by Sophia Nash
It was here in his own fields that Nicholas felt a glow of pride fill his being at all the productivity. He loved to see progress. It was the first time he had ever experienced it. For so many years he had seen only destruction. He had witnessed the devastation of war and had participated in it. And he had been excellent at it—too excellent in many cases.
Until now, he had not realized how much it had weighed on his conscience and on his soul. He prayed he would not have to return to it. The fragile peace with France must hold. Nicholas would help preserve it, or better yet, help the war-ravaged countries rebuild.
The one little burr in his future was Charlotte. Would this marriage prove disastrous? She was so hesitant to go through with it. He could envision many bleak evenings with her at the hearth reading a huge tome, trying occasionally to give him false hope in his first childish workbooks.
He thought of his endless reams of blotched papers, filled with rows of ill-formed letters. At least the headaches had disappeared altogether. And he had even taken a few moments to form numbers out of clay, to put in the first firing in the kiln he had had constructed near the brewery. It was a secret. He had planned to show the kiln to Charlotte right away, but she had avoided him at every opportunity.
“Hey ho!” hailed Owen Roberts. “We’re ready to unleash the last dam.… Come along, if you want to see it, then.”
Nicholas arose from his shady perch, rubbing his aching thighbone by habit. “Go on, I’ll meet you.”
He smiled. Owen was someone he trusted to ensure the proper running of all Nicholas’s endeavors when he returned to his duty. Owen had told him that being literate did not make a man; being a leader of men made a man. It was Owen who had insisted Nicholas was the only one who could organize the menfolk to save themselves.
Nicholas arrived below the ridge and watched a dozen men remove obstacles from the stream’s flow. A series of eight interlocking reservoirs, increasing in size, would provide spring water for ale making. Another dozen men were finishing the work on the sluice gatehouse and the adjacent building containing the rudimentary elements needed to begin the brewing process. Owen and Mr. Gunter joined him at his vantage point.
“A fine sight is it not, my lord?” exclaimed Mr. Gunter in his accented English. The spring water flowed into the first pond before them.
“Yes, indeed,” replied Nicholas. “The hops should arrive from Kent in two weeks time. And the barley should be ready to harvest then if the weather holds.” Nicholas glanced up at the brilliant blue sky. “My father agreed to allow the dray and draft horses I purchased to be stabled at Wyndhurst. And the first of the wooden kegs should arrive tomorrow.”
“We’ll begin then, in two weeks time, my lord,” Mr. Gunter said with a broad smile. “The water from this spring should produce one of the finest ales in all of England.”
“Have you decided about the orchard?” Owen asked, reminding Nicholas of the badly overgrown grove of apple trees on the property.
“Yes. Have some of the men begin the clearing away and improvements in the soil. We’ll look into purchasing a large press next year once we see profits from the brewery. We can’t afford to invest in it yet, but we can distribute what meager produce the trees yield this fall,” Nicholas said.
Mr. Gunter left to check the levels in the ponds, leaving Nicholas alone with Owen Roberts. A brief silence ensued.
“What is on your mind, man?” Nicholas asked.
“I was thinking I should be offering my congratulations. The missus has a sister who’s a chambermaid at the abbey. She says you’re to marry Miss Kittridge.”
Nicholas clapped a hand on Owen’s shoulder. “News travels fast.”
“If you’ll pardon me for sayin’ so, you look none too happy about the idea,” Owen said. “You havena’ mentioned it once.”
“Outspoken as always, that you always were.”
“Marriage isna’ so bad. The procreatin’ business is the best part,” he said with a wink. “Hmmmm. Blunt as always, too.”
“From what Sally’s sister says, there’s a French feller trying to do lots of procreatin’ at the abbey. Better mind what’s your own and send the man on his way after the weddin’.” Owen wheezed, and coughed at his own humor.
“All right, old man. You’ve had your say.”
