Bewitched

by Cullman, Heather;

  “I see,” the girl murmured, regarding her grandmother gravely. “Is there anything else?”

  “Well …” Euphemia drew out the word as she glanced at his grandmother, clearly reluctant to continue. At her nod, she disclosed, “He does … uh … foam a bit at the mouth.”

  His grandmother nodded again, and added, “Yes. He also makes frightening faces and emits some … ahem! … rather alarming noises. Of course, as Euphemia mentioned, he hasn’t had a spell in ever so long.”

  “I see,” Miss Merriman replied. She contemplated him briefly, as if not quite certain what to make of what she had been told, then quietly inquired, “Is that all, then?”

  Michael stared at her, incredulous. All? As if everything she’d been told wasn’t damning enough. Though he knew he should be relieved by her response, there was something about her easy dismissal of his torturous affliction that rankled him. And before he could bridle his irrational surge of anger, he snapped, “Aside from the fact that I usually soil myself and have to be carried off to my bed, yes, that is all.”

  “Michael, really! There is no call to be vulgar,” his grandmother chastened, shooting him a threatening look.

  Damnation! Of course she was right. It hardly served his cause to disclose the vile detail that he soiled himself, especially in such a brusque manner. Wishing that he could turn back time and swallow the outburst before he uttered it, he smoothly justified his response by explaining, “I sought only to answer Miss Merriman’s question as truthfully as possible. If I in any way offended you ladies in doing so, please do accept my most humble apologies.” His regrets thus tendered, he ventured a glance at Miss Merriman, fully expecting to see her gaping at him in disgust, or at the very least, slowly inching away from him.

  She did neither. She simply looked at him, her expression thoughtful. For some odd reason, he found her calm regard far more disconcerting than the revulsion he’d expected.

  “Well?” he inquired, far more curtly than he intended. “Did I answer your question?”

  She shook her head. “You still haven’t told me what ails you. I mean”—another head shake—“what causes your spells? Are you an epileptic? Or are they due to something else?”

  The question took Michael aback. Could it be that she still contemplated marrying him? He considered for a moment, then slowly acknowledged that it was possible. Having never witnessed one of his spells, she had no idea how truly repulsive they were. Once she did, and she was bound to see one if they wed, she would no doubt view him with the same disgust as the spectators of his episode at the Kilvingtons’ picnic.

  Not that it matters, he reminded himself. His grandmother had demanded only that he wed the girl; a harsh demand she had softened by promising to sign back his ducal rights upon his marriage … on one condition. With his grandmother, there was always at least one condition. In this instance the condition was that he remain under Mr. Eadon’s care and continue to take his treatments, which his grandmother believed were of benefit to him. Though the treatments were far from pleasant, he would gladly endure them for the satisfaction he would derive from regaining his other freedoms.

  “Well, Michael? Are you going to answer Miss Merriman’s question, or must I?” his grandmother prompted, visibly annoyed by his prolonged silence.

  Swallowing the bitter response that sprang to his lips, he said, “She asked me, therefore I shall reply.” With a polite nod, he directed his attention back to the girl, who still gazed at him with unsettling thoughtfulness. “To answer your question, Miss Merriman, no, I am not an epileptic. At least not in the traditional sense, though my spells do manifest themselves in a similar manner. Or so I have been told.” He shrugged. “Having never witnessed an epileptic episode, I cannot say with any great certainty whether or not it is true.” Another shrug. “At any rate, my spells are the result of an infection of the brain, an unfortunate complication of the measles I suffered just over two years ago.”

  “Yes, and a terrible infection it was. Why, he is lucky to be alive, much less in possession of his wits,” Euphemia chimed in. She took his hand and gave it a fond squeeze. “Poor, poor darling. The doctors predicted that if he lived, and they doubted very much that he would, that his mind would be hopelessly scrambled. Fortunately he proved stronger than they believed, and the only adverse effect he suffered is a proclivity toward spells. And as I have said before, even those are improving.”

