by Anne Gracie
Rose glanced up and met the duke’s gaze. Dark eyes, gray-green, and cold as the winter sea. Perfectly good eyes, but the wrong color. The wrong eyes.
She regarded them bleakly. Time healed all wounds. Or so they said.
The bishop, resplendent in his robes of gold and purple, cleared his throat and they turned to face him. For the marriage of a duke and the daughter of an earl, their usual minister wouldn’t do, it seemed. Aunt Agatha’s doing, no doubt.
Rose hoped he wasn’t the kind of bishop who would give some long dreary sermon. She wanted this wedding over. Over and done with. No going back.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here . . .”
The familiar words washed over her. She was calm, quite calm. Coldly, perfectly calm. Not like last time.
The bishop continued, speaking in those melodic rises and falls peculiar to ministers. Did they teach them that singsong cadence at minister school? “. . . not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men’s carnal lusts and appetites . . . but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly . . . ”
She shivered. Lord, but this church was cold.
“. . . for the procreation of children . . .”
Children. Yes, think of that. Imagine swelling like Emm, round and glowing with joy in the child she was carrying. Not long for Emm now. Would it be a boy or a girl?
“Therefore if any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak or else hereafter forever hold his peace.”
Her fingers were freezing. She should have worn kid gloves instead of these lace ones.
The bishop paused for a perfunctory breath, then continued, “I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that—”
“Stop the wedding!”
There was an audible gasp from the congregation, followed by a hush, as everyone waited to hear what would happen next. Rose’s heart jolted—feeling as though it stopped. Heart in her mouth, she turned to stare at the man who’d just entered.
After a long, frozen moment, she breathed again. For a moment she’d imagined—but no. She’d never seen this man before.
The church door banged shut behind him, the sound echoing through the silent church.
“What the devil?” Cal muttered.
Rose fought to gather her composure, shaken by the brief flash of—whatever it was.
The stranger stood in stark contrast to the smoothly groomed and elegant congregation. He was tall and gaunt-looking, but his shoulders were broad—a laborer’s shoulders. His clothes were ill-fitting, coarse, the trousers ragged and patched in places. He wore no coat. His shirt was too flimsy for the season and his shoes were of laced canvas, dirty and with visible holes.
If he knew he was grossly out of place in this, the most fashionable church in London, interrupting the most fashionable wedding of the season, he showed no sign, no self-consciousness.
He was heavily bearded. Thick hair rioted past his shoulders, wild and sun-bleached. The face above the beard—what she could see of it—was lean and deeply tanned, the skin stretched tight over prominent cheekbones. His nose appeared to have been broken at least once. The tattered shirtsleeves revealed tanned, powerful-looking muscles.
No, she’d imagined that fleeting resemblance. But who was he? And what was he trying to do?
“Is this a joke?” the duke demanded of his best man.
“Lord, no, Hart—of course not. Nothing to do with me.”
“Rose?” Cal asked.
Her heart was still pounding. She stared at the big ruffian who stood in the center of the aisle, shabby and confident, as if commanding it. He met her gaze with an assurance that shook her.
For a moment she wondered . . . But no. He was too brutal-looking, too rough, too wild.
“Rose?” Cal repeated.
She shook her head. “No idea.”
The bishop surged forward. “Ho there, fellow, by what right do you seek to disrupt God’s work?”
“By the right of law,” the stranger replied coolly. “Lady Rose is already married.”
A low, excited murmur of speculation followed his announcement.
Rose’s heart almost stopped. He couldn’t possibly know.
“Throw the dirty beggar out!” Aunt Agatha shook her stick at him.
“Rose?” Cal glanced at her, and despite the racing of her heart and the knotting of her stomach, again she shook her head. She did not know this man. How many times had she imagined—but no. No! It was some cruel, tasteless joke.
Cal snorted and raised his voice. “Is she now? And who is my sister married to, pray tell?”
A hush fell as everyone waited for his response.
