none of her ancestors had—betrayed her heritage by marrying a Granville.

  Belinda knew when she’d gone to London on business that she’d be compelled to pay a visit at the Mayfair town house. She had been able to escape in-depth conversations—and explanations—with her relatives directly after the wedding by departing the church forthwith and having Pia run interference for her at the show-must-go-on reception afterward. Her family had also been preoccupied with trying to save face with the assembled guests—to the extent such a thing was possible.

  She glanced above the mantel at the Gainsborough painting of Sir Jonas Wentworth. The poor man was probably turning in his grave.

  The London house had been in the Wentworth clan for generations. Like many other highborn families, the Wentworths had fought tooth and nail to hang on to a fashionable Mayfair address that carried a certain cache, if no longer necessarily signifying generations of quality breeding due to the growing number of new money.

  Though the Wentworths were not titled, they descended from a younger branch of the Dukes of Pelham and had intermarried with many other aristocratic families over the years—save, of course, for the despised Granvilles. Thus, they considered themselves as blue-blooded as anybody.

  “This is quite a tangle that you’ve created,” her uncle went on as a servant rolled in a cart bearing the preparations for afternoon tea.

  Belinda worried her bottom lip. “I know.”

  “It must be resolved forthwith.”

  “Of course.”

  As the servant left the room, Uncle Hugh gestured for Belinda to sit down.

  “Well, what are you going to do to fix this mess?” he asked as they both sat, she on the sofa and he in a nearby armchair.

  By force of habit, Belinda leaned forward to fix tea. It gave her something to do—and the illusion of being in control while not meeting Uncle Hugh’s gaze.

  “I intend to obtain an annulment or divorce, of course,” she said evenly.

  Despite her self-assured attitude, there was nothing of course about it.

  She surveyed the tea tray. A proper English tea was more than loose tea and hot water. There were the customary finger sandwiches, buttery biscuits and warm scones.

  Really, she could drown herself in scones right now. Crumbly blueberry ones…rich raisin ones…decadent chocolate-chip ones—

  No, not decadent. Definitely not decadent. It came too close to mimicking the behavior that had gotten her into her current fix with Colin.

  She was decidedly not into decadent behavior, she told herself firmly.

  Nevertheless, an image flashed into her mind of lounging on a king-size bed with Colin Granville, sharing champagne and strawberries high above the flashing lights of Las Vegas.

  Her face heated.

  “…a youthful indiscretion?”

  She fumbled in the process of pouring hot water into a cup.

  She jerked her head up. “What?”

  Her uncle raised his eyebrows. “I was merely inquiring whether this unfortunate situation came about due to a youthful indiscretion?”

  She knew she must look guilty. “Can I claim so even though I was thirty at the time?”

  Uncle Hugh regarded her with a thoughtful but forbearing expression. “I’m not so old that I don’t remember how much partying and club-hopping can go on in one’s twenties or beyond.”

  “Yes,” Belinda said, more than ready to accept the proffered excuse. “That must be it.”

  Her uncle accepted a teacup and saucer from her.

  “And, yet, I’m surprised at you, Belinda,” he went on as he took a sip of his tea. “You were never one for rebellion. You were sent to a proper boarding school and then to Oxford. No one expected this scenario.”

  She should have guessed that she would not be let off the hook so easily.

  Belinda stifled a grimace. Marlborough College’s most famous graduate these days was the former Kate Middleton, Duchess of Cambridge, who would mostly likely be queen one day. She, by startling contrast, had failed miserably on the matrimonial front. She now had the wreckage of not one but two wedding ceremonies behind her.

  She hated to disappoint Uncle Hugh. He had been a father figure to her since her own father’s death after a yearlong battle with cancer when she’d been thirteen. As her father’s older brother, and the head of the Wentworth family, her uncle had fallen naturally into the paternal role. A longtime widower, Uncle Hugh had been unable to have children with his wife and had remained single and childless since then.

  On her part, Belinda had tried to be a good surrogate daughter. She’d grown up on Uncle Hugh’s estates—learning to swim and ride a bicycle during her summers there. She’d gotten good grades, she hadn’t acted out as a teenager and she’d kept her name out of the gossip columns—until now.

