The Earl of Windermere Takes a Wife (Lords of the Matrix Club #1)

by Jen YatesNZ

  When she finally turned from the stone to gaze back down the valley, she stood with feet apart, planted firmly on the earth and with her hands crossed reverently over her heart. Facing in the direction of the Abbey and with eyes raised to the heavens, she said in a clear, ringing voice, ‘I love Windermere and he loves me! Together we’ll find great happiness. Thank you God.’

  Feeling lighter than she’d felt in years, Jassie hurried down to where Chester grazed quietly, gathered up the reins and led him up by one of the flat stones to use as a mounting block. Setting one foot into the stirrup, she lifted herself into the saddle and said, ‘Take me home Chester. Today I intend to be so beautiful that Windermere will not even think about crying off or that he once vowed never to marry. I intend to make that man so happy he will wonder why he wasted so many years! Home, Chester!’

  Chapter 4

  He was going to be late for this damned wedding, which wasn’t what he’d intended when he’d set out to be so busy that he’d not be back at the Abbey until the morning of the 20th. He hadn’t wanted to face his mother and the questions she’d not be able to contain; or run into Jassie before they met at the chapel. He’d determined to allow no chance for either of them to think about the reality of what they were doing. Honor demanded that he marry her and so he would. It had to be the lesser of two evils.

  Surely.

  He would make her understand that their lives would be separate—as they always had been. She had to accept he couldn’t be alone with her. Knowing she was his, to do with as he wished according to law, was more damnation than he needed. He might have honor ingrained deep enough to insist on the marriage but he was deadly uncertain if that honor went deep enough to keep him out of Jassie’s bed should they spend too much time together under the same roof; or keep him from taking her in the only way his body seemed to understand.

  His hands still remembered the feel of the soft satiny skin of her buttocks and the wet heat of her desire for him. The pleading, desperate need shining in her eyes as she’d forced herself to ask him to show her how it could be, haunted him.

  The sensation of her fine-boned wrists manacled by his grip and her startled cry of pain when he’d taken her like the beast he’d become, tormented his every waking moment. God, he hated how he was! If he ever came face to face with the bitch who’d made him this way he’d probably kill her. There could be no greater torment than loving and wanting Jassie as he did and knowing he couldn’t allow himself to have her.

  And he just couldn’t trust himself to resist her. Their ill-starred tryst on Neave Tor had proved that.

  His secretary, Barton Matthews who was also a cousin, and Wolverton, rode at his back. Wolverton, his face more grimly piratical than ever, had never once harked back to their conversation of the night Rogan had asked for his support. Nor had he stinted on that support in any way.

  And Bart’s skills as a secretary were invaluable but those were only a small part of the talents he brought to his position in Windermere’s household. Rogan could never have found a better nor more loyal man to watch his back. Younger by five years, Bart could have been Rogan’s brother, so alike were they—and had often been mistaken as such. It was probably his most valuable asset. While Rogan was following his deadly profession on the continent, he could also be seen riding in his well-known neck-or-nothing style through the Park on Raven, his shiny black stallion. Those rides were always undertaken during less fashionable hours when Bart was unlikely to be accosted by any of Rogan’s aristocratic acquaintances and put to a scrutiny too close to be safe.

  But the trademark Windermere neck-or-nothing style and magnificent black stallion would be seen and remembered if it ever became necessary to deny his presence anywhere than in London. He’d never been an habitué of the fashionable ton balls and soirées so his absence from these elite social events was not noticed.

  His latest foray into Paris had been fraught with danger and setback. His contacts were edgy and elusive, having to keep moving ahead of Fouché’s agents who were vicious and determined in the service of their restored and revered Emperor. He wouldn’t be surprised if some of them didn’t believe the poxy Little General could walk on water.

