by Jane Feather
Jack reached over and took the walnut from her. He cracked the nut, then placed the meat on her plate. “Where is this conversation, if it can be called that, going, Arabella?”
“I was merely wishing to discover if your mistress and I would be moving in the same circles,” she said innocently, biting the nut.
“That rather depends on what circles you choose to move in,” he said.
“Only the best,” Arabella said promptly. She looked at him with a surprise that was clearly feigned. “Your mistress is not a member of the demimonde, surely?”
The image of Lilly rose before his mind’s eye. The countess of Worth. A woman so sure of her social position, so utterly confident in her taste and her opinions . . . and he thought of Arabella, with dog’s hair in her lap, straw plastered across the back of her skirt, and dirt beneath her short fingernails. It took him a moment to compose himself at the absurd contrast between the two. He decided not to answer a question that Arabella had asked only out of mischief and merely regarded her in stony silence.
“Ah,” she said, “I can see that you don’t care for this conversation.”
“I thought I’d made that abundantly clear.” That little blade of danger flickered in his gray gaze.
“Nevertheless, we must have it,” she said, taking a sip of wine, determined not to be intimidated.
Jack waited with the appearance of patience.
Arabella leaned against the carved back of her chair and repeated, “It’s understood that I’ll not interfere with you in any way . . .”
“My thanks,” he said, as dry as sere leaves.
“But,” she continued, “I think it should be understood that I have the same privileges. I would like your agreement that in the same way you will not interfere with me.”
Jack sat bolt upright. “What?”
Arabella regarded him through narrowed eyes. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m guessing your mistress is a married woman. I am merely asking for the same freedom that is accorded her . . . indeed, that you avail yourself of, sir.”
“You go too far,” Jack declared.
Arabella shook her head. “I don’t believe so. If I agree to this bargain, then it must be on terms of equality. Why do you think I am still unmarried?”
“I suppose it would be ungallant to suggest that no one has been idiot enough to ask you,” he remarked.
“It would. And it would also be untrue,” she retorted.
He looked in brooding silence, then suddenly he threw back his head and laughed, the skin crinkling around his eyes. “Oh, Arabella, what am I getting myself into?”
The laughter was disconcerting. She had noticed he had the habit of sudden amusement just when a situation was getting particularly tricky. It confused the issue and she had a feeling that was exactly why it happened. She watched him a little warily. “Something that you sought, sir.”
“Yes, so I did.” He sobered and leaned on the table, folding his arms in front of him. “Very well, since we are speaking plainly, let me make this clear. You will swear on whatever oath you hold dearest to abide by the one immutable rule of Society. You will engage in no liaisons until you have given me an heir.”
“I will swear it,” she said simply. “To do otherwise would negate our bargain.” She rose from the table. “Now that everything’s settled to our joint satisfaction, I shall go to my parlor. I imagine Sir Mark and the others will be here soon after breakfast. We’ll meet in the library.”
She made a move to leave but Jack rose quickly, lifting his glass. Joint satisfaction seemed something of an exaggeration to him, but a toast was in order. “Let us drink to our bargain, my dear,” he said, coming around the table. “Take up your glass.” His eyes were intent, his mouth set in a firm line.
Arabella did so. Under that steady commanding gaze, she couldn’t imagine doing anything else. He smiled faintly and crooked his arm through hers so that they were standing facing each other, almost pressed together, wineglasses in the hands of their linked arms. He raised his glass to his lips and Arabella perforce followed suit. They drank together. She could feel the power in his body and the purpose in his mind as he stood so close to her. The wine on her tongue tasted of blackberries and sunshine. The scent of his skin enveloped her, a deep, earthy fragrance tinged with the freshness of lemon. It reminded her of her garden. She couldn’t move her eyes from his and when he took her glass to set it aside with his own it was from nerveless, unresisting fingers. When he cupped her chin in his palm, tilting her face up towards him, she yielded to the inevitable with a little sigh that could have been pleasure or dismay. And in truth, she didn’t know which she felt.