  Uncle Hugh sighed and shook his grayed head. “Nearly three centuries of feuding and now this. Do you know your ancestor Emma was seduced by a Granville scoundrel? Fortunately, the family was able to hush up matters and arrange a respectable marriage for the poor girl to the younger son of a baronet.” His eyebrows knitted. “On the other hand, our nineteenth-century land dispute with the Granvilles dragged on for years. Fortunately, the courts were finally able to vindicate us on the matter of the proper property line between our estate and the Granvilles’.”

  Belinda had heard both stories many times before. She opened her mouth to say something—anything—about how her situation with Colin was different.

  “Ah! I see I’ve finally run you to ground.”

  Belinda turned in time to watch her mother sail into the room. She abruptly clamped her mouth shut to prevent herself from groaning out loud. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

  Her mother handed her purse and chiffon scarf to a servant who hastened in from the doorway before turning for a discreet retreat. As usual, she looked impeccably turned out—as if she’d just come from lunch at Annabelle’s or one of her other customary jaunts. Her hair was coiffed, her dress was timelessly chic and probably St. John and her jewels were heirlooms.

  Belinda thought that the contrast between her and her mother could hardly be more pronounced. She was casually dressed in chain-store chinos and a fluttery short-sleeved blouse that were paired with a couple of Tamara’s affordable jewelry pieces.

  Even aside from the accoutrements, however, Belinda knew she did not physically resemble her mother. Her mother was a fragile blonde, while she herself was a statuesque brunette. She took after the Wentworth side of the family in that regard.

  “Mother,” Belinda tried, “we spoke right after the wedding.”

  Her mother glanced at her and widened her eyes. “Yes, darling, but you gave me only the vaguest and most rudimentary of answers.”

  Belinda flushed. “I told you what I knew.”

  Her mother waved a hand airily. “Yes, yes, I know. The marquess’ appearance was unexpected, his claims outlandish. Still, it all begs the question as to how precisely you’ve been married two odd years with no one being the wiser.”

  “I told you the marquess claims that an annulment was never finalized. I am in the process of confirming that claim and rectifying matters.”

  She had not hired a divorce lawyer yet, but she had phoned an attorney
in Las Vegas, Nevada, and requested that Colin’s claim be verified—namely, she and Colin were still married.

  Her mother glanced at Uncle Hugh and then back at her. “This scandal is the talk of London and New York. How do you plan to rectify that matter?”

  Belinda bit her lip. Obviously, her mother, having met with resistance to her first line of inquiry, had moved on to another.

  It was ironic, really, that she was being subjected to questioning by her mother. She had turned a deaf ear to her mother’s personal affairs over the years, though they had been the subject of gossip and cocktail-party innuendo. She hadn’t wanted to know more about affaires de coeur, as her mother was fond of referring to them.

  Her mother looked fretful. “How will we ever resolve this with the Dillinghams? It’s disastrous.”

  “Now, now, Clarissa,” her uncle said, leaning forward to set down his teacup. “Histrionics will not do a bit of good here.”

  Belinda silently seconded the sentiment and then heaved an inward sigh. She and her mother had never had an easy relationship. They were too different in personality and character. As an adult, she’d been pained when her mother’s behavior had been shallow, selfish or self-centered, and often all three.

  As if on cue, her mother slid onto a nearby chair, managing somehow to be graceful about it while still giving the impression that her legs would no longer support her during this ordeal. “Belinda, Belinda, how could you be so reckless, so irresponsible?”

  Belinda felt rising annoyance even as she acknowledged she’d been asking herself the same question again and again. She had acted uncharacteristically.

  “You were expected to marry well,” her mother went on. “The family was counting on it. Why, most of your classmates have already secured advantageous matches.”

  Belinda wanted to respond that she had married well. Most people would say that a rich and titled husband qualified as good enough. And yet, Colin was a detested Granville and thus one who was not to be trusted under any circumstances.

  “We spent a long time cultivating the Dillinghams,” her mother continued. “They were prepared to renovate Downlands so you and Tod might entertain there in style once you were married.”