  Sweat popped out on his forehead when he allowed himself to think on how close he’d been to discovery in that stinking alley in the bowels of the city. Glad he’d dressed in the filthy tattered clothing of a homeless vagrant, he’d hunkered down in a garbage strewn doorway as if half dead from cold and starvation and listened with a pounding heart to the brutal searching of the tenement a couple of doors down. He’d left that building not moments before, in possession of some very damning information about the strength and disposition of Napoleon’s troops. Lying still had been the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. There was no point to wondering what had become of poor Boucher but Rogan doubted he’d be able to find his erstwhile accomplice in Paris again.

  Just when Europe was beginning to breathe easy, Bonaparte had escaped from the Isle of Elba and returned triumphantly to Paris with an army of a hundred thousand men at his back. The powers of the Seventh Coalition, Austria, Prussia, Russia and Great Britain, had declared him an outlaw and each had agreed to commit 150,000 men to finally rid Europe of his constant quest for power. Accurate information on Bonaparte’s plans, and the strength and movement of his troops, was vital to Field Marshal the Duke of Wellington, cantoned with his troops near Brussels, to ensure Europe was cleansed of the Napoleonic scourge forever.

  Holed up in a nondescript cottage on the outskirts of Paris with another contact, Rogan had memorized the information in the coded message and destroyed the original.

  His unusually retentive memory was what had got him into the secret courier business all those years ago when he was in his early twenties, a second son with no immediate prospect of becoming the Earl but who’d already known he could never marry. If he were to die an honorable death in service to King and country then he wouldn’t have lived in vain. That he’d survived his many forays into enemy territory only showed what a devious and cunning devil he’d become, certainly not attributes a woman looked for in her husband.

  He glanced over his shoulder to encounter Bart’s devilish grin. The man loved nothing better than a wild ride, as did his huge bay, Mayfair.

  ‘I can see the turrets of the Abbey,’ Bart yelled.

  Rogan punched his fist in the air and spurred Raven into a last burst of energy. The beautiful animal never failed him. They would arrive a mere fifteen minutes late. Wolverton’s dark countenance never changed but he urged the big grey he rode into a final burst of speed.

  Rogan had only managed to get back to England late yesterday morning and by the time he’d ridden up from Portsmouth and finally satisfied his superiors at his de-briefing at the War Office, it was near midnight. He’d decided to abandon his original plan to ride down last night, electing to catch up on sleep and start early in the morning. They’d left London before dawn and should have made the twenty-eight mile ride in plenty of time.

  But Suliman, Dominic’s mount, had thrown a shoe outside of Pleat Village and they’d had to cool their heels for a couple of hours while the village blacksmith sobered up enough to make the valuable horse roadworthy again. Dominic had wanted them to ride on without him, but Rogan was damned if he was going to stand before the bloody altar and promise himself to Jassie without Wolverton at his side.

  Truth to tell, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t turn round and ride straight back to London if Dom and Bart weren’t riding with him.

  They thundered up the long Elm Drive, across the front of the Abbey, over the lawns bordering the ancient cloisters, thereby ensuring a peel of aggravation from old Peabody the gardener, and right up to the doors of the chapel.

  She was poised on the steps of the ancient arched stone portico of the historic Cistercian Chapel, a stunning vision in cerulean blue satin and champagne lace over a wide hooped underskirt of silk in the same color as the lace, a style that her mother migh
t well have worn. He’d never seen her more regal, nor more beautiful. His heart stuttered in his chest and for a moment he could only sit in the saddle and stare at her.

  Little Jassie all grown up. God, he wished Philip was here to see her and for one horrific moment he was choked with emotion. For all that she was. For all that he couldn’t give her. Goddammit, he had to pull himself together!

  Then he noticed the rhythmic rise and fall of one section of the shimmering lace hem of the silken underskirt. One small foot was tapping with annoyance. His beautiful Jassie was in a snit, and rightly so. He was the one who’d insisted they marry and he was the one who was late. Giving himself no further time to consider, he leapt from the saddle, dropped Raven’s reins, and strode across the neatly raked cinder path to where she stood, a vision of loveliness if it weren’t for the scowl on her face. He stripped off hat and riding gloves, scarcely registering Bart taking possession of them.

