At the Duke's Wedding (A romance anthology)

by Caroline Linden

  Somehow Gareth had to do the same.

  “I trust no one was hurt,” he said. When Blair shook his head, Gareth added, “Excellent. Then it seems everything has worked out for the best.”

  His cousin jerked up his head and gave him a strange look. “You really think so?”

  He nodded. “Absolutely. I must remember to wish Bruton happy. He certainly deserves it.”

  “I expect he and Miss Lacy will be very happy,” said Blair slowly.

  “Yes.” Gareth grinned. “I expect so, too.”

  Chapter Nine

  Cleo took the long way back to the house before shutting herself in her room for the rest of the day. The conversation with Wessex whirled round and round her brain until her head ached. Every accusation her father had hurled at her seemed to be proven: she was wicked and reckless and dangerous to her family. Not only had she fallen in love with her sister’s fiancé, she had only by the very thinnest of threads held herself back from kissing him. She never should have walked out into the mist with him. She never should have bowled with him. She never should have come to Kingstag at all. She ate dinner in her room and sent for her trunk to begin packing, so she could leave as soon as the wedding was over.

  She only ventured out of her room late at night, when the house was quiet at last. She couldn’t sleep and thought a turn in the garden might soothe her spirits. It must be beautiful in the moonlight. But a muffled sound caught her ear as she passed her sister’s room, and before she could reconsider, she tapped gently on the door. “Helen!” she whispered into the jamb. “Let me in!”

  The door jerked open and Helen stared at her with wide, wet eyes. She turned her face away, swiping her handkerchief over her face. “Cleo. You’re still awake.”

  She felt a chill of guilt. The duke had hinted that he didn’t want to go through with the wedding, and now Helen was crying. She stepped into the room and closed the door. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing!” Her sister folded the handkerchief into her pocket and went to sit on the sofa. She looked up, a wobbly smile on her face. “Nothing at all.”

  “I can see very well that something is wrong.” She sat next to her sister. “Why are you crying?” A sudden fear gripped her. “His Grace didn’t make you cry, did he?”

  “I haven’t see him all day,” said Helen, wringing her handkerchief and missing Cleo’s breath of relief. “How could I, when Mama kept me in this room all day with the dressmaker fussing over my gown, and had Rivers put up my hair three different ways to see which was most flattering, and wouldn’t even let me go down to dinner because she thought I looked pale? She told me I must keep up my strength because I’m to be mistress of a castle.” Her face began to crumple.

  “Oh my dear.” Cleo bit her lip. “What brought all this on?”

  Helen gripped her hands together in her lap. “The wedding, of course. She’s determined that everything must be perfect, because otherwise His Grace will be disappointed or ashamed of me. I don’t think I can be perfect anymore. I don’t know if I can do ... this.” She waved one hand around the beautiful room, but obviously including everything about Kingstag.

  In spite of herself, a poisonous weed of hope sprouted in Cleo’s heart. “What do you mean, you don’t know if you can do ... this?” She waved one hand around as Helen had done.

  Her sister sighed. “Being a duchess sounded so delightful: beautiful clothes and jewels, the highest society, never worrying about money or being received or given the cut direct. And it made Mama and Papa so happy—I cannot tell you how it eased their minds about everything when I accepted Wessex. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them happier.”

  Cleo pressed her lips together. She was growing thoroughly tired of her parents’ feelings. What sort of people grew happier at the cost of their children’s joy? Because it was clear to see that Helen, whatever her original feelings about her marriage, was decidedly not happy now. And if Helen wasn’t happy, perhaps she oughtn’t to marry Wessex. She couldn’t bring herself to say such a thing, afraid of persuading her sister to do something she’d regret just because it suited Cleo’s own wishes. But neither could she advise her sister to forge ahead regardless of her feelings. “But you are not happy.”

  Helen jumped up and paced away. “I know I should be. Most of the time, I’ve wanted to run into the woods and hide, even as everyone tells me how fortunate I am.”

  “Many brides have nerves,” murmured Cleo.

