Any of her doubts regarding this impending marriage were erased by the heavy affection--daresay even love--in Thomas’ famous grey eyes. The sensuous mouth that set both matrons and maids into flurries of passion was drawn into a firm line. His long-fingered hands pushed tangled coils of hair off her forehead. He at last opened the hinged silver box. Thomas turned his head away at the sudden smell. He held it beneath Emma’s nose. A nose to which he had almost composed a sonnet. That was years ago on a lonely night in Vienna.
The girl started, mouth opening to suck in gasps of air. She swatted the vinaigrette away from her face.
“Awful…” she muttered. Her eyes opened suddenly, the tender brown orbs focusing at once upon her kneeling fiance. Emma cleared her throat. “It is my fault.”
“Do not be silly, Emmy. This is no one’s fault save some madman!” He slammed the vinaigrette forcefully on the carpet. His anger was sudden and fierce, flowing from him like a torrent. He let out a breath.
“I know, but I...well…” Emma could not go on. She reached for Thomas, finding solitude in his hand.
“You may tell me later. You need some rest, my love.” He kissed her forehead. Her skin was clammy. Thomas turned his head at the sound of many pairs of feet. A multitude of footmen appeared in the doorway, garbed in the Kellaway livery.
“You have arrived. Excellent. Please carry Lady Sheridan and Lady Wren up to their chambers. The rest of you please go below stairs and attend to the servants there.”
Murmurs of assent were his sole response. Their feet clattered across the wood floors of the hall. Thomas waited for the footmen to take away the other occupants of the room.
“Thank you so much, Thomas,” Lady Sheridan called across her shoulder. Caroline managed a grateful look. Once again, the room fell silent. Thomas felt himself losing hold of his composure. Society dictated he leave the business of carrying his betrothed to a footman and see about locating Lord Sheridan. But he could not. He would not. She was his. He wanted to care for her so he would not lose himself in this overwhelming fear. He need reassurance. Yes, she was awake and well. Or as well as could be expected. But still Thomas remained...uneasy.
Emma turned her glorious eyes on him and tugged on his shirt sleeve.
“I find myself wanting one thing, Thomas…I want you to hold me. Though I expected this to happen, it has left me cold. I find myself shaken very deeply...so c--”
“Emmy, don’t make excuses with me.” Thomas enveloped her into his suitably warm embrace. “I needed this as well,” he whispered. He needed her so much. He always had.
Emma gripped onto his waistcoat to pull herself up closer to him. She found no words to convey what she wanted to say. But he kept talking. “Emmy...I was so distraught when I came into this room and say you laid out like a corpse...I just--”
“What the devil has happened here!?” It was Lord Sheridan in a frightful rage. His mouth was trembling and his hands were crumpled around a paper. It was not their close proximity that unnerved him. But the sight of several members of his staff being carted around, many still unconscious.
“I can explain it all, Papa, but I must rest first. We all must rest. You can speak with Thomas while I lay down for a bit.” It was not a suggestion. She nudged Thomas with her elbow. It was clear he was to take her to her room. Lord Sheridan did not dare step into the sitting room. He saw the overturned cups and the tea-stained carpet. No. His study was safest. That was where Lord Hartwell found him smoothing out wrinkled papers.
“I have some news,” they both announced.
On unsteady feet, appearing more a newborn fawn than a well-bred lady, Emma crept into the study. Thomas noticed her quiet approach and turned at once to greet her. His smile dropped into a frown, wrinkle marring his forehead.
“Emmy, you look pale. You should go back to bed.”
“Hardly,” she replied with a rueful look. “I could not sleep. But I had a question for you, Thomas. What brought you to our house today?”
“I simply wished to pay a visit to my betrothed.” His trademark charm oozed over his words. Emma was tempted to smile.
She shook her head, coils of hair bouncing. “I think not. You are lying. You do not surprise someone with a call, even your betrothed.”
Thomas looked towards Lord Sheridan for help. But the doting father raised his hands in helplessness. He gestured for Emma to come nearer.