  Reaching for her hand he bent low over it and said, ‘I humbly beg your pardon, Jass. We would’ve been here in plenty of time but Wolverton’s horse threw a shoe outside of Pleat Village and more time was lost in sobering up the blacksmith. I’m sorry.’

  He looked up and noticed her eyes were suspiciously bright and knew himself the lowest of dogs. He could easily have been back in London two days before he had returned, but had felt the need to stay out of England and thereby away from the temptation of Jassie, for as long as he could.

  He leaned in and kissed her cheek.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ he murmured. ‘How did you manage such a beautiful gown at such short notice?’

  ‘It was my mother’s.’

  The frost in her voice could have taken chips off his ears and belied the hint of tears he’d seen in her eyes.

  ‘Ah—it looks delightful on you.’ Then crooking his elbow, he said, ‘Shall we?’

  ‘Actually,’ she said, tilting her chin and firming her mouth, ‘I was just about to leave. I’ve changed my mind.’

  ‘That was never an option, Jassie.’ He stared her down until her lashes drooped, then gripped her fingers and laid them firmly on his sleeve. ‘You have the license?’

  ‘The vicar has it.’

  ‘And the ring?’

  ‘Francine has it.’

  There was a distinct sulky tone to her voice.

  ‘Is there anything else to be done before I walk you up that aisle?’

  ‘A bath and a change of clothing?’ she snapped, suddenly glaring at him, arching her eyebrows in haughty disdain and wrinkling her nose.

  God! She would slay him where he stood. Her eyes were now sparking with anger, her perfectly bowed mouth looked as if she’d been chewing at her lips in anxiety and he wanted nothing more than to kiss her senseless right where she stood, before God and whoever she and his mother had seen fit to invite to this farcical event.

  Deeply conscious of Wolverton glowering at his back and probably feeling everything he himself was, he said, ‘Too late for that, Jass. Let’s not keep everyone waiting any longer. Mama will be getting anxious.’

  He didn’t think it would be a good time to tell her that it was simplest if he stayed just as he was, since he intended to leave again as soon as the last of their guests left.

  ‘Lady Sherida and Mrs. Lyndon are your attendants?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Dom and Bart are attending me. Will they walk up the aisle in front of us?’

  Jassie nodded and he had to look away for she was biting her lip, just as he imagined she’d been doing for the last quarter hour at least.

  Wolverton gravely offered his arm to Lady Sherida Dearing, his eyes briefly sweeping her ice-blonde perfection and Bart stepped forward and held out a hand to Francine, smiling his appreciation of Jassie’s companion. Mrs. Francine Lyndon was a comely widow the same age as Jassie, with a sad scandal in her past. Rogan had always thought her a little stand-offish and aware of her consequence as the widow of a Lord though she didn’t use the title. But today she merely handed Jassie the exquisite posy of bluebells and forget-me-nots she’d been holding, before slanting his handsome rake of a cousin an almost shy smile and touched her fingers delicately to his sleeve. The two couples set off through the portico, and into the intimate little chapel, which along with the cloisters, was all that was left of the ancient church that had stood on this site. The third Earl of Windermere had restored the small building and every Wyldefell since had been married within its hallowed walls.

  ‘Our turn,’ he muttered, swallowing air and facing the door.

  Jassie’s whole body stiffened and he thought she was going to baulk but after a moment’s hesitation, she took a firmer grip on the posy of blue that matched her gown and stepped forward.

  The chapel was full. Extra chairs must have been brought from the Abbey. Servants from both houses filled the back rows, then local gentry and persons of status in the community. In the front row, his mother sat with Jensen to one side of her and Aunt Augusta on the other. Bart’s sisters, Elizabeth and Marion were next with his Aunt Miranda and Uncle James on the end of the old pew.