  Her sister nodded, nibbling her bottom lip. “Were you nervous, when you married? Are all brides?”

  “All brides should be happy,” said Cleo diplomatically. She hadn’t been nervous, she’d been eager. Why, if she were in Helen’s shoes, about to marry Wessex ...

  But she wasn’t.

  “Do you think I will be?”

  She blinked at the question. “What?”

  “Do you think I will be happy?” repeated her sister. “Married to the duke. Mama sees no other possibility—who could be unhappy, married to one of the richest dukes in England?—but you’ve always been honest with me. What do you think of him, Cleo?”

  She sat like a woman turned to stone. How could she possibly answer that, after the traitorous longing that still stained her soul? Wessex was everything she thought a man ought to be, and more. He was the friend she longed for, the companion she had been without for so long, the lover she dreamt of at night. But he would never be hers. “He’s very kind,” she managed to say. “Handsome. Charming, in a wry sort of way. I think he’ll be a good husband.”

  “But do you think I can be happy with him?” Helen seized her arm, her fingernails digging into Cleo’s flesh. “Do you?”

  Her heart broke at her sister’s expression, anxious and yet hopeful. She swallowed hard. “It doesn’t matter what I think,” she said quietly. “Only you can know what your heart compels you to do. Your happiness is in your hands.”

  Helen’s gaze bored into her. “Yes,” she murmured. Her grip loosened on Cleo’s arm as she turned away, her eyes growing distant. “Yes, it is. If I tell him—if I make him understand how I feel—he will have to listen. He did ask me to marry him, and a man doesn’t do that lightly, does he? If I persuade him that all this is too much ... Yes, I think he will understand. It’s not too late, is it?”

  “You mean ... the wedding?” Cleo frowned a little. “Has it simply overwhelmed you?”

  “Has it!” Helen gave a disbelieving laugh. “To no end! I have no idea who half these guests are, and if I have to listen much longer to Mama talk about how perfect Kingstag is and what an honor it is to be mistress of it, I may scream. You were so clever to elope, you know. You spared yourself immense aggravation.” She stopped, looking startled, then flashed a cautious grin. “I shouldn’t have said that, should I? Well, I think I’m done with doing what I ought to do.”

  “Oh,” said Cleo, disconcerted. “Good.”

  Her sister laughed again. “It is good—or rather, it will be, thanks to you.”

  “I just want you to be happy,” Cleo repeated. And she would do whatever it took, including going away and never visiting her sister and her too-tempting husband again. Wessex was not hers to lose; he was Helen’s. And Helen certainly wouldn’t lose him to Cleo.

  Helen smiled. Tears still glittered in the corners of her eyes, but they no longer ran down her cheeks. “You do, don’t you? Oh, Cleo, I think I would have gone mad without you. Sometimes I feel as if you are the only one who truly understands me.” She flung her arms around Cleo, and Cleo hugged her back, heartsick. If Helen really hadn’t wanted to marry Wessex, there might have been a chance ... but it was foolish to have let the thought cross her mind. Firmly she smothered it, renewing her silent vow to leave as soon as the wedding took place.

  “There,” she said, patting Helen’s back. “Dry your eyes. You only have one more day before your wedding.” The words were like a blow to her heart. “It’s finally upon us,” she said, her voice only breaking a little at the end.

&n
bsp; Helen laughed, swiping at her eyes. “Yes. So it is—and I am ready for it at last,” she said. Her doubts seemed to have been allayed, which meant they couldn’t have been very serious doubts. Cleo told herself that was a good sign. “Thank you for coming. You’ve done me a world of good.”

  Helen mustn’t know that her conscience was only just holding back the longing she felt. Helen didn’t know her sister was thinking impure thoughts about her future husband. Cleo gave a shaky smile. “I’m delighted to be of help, any help I can be.”

  “Believe me,” said Helen earnestly, “you’ve been more help than you know.”

  o0o

  Gareth realized two truths that day.

