At the Duke's Wedding (A romance anthology)

by Caroline Linden

  “Why would he?”

  She blushed but was glad to note that he had no reason to read any deeper meaning into her words. Frank had kept her confidence, as she had expected, and not mentioned Lord Warnford’s infidelity. Ever since she learned of it, she had been suspicious when her father spoke to a lady other than her mother. She only wished she could be certain he was in the stables and not slipping off to meet his mistress in Dorchester.

  “I shouldn’t resent the masculine obsession with the stables,” she said with a sigh, “even though it leaves the ladies to amuse ourselves.”

  Lord Bruton placed a hand on hers, a fleeting touch that surprised and agitated her again. He was not a man who went in for empty gestures. “When the neglected lady is you,” he said, “I convict the gentlemen only of stupidity.” Another surprise. In most men, the words would be flirtatious, but Lord Bruton emphatically did not flirt. She had on occasion caught him looking at her bosom, but she was used to that from all males over the age of thirteen who weren’t closely related.

  “Thank you,” she said, a faint heat in her cheeks. “I am glad today for the chance to speak to you alone. As Frank’s cousin and closest friend, I beg you to advise me.”

  “Whatever can be the matter? I’ve never seen a man more smitten than Frank, and I understand your parents favor the match.”

  “He won’t talk to me,” she said, her frustration pouring out. “Since we met here, we’ve spent hours together and only exchanged words on the most trivial of subjects.”

  “Frank has always been very shy with ladies. He isn’t a great talker, even among men. I believe he finds women intimidating.”

  “But surely not me? At first, yes, but after we exchanged letters I was sure we would be comfortable together.”

  “What makes you think he isn’t at ease with you?” Lord Bruton asked in measured tones. “He always looks happy in your presence.”

  “You’re right. He does. As happy as I am. And the odd thing is that I am scarcely more eloquent than he. I’m not at all shy, with members of either sex. Look at the way I talk to you. It must be love.” Bruton looked startled. What an idiot she was. “Oh, not you,” she said with a nervous laugh. “Don’t worry that I’ll be chasing you. I love Frank, and apparently it has rendered me inarticulate. All I can do is gaze at him.”

  About to rave about Frank’s glorious looks, Rosanne stopped. It really wasn’t kind when poor Lord Bruton was so damaged. She liked him so much she hardly noticed the scar. No, that wasn’t true, she realized as she looked sideways at him. Combined with his dark eyes and sculpted features, it gave him a beauty all his own. It was disconcerting to find him attractive when she was in love with another man.

  “That’s all right then,” he said, happily unaware of her wayward thoughts. “You will live together in devoted silence. Speech as a means of communication is overrated.”

  “You’re teasing me! I love to exchange ideas, as Frank and I did in our letters. Since arriving here, we haven’t talked about a single book, or anything of much interest at all. I’ve had better conversations with you. How shall we manage if he makes me an offer and we marry?”

  “You’ll have to discuss everything of importance by post.”

  “You are very funny, but it won’t do. Frank and I must overcome this tendency to muteness. We can’t just stare at each other for the rest of our lives.”

  “Perhaps things would go better in the dark.”

  The thought of what they would do at night made her blush, until she grasped his meaning. “Lord Bruton, you are brilliant! I knew you would have the answer. Frank and I shall meet outside tonight and everything will be fine.”

  o0o

  Christian couldn’t believe he was doing this. “How have I let myself be dragged into this piece of folly? Rosanne will undoubtedly recognize my voice. She has probably heard it more than she’s heard yours.”

  Frank had come up with his most absurd plan yet, in answer to Rosanne’s request for a clandestine meeting at eleven o’clock that night.

  “We sound alike,” he said. “People often remark on it. All you have to do is pitch your voice a little higher. You very likely won’t have to say a word. I feel full of courage tonight. You’re simply coming with me in case of emergency. As soon as I signal that all is well, you may leave us alone.”