  To Michael’s amazement, the chit actually smiled. “I see. Then his spells are nothing we need worry about passing on to our children.”

  Children? Good God! Did she really expect him to consummate the union? One glance at her face told him she did. He quickly looked away again, uttering a silent oath. He was so close … so damn close to ensuring his freedom. All it would take was a simple nod.

  Yet … yet … it was clear that the girl hoped for a real marriage, one complete with lovemaking and children. That being the case, could he, in good conscience, marry her with the knowledge that consummation was most probably impossible? To be fair, he should at least mention the problem. Then again, if he did mention it, she might very well refuse to marry him. And he was all too aware of what awaited him if she did.

  Caught between fear and honor, he deliberated for a beat longer. Then his desperation overrode his scruples, and he nodded to the affirmative.

  Her smile, a dazzling display of straight, white teeth and luscious red lips, grew positively radiant, and she seemed about to say something when that smile abruptly faded and she whispered a distressed, “Oh, my.”

  A fist of dread slugged hard into Michael’s belly. Had she suddenly come to her senses and realized what a wretched prospect for a husband he was?

  Meeting his gaze with eyes as anguished as her utterance, she murmured, “You have been so honest with me, your grace, that it is only fair that I am equally so with you, though I fear that you shan’t wish to wed me after you hear what I must say.”

  “Indeed?” he intoned, breathless with relief. Not wed her? Hell, she could tell him that she had two wooden legs, false teeth, and had been compromised by every man in America, and he would still take her.

  She flushed a rather interesting shade of maroon and nodded.

  He nodded back. “Pray do continue.”

  After a brief moment, during which she solemnly contemplated him, she transferred her gaze to the vicinity of her feet and haltingly confessed, “You see, your grace, I’m—I’m—uh—cursed. By a w-witch.”

  “What?” he ejected, certain that his ears were playing tricks on him.

  “I’m cursed by a witch,” she repeated, miserably.

  Euphemia expelled an exasperated grunt. “That will be quite enough, Emily. I already told you that there are no such things as curses or witches.”

  “But there are!” Emily protested, shaking her head. She looked up then, her dark eyes earnest as she met his gaze. “Your grace, you must believe me. The curse is real. In truth, it is the reason I wasn’t wed in Boston.”

  As engrossed as he was in his own dilemma, it had never occurred to Michael to wonder why a chit with Miss Merriman’s spectacular looks and rich dowry would have difficulty procuring a husband. And she was having difficulty. That she was here, relegated to an arranged marriage with an invalid who was subject to fits, bore testimony to that fact. Now that she’d called her plight to his attention, the answer as to why she was suffering it was abundantly clear: she was an eccentric, one with an absurd belief in superstition and a penchant for outlandish flights of fancy.

  Not that it mattered. He shrugged. “I am afraid that I am of the same mind as your grandmother, Miss Merriman. I, too, do not believe in curses.”

  She shook her head. “Neither did my three fiancés, and the most dreadful things happened to them.”

  “I said enough, Emily!” Euphemia growled.

  Three fiancés? Michael frowned. Blo
ody hell! She must be as mad as May-butter to have scared off three prospective husbands. Not that it mattered.

  “The curse is that I shall be a plague to any man I love. And I am!” the chit urgently persisted.

  Love? If she had to love him in order for her fictitious curse to strike, then neither of them had anything to fear. After all, who could love him now?

  Feeling suddenly ill and wanting nothing more than to end what was quickly becoming an exhausting interview, Michael sighed and said, “If what you say is indeed true, Miss Merriman, then we are a perfect match. I am cursed by illness and you by a witch. If you will wed me and suffer my curse, I will gladly brave yours.”

  “She’s perfect. Exactly what Michael needs,” Adeline declared to Euphemia.

  Michael had since retired with a headache, and Emily had been led away to freshen herself for dinner, leaving the women alone. At the moment Adeline stood before the gaudy gold and white rococo sideboard, pouring them each a glass of gin. Good, strong gin was their favorite beverage, a secret vice they fostered whenever in each other’s company.