  First, he couldn’t marry Helen Grey. Not only did he not love her—and suspect she did not love him—but the mere mention of Cleo made him forget the very existence of his betrothed bride. Just a glimpse of her snared his attention, and the very sound of her voice made him deaf to anything and anyone else around him. Everything she did persuaded him she would be perfect as his duchess—not a biddable ornament but a true partner. Gareth had little choice but to admit he was utterly lost.

  But second, Cleo would never do anything to hurt her sister, even if she did want him as badly as he wanted her. What could he say to that? Gareth had sisters, too. He would never want to hurt them. Still, it would hurt Helen far worse to end up married to the wrong man, and he knew he must speak to her. Somehow—without mentioning Cleo—he would persuade her to break it off. It would be a great surprise to all the guests, but he was sure his family would support him, particularly when he revealed his true affection to them.

  But there his plans were thwarted. For the rest of that day, Helen seemed to have gone into hiding. He finally located Sir William and inquired, only to be told Helen was busy with her mother, having her dress fitted. Mention of the wedding gown only made Gareth more anxious to see her, but she wasn’t at dinner. Neither was Cleo. He went to bed determined to see both of them the next day.

  He hadn’t counted on his own mother and sisters, who surprised him with a private family breakfast the next morning in the duchess’s sitting room. “After today you will belong with your wife,” his mother told him with a smile as they lingered over coffee, “but we wanted you to ourselves one last time.”

  “I refuse to give you all up,” he replied. “Surely you’re not planning to leave after tomorrow?”

  Serena laughed. “Of course not! But you won’t want us about anymore, when you have Miss Grey.”

  Gareth had to bite his tongue to keep from correcting her. “I shall always want you about. Who else will protect me from Sophronia? She was threatening Jack with her dirk the other day.”

  Bridget hooted. “Perhaps Mrs. Barrows will! She’s not frightened of Sophronia.”

  An excellent idea, thought Gareth, sipping his coffee to hide his reaction to her name. He quite liked the idea of Cleo defending him.

  “Come, girls.” The duchess rose from her chair. “Your brother has a great deal to do before the wedding tomorrow. We must leave him in peace.” They protested a little, but bade him farewell with much laughing and teasing.

  He turned to his mother as the girls trooped out. “May I ask a question, Mother?”

  “Of course,” she said in surprise.

  Gareth took a deep breath. “Would you have married Father if you had known how little time you would have together?”

  Her lips parted. “Oh, my. Without a doubt. I loved him too much. A year with him made me happier than a lifetime with any other man could have done.”

  He nodded. “For years I thought otherwise, you know; that the pain of losing him was so great, you must have wished you had never loved him at all.”

  She put her hands on his arms and studied his face. “No. The love was greater than the pain.” She hesitated. “I wish you every bit as much happiness, Gareth, and for many more years than I had.”

  “I thought you might say that.” He kissed her cheek. “Thank you, Mother.” He ought to have listened to her from the start, he realized, and set off to make her wish come true.

  Unfortunately, his luck was no better this day than the last. By the time he found Helen and was able to manage a quiet word with her alone, everyone had gathered for dinner.

  He drew her aside before they went into the dining room. “I must speak to you tonight.”

  She ducked her head. “Is it about tomorrow?”

  “Er—yes.”

  Helen put her hand on his arm. Gareth remembered Cleo doing the same thing, although her touch had sent a shock of awareness through him, while Helen’s only made him tense. “Your Grace, I want to speak to you as well. I think tomorrow will be difficult for us both, but you must know that I’m confident it will be for the best. I’ve been worried about the wedding, you see, but my sister helped me understand that it will lead to great happiness.”

  “Ah—yes. About that ...”

  “I want you to be happy,” she said wistfully. “As much as I want my own happiness.”

  This was not going well. Gareth cleared his throat. “Will you meet me later tonight, then?”

  She hesitated, and her mother swooped in. “Helen dearest! Oh, Your Grace!” She curtseyed, beaming from ear to ear. Gareth remembered the veiled hurt in Cleo’s voice when she spoke of her parents and could barely bring himself to nod at Lady Grey. “What a lovely couple,” she gushed. “I was just telling Lady Warnford how handsome you look together. I’m sure Sir William will hire a painter to capture your likenesses so we might always remember how perfect a pair you form!”