His lips were strong and pliant upon hers, and as her own parted for the insistent pressure of his tongue she tasted the wine on his as she tasted it on her own. It was cool, contrasting with the warmth of their joined mouths. He held her face between both hands now, and the kiss became deeper, exploring every corner of her mouth. Without volition she slipped her arms around him, her hands flattening against his taut backside as she pressed herself into him, feeling every line of his body against hers, the hardening jut of his penis against her loins. And on the periphery of her mind lurked the thought that maybe, just maybe, this convenient marriage might yield some fringe benefits.
He took his mouth from hers very slowly and moved his hands from her face, running his flat palms down the length of her body, tracing the indentation of her waist, the flare of her hips. All the while, his intense gaze never left hers. “So the determined spinster of eight and twenty has passion in her,” he said, his voice slightly husky, his mouth curved in a faint smile.
“And why should that surprise you?” she managed to ask in something approaching her usual voice.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Shortsighted of me, clearly.”
“Let’s hope you don’t discover other areas of myopia,” she retorted, letting her hands fall from his body as she stepped back. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll bid you good night.”
“Good night,” he said softly.
It was soon after eight o’clock the next morning when Sir Mark arrived with the lawyer and Lord David Kyle. All three of them looked somber. David looked even grimmer than he had the previous evening, and the lawyer appeared harassed. He was carrying a sheaf of official-looking documents.
Sir Mark kissed Arabella on the cheek as she greeted them at the front door. “Good morning, my dear.”
She curtsied her own greeting and suggested they repair to the library, where the duke awaited them. Jack rose as the party entered. “Good morning, gentlemen.” Bows were exchanged, ale offered, and the visitors finally seated.
“So, this matter of settlements,” Jack began, taking immediate charge of the proceedings. “Lady Arabella has made her requests clear to me and I have no difficulty granting them, so this should not take very long.”
Sir Mark cleared his throat. “There’s one aspect of this proposed marriage that I think Lady Arabella should be made aware of. I was unaware of it myself until Trevor went through the Dunston family documents in preparation for this meeting.”
Arabella sat forward. Something was wrong. The baronet turned to the lawyer. “I think Trevor can explain it best, my dear.”
She glanced at Jack, who was sitting at ease on a side chair beside the empty hearth. He was in riding dress, one booted foot crossed casually over his knee, one hand resting lightly on his sword hilt. The jewel fastened in the immaculately starched stock at his throat sparkled in the beam of sunlight shining over his shoulder from the mullioned window at his back. His eyes were calm, but she sensed a sudden sharpness in their depths, and an almost imperceptible alertness in his posture.
Trevor cleared his throat and began to rustle the papers on his lap. “The situation is this, my lady. When the first earl of Dunston was created in 1479, sub jure provision was made in the event of the earl dying intestate and without direct male heirs.” He coughed into his hand. “In such an event, the
estates, fortune, and title would be passed through a direct female heir to her husband. In that manner the earldom itself could never die out.” He paused and the silence in the room was profound. Arabella didn’t move, didn’t take her eyes off him.
“It has never before been necessary for the provision to be enacted,” the lawyer continued in his rather apologetic but nevertheless dry and dusty tones. “Until the unfortunate demise of the ninth earl, there has always been a direct male descendant to inherit.”
He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose into the continued rapt silence. “Now, as I understand it, the ninth earl did not die intestate, he willed his estate and fortune to the duke of St. Jules.” Here he turned on his chair and without expression offered a bow in the duke’s direction. Jack didn’t blink. His hooded gaze rested on Arabella.
“That I understand.” Arabella spoke for the first time. “It is, after all, the point of this meeting.” She glanced at Jack, then around at the solemn faces of her friends. “Are you telling me that female heirs, under this sub jure provision, cannot inherit themselves but are considered merely the conduit for the estates to pass to a husband?”
“That is so, my lady.”
“Outrageous,” muttered Arabella almost to herself, before saying, “Well, since my brother did make a will of sorts, it would never have come to me to pass along anyway. But am I really to understand that by marrying me, the duke of St. Jules would inherit my family’s earldom?”