  Rising from the settee, Euphemia moved to the sideboard, replying, “So it seems, though I must admit that I did have my doubts. Indeed, until she blasted you, the child gave no indication whatsoever that she had any spirit at all. And you should have seen how I bullied her.” She came to a stop next to her friend, shaking her head. “I tweaked and nagged and criticized her mercilessly the entire time we were in London, trying to provoke a response, and never once did she so much as raise her voice.”

  “Well, she certainly raised it when I insulted her precious America.” Adeline chuckled at the memory of the chit’s impassioned performance. “I cannot remember the last time anyone dared to dress me down like that.”

  “She was magnificent, wasn’t she?”

  Adeline nodded. “Very. And did you see Michael’s face when she began that curse business?”

  Euphemia guffawed. “I haven’t seen that much color in his cheeks since before his illness.”

  “Yes. Which, in my opinion, proves how right we are in forcing this match.” She handed her friend a dainty crystal cordial glass containing a healthy ration of gin. “Indeed, if I do not miss my guess, and I seldom do, Emily is going to do exactly what we hoped she would do: shake Michael up and chase away his doldrums.”

  “Shall we drink to Emily, then?” Euphemia inquired, raising her glass in a toast.

  Adeline nodded and followed suit. “To Emily, the future duchess of Sherrington. May her chase be merry.”

  Chapter 5

  Michael and Emily were married the following morning at the Windgate chapel, a small, but picturesque medieval structure that stood in an idyllic grove of elm trees at the far edge of the park. The ceremony was a short one, presided over by the dour Reverend Bellamy, rector of the tiny nearby village of Talrose. Acting as witnesses were their equally dour grandmothers, and a brawny, blunt-featured man of middle years named Timothy Eadon, who, as far as Emily could ascertain, was some sort of companion to the duke. All in all the wedding was a quiet affair, one that would have been downright dreary had it not been for the Windgate servants.

  Unlike the grave wedding party, the servants appeared to be genuinely thrilled by their master’s marriage and had done their best to make it a gay event. To that end they had decked the simple chapel with garlands and nosegays, an act which had visibly stunned their employer, transforming it into an Eden of ambrosial fragrance and riotous color. After the couple had uttered their vows and had sealed their pledge with a brief, sterile kiss, they had stepped outside to yet another surprise … the thunderous applause and cheers of the entire household. At least Michael said that the assembly was the household, though Emily had trouble fathoming the notion that a single dwelling, even one as enormous as Windgate, could employ so many people.

  Garbed in what was clearly their Sunday finery, the servants proceeded to accompany the newlyweds to where a simple, but bountiful feast had been laid in the manor park, strewing flowers in their path and shouting heartfelt wishes for their happiness as they went. Their joyous display did much to revive Emily’s wilted spirits, soothing the nagging qualms that had plagued her the entire night, robbing her of her sleep. After all, it only stood to reason that a man who was kind to his servants would be considerate of his wife. And judging from the way his servants adored him, it was apparent that he was the best of masters.

  The rest of the warm, early August morning and much of the hot afternoon passed in a blur of lighthearted activity. The wedding breakfast, which was served on long, posy-festooned tables beneath a shady stand of oak trees, went on for hours, with everyone, except the bride and groom, glutting themselves on roast beef and plum pudding, and drinking astonishing volumes of ale. Emily refrained from eating out of nervousness, being uneasy about the intimacies she knew inevitably followed wedding festivities, while Michael barely touched the oddly spartan repast of broth, toast, and weak tea that Mr. Eadon had served him.

  He also remained silent and almost grimly aloof throughout the meal, seldom smiling and speaking only when courtesy required him to do so. It was the same polite, but perfunctory manner in which he had responded to Emily when she’d sought to engage him in conversation during their stroll from the chapel.

