Seeking Persephone
Page 2
“What are we to do?” Persephone’s head spun at the shock of it all.
“Let us look at the question logically,” Papa replied precisely as Persephone would have expected him to in former days, when “logical” was a more frequent and apt description of him. “Kielder offers a fortune beyond anything we could ever expect to come into and would place your sisters in a position to marry—something we had little hope of before now.”
“That is true,” Persephone admitted. “But I rather dislike the idea of being sold.”
“And I despise the idea of selling you,” Papa replied. “I would not view this in that way at all, though I admit it rather feels a touch like a negotiation at market, does it not?”
Persephone nodded wearily.
Papa was wandering again, so Persephone allowed her own thoughts to churn. £100,000! It was a breathtaking sum, especially when offered as the marriage settlement between two perfect strangers.
She had long ago decided on the type of gentleman she wished to marry, should she be fortunate enough to be wed. Papa was a scholar, to be sure, or had been at one time—witness the names of his children: Persephone, Athena, Evander, Linus, Daphne, and Artemis. Papa had a particular penchant for Greek mythology. While Persephone admired her father’s intellect, and certainly required a husband with more than cotton between his ears, she found his frequent mental distance tiring. Papa could spend hours, days sometimes, engrossed in his studies, oblivious to his surroundings and the daughter who was standing in as mother for his other five children, Mrs. Lancaster having not survived the birth of her youngest child, now eight years old.
No, Persephone desired a husband who was attentive and companionable. Someone with whom she could talk without fighting for precedence with myths and philosophy and the haunting ghosts of the past.
After eight years of making all major decisions entirely on her own, Persephone wished for a husband who was strong and firm enough to see to his own affairs, to order his life and his home without placing the burden entirely on her shoulders.
“What is the Duke of Kielder like?” Persephone asked as her papa paced.
“Like?” Papa repeated. “Couldn’t say. I’ve never met the boy.”
“Boy?” Somehow Persephone doubted that was an accurate description. Papa likely remembered the duke from years earlier, and, at least in the moment, his mind hadn’t acknowledged the passing of time. At least she could be assured that His Grace was younger than her own father. “What was his father like?” Persephone knew for a fact that a child could be remarkably different from his or her parent, but she could see no other means of learning about her would-be fiancé.
“Dull as dishwater,” Papa answered. “But his mother is an active sort.”
She would have asked more questions, but Papa’s eyes grew distant, and she knew he’d be lost again in his own world for hours, if not days.
Persephone spent the remainder of the day pondering the strange turn of events. Her opinion shifted repeatedly. One moment, she couldn’t help but be persuaded by the obvious benefit such an alliance would bring her family. They would have the funds to live comfortably, something she’d had to strive personally to achieve the past eight years and, at times, hadn’t managed to succeed in. Her sisters could have a Season in Town. They would have entry into the highest circles—would have the opportunity to choose their life’s partner.
And that recollection would inevitably remind her that she had experienced no such luxury. In fact, were she to accept the Duke of Kielder’s offer, she would be selecting her husband without knowing a thing about him beyond the basics of his financial situation and his name. Suppose he were a dolt or, worse yet, a madman. The nature of his proposal made the last possibility all the more conceivable. He might prove to be every bit as inattentive as her papa could be at times.
But Papa was a kind man, Persephone would then remind herself. She could do far worse.
Then she’d wonder if the Duke of Kielder was, in fact, a kind man. He might be prone to violence or fits of temper. A married woman was completely at the mercy of her husband. Suppose the Duke of Kielder was one to wield that power? He could, and most likely would, make her miserable.
Absolutely no hope existed of receiving any other offer—Persephone knew that much. Without the £100,000 the Duke of Kielder offered, her sisters had no hope of marrying, either. Nor would her brothers be likely to find a future outside the difficult and often perilous life of a seaman.
By dawn the morning after she’d been informed of the strange proposal, Persephone was still debating with herself. If this proposed wedding were to take place the first of October, the banns would need to be posted soon. Persephone had an enormous decision to make and not a lot of time in which to decide. And she had no idea which path to take.
Chapter Three
Falstone Chapel, Northumberland
October 1, 1805
Every family of any consequence in the northern half of England had come to Falstone Chapel for the wedding, Adam was absolutely certain. And he wasn’t at all happy about it.
“Who invited all these people?” Adam had grumbled, piercing Lord Hettersham with a freezing look when the baron had the effrontery to stare openmouthed at him. Hettersham had quickly lowered his eyes, trembling a bit as he stepped away.
“I did,” Mother had explained with her unvarying calmness. “It is not every day my poor boy takes a bride.”
Adam had clenched his jaw at the loathed epithet. “I assured my bride—” The word still felt awkward on Adam’s lips “—that ours would be a quiet ceremony. I do not believe Miss Lancaster has invited anyone beyond her own immediate family.”
“I hadn’t intended to cause awkwardness, Adam,” Mother answered. “I only wish to celebrate.”
Adam did not feel much like celebrating. He was standing at the front of the chapel awaiting the arrival of his bride. He had yet to meet the woman who would become the next Duchess of Kielder. He’d specified that she not be at Falstone until that morning. Barton, the Falstone butler, had assured Adam that Miss Lancaster had arrived that morning as expected.
