by Erica Vetsch
She gave a small shrug. “I’ve read the Iliad.”
“How did you get that past your father? If he disapproves of Greek sculpture, he must surely disapprove of Greek epic poetry about false gods and ancient wars.”
A bit of color rode her cheeks. “I read Pope’s translation in snatches in the reading room at Hatchards, tucked away in a corner where no one would see, whenever I could get away from the house for a few hours. It took almost all of my first Season to finish it, and all my allowance to purchase the subscription to the reading room.”
“You shall have no such restrictions placed upon you when you are my bride,” he promised.
Time flew, and all too soon they stood on the sidewalk, waiting for his carriage to be brought around. A fruit seller pushed his cart down the street, calling out to attract attention. “Apples, currants, strawberries!”
A horde of boys ran by them wearing tattered clothes, some with no shoes in spite of the cold. They split around the cart, and dirty hands grabbed at the fruit, leaping and whooping and racing out of the way of the owner’s swinging arms. He stood in the street with his cart, shaking his fist after the boys as they ran away laughing, stuffing the food into their mouths.
He bent to pick up some apples that had been knocked into the gutter. Marcus reached into his pocket and pulled out some coins. “Here, I’ll pay for what they took.”
“Little villains. I know they’re hungry, but so are me own children.” He wiped his forehead, red from bending over. “You don’t need to do that, guv’nor.”
“I want to. Here.” Marcus pressed the coins into the man’s hand.
The fruit seller bobbed a nod and picked up the handles of his cart. “Many thanks, guv.”
Once settled into the carriage, Charlotte asked, “Why did you do that? Pay for what those boys stole?” She didn’t sound censorious but rather curious.
He shifted on the seat, pressing back into the squabs. “My mother thinks I’m most foolish, but when it first dawned on me, as a boy, that my circumstances were different from the majority of others, I promised the Lord that whenever I saw a need, I would give what I had in my pocket at that time. It takes the guesswork out of whether I should help or how much I should give. God knows what’s in my pocket, and He knows the needs. I figure He can pair them up.”
She studied him for such a long time, he grew uncomfortable. Did she think him mad, like his mother did? He didn’t often speak of things of God outside church. What was it about Charlotte that made him open up parts of himself he usually kept private?
“That’s most sensible. Though if your heart wasn’t in it, you might be tempted to limit the amount of money you carried at any one time.” She smiled at him, teasing, and again he was amazed at how she had transformed outwardly but how kindred her heart seemed to his.
He wanted to kiss her again.
Kindred or not, enjoyable or not, he would need to remind himself not to be weakened by silly sentiment or emotion. He couldn’t afford to let himself become entangled and lose his focus and clarity of mind.
He was glad he had some work to do that evening. A little housebreaking and lock-picking would be just the thing to keep him sharp.
CHAPTER 9
THE MONTH BOTH flew by and yet at the same time dragged for Charlotte. Her new wardrobe was nearly complete, and she and Diana shopped several more times for hats, fichus, stockings, and so much more that Diana insisted Charlotte required, until at last she protested.
“I cannot possibly need another thing. I feel a spendthrift as it is.” She put the feather-adorned bonnet back on the hatstand in the milliner’s window. They had been to the glover, the cobbler, the perfumer, the stationer, and many more specialty shops.
“You’d be surprised. There are so many events to attend and occasions that require the correct apparel. And you had quite a bit of ground to make up,” Diana reminded her, tying a bow under her chin at a jaunty angle and studying herself in the mirror.
After the first several items had arrived from Antoinette’s, Charlotte had changed the instructions to have the deliveries held until the day before the wedding and sent to Haverly House instead. Her father had taken one look at Charlotte’s new gown and hairstyle and gone pinch mouthed.
“You look like a trollop, baring your throat and arms like that.”
She had barely kept back the comment that he would know all about trollops, but she forced it to stay behind her teeth. Though she knew better than to hope for his approval in anything, it still hurt that he withheld it.
It saddened her that Mother wasn’t allowed to accompany her on her shopping trips, but Father forbade it. Charlotte managed to bring a little trinket back for her when she went out, a beaded purse, a new inkwell, a seal and wax with her initials, a vial of scent.
These, of course, had to be kept secret from her husband. Still, he’d kept far worse secrets from her.
Charlotte now studied her father, sitting in the carriage across from her on the way to the church. In less than an hour, she would be completely out of his control. She would be given into the care and keeping of another man.
Her throat constricted, and the bouquet of lily of the valley trembled in her hands. She didn’t regret escaping her father’s heavy-handedness and hypocrisy, but she was nervous about becoming the bride of the Duke of Haverly.
She still had the feeling that God didn’t really mean this for her or that He wouldn’t allow it to last. That somehow He would snatch this from her, that He didn’t intend for her life to be happy, at least not in any great quantity. She tried to suppress these feelings, but a lifetime of evidence was hard to overcome.