  “There’s no need to rush to do so. Mama, His Grace has just invited me to walk out after dinner. May I?”

  Lady Grey gasped. “Indeed not! It’s the night before the wedding! Not only is it bad luck, you need your rest, my dear! Please understand, Your Grace,” she hastened to add. “You will have her every night after tonight!”

  Gareth clenched his jaw as Helen demurely bowed her head. “Yes, Mama. I am sorry, Your Grace.”

  “Quite right,” he said bitterly. How the bloody hell was he supposed to talk to her? He was the Duke of Wessex, damn it, and if he wanted to see his bride ... in order to persuade her to jilt him ... he ought to have the right to do so.

  He barely paid attention at dinner, working out in his mind how best to present the problem. Cleo wasn’t there again, for which he was grateful. There was still a stir over the engagement yesterday of Miss Rosanne Lacy to the Earl of Bruton, although no mention of the duel. Even Jack Willoughby’s shocking announcement that he and Henrietta Black had agreed to marry only diverted Gareth for a moment. There were several rounds of toasts, and Sophronia declared that she’d suspected that match all along, but Gareth only saw the ring. After making a blushing Henrietta stand up with him, Jack had presented Gareth with the Cavendish heirloom ring that had been sent to London for cleaning and sizing. He was supposed to put that ring on Helen Grey’s finger tomorrow morning. It sat on the table in front of him, taunting him through the port and the ribald conversation of the other gentlemen when the ladies had left. Every man here seemed pleased to be getting married except him.

  By the time he extricated himself from the guests, Gareth was almost wild with impatience. He had to do this tonight. In the morning it would be too late; the bride would be dressing for a wedding he no longer wanted to happen. He finally decided to wait until the house was quiet and then go to her room. It was improper, but he didn’t see any other way. He couldn’t stand at the altar tomorrow beside Helen, all the while wishing it were Cleo standing beside him instead, Cleo with his ring on her finger, Cleo in his bed that night. Although if it were Cleo next to him, Gareth was quite certain she would be in his bed long before night. His mother could entertain the guests at the wedding breakfast, and he could entertain Cleo upstairs.

  He retreated to his study and dropped into his chair with a sigh, letting his head fall back. He poured a generous glass of brandy and let his mind run wild w
ith all sorts of schemes, in case he couldn’t persuade Helen. He could pay Sir William to break the betrothal. At this point, any amount of money would be a small price to pay. He could invent some crisis in London he must attend to at once and literally flee the scene. He could shoot himself in some harmless place to buy time; a man with a bullet in his leg could hardly stand up in church. Gareth set down his empty glass with a thunk when he realized he was willing to cripple himself to avoid a wedding he had once sought. He glanced at the clock and cursed; he should wait another hour at least before seeking out Helen. He’d have no choice but to marry her if people saw him going into her bedchamber.

  He lifted the glass, intending at least one more drink, and a letter came with it, stuck to the bottom. He pulled it off and started to toss it back on the desk when the direction caught his eye. It was to him, in Blair’s hand. Gareth frowned. It hadn’t been here earlier in the day. Blair hadn’t said a word to him at dinner, or after. Gareth had bade him good-night barely an hour earlier. What would his cousin write that he couldn’t say aloud? He broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

  He read it three times before the meaning sank in. And then he began to smile. He read the letter again, just to reassure himself he understood it, then laughed out loud. What a prize Blair was! And what an idiot he was; if he hadn’t been knocked senseless by Cleo’s sly little smile, he surely would have noticed something earlier and deduced what had made Blair so quiet and bitter lately.

  But how to proceed now? Gareth thought carefully for a moment, absently rotating the empty glass under his fingers. This would solve all his troubles, if handled properly, and not merely his own troubles. At last he got to his feet, folded the letter carefully into his pocket, and poured another drink, smaller this time. He raised the glass to the portrait of his father above the mantel. “To Cleopatra, your future daughter-in-law,” he told the painting. “And to James Blair, the finest man I know.”