by Mary Balogh
Vincent was having all kinds of second thoughts, which meant, he supposed, that by the time he had finished with them they would be thirty-sixth or fifty-eighth thoughts.
He really ought not to be thinking at all.
Except that trying not to think was no more effective than trying to hold back the tide would be.
It had turned into a proper wedding with guests at the most fashionable church in London, yet his mother and grandmother and sisters did not know about it. They did not even know his bride. He did not really know her either, though, did he? They were virtually strangers.
He did not even want to be married.
Except that if he must marry—and he would have no peace from his relatives until he did—he would just as soon it be Sophia. He actually did like her—or thought he did.
He did not know her.
Or she him.
Yet today was their wedding day.
And in some perverse way—thank God!—the thought excited him. His life was about to change, and perhaps he would change with it—for the better.
“Do you have the ring?” he asked George, who was seated beside him in the front pew of the church.
“I do,” George said. “Just as I did when you asked three minutes ago.”
“Did I?”
“You did. And I still have it.”
His wedding day. His best man was beside him. His friends were behind them. Although they were not talking loudly, some of them were whispering, and he could hear the rustle of their movements and the occasional cough. He could smell candles and traces of incense and that cold stone and prayer book smell peculiar to churches. He knew the great organ was going to play.
There was to be a wedding breakfast afterward at Hugo’s, a mildly terrifying thought even though he would be eating with friends. He did not like taking his meals in public.
And there was to be a wedding night at Stanbrook House. It had all been arranged without any consultation with him. Imogen was going to stay at Hugo’s after the breakfast, and George was going to spend the night at Flavian’s lodgings. Vincent and Sophia were to have Stanbrook House to themselves for the night, apart from servants, of course.
That at least he could look forward to.
“Do you have the ring?” he asked. “No, forget it. I have asked you before, have I not? Is she late, George? Will she come?”
“She is two minutes from being late,” George assured him. “Indeed, I do believe she is two minutes early. Here come Lady Trentham and Miss Emes.”
But Vincent had heard the slight commotion at the back of the church for himself. And he heard the clergyman clear his throat. He rose to his feet.
The great organ began to play, and it was too late for seventy-second thoughts. He was about to get married.
She and Hugo would be making their way along the nave toward him. His bride. He could hear the slow, steady click of Hugo’s boot heels on stone. He wished he could see her. Ah, he wished he could. She would be wearing new clothes. Pretty clothes. Would they make her feel better about herself?
He smiled though he could not see her. She must see that he was welcoming his bride. How many second thoughts had plagued her this morning?
And then he smelled her, that faint soap scent he had begun to associate with her. And he felt the slight warmth of a human presence on his left side.
The anthem faded away.
“Dearly beloved,” the clergyman said.
Ah, let him be adequate. Let him be a worthy husband for this damaged little waif he was marrying. Let him be a good companion and friend. Let him be a decent lover. Let him protect her from harm all the days of their lives. She was blameless. She had come to his rescue that night of the assembly and would have suffered her punishment for the rest of her days if he had not persuaded her to marry him. Let her never regret marrying him. Let him cherish her. Let him put aside second and ninety-second thoughts from this moment on. He was in the process of getting married. Let him be married, then, and glad of it. Let him never, even for a single moment, allow himself to feel regret, whatever the future held. Let him cherish her.
He had spoken his vows, he realized, without remembering a word. She had spoken hers without him hearing a word. He had taken the ring and slid it over her finger without fumbling or dropping it. And the clergyman was telling them that they were man and wife.
And it was done.
There was a murmuring from the pews.
There was still the register to sign. All would not be legal and official until that was done. Sophia slid an arm through his and guided him to the vestry without hauling him. He had noticed that during their walk together in Barton Coombs. Very few people of his experience could trust him to follow slight cues.
The clergyman did not expect him to be able to sign his name, but of course he could. He sat before the register, and George handed him the quill pen and guided his hand to the beginning of the line where he would write. He scrawled his name and stood.
Sophia signed her name followed by the witnesses—George and Hugo. And then she slipped an arm through his again and led him back into the church. The organ began a joyful anthem and they proceeded the short distance across the front of the church and then along the nave. Vincent could sense his friends there. He smiled from left to right.
“Lady Darleigh,” he said softly.
“Yes.” Her voice was a little higher pitched than usual.
“My wife.”
“Yes.”
“Happy?” he asked. It was probably the wrong question.
“I don’t know,” she said after a short pause.
Ah, honesty.
They walked on in silence, and then he felt a different quality to the air, and she drew him to a halt as they stepped out through the church doors into the fresh air outside, and the sound of the organ receded somewhat.
“There are steps,” she said.
Yes, he remembered that from when he came in.
“Oh, and there are people.”
He could hear them, talking, laughing, whistling, even cheering. There were always people gathered outside St. George’s, he had been told, to watch society weddings.
“They have come to see the bride,” he said, smiling and lifting his free hand in acknowledgment of the greetings. “And today that is you.”