“I believe we all have information to share, do we not?” Emma slithered down into a wooden armchair with a nod.
“When this all began, I hoped my hunch would be proven incorrect by Thomas’ exploits...but I fear that I have always been right. For once, I wish I was wrong.”
Lord Sheridan inclined his head, looking to Thomas. A ghost of a smile teased at the earl’s lips. His daughter was rarely wrong and knew it well.
He coughed into his hand. “What of you, Hartwell? Are we all of the same mind?”
“I fear we are,” he answered in a quiet voice. Emma chewed on her inner cheek. The contents of her pockets weighed heavily upon both her lap and her heart.
“It was Mary” she announced. “Mary, my maid, has always been in the employ of Aunt Lucille or so I think at least. It is tricky to piece it all together. But, I do know that I wrote a letter to Helena purposefully mentioning the letters. Helena just loves to read letters aloud, so I knew that Aunt Lucille would hear since I have learned that she, too, was in Dover. Yet...I did not suspect Mary to be in collusion. I have caught her a number of times going through my belongings and, at times, she is gone from the house. It was only a matter of time before she acted upon her find. I do believe the drugging was superfluous.”
“So, these letters...they are gone?”
A smug smirk and an eyebrow raise was given in reply. Emma dug into her pocket and retrieved what looked to be a packet of letters
“Mary stole a decoy. I surmised these would be too important to leave lying anywhere given the contents.”
Thomas’ mouth fell open. “Y-You are brilliant. How clever of you to hide the real ones.”
“Now that you know my information, I will tell no further until I hear what you all have to say.”
“The autopsy is a fake.”
“The will is a fake.”
A once devoted niece leaned back into her chair absorbing this information. Forgeries? Her aunt had been busy indeed. If she was responsible for the acts then Emma would still see this through. The future looked to be bleak for the unmarried Lady Wren.
“We must go to Dover and quickly. Once she discovers the letters are fake…” He grew silent, considering their next steps.
“You will have to wed,” Lord Sheridan announced. “It is the only way I will allow Emma to travel to Dover.”
“When asked, we can simply say we are waiting for our ship to leave on our wedding trip,” elaborated Emma.
“Will you not miss the big wedding?” Thomas asked of his bride-to-be. A bitter laugh erupted from her pretty mouth.
“Not at all. I will be glad to be rid of it. Besides, our travels to Dover should not take long at all and we can return in time for the wedding breakfast. Mother would just die if that had to be canceled.”
“As you wish.” Thomas went quiet again. Emma staggered to her feet and grabbed both the autopsy report and the will. “I will return tomorrow morning with the special license and a clergyman. Unless you think my father’s home would suit better considering the events of today?”
“Grand idea. We will arrive by ten o’clock tomorrow.”
“How does that sound, Emmy?”
But she was too engrossed in legal jargon and medical terminology to pay the plans any mind. Her dark brows joined together in mutual confusion. Emma shook her head endlessly. It made no sense and then all the sense in the world.
“Marriage….tomorrow...sounds smashing…” she managed, tone displeased. Thomas blinked his eyes, watching her. Her body was tightly wound, ready to snap at any second. Her thoughts were a shrou
ded mystery to him. There was no way he could ever begin to fathom what emotions she was undergoing these past few weeks. The only sorrow of his own life was when his beloved mother passed away. She had been ill, so it was expected. Emma’s family tree twisted with deadly secrets. It could not be easy for her.
When they, at last, left these shores, he would coax her to sleep for a week at the very least. Purplish bruises marred her face giving her the appearance of an invalid. Most of her smiles were forced, too harsh around the edges to be real.
“Allow me to escort you back to your room, if Lord Sheridan will allow it?”
“Might as well. She’s likely to drop if she walks anymore.”
Emma peeked up from the sheets to find a Marquess and an earl staring her down. “Yes?”
“You should go back to sleep,” began Thomas. “Tomorrow is our wedding day.”