  Strongly suspecting that Frank’s courage was three parts composed of claret, Christian had let himself be persuaded. He couldn’t bear for Rosanne to be disappointed. If worse came to worst, he’d quote a little Shakespeare—he had it all ready—then leave the lovers alone.

  The two of them took up their places in a shrubbery, located below a terrace attached to an obscure corner of the house. As a clock chimed the hour through an open window, a pale figure emerged above them in a faint rustle of silk, a slender ghost illuminated by the stars and a fingernail moon.

  “Frank?” There was more music in one syllable than an entire orchestra, even when the syllable struck Christian as a particularly discordant one. “Are you there, Frank?”

  Frank didn’t answer. In the meager light his cousin’s mouth opened and shut like a beached fish.

  “Frank?” she called, louder.

  His cousin’s hand grabbed his shoulder in a fervid clasp, but Christian responded to the desperation in Rosanne’s voice. He couldn’t let her slink back into the house, humiliated because her suitor had panicked.

  “Rosanne?” To his ears the word came out somewhere between a squeak and a hiccup.

  “Frank... You are here. Speak to me.”

  Gulp. “It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale...”

  “Oh!” The words from the best balcony scene ever written were supposed to evoke a sigh, but not one that sounded miffed. “Romeo and Juliet. On a balcony. It is a wonderful scene, of course. Very famous.”

  Christian felt a little miffed himself. Certainly his chosen quotation was hackneyed, but none the worse for that. There was a reason it was so popular.

  “Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania,” he retorted and was rewarded with an enchanting giggle.

  “Well met, Oberon.”

  Frank started mouthing words at him, asking who the hell Oberon was. Thank God he didn’t have to reply. To Frank. He wanted to talk to Rosanne. On Frank’s behalf, of course. But they couldn’t just stand in the dark exchanging snippets of Shakespeare. What would Rosanne and Frank talk about if they were a normal courting couple, not struck silent by shyness and mutual admiration?

  “Are you enjoying the house party?” he asked. Normal and utterly commonplace.

  “How could I fail to enjoy a week spent in the most beautiful and splendid house in England?”

  “The gardens and park are even better, in my opinion.”

  “I’ve seen only part of them. There is much to explore. I hear the grotto is remarkable.”

  If that wasn’t an invitation, he didn’t know what was. He opened his mouth, summoning smooth words with which to invite Rosanne to set forth into the dusky gardens—and couldn’t think of a word to say. Darkness hadn’t inspired Frank to eloquence. Instead, it had turned Christian into an idiot. The presence of Rosanne, separated from him only by stone balusters and a few feet of rose-scented air, drove away all intelligence or wit. He wanted to speak from his heart: simple, passionate words that he couldn’t articulate even to himself. Even if he could, what was the point? She was Frank’s love and it was Frank’s heart that should be speaking.

  Frank pummeled his upper arm. Speak for yourself, he wanted to snap. Win your own wife.

  “There’s something I would like very much.” Rosanne said into the uneasy silence. Her voice dropped and sent ripples of anticipation through his belly. “Something a lady should not ask a gentleman.”

  Frank, the damned man of action, grabbed the baluster rail, hoisted himself up with insolent ease, and swung his legs over. “Rosanne!” he croaked and snatched her i
nto his arms. He’d managed to get out one word, and that was enough.

  For a bare moment, Christian watched the shadowy figures join in a passionate kiss. Then he turned and plunged sightlessly across the lawn into the trees, sick with longing and a despicable envy.

  o0o

  Instead of looking forward to seeing her beloved, as might be expected of a lady who had enjoyed a kiss under the stars, Rosanne felt oddly shy the next day. She spent the morning indoors, listening politely to plans for the wedding ceremony discussed by the Duchess of Wessex and Lady Grey, mothers of the bridegroom and bride respectively. She tried to avoid her own mother, who had an ominous sparkle in her eye indicating a desperate desire to discuss her own daughter’s nuptials, if only Rosanne would get on with things and become formally betrothed to the charming Lieutenant Newnham.