“Oh, and there are two men,” she said.
“Two men?”
“They are grinning,” she said, “and they are both holding handfuls of … oh!”
And Vincent felt at least two light, fragrant missiles flutter past his nose. Rose petals?
“No point in c-cowering there, Vince,” Flavian called.
“Come and bring your bride to your carriage. If you dare,” Ralph added.
“An open barouche,” Sophia said. “Oh, it is all decorated with flowers and ribbons and bows.”
Vincent could feel the heat of the sun.
“Shall we go down?” he suggested. “Those are two of my friends. Are they armed with rose petals?”
“Yes,” she said and laughed—that light, pretty sound he had heard a few times before. “Oh, dear, we are going to be covered.”
She told him where the steps were and then clung to his arm as they hurried the short distance to the barouche, making it seem that he was leading her rather than the other way around.
“We are there,” she said as rose petals rained about them and upon them and Vincent could hear that their other guests had emerged from the church.
But instead of scrambling inside the barouche without further ado, she waited while he located the lowest step and offered his hand. She set her own in it and climbed inside. He followed her in and made sure he sat beside her, not on her.
The church bells were ringing.
“Well, Lady Darleigh.” He felt for her hand and squeezed it tightly in his own. She was wearing soft gloves. “Does it look as much like a wedding as it feels?”
“Yes.”
He heard the door
of the barouche close and felt the dip of the springs as the coachman climbed back to his perch.
“Are you overwhelmed?”
“Yes.”
“Sophie,” he said, “don’t be. You are a bride. All eyes are upon you today.”
“That is precisely the trouble,” she said, laughing breathlessly.
“Describe what you are wearing,” he told her.
She told him, starting with her straw bonnet. Before she got to her feet, the barouche rocked into motion and moved away from the church—with an unholy din.
“Oh!” she cried.
He grimaced and then grinned. An old trick, one in which he had participated more than once as a boy. “I believe we have all the utensils from someone’s old, derelict kitchen trailing behind us. Now you are really on view.”
She did not reply.
“You sound charmingly clad, Sophie,” he said, having to raise his voice above the din. “Is everyone watching back there?”
He felt her turn to look.
“Yes.”
“May I kiss you?” he asked her. “It is what they are all hoping for.”
“Oh,” she said again.
He took the single word as assent. He knew she really was overwhelmed, and the realization made him feel tenderly toward her.
He reached across himself with his free hand and found her face beneath the stiff little brim of the straw bonnet she had described. He cupped her soft cheek with his hand, found the edge of her mouth with the pad of his thumb, lowered his head, and kissed her.
It was more of a real kiss this time, though he made no attempt to deepen it. His lips were slightly parted. Hers were full and soft and warm and moist—she must have just licked them.
He felt a stirring in the groin and a pleasant anticipation of bed tonight.
Even over the hideous din of several kettles and pans or whatever the devil was being dragged along the road behind them, he could hear a rousing cheer.
“Sophie.” He lifted his head but did not remove his hand from her cheek. “If you cannot tell me you are happy, can you at least assure me that you are not unhappy?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I am not unhappy.”
“Or sorry? You are not sorry?”
“No,” she said. “I do not have the courage to be sorry.”
He frowned.
“I am only sorry that you may be sorry,” she told him.
He had expected that any woman he married would be the one who might regret doing it, for he was blind and could not live a fully normal life or see and appreciate her. But this bride, he realized, was almost totally lacking in self-esteem, even now when she had been clothed well and expensively and when her hair had been properly styled and she was Viscountess Darleigh.
He had known she was damaged. Perhaps he had not realized how deeply. Was she too damaged? But he remembered her making a daisy chain and laughing as he tried to loop it over her head. He remembered her joking about cats when he played his violin. He remembered the absurd story of Bertha and Dan they had concocted on the way to London and her admission that she sketched caricatures of people she knew.
“Never,” he told her. “I will never be sorry. We will find contentment with each other. I promise.”
How could one promise such a thing?
But he could promise to try. He had no choice now anyway. They were married. And he would do all in his power to restore her self-esteem. If he could do that for her, he would be contented.
“I suppose,” he said, sitting back in his seat, “we are attracting quite an audience.”
“Oh, yes,” she said—and laughed.
He squeezed her hand.
11
The Duke of Stanbrook was a tall, elegant, austere-looking gentleman with dark hair just turning to gray at the temples. Viscount Ponsonby was a blond god with a slight stammer and a mocking eyebrow. The Earl of Berwick was a young man, perhaps only a few years older than Lord Darleigh, and would have been entirely good-looking if it were not for the wicked-looking scar that slashed diagonally across one side of his face. Lady Barclay was tall and coldly beautiful with smooth, dark blond hair and high cheekbones in a long oval face. With Lord Darleigh and Lord Trentham and the absent Sir Benedict Harper, they were the Survivors’ Club.