The words triggered a buried emotion in her that cause the most beautiful, sunshine-filled smile to bloom upon her face. “Our wedding day,” she repeated, stressing the pronoun. Most ladies awaited the day when, at last, they could speak with the weight of “We” and “Us”. The magnificence of it was not lost upon Emma. She liked the intimacy it conveyed. Tomorrow, by this very hour, she would no longer be Lady Emma Wren. That girl was dead and gone forever. From the ashes, Emma, Marchioness of Hartwell would arise. Her meteoric ascent would surely be ruined by the clumsiness that plagued Emma in her nervousness.
“Yes,” Thomas agreed with a smile that rivaled her own. Lord Sheridan stared between the two, suddenly very keen that tomorrow their lives would change. No longer would Emma’s silly grin greet him across the dinner table. Her problems would fall upon Thomas’ shoulders. Despite what blood may say, she had always been his daughter. Anyone could see it in her quick wit and the sparkle in her eyes.
Thomas helped Emma to her feet and half-carried her to his side. “Papa, good night.” She kissed his temple as she had done since he could remember. “I love you,” she whispered. “Thank you for all that you have done for me.”
“Do not thank me, dear. You have always been a treasure to me. My only regret is I could not stop Joseph’s death. You were his world.”
Twin pairs of brown eyes burgeoned with tears, lost in memories of what had been and what could have been different if Fate was not cruel. Thomas cleared his throat.
“Good night, Sheridan. I will leave as soon as I put Emma to bed.”
“We need to discuss her dowry before you go. That is, if you have the time.”
“I have all the time in the world,” he insisted.
“I, Thomas George Francis Blake, Marquess of Hartwell, take thee, Lady Emma Wren, to my wedded Wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
Constance cried with inconsolable abandon though Henry tried his best to wipe away her tears. Caroline, still drowsy, but pretty indeed in a demure gown in a delightful shade of blossom, stood beside her newest relative, the Duke of Kellaway. Quiet tears rolled down his finely wrinkled cheeks. He did not lift a hand to brush them away. At last, his son was married. His solicitor was pleased that the title would surely stay in the family. Henry himself found joy at the end of his son’s loneliness.
The joy evident on Thomas’ face far surpassed that of His Grace’s. If any members of the ton had seen him they would have remarked how he never looked more handsome. Indeed, a light seemed to shine from within those grey-blue eyes. The coal-black curls sprung from his head in casual disarray. His buckskin breeches strained against his powerful thighs leading his bride’s mind to delicious places.
The bride herself had not slept a wink but glowed as if she had slumbered for one hundred years. With the aid of a hastily employed maid, Emma’s unmanageable hair was groomed into a braided bun with curly tendrils tickling her shoulder blades. A garland of pink and yellow wildflowers adorned her crown. The Kellaway betrothal ring glimmered upon her left hand that held a bouquet of the matching wildflowers. Early that morning, Emma plucked a new gown from her wedding trousseau for the ceremony. A new gown in Aetherial muslin woven with gilt threads suited her fancy this morning.
The sight of her alighting from the carriage stilled Lord Hartwell’s heart. It may not have been her descending a grand flight of stairs but the effect was all the same.
“I, Lady Emma Wren, take thee, Thomas George Francis Blake, Marquess of Hartwell, to my wedded Husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”
Lady Sheridan’s watery wails grew louder. But the couple noticed not. Their eyes locked together. Emma opened her mouth, lips forming the silent words, “I love you.” Then she held out her hand for the wedding band that would accompany the Kellaway betrothal ring.
Chapter Eleven
The best laid plans, of mice and men, often go awry, the Marchioness of Hartwell reminded herself in the face of another diversion preventing their travels to Dover. First it was Lady Sheridan insisting they stay for her dinner party. Thomas could refuse his new mother-in-law nothing. In the mere days since two were joined as one, Thomas proved to be an indulgent son-in-law. So it was that the newlyweds stayed on in town for a few more days.
Then as Emma was standing in the main hall of Kellaway House, a note arrived. It bore her new name. She opened it and read it over. With a growl unbecoming to a new wife, she yanked off her poke bonnet and tossed it on the floor.