“No, I havena’. What’s this I hear about you still plannin’ on leavin’ for Paris? What are you thinkin’? With a missus, and your father so ill, you need to plant your roots here.”
“Owen—” Nicholas breathed deeply and shook his head. “It’s no good. I’ve only ever known the military life. Don’t think I don’t want to stay here, even though life with the duchess and Lord Edwin would be unpleasant at best. It is just that I made my path long ago, and I am too old and tired to change it. I know how to organize soldiers and execute skirmishes with precision, how to shoot dead on, and I know how to work through the channels of the military. I know nothing about overseeing five large ducal properties.”
“You could learn.”
“Actually, I’m not sure I could or would want to. Sometimes it is better to stay with what you know you can do well.”
Owen indicated with a sweep of his arm the brewery and kiln in front of them. “Isna’ this proof enough that you can do other things just as well? Don’t be dense, man.”
Nicholas paused. “I’m afraid that is precisely what I am, at least for the near future. And I am not willing to gamble on the lives of the hundreds of families tied to our lands.”
“Nah. You’ve just always fancied war. I was hopin’ you’d outgrow it.”
“And you, my friend, delight in playing ‘what if’ games. I’ve enjoyed this foray into industry and agriculture and I will continue to be involved from afar—with your help. But I will be leaving for Paris, mark my words.”
Little did the man know how close Nicholas had come to choosing just the path Owen suggested. But Nicholas was a man who rarely tempted fate. And while he was willing, due to necessity, to break his promise by marrying Charlotte, he would not change the original promise made so long ago to his father and brother. He would not change the course that would prove most beneficial to the dukedom.
Nicholas hated to use subterfuge on her, but he had decided that the ends justified the means. He found Charlotte just where her brother had said, at the graveyard, laying flowers on the bare earth of her father’s grave. Kittridge had agreed to meet Nicholas at the village church in one hour’s time, along with Rosamunde. As Nicholas approached the stone arches of the graveyard, he glanced down at the pocket watch he had removed from his waistcoat. He had but a quarter of an hour to convince her anew.
She looked so pale and reed-like in the black gown she wore. Her bonnet had fallen down her back, the ribbons tied at their ends around her slim neck. Brown wavy hair coursed down her back. The wind played havoc with her curls. She was so young and fragile.
She looked up when she heard his approach.
Nicholas faced her sorrowful expression. “Good day, Charlotte.”
“Good day, my lord,” she replied in her soft voice. “Nicholas.”
“Nicholas,” she whispered. A lock of hair blew into her eyes.
He brushed the hair from her face and grasped one of her hands in his own. It was ice cold and very small in his calloused palm. “Is it so very hard to accept your future fate with me?”
She did not pretend to misunderstand him. “Perhaps a little.”
“How much longer will it take for you to accept me, Charlotte? We have not the luxury of time, unfortunately.”
“I do not know.”
“You have already given your word.”
“Yes,” she said, looking at her father’s grave.
He hated to force her. “Even my stepmother has accepted the inevitable. I believe she is secretly looking forward to the excuse to have a huge wedding breakfast. Her invitation list covers no less than eleven pages, although I am sure that few of the guests will descend from estat
es as far away as Scotland.”
She continued to stare at her father’s grave.
He sighed. “Your brother is anxious to be gone. And I am worried my father won’t last another month,” he said, lifting her chin to encounter her expression.
“I know,” she said. “Do you think—?”
“Yes?” he encouraged her.
“I am not sure I have the courage to face the hordes of people Her Grace has condescended to suggest. And—”
“And—” he encouraged her.
“I had rather this not be a joyous occasion.” She had a pleading expression. “I don’t know if you can understand. I have little interest in pretending to be joyful when my father has just died.”
He had to bend toward her to catch the last few words. “Charlotte, I would not tax you further. I have never expected you to feel delight on the occasion,” he said.