Sophia found them terrifying despite the fact that they all bowed courteously to her before the wedding breakfast and kissed the back of her hand—except Lady Barclay, of course, who merely wished her happy.
She thought they had all looked at her and found her wanting. They all thought her an opportunist, a fortune hunter, someone who had taken advantage not only of good nature but also of blind good nature. And they were his dearest friends. As close as sister and brothers, he had told her. Perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps they felt protective toward him and therefore suspicious of her. She felt chilled.
The Earl of Kilbourne, Lady Trentham’s brother, was also a handsome, formidable-looking gentleman. He also had been a military officer.
Everyone was courteous. Everyone made an effort to keep the conversation moving, to keep it light in tone, to keep it general so that they could all participate. Mrs. Emes was a shopkeeper’s daughter and widow of a prosperous businessman. Miss Emes was their daughter. Mr. Germane was also a businessman, a member of the middle class. They were not excluded from the conversation, Sophia noticed. Neither were they made to feel inferior.
But she, who was a gentlewoman by birth, felt suffocated by the grandeur of her wedding guests, her husband’s friends.
Her husband!
As yet it was only a word—and a heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Strangely, foolishly, it was only while the wedding service was proceeding that she had fully understood that she was getting married, that she was consenting to become a man’s possession for the rest of her life. She did not want to think of her marriage that way. Lord Darleigh was not like that. But church law was. And state law was. She was his possession, to do with as he would, whether he ever exercised that power or not.
She wanted to feel joyful. For a few fleeting moments during the day she had done—when she had walked along the nave of the church this morning while the organ played and she saw Viscount Darleigh waiting for her, a warm smile on his face; when they had stepped out of the church to sunshine and a group of cheering onlookers and a shower of rose petals; when she had first heard the pots and pans clattering and clanging behind the barouche; when Lord Darleigh kissed her; when an elderly gentleman stopped on the pavement to watch the barouche go by and raised his hat to her and winked.
But the wedding breakfast was nothing short of an ordeal. Try as she would, she could not force herself to participate in the conversation and replied in monosyllables whenever a question was directed specifically at her. She was not giving a good impression, she knew. How could she expect to be liked?
She ate scarcely anything. She tasted nothing.
Lord Trentham rose to propose a toast to the bride, and Sophia forced a smile to her face and forced herself to look about the table and nod her thanks to everyone. Viscount Ponsonby rose and toasted her husband and elicited a great deal of warm laughter. Sophia forced herself to join in. Lord Darleigh rose and thanked everyone for making their day a memorable and happy one, and he reached out a hand for hers and bent over it and kissed it to a few murmurings from the ladies and applause from all.
Sophia relaxed a little more when they all withdrew to the drawing room, for Constance Emes came to sit beside her.
“It is awe-inspiring, is it not?” she said, speaking low for their ears only. “All these titles? All this gentility? Hugo has taken me to several ton balls and parties this year, at my request. I was frightened out of my wits the first time or two, and then I came to see that they are all just people. And some of them, though not the ones here, are really quite uninteresting because they have nothing to do but be rich and try to amuse themselves for a lifetime. I have a beau, you know—well, a sort of beau. He insists I
am too young for a formal courtship, and he thinks I ought to aim higher, but he will come around in time. I love him to distraction, and I know he loves me. He owns the ironmonger’s shop next to my grandparents’ grocery shop, and I am never so happy as when I am there, in one shop or the other. We have to find what will bring us happiness, do we not? I think Lord Darleigh is one of the sweetest gentlemen I have ever met. And he is gloriously handsome. And he likes you.”
“Tell me about your ironmonger,” Sophia said, feeling herself relax.
She smiled and then laughed as she listened—and caught the steady, considering gaze of Lady Barclay on her. The lady nodded slightly before turning away to reply to something the Earl of Kilbourne had said to her.
And then, after tea had been served, it was time to leave. The butler had just murmured in Lady Trentham’s ear that the barouche was waiting at the door. Sophia’s wedding night was to be spent at Stanbrook House, one of the grand mansions on Grosvenor Square. Fortunately, the duke himself was not to be there. Neither was his guest, Lady Barclay. Sophia’s new clothes had been packed up by Lady Trentham’s maid this morning after they left for the church and sent to Stanbrook House. Directions had been given for the other new clothes still to be delivered today to be sent directly there.
Sophia counted back days in her head. Yesterday was the shopping day. The day before was the second day of the journey, the day before that the first. Then there was the day of the proposal, then the day of the assembly, then the day when she had walked out just before dawn and watched Lord Darleigh’s arrival at Covington House.
Six days.
Less than a week.
She had still been the mouse a week ago. Still the scarecrow, with her chopped hair and ill-fitting second-hand clothes.
Less than a week.
Now she was a bride. A wife. Her life had changed, suddenly and drastically. And she was behaving like a bewildered mouse.
Sometimes one had to make a determined effort if one was not to drift on in life unchanging. Change had come to her life, and she had the chance to change with it—or not.
She got to her feet.