Emma was the sort of person who thrived on neatly laid out plans. To deal with thwarted ones twisted her world in one of nonsense.
“Shall we depart?” Thomas asked, rushing into the hallway. Emma turned on him and thrust the note beneath his nose.
“We must meet with the coroner...the one who performed the autopsy. His old assistant, at last, managed to get in contact with him. He has news for us.” Her lips drew into a deep frown. “I do not like this.”
“Nor do I.” Thomas shook his head. “I have already spoken with the former coroner. We must depart to Dover as planned.” He bent at the waist to retrieve her bonnet. He placed it carefully upon her head. She waved away his hands to tie the ribbons herself.
She could not stop thinking about their ceremony. Her foolish heart betrayed her by admitting her love. She hoped for a grand confession from him when they were alone later that evening. Nothing followed.
Her despair over the snub fell away when he kissed her. A heated kiss reminiscent of so many others they had shared. This one, however, would at last lead to culmination. Their bare limbs entwined upon the great bed covered with soft sheets edged in lace. Emma moaned out his name until it no longer made any sense.
He may not love her, but he worshipped her body. Emma decided she would be content with that. She had to. If he loved her too, he would have said so. He did not. He remained affectionate and cordial with every embrace and lingering look.
Emma wanted more. She wanted his sensuous mouth to speak of love for her. No matter how often she reminded herself she was happy, her anger still overcame her. It flared at such moments when he performed kind actions without a second thought.
She strode out of the house with Thomas following a step behind. He dismissed a footman who stood ready to help Emma into the carriage. She looked back to him. He held out his hand for her. She looked down to it.
A weary sigh escaped her lips. Emma gathered her skirts in one hand and took his hand in the other.
“Thank you,” she whispered. Thomas climbed in after her, settling on the bench across from her.
The Marquess eyed his new bride whose dark brows were etched into a distinctive frown. It was a look he knew all too well, having borne the brunt of her glares since he was ten. She was angry and it was his fault. Th
is time, at least, he knew exactly what wrong he had done. But it was all part of his plans. She may be angry now, but it would melt into ecstasy. For now, he would simply pretend to not see the fire blazing in her eyes.
Emma looked out the window. “How far away is Dover?”
“Near eighty miles. We shall arrive by nightfall and check into the inn.” A light glinted in his eyes at the mention of an inn. Emma ignored his deep looks and yawned.
“I shall be happy to sleep.”
“We just woke up.”
“But we did not sleep until late,” she reminded him. Emma scooted across the bench to lean against the window. It was time for spring. With the snow, at last, melted, only dead grass remained. The chill in the air was giving way to a bit of warmth.
“Your birthday is soon.” Thomas noted, admiring the passing landscape.
“Not soon. There is still a month at least.” Seven weeks and four days to be specific. Not that Emma kept track of such matters. It was just a birthday. Caro would have cackled upon hearing her thoughts. Emma took all holidays seriously and declared her birthday to be the most important of them all. After all, it heralded her entrance into the world.
“We will be in Portugal by then, I hope.”
She nodded her head. “I imagine so.”
“Is there something special you would like to do for your birthday?”
“Not particularly.” Then she shut her eyes, ending any conversation for the rest of the trip.
Oh yes, she was displeased. The level of her annoyance was one he had never beheld. How often had he coaxed her out of dour moods with distracting questions? But Emma was not a girl any longer. He had grown to learn this truth very much over the past few nights and even some afternoons.
The owner of the Seaside Arms watched the storm rage from the fire lit dining room. Mrs. Lowell went to bed once the rain began, leaving the newlyweds alone with Thea. The owner was thankful for Mrs. Lowell’s absence. She never had a kind word for anyone, even Lady Hedgeton who went out of her way to serve the horrid woman. Lord and Lady Hedgeton crawled up to bed once card games no longer interested them. The countess was grow weary of their stay in Dover. She itched to board a packet and head to the Continent. The girl was brave certainly. Thea enjoyed her quiet life too much to embark upon a ship to a war-ravaged land.
Colors of a Lady Page 14