“If you would prefer, we could go straight away to the church. I have the special license,” he said, patting his breast. “And I have taken the liberty of asking your brother and Rosamunde to join us. I had hoped…” he said, feeling like a tongue-tied schoolboy.
She looked at him with huge gray eyes. For some unfathomable reason it gave him courage. “I had hoped you would do me the honor of marrying me this very morning.”
“With only James and your sister present?”
“Yes. Well, and Charley too.”
“Yes,” she replied quickly.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
God help him, he felt like picking her up and swinging her around in circles, no matter this was hallowed ground. Instead, he raised her delicate hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the back of her glove, squeezing his eyes shut as he did so. He wanted to turn her hand to brush a kiss on the sensitive underside of her wrist, but did not want to fluster her. She reminded him of a small wren, ready to fly away at the slightest provocation.
As they walked the short distance to face the vicar’s domain, he kept a firm grip on her arm. A hard breeze forced a few of the less hardy horse chestnut leaves to the ground. They entered the sanctuary, and the sounds of their shoes against the slate echoed within the walls. Mr. Llewellyn entered from a hidden side door along with Charley, wearing his Sunday best. Rosamunde and Charlotte’s brother had arrived well before the appointed time and sat close together in the front pew. They were conversing but broke apart with Nicholas and Charlotte’s appearance in the nave.
Rosamunde handed Charlotte a small, beautiful bouquet. Nicholas guessed his sister had chosen the blooms from her private glass greenhouse for their significance: rosemary for remembrance, a single white rosebud for simplicity and girlhood, sweet william for gallantry, sweet violet for modesty, and a linden flower for… Nicholas looked at his sister and touched the heart-shaped leaves. With a knowing smile, he shook his head. Linden represented conjugal love. Rosamunde was a true optimist.
The short ceremony moved Nicholas in a way he had not anticipated. He promised before God and the people he cared for most in the world that he would honor and protect this woman with his life. And she promised to honor and obey him.
In the middle of the ceremony, she looked at him with the most trusting look he had ever encountered and he felt overwhelmed with an emotion he could not name. Lord, but she was beautiful. He was struck by her radiant air of goodness. She lowered her eyes to their hands when he slipped the slim gold band on her finger, his mother’s wedding ring. Her lips trembled with unspoken feelings.
He lowered his mouth to hers to seal their vows, and then they were embraced by everyone, with only a few tears on feminine cheeks. After signing the church register, Nicholas invited the vicar and Rosamunde and Kittridge to join them in an impromptu late breakfast at the village inn. It was as unfitting a place for a future duke to celebrate his marriage as Nicholas could envision. It was perfect.
Charley was tapped to deliver an invitation to Owen and Sally Roberts from Nicholas, who painstakingly wrote the note in his primitive hand before leaving the church.
When the party entered The Quill & Dove, they created quite a commotion. Mindful of his wife’s tender sensibilities concerning crowds, Nicholas ensured with a few gold sovereigns that the inn’s doors would be locked. But word of the wedding spread as fast as the eager innkeeper’s wife’s lips could move. Nicholas arranged for the fast-growing number of curious villagers outside to partake in a bounteous feast under the shade trees while the wedding party enjoyed theirs in the privacy of the inn.
His little wife looked quite happy as she consumed a glass of rare champagne from the inn’s deepest recesses. It was the first time he had seen a smile return to her unusual lips since that fateful morning three weeks before. Perhaps he would be able to coax her charming dimples to make an appearance as well, if he was lucky. He would endeavor to do so once they were in the bedchamber.
It was all so very strange to Charlotte. She knew she should be feeling shock and still sorrow, but looking at his classically chiseled features, Charlotte could not bring herself to feel anything but tentative excitement.
She had done it. She had married him.
Oh, it was wrong of her to allow him to break his vow to not marry, and of course he did not love her, but she could not help but feel wonder and a girlish thrill that they were tied together for life.
The innkeeper unlocked the door to allow Owen and his wife entrance. They bustled forth with great smiles on their faces.