And yet being with the duke did make her happy. He treated her as if her opinion mattered, as if she had the capability of thinking for herself, and he never seemed to mind if she knew about something he hadn’t studied before. He didn’t take offense when she shared what she knew, and he wasn’t patronizing when he taught her something. And she loved learning from him. He had traveled much more than she, had read some interesting books, and had gone to university.
Though to be fair, she had seen little of him in the past two weeks. He’d been called away from London on business, and only last evening had she received a note apologizing again for his absence and assuring her he would be at the church on the morrow.
She had wondered and had overheard speculation and gossip at parties they should be attending together that he regretted the engagement and would leave her stranded at the altar. Please, God, don’t let that happen. I don’t think I could bear it.
St. George’s in Hanover Square, an imposing, many-pillared church, where her mother insisted all the most fashionable couples married, hove into view, and her hands shook even more.
Would he really be there? She had read and reread his note this morning in order to convince herself he would be true to his word, but still she wavered. Men in general were not known for keeping their word, were they?
Not to mention that after that one kiss, he had kept his distance. She knew she wasn’t any good at kissing—she’d never done it before—but perhaps with a bit of practice, she could get it right.
But she’d had no chance to perfect her skills.
Organ music greeted them as the doors were opened at their approach. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the dimness after the bright morning sunshine. When she could see, she looked down the barrel-vaulted nave toward the altar.
Something tight in her stomach eased and moved up to her heart to squeeze again.
He was here.
He stood at the front, hands clasped lightly in front of him, resplendent in a dark tailcoat.
He was waiting for her, Charlotte Tiptree.
This was really going to happen.
The music changed, and she rested her fingertips lightly on her father’s sleeve, making sure her chin was parallel to the floor, keeping her eyes on the duke as they traversed the long aisle. Heads turned, and she was aware that not a se
at remained empty in the large church.
Whitelock moved to stand next to the duke, sending her a smile of encouragement, but she only noticed this from the corner of her eye, for she could not take her gaze from her soon-to-be husband’s.
Somber. That was how he looked. As if he understood the seriousness of what they were about to do.
Was he having regrets? If only they had been able to speak to each other before the wedding.
She barely heard the words of the rector, the music, or anything but the pounding of the pulse in her ears. When her father took her hand and placed it in the duke’s, a jolt went up her arm straight to her chest.
The duke pressed her fingers, transmitting strength and warmth.
Promises were made, vows were taken, but it all went by in a blur. She kept her eyes fastened on his, listening for the one phrase that would make it real, the one that, once it happened, couldn’t be taken away from her.
Not even when the duke slipped a gold band on her finger did she take an easy breath. It wasn’t until the rector intoned his final words from The Book of Common Prayer that her tension eased. “I pronounce that they be Man and Wife together, In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
It was done. Before God and these witnesses, she was married to the Duke of Haverly.
For better or worse.
His mouth quirked up at one corner, and when she thought he would turn and offer his arm to escort her to the sacristy to sign their wedding documents, instead he cupped her upper arms and drew her to him.
And right there in front of the crème of society, he kissed her.
Stunned, she stood as still as one of the Elgin marbles, until she realized this wasn’t to be a quick peck for propriety’s sake. Nor was it the brief, chaste exploration their first kiss had been.
His lips were soft, warm, and they pressed into hers, inviting a response. In an instant the kiss went from gentle to demanding, his lips firming, his head slanting, deepening the contact and the desire.
Her hands crept to his waist, searching for purchase, and she returned the pressure of his kiss, feeling the shiver that went through him … or was it through her? Her eyelids fluttered closed, and starbursts flared in her head. Was this a kiss or a possession and willing surrender? Heat flared across her skin, and his hands tightened on her shoulders before moving to encircle her. She rested back in his embrace, her head tucked into his shoulder, giving herself up to a crash of emotions.
She felt as if she might burst into flames, but she couldn’t make herself care.
Someone cleared his throat and fractured the moment, and awareness of where they were and who was looking on splashed over her like cold water. They drew apart, and Charlotte raised her fingertips to her lips. She could still feel the intensity of his kiss from her lips right down to her toes, and she trembled. Marcus wore a stunned look himself, but heat lingered in his eyes.
What had just happened to them?
“You dropped this.” Whitelock held up her bouquet, laughter brimming in his eyes.
The duke swallowed and straightened his cravat, giving a small cough.
Charlotte wanted to laugh and to melt through the floor all in the same moment. She closed her eyes for a second, trying to regain her composure.
She had just been kissed silly in front of a few hundred people.
Taking the bouquet, she slipped her hand through the duke’s offered elbow and turned to face her new fate.
Her mother’s mouth hung open, and her father glared. On the opposite side of the aisle, her new mother-in-law sniffed at her vinaigrette as if sal volatile could erase her memory.
Diana looked rapt, her shoulders shaking as she stifled giggles.
So many eyes turned Charlotte’s way. She had a fleeting memory of Pippa sitting in the Royal Box at the opera, appearing unruffled at the attention she was garnering, and calm seeped over Charlotte. She had nothing of which to be ashamed. She was a married woman now.
“Shall we?” the duke asked.
Evan followed them as the rector led the way into the sacristy. On the table, pens, ink, and parchment waited.