  Wishing to acquaint herself with the enigmatic stranger whom she had just promised to love, honor, cherish, and obey, ’til death did them part, Emily had shyly mentioned that she knew nothing about being a duchess and that she hoped he would guide her in her duties. Sparing her only the briefest of glances, he had civilly, but succinctly, replied that he knew little about women’s work and that she would thus be better served in seeking his grandmother’s counsel. He had then resumed his brooding silence.

  Stung, Emily, too, had retreated into silence, wondering if she had breached yet another tiresome rule of British protocol by requesting his help. Grudgingly deciding it best to find out … after all, she was now a member of the British nobility so she might as well learn their rules … she had finally asked Michael if she had unwittingly committed a faux pas, to which he had replied, “No.” And that had been that. No explanation, no attempt to ease her mind, nothing.

  Smarting at his slight, yet bullishly determined to make the best of her difficult situation, she had tried twice more to draw him into conversation. Twice more he had discouraged her efforts. At last giving up, she had occupied herself watching the servants’ frolics, a pleasant enough diversion that was occasionally interrupted by comments from her grandmother, who sat to her right at the bridal table.

  Though her grandmother’s demeanor toward her still wasn’t what Emily would have termed affectionate, it had softened somewhat since the marriage ceremony and she now treated her granddaughter with a certain measure of courtesy. Indeed, not once since leaving the chapel had Emily been subjected to what had previously been her grandmother’s relentless criticism. Then again, why would the old tyrant bother? Emily was no longer her problem or her responsibility. She was Michael’s, who clearly wanted no more to do with her than her grandmother did.

  When, at last, everyone had eaten their fill and many toasts had been drunk to the health and happiness of the newlywed couple, each servant came forward in turn and introduced themselves to their new mistress.

  As Emily now acknowledged the last of their astonishing number, a young, freckle-faced scullery maid called Mary, as were at least a dozen other of the female servants, she despaired at ever remembering all their names. How in the world did Michael manage to keep them all straight? Especially the plump twin sisters, Phoebe and Agnes, who were the cook and baker, respectively? Amazingly enough, he did manage, splendidly, somehow remembering not just their names, but small details about them that enabled him to inquire after each person in an individual manner.

  Something he did now. Cordially nodding to Mary, who had just bobbed a rather wobbly curtsy, Michael
inquired, “How fares your mother, Mary? I believe that she has been ill with an ague this past fortnight?”

  Mary flushed, visibly flattered by his notice, and curtsied again. “Much better, yer grace. She bid me to thank ye fer the food basket, and asked me to give ye her best wishes fer a long and happy marriage.”

  He smiled faintly and nodded again. “I am pleased to hear of her improvement. Do let me know if there is anything else she requires.”

  “Yes, yer grace.” Yet another curtsy. “Thank ye, yer grace. Ye are most kind,” she stammered, backing away.

  When the girl had rejoined the ranks of the other servants, who stood at easy attention before them, Michael rose to his feet.

  “You must rise as well, Emily,” her grandmother whispered. “It is time for you and Michael to retire.”

  Retire? Emily thought with dismay, automatically doing as instructed. Why, it couldn’t be much past four o’clock. Surely her husband didn’t intend to bed her until after dark? Indeed, from what she had ascertained from the snatches of conversation she’d eavesdropped from her brothers, and from the giggling confidences she’d shared with her friends, babies were always made under the cover of darkness. Unless, of course, the British nobility did things differently, which she supposed was always possible.

  As she numbly accepted her husband’s proffered arm, forcing herself to smile as he graciously thanked the servants and invited them to remain for an hour of dancing, she tried to recall all she had heard about the wedding bed.

  Hmmm. Let’s see now. They would kiss … yes, there would be lots of kissing involved. She stole a glance at her husband’s mouth. It was a nice mouth, strong and firm. She particularly liked the curve of his lower lip and the way it was ever so slightly fuller than his perfectly bowed upper one. In truth, she liked it so much that she rather relished the thought of kissing it, despite what should have been the off-putting fact that he was a stranger.