Any young lady who would willingly marry him had to have been desperate. She was most likely older than he—a lady was considered firmly on the shelf at thirty; he was twenty-seven. And, while he knew her financial situation didn’t bear scrutiny, Miss Lancaster must also have been rather plain, for a pretty face could often induce a gentleman to overlook a lack of dowry.
So he was about to marry a poor, plain spinster. He could handle that.
“Wonder if the chit’ll actually show up.” That was Mr. Adcock. Adam would know his snivel anywhere.
Adam turned slightly to the left, sending a look of warning across the congregation, though his eyes locked with Adcock’s, all the while inching the hilt of his dress sword out of its scabbard. Swords were not necessarily au courant, but Adam always carried one. Adcock knew that and knew Adam could and would use it.
Adcock cleared his throat a touch anxiously and kept any further comments to himself. The rest of the wedding guests shifted a little nervously as well. So Adam let his sword slip back into its scabbard. The elderly vicar, Mr. Pointer, who’d known Adam all his life, did not appear the least bit intimidated. If anything, he looked quietly amused. Adam never had been able to inspire the proper amount of apprehension in that man.
Where the devil was Miss Lancaster? Another five minutes and Adam planned to go retrieve her himself. It would not be the best start to their marriage, but he was not a patient man.
“Try not to run through any of the wedding guests,” Mr. Pointer said under his breath.
The elderly cleric was one of only two people who ever dared be insolent when speaking to Adam. The other was Adam’s only friend, Harry Windover, who was chuckling from his seat in the front row.
Adam would run Harry through if he didn’t watch himself.
Then the chuckling abruptly stopped. An abnormal hush descended over the chapel.
> She’s decided to come, after all, Adam thought, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the vicar, listening to the shuffling of several pairs of feet, followed by the distinct sound of two sets of footsteps approaching from behind—Miss Lancaster and her father, no doubt. He didn’t look back, just waited as she approached.
After an interminable moment, Miss Lancaster reached the front of the chapel and the ceremony began.
Mr. Pointer smiled at the bride. But then he had been known to smile at Adam, so the man’s grins were hardly a reliable reaction. Mr. Pointer would have smiled even if Miss Lancaster looked like a horse.
That thought was enough to force Adam’s eyes to wander in Miss Lancaster’s direction. He was prepared to take a plain bride but certainly not one who was equine. His expression, he felt certain, turned to stone in that moment. His “aged, homely spinster” couldn’t possibly have been more than twenty years old. And not at all unpleasant looking. Not what the ton would declare a beauty, but she was decidedly pretty. Pretty was the last thing he wanted.
Adam cursed under his breath, turning his eyes to the vicar once more.
Mr. Pointer must have heard. He paused briefly, one eyebrow raised. Adam offered no apology and the ceremony continued. From Miss Lancaster he heard not a sound, though she couldn’t help but have overheard his remark.
She was a quiet sort, then. That would probably help. Adam shifted slightly, making sure he was full profile to Miss Lancaster. She stood on his left side, which ought to keep her there long enough to complete her vows. After that she’d simply have to learn to live with her husband’s face.
In his mind, Adam cursed Josiah Jones to every torment imaginable for his assurances that Miss Lancaster would be the perfect bride for Adam. Only a lady with no prospects of any kind and even fewer redeeming qualities would have fit the requirements—would have been willing to settle for what she was getting—so Adam wouldn’t be blamed for ruining her life.
Miss Lancaster, however, with her pleasing looks and youth, could have looked elsewhere.
Adam half-expected her to object to the union when Mr. Pointer asked if there were any reasons why the marriage ought not take place. No one else would dare, but he knew little of his soon-to-be wife. She remained as silent and still as ever.
“Adam Richard Boyce, Duke of Kielder, Marquess of Kielder, Earl of Falstone . . .” Adam barely refrained from rolling his eyes at the ongoing list that was his legal name. Ridiculous. “. . . so long as ye both shall live?”
“I will.”
“Persephone—”
Persephone? “Ridiculous name,” Adam muttered under his breath.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Miss Lancaster turn her head the slightest bit in his direction, the first acknowledgment he’d seen from her of his presence, let alone his comments. Adam turned his eyes toward her just enough to see her reaction.
Miss Lancaster looked confused. She didn’t say a word and quickly turned her gaze back to Mr. Pointer. In the next moment she answered the vicar, “I will.”
Adam felt himself stiffen, realizing what came next. In a minute’s time, Mr. Pointer placed Adam’s right hand in Miss Lancaster’s, and he was hard-pressed to keep his head turned enough to prevent her from glimpsing the scars that were the right side of his face.
He probably needn’t have bothered. Miss Lancaster’s eyes never rose above the level of his cravat, reconfirming his initial impression that she was a quiet, shy sort of young lady. Unfortunately, he could also see that she was every bit as pretty as he’d thought when she’d first arrived at his side.
He felt uglier than usual in that moment. Adam hated feeling ugly. He went to great lengths to avoid people who made him feel that way.
This is never going to work, he thought to himself.