  Dominic and Bart stood to the right and Lady Sherida and Mrs. Lyndon to the left of the altar, leaving the space in the center for himself and Jassie. As they stopped before the Reverend Worth who was beaming down at them as if the marriage was his own personal triumph, Rogan became aware that Jassie was trembling. The forget-me-nots in her posy were dancing. In fact he could feel the whole of her body shivering against his. She was right to be afraid, he thought suddenly, taking the flowers from her and handing them to Lady Sherida before they slid from her grasp. Then, even though something inside him was snapping with anger at what Jassie had set in motion with her wicked request on Neave Tor, he slipped his arm round her waist and let her lean against his body for support.

  It was embarrassing enough that he’d arrived late and walked up the aisle in his rumpled and dusty riding attire without the bride falling into a faint at his feet. There was doubtless already gossip about the indecent haste with which the thing was being done.

  There wasn’t enough air in the little chapel. The panic that she’d managed to allay with her wild dawn ride and the moments of communion on Neave Tor came crashing back, almost suffocating her. An insidious trembling started in her knees and by the time they reached the altar and Reverend Worth, who appeared to be trying to light the whole chapel with his smile, her entire body was shivering as if with ague.

  Where had the buoyancy gone, the certainty with which she’d ridden home from Neave Tor? She’d clung to her determination to be happy through her long soak in the bath, through a late breakfast with Fran and Sheri during which she’d talked of the decision she’d made on the Tor—to be happy. Buoyancy had stayed with her while Ruby labored to put her hair up in the bouffant style laced with ropes of pearls that her mother would probably have worn with the dress at the end of the last century.

  Even during the short carriage ride from Brantleigh Manor to Windermere Abbey she’d managed to keep up a constant bright commentary on the abundant blossom on the trees and the fields starred with jonquils and daffodils. They’d timed their arrival so that all the guests would be seated in the chapel and Rogan would already be waiting for her.

  He wasn’t.

  Jensen, Lady Windermere’s companion stood stoically on the steps instead with the intelligence that the Earl had not yet arrived but nor had any word come to say he’d been delayed so they were still expecting him at any moment. Cold energy had shivered down her spine, chilling the whole of her body.

  Where was Rogan? What had happened? Jassie knew that his honor would not allow him to stand her up at this late point, but she couldn’t help fearing for his safety. Where had he been during these last two weeks? News from the Continent suggested a major battle was soon to be engaged in the vicinity of Brussels and that the Duke of Wellington was encamped there with his forces in preparation. Had Rogan been on another mission? He hadn’t mentioned it, which would b
e unusual, for he normally let her know if he was to be out of the country. She’d probably forfeited that consideration through her brazen actions on Neave Tor but—surely—he wouldn’t leave her just waiting at the chapel with no word?

  She had to believe he would arrive soon.

  Or should she just abandon the whole dreadful mess and return to Brantleigh Manor? For the next several minutes she alternated between staying and going, Fran and Sheri taking turns to talk sensibly and quietly, reminding her of Windermere’s deep sense of honor and respect for her. Jassie had almost scoffed at that. She’d lost his respect. All she had to fall back on was her belief in his honor.

  Dammit, this was intolerable. She couldn’t continue to stand here like an uninvited guest at a masquerade ball. Though she wished she had the mask to shield her emotions from curious eyes. She was painfully aware every head in the chapel was turned to the door, watching, waiting—it was too much. She’d waited long enough.

  She turned to snap her decision to her companions only to see Fran gazing beyond and silently pointing.

  When Jassie turned to see three riders galloping up the Elm Drive, every crazy jumbled emotion she’d been suppressing, rushed into her throat. Away across the other side of the grounds the riders disappeared behind the Abbey and Jassie gave thanks, thinking she’d have a few moments to collect her shattered wits while they left their horses at the stables and walked the length of the vast Abbey structure to reach the chapel. But she was shocked from her momentary calm by the thud of hooves straight across the velvet lawns at this end of the Abbey and the sight of Raven, closely followed by Mayfair and a large grey bearing none other than the Duke of Wolverton, curvetting to a halt on the cinder pathway almost at the door of the chapel.