“To me.” His voice was deep, a little rough. Faintly surprised by the question.
There was a universal gasp, then a babble of amused and outraged speculation. Several people laughed. There were a couple of catcalls.
“That’s a lie!” Dry-mouthed, breathless and suddenly furious, Rose moved forward.
“Stay here, Rose.” Cal caught her arm and thrust her toward the duke. “Look after her, Everingham. I’ll get rid of this madman. Galbraith?” Rose’s brother-in-law, Ned Galbraith, nodded, and the two men approached the rough-looking stranger.
“Back off, gentlemen,” the stranger warned with chilling menace. “I’m neither madman nor beggar. Lady Rose is indeed my wife.” His bearing was in stark contrast to his ragged appearance. And he spoke with the crisp diction of a gentleman.
Cal frowned and glanced at Galbraith.
“What rubbish! Who the devil do you think you are, coming here to disrupt my wedding?” Furious at the sight of her brother’s hesitation, shaken by the tall beggar’s confidence and the cruelty of his lies, Rose shook off the duke’s grip and marched forward. The duke tried to draw her back, but she evaded him and half ran, half stumbled up the aisle, almost tripping over her train. She pushed in between her brother and brother-in-law, ready to confront the big, weather-beaten stranger who was trying to ruin her wedding.
“What nonsense is this?” she snapped. “I’ve never seen you before in—”
White teeth glinted through the beard. “Ahh, that temper of yours, Rosie.”
She froze. This man with the spare, rangy frame, the powerful shoulders, the crooked nose, and the wild sun-bleached hair, he wasn’t . . . He couldn’t be . . . He was nothing like . . .
She opened her mouth to repudiate him again—and met his gaze. Eyes of the palest silvery blue. She faltered. And in her memory the echo of her much younger self saying, Like a summer sky at twilight.
“Thomas?” she whispered, and fainted dead away.
* * *
* * *
Rose’s brother lunged forward, but it was Thomas who caught Rose before she fell, caught her and clasped her to his chest. She was his and he wasn’t going to give her up. He glanced down at her pale face, her skin pearlescent in the candlelight, the crescent sweep of sable lashes, the full, rosy lips parted slightly. Unconscious, but breathing evenly. His woman. His wife. Rose.
She hadn’t recognized him . . .
The hostile circle of faces edged closer. Thomas eyed them coldly, silently daring them to interfere.
Rose’s brother held his arms out. “I’ll take her.”
Thomas’s hold on her tightened. “She’s my wife. You heard her.”
“I heard her call you Thomas. That proves nothing,” he growled. But he made no move to wrestle her out of Thomas’s arms. He couldn’t, not in a church. And with such an audience. He faced Thomas with contained anger.
He must know who Thomas was. Rose’s recognition, belated as it was, had confirmed it. It must be obvious to everyone. So why deny him? Why preten
d?
Yet another person who wanted him obliterated? When would it end? Thomas tamped down on the familiar cold anger. He was home at last, in England, and Rose was in his arms. It was all that mattered to him. He would deal with the rest later.
The warm weight of her was almost shocking to his senses, the fragrance of her perfume, the silken texture of her skin, the fine-spun gold of her hair. She was still insensible, pale as paper, breathing gently. His grip on her tightened. It was shock that had caused her to faint, nothing more.
Four years . . .
A small, round, sweet-faced young woman pushed through the ring of male protectors. “What did you do to her?” she demanded fiercely. “Rose never faints!” She unstoppered a tiny crystal flask and waved it under Rose’s nose.
He remembered seeing a miniature of her once, much younger but still recognizable. “You’d be Lily, then, Rose’s little sister.”
She snorted. “Everyone knows that.”
“She used to worry about you. You were very ill.”
She stopped waving the smelling salts under Rose’s nose for a moment and glanced up at him, frowning. “Who are you—really?” It was a strange question. Who the hell did she think he was?
“Her husband.”