* * *
Persephone managed to keep a smile plastered on her face as she and her new husband walked through the throng of well-wishers gathered outside the chapel. Obviously a duke’s idea of a small, quiet ceremony differed greatly from that of the great-granddaughter of an insignificant baron.
“Madam,” a deep, rumbling voice said from a pace ahead of her.
Persephone pulled her attention to the present and realized her husband was offering to hand her into their waiting carriage. He wasn’t looking at her, something he’d avoided doing throughout the ceremony. Odd.
“Thank you.” She placed her hand in his, stepping carefully onto the lowered step of the exquisite landau, its roof fully collapsed. She seated herself on the forward-facing seat and quickly arranged her skirts, feeling suddenly nervous at the idea of being alone, even for the length of a carriage ride, with her husband of less than ten minutes. He stepped up and sat beside her without looking in her direction.
The carriage smoothly began its forward journey. Persephone saw the duke nod to the well-wishers. She, herself, smiled as they pulled away. Most of those assembled would be at Falstone Castle for the wedding breakfast, so there need be no farewells as yet.
Persephone watched her husband as they pulled further away from the churchyard. What little of him she’d been able to see, thus far, was not unpleasant. He wore his dark hair a little long, falling in waves around his face, completely covering his ears. He had strong features, which seemed to hint at an underlying strength of character and determination. His build was that of an active man. Persephone wondered how he spent his days, whether he preferred riding or fencing.
She saw the duke’s eyes dart quickly in her direction. Persephone dropped her gaze to her lap, embarrassed at being found out studying him. They continued in silence for a few more minutes before the duke spoke abruptly.
“Is your name really Persephone?” His voice wasn’t raised enough to be heard by the driver over the pounding hooves of the team pulling them swiftly on their way.
“It is.” She kept her voice low. She glanced up at him once more. He watched the passing landscape, face turned a little away from her.
“What were your parents thinking choosing a name like that?”
She hadn’t heard him wrong during the ceremony, after all, it seemed. At first she’d told herself that he hadn’t referred to her name as “ridiculous” in the midst of their wedding. Now it seemed likely that he had done just that, and only moments after muttering a curse loudly enough to stop the vicar mid-sentence.
“My father is a scholar. He is particularly fond of Greek mythology.”
“Entirely too fond, it would seem,” the duke said. “Are the rest of your siblings similarly afflicted?”
“In what way afflicted?” Persephone refused to acknowledge his further disparagement of her dear papa.
“What absurd names did your parents assign the other members of your family?” His tone clearly indicated he was not impressed with her mental prowess.
“Athena is just younger than I. Evander is fourteen. Linus, thirteen. Daphne will be twelve toward the end of the year. The youngest is Artemis.”
“Fates save us from short-sided scholars,” the duke muttered.
Artemis would surely have deemed the duke “grumpy,” one of her favorite descriptors. Persephone had never met anyone who fit the word so well.
She watched him as they passed into dense forest, the road the only visible break in the trees.
“Do you have a middle name?” the duke asked, as if it were highly unlikely.
Persephone fought down an ironic smile. “I do.”
“I suppose it would be too much to hope that it is something common.” He still did not look at her.
“Iphigenia,” Persephone said.
The duke’s head turned instantly in her direction. His expression registered shocked disbelief, just as she knew it would.
He was looking at her full-on for the first time, and Persephone barely managed not to stare. For the right side of his face, from hairline to nearly the corner of his eye, was a spider’s web of scarring—not hideous or frightening, but absolutely impossible not to notice.
“Only ‘Miss Lancaster.’”
“Well, I cannot call you that,” the duke answered with an obvious grasp of the irony. “I suppose I will have to consign myself to ‘Persephone.’”
“It would seem so.” Persephone was baffled.
She’d never met anyone quite like the Duke of Kielder. He was gruff and not at all personable, and yet there was enough intelligence and wit in his conversation to make him intriguing. Then there were those scars, which made a person wonder how he’d acquired them, want to know more of his history.
“You, of course, will call me Kielder.”
“I will not call you Kielder,” Persephone answered almost immediately.
“Everyone calls me Kielder.” The tension in his jaw was obvious even in profile.
“Kielder?” Persephone shook her head. “It sounds as though I am accusing you of a crime.” Killed her. That was exactly how the title sounded.
The duke’s lips seemed to twitch for a fraction of a second before his indifferent demeanor was set firmly in place once more. “You would, no doubt, prefer Agamemnon or Apollo or something along that vein.”
“My papa certainly would.” A smile gently tugged at her mouth. He had a sense of humor, it seemed. She’d seen him nearly smile. Perhaps the duke wasn’t as irascible as he seemed, his less-than-ideal mood stemming merely from the same nerves Persephone had been dealing with all morning.
“What do you propose to call me, then?” the duke asked impatiently.
She remembered hearing his Christian name during the ceremony. “Adam?” Persephone suggested.
“No one calls me Adam.”
“No one?” She hardly believed that. Certainly his family and closest friends would.
“Harry does,” the duke admitted, though obviously begrudgingly.
“Harry?”
“A friend,” he answered in clipped tones. “One who allows himself far too much freedom.”