“My darling …” sobbed Fiona, pressing damp kisses on his forehead. “My darling …!”
“Oh, Thomas,” Mathieson whispered brokenly. “Thank you! Thank you!”
At the duke’s insistence they were married early in April at the new Church of St. George in Hanover Square which had, in a little over twenty-two years, already become exceeding fashionable. All London was there, agog to see if it was truth that Marbury really had forgiven his wayward grandson. Rumour had it that poor young Roland Fairleigh Mathieson had been captured and terribly disfigured by a jealous and demented army officer, and when the prospective bridegroom and Lord Thaddeus Briley appeared at the altar, necks were craned and an excited murmur rippled through the graceful sanctuary. The eyes of the ladies brightened, and fans fluttered a little faster. The eyes of the gentlemen narrowed speculatively.
Captain Mathieson was impeccably clad in white velvet lightly embroidered with black. His thick black hair tumbled attractively over the left side of his brow. The lean planes of his face were marked by a scar across his right cheekbone, and his nose was not as classically straight as it once had been. His left eye was covered by a patch: a black patch, with a small cluster of diamonds jauntily placed at the corner.
“Lud!” whispered the much admired Comtesse di Benedetto in the ear of her friend. “That rogue may have lost his eye, but I vow he’s almost as handsome as ever!”
“And no whit less dashing!” Lady Deborah Martin, who had once enjoyed a dalliance with that same rogue and was London’s present arbiter of fashion, hissed, “Only look at the men! Roly has set a new style! I’ll wager half our gallants will be wearing jewelled eye patches ’fore the week is out!”
Another ripple disturbed the congregation and every head turned to view the bride.
Mervyn Bradford clad in mulberry satin paced with regal step and high-held head up the aisle, looking every inch a grand seigneur. On his arm, his daughter drifted in a cloud of white net and lace, a tiny cap embroidered with seed pearls atop her clustered and powdered curls, the fine veil unable to hide the radiant beam on her face.
Watching her come to him, Mathieson saw no other, and his breath caught in his throat because he thought her so exquisitely lovely.
Much later, after four hundred of the guests had enjoyed the wedding supper in Mathieson House, and the dancing had continued for an hour, Mathieson guided his bride from the crowded floor of the grand ballroom and swept her behind a potted palm. She was very thoroughly kissed breathless (to which she raised no least objection), and then led into the corridor.
Watching them go, the Duke of Marbury smiled fondly. How beautiful they were, he thought. Young and indomitable, mercifully uncrushed by the dark time they had endured so bravely, standing together on the threshold of their new life. He had been glad to note of late the return of the proud carriage of Roland’s dark head; the slightly arrogant cavalryman’s swagger to the walk. A flogging could do terrible things to a man’s pride, but there was little doubt that his grandson was impudent as ever. He chuckled, and turning, found a young captain of dragoon guards at his elbow, resplendent in full dress regimentals.
“Hello, Jacob,” said the duke. “You look surprised.”
“I am astounded, your Grace,” said Jacob Holt. “I think I must be dreaming. Roly so often told me he would never be leg shackled.”
“Ah, but that was only because he had never truly loved. He does now.”
“She is a very pretty lady.” Knowing his cousin well, Holt pursed his lips. “Not quite the type I’d fancied he would choose. I hope he may never disappoint her.”
“Oh, he never will,” murmured the duke confidently. “He thinks of her as his madonna, and because each time she looks at him she sees a knight in shining armour—he will make very sure that she never sees him in any other light. Besides, there is a legend of our House, you know, that says Mathieson men love once … and once only.”
Holt looked at him curiously, and because they were distantly related, he dared to ask, “Was that the way with you, duke?”
Marbury smiled again. A rather secret smile. “Oh yes,” he said, and glancing across the ballroom saw the roguish eyes of Lady Clorinda Ericson peeping at him over her fan. She wore pale pink satin tonight. She had worn that same colour the last time he had escorted her to a ball—long and long ago.
Murmuring an apology, he went to her, his own eyes bright and his step remarkably light for a gentleman of his years.
In the corridor Fiona clung to her husband, considerably more breathless. “We must—go back inside,” she said dazedly.
With his lips against her hair, he murmured, “I was about to suggest that we leave now.”
“Faith, but—I wonder you wish to! The way all the ladies flocked round you, and you—”
“Hated every minute,” he declared piously.
Fiona looked up at him, and saw the twitch beside his mouth. “Liar! You loved every second!”
He chuckled and spread his hands in the charming Gallic shrug that made her loving heart beat even faster. “It appeared, Mrs. Mathieson, that you did not lack for admirers! As for me—par grâce, but have I not said many times that all the ladies are adorable, but none is worth more than a week of my time?”
“Pish!” said Fiona irreverently. “The trouble with you Captain Roland Fairleigh Mathieson is that you never say what you mean! But—I know what you really think!”
The laughter fled from his face and a very different expression replaced it. “I wonder …” He lifted her hands and looked down at them. “Am I thinking that my life rested in these two dear little hands?” He pressed a kiss on each one. “Am I thinking that they belong to me now, even as I belong to the bright angel of my life?” He raised his head to look at her steadily. “Do you know that you will have all my adoration through this life and into eternity? Do you know that my Tiny Mite?”
Fiona found a lump in her throat. She blinked mistily, and wondering if any other lady had ever loved this deeply, asked with a rather quivering smile, “Even if the bright angel of your life is lacking the proprieties, and says gauche things at times?”
“She requires educating,” he admitted with a twinkle. “Especially in … certain matters.” His long, skilled fingers drifted tantalizingly down beside her ear and awoke a delicious shiver. He murmured softly, “And—there is no time like the present, to commence … my most precious bride …”
Blushing and ecstatically happy, she swayed to him, and with his arm fast about her, they drifted slowly along the hall and up the wide staircase, quite oblivious of the amused glances of lackeys and footmen; conscious only of each other.
It had been a long and stormy journey, with the future often in doubt, but the storm was over at last, and Roland Fairleigh Mathieson had found his safe harbour.
About the Author
Patricia Veryan was born in England and moved to the United States following World War II. The author of several critically acclaimed Georgian and Regency series, including the Sanguinet Saga, she now lives in Kirkland, Washington. You can sign up for author updates here.
Previous novels by Patricia Veryan
CHERISHED ENEMY
LOVE ALTERS NOT
GIVE ALL TO LOVE
THE TYRANT
JOURNEY TO ENCHANTMENT
PRACTICE TO DECEIVE
SANGUINET’S CROWN
THE WAGERED WIDOW
THE NOBLEST FRAILTY
MARRIED PAST REDEMPTION
FEATHER CASTLES
SOME BRIEF FOLLY
NANETTE
MISTRESS OF WILLOWVALE
LOVE’S DUET
THE LORD AND THE GYPSY
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Previous novels by Patricia Veryan
About the Author
Copyright
THE DEDICATED VILLAIN. Copyright © 1989 by Patricia Veryan. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Veryan, Patricia.
The dedicated villain.
(The Golden chronicles;6th v.)
I. Title. II. Series: Veryan, Patricia. Golden
chronicles;6th v.
PS3572.E766D4 1989 F 88–30810
eISBN: 978-1-250-10126-6
First Edition
Dedicated Villain Page 42