“Nonsense.” She shook her head vehemently. “If Rose were married I would know.”
He frowned. “You didn’t know?”
At that moment Rose jerked abruptly into consciousness. She sneezed, recoiling and shaking her head. “Ugh! Take that vile stuff—” She broke off, glanced at the concerned faces surrounding her, then up at Thomas. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open.
“How are you, Rose?” The words came out low, ragged and hoarse.
There was a long, fraught silence. Not a soul in the church moved. Everyone craned to hear what she would say next.
Her hand fluttered up, hesitated, brushed his cheek, a moth wing of a touch, faint and fleeting, then drew back. “It is you, isn’t it?” she said finally. “But you’re . . . I thought . . .” And then she said, almost accusingly, “But you’re supposed to be dead.” She sounded . . . Was she angry? With him? For not being dead?
It wasn’t the reaction he’d expected. He wasn’t sure exactly what he’d expected, but somewhere in his imagination there had been joy, laughter . . . kisses.
Fool. Had the last four years taught him nothing?
She was getting married. Today. To someone else.
He’d upset her fancy wedding. His unexpected appearance had given her a shock. That was inevitable.
Still . . .
You’re supposed to be dead. Was she angry with him for surviving? If so, she wouldn’t be the only one. He wasn’t going to apologize for it. He’d fought to stay alive, fought to get back to England. To Rose.
For a moment she clutched his shirt in a tight fist, her mouth quivering. Then, abruptly, she released his shirt and pushed at his chest. “P-put me down, please.”
Several females now pushed past their menfolk and clustered around Thomas, clamoring, “Put her down!” and “Release her, you beast!”
He set Rose on her feet. She swayed. He barely had time to steady her when her sister and the other females closed around her in a protective clump and swept her away to the other side of the church.
You’re supposed to be dead. What the hell had she meant by that. Did she want him to be dead?
It was not the homecoming he’d expected. Of course, some people reacted uncharacteristically to shock . . .
“Now look here, whoever you are—” her brother began.
Thomas turned and said crisply, “Commander Thomas Beresford, late of His Majesty’s Royal Navy.” His announcement sparked off a renewed buzz of controversy among the congregation.
People rose from their pews and pressed closer, the better to hear. “He’s no officer,” someone called out.
“For shame,” a woman said.
“Toss the wretch back into the gutter.” A silver-haired old lady gestured angrily with an ebony cane.
“Shoot the scoundrel,” an old man shouted. A murmur of agreement followed.
Thomas turned and swept a cold gaze over the congregation, staring the crowd—the overfed, overindulged, smug society pets—down. The mutters died away, stares slid sideways and eyes failed to meet his.
His detractors silenced, he turned back to Rose’s brother, who eyed him narrowly and said, “You claim to be married to my sister? On what basis?”
Thomas glanced at Rose, then back at her brother. “You’re saying you didn’t know? She never told you?”
A tall dark fellow—one of the family?—stepped forward and said quietly to the brother, “Cal, I think this is a conversation best conducted in private.”
Rose’s brother nodded. So that was who he was, Calbourne Rutherford, the brother who’d been away at war.
“The vestry?” the bishop suggested.
Rutherford agreed, then jerked his chin at Thomas. “Beresford?”
Thomas glanced once more to where Rose sat surrounded by her female relatives, watching him with wide, distressed eyes. Distressed for what reason? Because she was shocked at his return? Because he’d messed up her wedding? Because he wasn’t dead? He couldn’t tell.
Of course, he’d given her a shock, appearing so suddenly when apparently she thought he was dead. And in the middle of her wedding—which at least proved that she did believe he was dead. And looking as he did, with no time to shave and dress appropriately. And given how he’d lived for the last few years, it was no wonder she didn’t immediately recognize him.
But it wasn’t like Rose to stay silent or in the background. Not the Rose he remembered. Or the Rose who five minutes earlier had marched up to him demanding to know what he was doing, disrupting her wedding.