And for the last time, she signed her name, Charlotte Tiptree, Spinster.
From now on she would be the Duchess of Haverly. Mrs. Charlotte Haverly.
Her signature was a bit wobbly as the thought of that kiss flashed through her mind. If just kissing him made her weak-kneed, what would the rest of married life be like?
Evan signed his name as witness with a flourish, and when he was finished, he pounded Marcus on the shoulder. “Well done. Let’s go celebrate.”
They reentered the nave and walked toward the doors, past all those people as if strolling through the gardens at Hampton Court on a sunny day. Marcus nodded right and left, acknowledging people he knew, and organ music swelled around them, while Charlotte concentrated on keeping her face serene and her feet moving in the right direction.
His carriage, with the Haverly crest on the door, waited at the curb, and he helped her inside, making sure the short train on her dress didn’t get caught before vaulting up after her. Scooping up the purse from the seat next to her, he opened the window and flung coins out to the waiting well-wishers as they sped away from the church.
When the purse was empty, he raised the window and turned to her. “Any regrets? Or is it too soon, Mrs. Haverly?”
She didn’t know what to make of him. He seemed genuinely happy. Almost as she imagined a bridegroom in love with his bride would act. Which was silly. They both knew this wasn’t a love match.
“It might be too soon. I’ve yet to learn whether you have breakfast moods or if you snore or if you leave your newspapers strewn all over the morning room.” She adjusted her skirts, trying to match his levity. The thought of finding out if he snored or not brought their upcoming wedding night to the forefront of her mind, and her nerves jangled.
He tilted his head. “I’ve not been accused of breakfast moods, but perhaps that is because I usually eat breakfast alone. My mother is not an early riser, and she has her breakfast sent up to her boudoir, in any case. I do not leave newspapers strewn all over the morning room, because I read the morning paper as I have breakfast, and I read the evening paper in my sanctum. As to whether or not I snore … I’ve never been accused of it, but I doubt my valet would tell me even if true.” He shrugged. “There are two dressing rooms between our bedchambers, so if I am as loud as a cannonade, we’ll have to make certain all the doors remain closed.”
Two dressing rooms and three doors between their bedrooms. That was one part of the house he hadn’t shown her on their tour. Her palms dampened at the thought of him crossing those dressing rooms and knocking on her door tonight.
Still, that was hours away, and what would happen between them as man and wife was perfectly proper and right, and her mother had assured her that her husband would know what he was about and that she would “survive her husband’s attentions as all married women did.”
But she didn’t just want to “survive” or put up with her husband’s attentions. She wanted it to matter to both of them. Was that too much to ask?
“What is it?” He took her hand, turning the wedding ring on her finger, reminding her of its unfamiliar clasp.
She looked at it and realized it wasn’t a simple golden circle, as she had expected. An emerald flanked by two diamonds winked back at her.
“I thought it would match your eyes.”
So now she owned two pieces of jewelry, both emeralds, both linked to the Duke of Haverly.
“Thank you, Marcus.” She tried to take a deep breath, but her lungs wouldn’t fill properly. Somehow using his name, now that they were married, seemed even more intimate.
He squeezed her hand, and when she looked up, he winked at her, a satisfied look on his face.
Hopefully, in the days and weeks and months to come, he would still be satisfied that he had chosen her.
Marcus listened to the
chatter around him, but his mind wasn’t on the wedding festivities. Toasts had been drunk, speeches made, and food consumed, and through it all, he could only think about Charlotte.
And that kiss.
What had possessed him? If he had given any thought to a bridal kiss, it had been a quick peck on the cheek or a brief brushing of the lips to seal their vows.
Instead he’d grabbed her up in a passionate embrace right there in the church.
And he was contemplating how soon he could do it again.
What was wrong with him? He was letting emotion cloud his judgment. Even now, among the wedding guests, were men in attendance that he had been tasked to unmask, to ferret out their pasts and their secrets, and here he was acting the part of a besotted bridegroom.
Which is what you’re supposed to be doing. Acting. So master yourself and pay attention. The way you’re letting your focus wander, if you did that in the field, you’d be a dead agent for the Crown. Compartmentalize. Use the self-discipline you’ve worked so hard to maintain.
He’d known after the first time he’d kissed her, almost a month ago, that he shouldn’t do it again until they were well and truly married. He had denied himself, choosing not to cloud his judgment … but it had been difficult. Two weeks away chasing leads for Sir Noel had come at a good time.
But now he should focus on the suspects invited to the reception.
Dinner several weeks ago with Trelawney had given him insight into the man’s political views as well as his time in France as a younger man. What information Trelawney hadn’t unwittingly provided over dinner had been filled in by Marcus and Partridge breaking into his house in the middle of the night and going through his papers. The man kept copious notes, almost as if he were compiling a book of his life. Partridge had fussed and fumed at Marcus’s involvement in the break-in, but they had gotten in and out undetected and in possession of valuable information as to the man and his contacts. Though in the end, none of it seemed to link Trelawney to the assassination attempt.