“This calls for a toast,” called out James, looking overjoyed. “To the blushing bride and chivalrous groom!”
“Hear, hear,” seconded Owen.
Glasses clinked and the wine and champagne were consumed with gusto.
“And to those who could not be here to share in our happiness,” whispered Charlotte almost to herself. Nicholas turned to her and she realized he had overheard her. He clinked her glass. “I wish he were here too.”
He had such kind eyes; the sort where a smile could be seen lurking in the crinkled corners without bothering to appear on his lips. Charlotte wished her marriage would be the happy ending found in all of those marvelous novels she had read by the mysterious “Lady.” Would she find the happiness of Elizabeth Bennett and Elinor Dashwood? She feared she was more like the overly correct and timid Fanny Price of Mansfield Park, who would have never survived the rigors of life as a duchess.
She must venture to play the part of Elizabeth Bennett tonight in the bedchamber, as there was no one else she could so desire to emulate. Eliza would not be in fear. Charlotte rather thought the character would lead the way even if she had no idea what to expect.
Now she was becoming ridiculous, Charlotte thought as she listened to all the toasts made to their health and happiness and too many other topics. The champagne had gone to her head. Watching Nicholas’s handsome form, just a footstep or two away from her, all thoughts of novels and heroines fled.
He moved with such controlled grace, without a single wasted motion. A bottle-green coat emphasized his immense shoulders and strong waist. She looked down the buff-colored breeches molded to the defined muscles of his legs. Charlotte’s heart beat faster in her breast as she remembered what lay beneath all those elegant clothes. She had seen almost every inch of him when he was feverish so many weeks ago. And now, soon, very soon, he would know every inch of her. She felt as nervous as a cat caught under the bedcovers.
Nicholas closed the small gap between them and linked arms with her. It all felt so natural and right when she glanced down and noticed the gleam of burnished gold residing on his long tapered finger.
He was her husband. His gentle touch reassured her. Perhaps, just perhaps, everything would work out. She would try very hard to be the perfect wife. Then, with time, he might come to love her, to match the passion she felt at his touch and at his glance. As if he read her mind, he met her gaze and smiled.
Toasts were made to the dukedom, the brave heroes who fought under Wellington, the talented chef of the inn,
the proprietors, and by the time a toast had been made to the vicar, Nicholas could see Charley getting wobbly in the legs.
Nicholas broke up the celebration before anyone became maudlin or singing broke out. As it was, Charley serenaded the foursome while they walked back to the abbey. The music brought back a familiar wave of battlefield emotions to Nicholas. He was surprised to feel somewhat nauseated by the chirping sounds. He said nothing to stop Charley because he did not want to hurt his young batman’s feelings.
Nicholas was living too soft a life here. It was time to return to his old ways with the small addition of his wife. He looked down at Charlotte, who had to take two strides for every long one of his, and prayed that this evening’s consummation would be completed without much suffering on her part.
The idea of breaching her maidenhead was daunting at best. Since Charlotte had been raised in a household of males, he wondered if anyone had ever discussed what was to be expected in performing her duty. One glance toward her brother’s innocent expression made him doubt it.
And he would have to broach the delicate topic of avoiding the conception of a child. All of these worries meant very little to him, if he were to admit the truth. These thoughts were hardpressed to overcome the great desire he felt looking into her clear gray eyes and at the gentle swell of her breast.
Chapter Fourteen
“Poor fellow! He is quite distracted by jealousy, which I am not very sorry for as I know no better support for love.”
—Lady Susan
SHE felt as good as naked standing in the transparent nightgown, a gift from her irrepressible French cousin. With a sly wink, he had insisted that it was just what was called for on her wedding night. She felt herself blush anew as she recalled all the wicked things he had suggested she do to entice her husband. Charlotte had covered her ears in shame and ordered Alexandre from the cottage under his protestation.