“Beresford?” Rutherford said again. Thomas gave a brusque nod.
“Coming, Everingham?” Rutherford addressed the groom—Rose’s groom—who up to now had said not a thing. Thomas inspected him. Good-looking in an ascetic sort of way and elegantly, if severely, dressed.
Thomas wasn’t impressed. If their places had been swapped, Thomas would never have stood by silently while another man claimed Rose.
“Duke?” Rutherford repeated. “Are you coming?”
Duke? Rose had been about to marry a duke? Might explain why she seemed so upset. Might explain the anger he’d heard in her voice.
Belatedly he recalled Ollie shouting something at him as he’d raced off, something about “the wedding of the season,” but he hadn’t stopped to listen. Ollie had just told him that Rose was getting married at eleven and Thomas hadn’t waited to hear another thing. He’d taken off running, running like a madman, cutting through alleys and across parks.
He’d only just made it in time.
The duke turned a basilisk gaze on Thomas, raked him slowly from head to toe. Thomas, unmoved, gave him look for look. Rose was his. And nobody, not family, not a duke, not an angry congregation waving sticks was going to stop him claiming her.
The duke turned to Rose’s brother and lifted one indifferent shoulder. “It’s your mess, Ashendon, you deal with it.”
Ashendon? Rose’s father must be dead if Cal Rutherford was now Lord Ashendon. And what had happened to the older brother? Dead too, he supposed.
Not that it made any difference to Thomas.
The duke stepped forward and addressed the congregation in a bored voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your attendance but I’m afraid your time—and mine—has been wasted. There will be no wedding today.” He picked up his hat and strolled from the church, apparently oblivious of the murmurs and whispers that followed his progress, quite as if he hadn’t just been effectively jilted.
His best man hesitated, then snatched up his hat and hurried after him. The door banged shut behind them.
>
Rose’s brother swore under his breath.
None of the congregation moved. They were all waiting to see what happened.
The bishop opened the door to the vestry. A thin, elegant, elderly lady—the one who’d ordered him tossed back into the gutter—rose to her feet. “I will be part of this discussion,” she declared.
The bishop smirked indulgently. “Dear Lady Salter, this sordid business is not for ladies. We gentlemen will sort it—”
Lady Salter. Thomas recalled that Rose had a sweet aunt and a scary one. He’d met the sweet one, so this must be Aunt Agatha.
She skewered the bishop with a glare. “Pshaw! I arranged a brilliant match for my niece—a duke!—and if some ragged scarecrow thinks he can set it aside with some spurious false claim . . .” She directed a contemptuous look at the scarecrow.
Meet the in-laws. The scarecrow couldn’t help himself—he winked at her.
The old lady swelled with indignation, but before she could damn his impudence, the bishop distracted her by saying, “Lady Salter, this is a complicated matter better suited to a masculine understanding.”
She fixed him with a scathing glare. “Masculine understanding? Pshaw! Weddings are women’s business!”
The bishop opened his mouth, ready to argue the case, when a voice from the doorway drew everyone’s attention. “I vouch for Commander Beresford and the truth of his claim.” As one the congregation swiveled toward the speaker. Thomas’s friend Ollie had finally arrived.
Ollie strolled down the aisle quite as if he weren’t the cynosure of all eyes. “I gather you made it in time,” he said to Thomas.
“And who might you be?” Ashendon snapped.
Ollie made a graceful bow. “Oliver Yelland of the Navy Board, at your service. Sorry I’m late. Things to arrange, cab to catch, jarvey to be paid.”
“Yelland? Yelland?” Lady Salter said irritably. “Never heard of you. What are you doing, poking that long nose into other people’s affairs? You have no business here, sirrah, so—”
“On the contrary, madam, business here extremely pertinent.” His glance took in the group gathered by the vestry entrance. “Known Thomas Beresford any time these last ten years. Vouch for him absolutely.”