  Eventually the ladies drifted out to watch the sport on Kingstag’s bowling green. The duke himself was present, playing a game against his bride’s sister, Mrs. Barrows. Of Frank—and most of the other gentlemen, including Lord Bruton—there was no sign.

  Accepting a glass of lemonade from a footman, she sat down next to Miss Angela Cowdrey, an American and rather an odd young woman.

  “Doesn’t it trouble you,” she said, “to be in England when our countries are at war?”

  Really, her wits had gone begging of late, asking Lord Bruton if he wanted to take off his clothes—she blushed every time she thought of it—and now insulting a fellow guest.

  Miss Cowdrey appeared startled. “To be honest,” she said, “I haven’t given it a thought. No one has mentioned it.”

  “I shouldn’t have.”

  “It doesn’t bother me, as long as you don’t want to shoot me or throw me in the lake.”

  Rosanne laughed. “The French are our real enemies.”

  “Always up to mischief, those French. Do you know Sir Richard Howell?”

  “I’ve met his daughter. I don’t think either is French, but she knows a great deal about Paris fashions. I believe smugglers bring over the latest journals in kegs with the brandy.”

  Miss Cowdrey nodded intently. “How interesting. I had never thought of fashion plates being part of the illicit wartime trade.” She had a strange way of putting things, presumably because of her nationality, but she was quite amusing. Lord Bruton would find her entertaining too.

  As the morning turned into afternoon, the remaining gentlemen slipped away, including the duke. They were all off about their fascinating manly affairs, but for once Rosanne could not regret Frank’s penchant for masculine company. After last night’s moonlit tryst, she was filled with doubts and desperate for advice. She would have liked to consult Lord Bruton, but the subject of her anxiety wasn’t one she should discuss with a gentleman. She couldn’t ask her mother, either. If Lady Warnford knew what she’d been doing on the terrace, she’d be marched to the altar in five minutes flat—and she was no longer sure she wanted to be.

  Which left Kate, as usual surrounded by a gaggle of white-muslin-clad girls. Sometimes it was hard to believe the duke had only three sisters. “We’re going for a walk, Rosie,” she said. “Do you want to come with us?” The chorus of giggles that accompanied the innocuous invitation gave her to expect more mischief than rational conversation from the expedition.

  “Where are we going?”

  More giggles. “The stables,” Lady Alexandra said. “We want to spy on the gentlemen and find out what’s so interesting about this phaeton.”

  “We strongly suspect,” Kate added, “that there’s something more than a boring carriage to hold their attention.”

  Rosanne wondered if she should discourage the younger girls, but it seemed harmless enough. She couldn’t believe any gentlemen would bring mistresses to a wedding party. So they circled the lawn in sight of mothers and chaperones, dodged into the shrubbery, and slipped down the side path to the stable block.

  “Let them go ahead,” she whispered to Kate. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Pray tell! You were so close-mouthed last night. I suppose you went out to meet Frank.”

  “I thought we might be able to speak more easily in the dark.”

  “Speak! Was that what you were doing?”

  “For a little bit. And then he kissed me.”

  “Rosie! Was it wonderful?”

  “Not really. At first it was. He vaulted over the balusters and swept me into his arms, and that was wonderful.”

  “Is he as strong as he looks?”

  “Yes. And even in the dim light, he looked splendid doing it. I was looking forward to being kissed. In fact,” she added self-consciously, “I sort of asked him to.”

  “I didn’t know you were so bold.” Kate’s eyes were huge. She was a lot less worldly than she liked to think. “But you didn’t enjoy it? What was it like, being kissed?”

  “He put his arms about me very tightly, and Grandmother’s brooch was crushed into my bosom.” She touched the place above her right breast where the pearl ornament had been pinned to the lace trim of her evening gown. “And then he kissed me very hard.”

  “On the lips?”

  “Of course.”

  “Was he rough?”

  “Not rough, exactly, but I would say he lacked finesse. And his lips were wet.”

  “Perhaps he was nervous.”

  “I’m sure he was, as was I. But still. It’s important to enjoy kissing the man you intend to marry.”

  “Perhaps kissing is always like that.”

  Rosanne hesitated, wondering if she should really be saying this to her young sister. But Kate had to know at some time. “Kisses can be most enjoyable. I know.”

  “Rosie! Who?”

  “Johnny Peyton.”

  “No! You kissed him? He is quite ineligible and tried to elope with an heiress, as well as being addicted to gaming, or so Mama says.”

  “I wasn’t going to marry him. My fortune is too modest to attract him, anyway. But he caught me in an alcove at the Beltons’ Christmas ball and I thought I might as well let him. It was exceedingly pleasant. I quite understood why the heiress became enamored. I also kissed George Belton. Not in the same evening.”

  “But you turned down Mr. Belton’s proposal.”

  “After he kissed me. He pressed so hard the inside of my lip was bruised by my teeth. I couldn’t possibly accept him.”

  “I can see why. Was Frank so bad?”

  “Not as bad as George but not as good as Johnny Peyton.”

  Kate frowned in perplexity for a moment or two, but she’d never met a problem she couldn’t attempt to solve. “Do you suppose Frank has kissed a lot of girls? Mr. Peyton had the heiress and probably others to practice on, but Frank seems a respectable man. You may be the first.”

  Rosanne could have retorted that so-called respectable men went in for kissing, and much more, with unrespectable women, but there was only so much education she felt up to imparting at once. Besides, Kate might be on to something. Frank was charming to all the ladies, young and old, but she’d never seen him flirt with any of them except herself. He’d said in one of his letters that he’d never been in love with anyone but her, a claim she’d taken with a pinch of salt. If it were true, however, his lovemaking experience might be limited.

  “You are right, Kate. I mustn’t give up yet. But I am quite determined not to marry a man I don’t enjoy kissing.”

  There were other things she hadn’t told her sister. Her closest childhood friend had married two years ago and provided her with detailed information about the activities of the marriage bed. Maria loved her husband and was ecstatic about wedded life. But try as she might—and she’d spent several sleepless hours trying the night before—Rosanne couldn’t summon the enthusiasm she needed to indulge in these pleasures with Frank.

  o0o

  The only reason Christian decided to investigate the delights of the Kingstag stables was a determination to avoid Rosanne Lacy. He had nothing to say to her. Not a word. He didn’t wish
to bask in her smiles, or her thoughts on poetry or novels, or her comments on the other guests, which somehow managed to be both incisive and kind. His own were merely incisive, but when Rosanne smiled at the foolishness of the world, he wanted to love it as much as she did. He wanted to believe that other people were worthy of respect as well as tolerance, because that was the way she thought. He didn’t want to be lured into the sunshine of her view of life. And he didn’t want her glowing eyes and luscious lips to persuade him that the world was a delightful place—because it wasn’t. If he needed evidence beyond his own experience, the very fact of her existence proved it. In a just world, he would not desire a woman who belonged to his cousin.

  So he tortured himself by seeking out Frank. To be in the company of his cousin was less painful—by a slim margin—than in Rosanne’s. Frank’s simple, kindly, handsome face would sharpen the vision of watching him kiss Rosanne. But better that than the agony of seeing her face, of gazing on those lips that could never be his, the sweet body he could never embrace. He needed the reminder that she was not for him, and that he deserved punishment for his disloyalty in even wishing she could be.

  As he walked with more doggedness than enthusiasm toward the stable block, he saw three young girls jumping up and down, apparently trying to see through a high window from which faint sounds of merriment emerged. The duke’s younger sisters, he fancied, mercifully unaccompanied by Miss Kate Lacy, who was often to be seen in their boisterous company.

  Luck was not on his side. Coming up the road from the other direction was Miss Kate, accompanied by the one person in the world he currently wished most to avoid: her sister. A gentle breeze caught the light cloth of her pale yellow gown, emphasizing the curves of her waist and hips. His heart felt as though it would burst from his chest, and his feet, divorced from his brain, began a forward march, just for a second, until he remembered why he was avoiding her.