“Precisely, my lady.” Trevor nodded gravely. “Sub jure inheritance is uncommon, madam, but not unheard of.”
She inclined her head in faint acknowledgment. She looked at the duke, aware of a strange feeling, almost of awe. He was the devil incarnate. What had Frederick done to this man? Her half brother would have given up anything but his name, his title. It was the final, the ultimate deprivation, and Frederick would be screaming from the grave. Of course, he should have considered that before he shot himself. She couldn’t help the acid reflection, but then guiltily thought that perhaps he hadn’t known of this sub jure provision, since it had never been enacted before. And it wouldn’t have been in character for Frederick to have bothered with the technical details of his inheritance once he was in possession.
The Laceys had held the earldom of Dunston for three hundred years. The first Lacey had been one of the Conqueror’s knights in the Norman invasion. The title had progressed from knight to baronet to viscount to earl. It was an ancient name and an ancient title and one that Frederick bore with enormous pride. Just as their father had. And now the earls of Dunston would no longer be Laceys. It would pass out of her father’s family. She had known nothing of this, as she had to assume Frederick had been in ignorance. She had assumed that the title would somehow pass to an obscure semirelative somewhere. A Lacey, at least. It would be an empty title without the fortune to support it, but it would still resonate.
“Is that why you wish for this marriage?” she demanded abruptly of the duke.
He raised an eyebrow and drawled, “My dear, I already have a dukedom, why would I want an earldom?”
“That was my question,” she retorted. “Why would you want it?”
“I don’t,” he denied simply. “But it is the law.” And it was in essence true. It was not so much that he wanted the earldom as that Frederick Lacey had lost it, and thus had completed his ruin even from beyond the grave.
“Arabella, if you wish to change your mind . . . if this should in any way influence you . . .” Sir Mark began.
She held up a hand, softening the gesture with a slightly sardonic smile. “No, Sir Mark. I don’t see quite what difference it makes. Whomever I marry will inherit the title. It seems to me I might as well follow the Lacey fortune into the same hands.”
“Arabella, that’s unworthy of you,” David protested.
She turned to him, her expression now somber. “No, David, simply pragmatic. I am entering into a marriage of convenience. I have never pretended otherwise.” She looked again at Jack, who seemed merely to be observing the proceedings as if they had nothing really to do with him. But she knew better. For some reason, despite his denial, this lay behind his proposal. And once again she asked herself, Why? What had Frederick done to earn such violent enmity?
Eventually she would find out. The resolution brought her a shiver of apprehension, and then the thought that perhaps she didn’t want to find out.
Chapter 9
The weather broke on Friday morning and the heavens opened. Lightning forked the blue-black sky and the air was blasted with thunderclaps. The little Norman church was cold and dark, despite the altar candles, and the tapers that Mary Kyle had lit below the stained-glass windows. The jugs of lilies and bowls of roses that Meg had picked from Arabella’s flower garden and arranged around the church threw out their fragrance, but it did little to combat the dank mustiness of old damp stone. On a warm sunny day the church was a pleasant place, sunlight illuminating the stained glass, the doors standing open to let in light and fresh air. On a cold, wet morning in late August it was a dreary place to be.
Arabella stood under the shelter of the lych-gate, gloomily regarding the puddle-strewn path to the church door. She was wearing a light gown of sprig muslin that Meg had decreed was as close to a wedding dress as Arabella’s wardrobe could furnish, and satin slippers that were no match for the wet ground.
Jack had gone ahead to the church. The congregation was small, just the household servants, Peter Bailey, Mary Kyle, and Lady Barratt. Arabella had firmly refused to issue invitations to any of the other local gentry on the grounds that she would then be obliged to include Lord and Lady Alsop.
Sir Mark, Meg, and Arabella huddled under the arch of the gate, waiting for a break in the rain. “I don’t think it’s going to stop,” Arabella said finally. “We’ll have to make a dash for it.”
“You’ll be soaked,” Meg said. “Oh, wait, here’s the duke.”
Jack, carrying a huge umbrella, stepped out of the church. He came down the path towards them, holding the umbrella aloft. He seemed unperturbed by the rain, his coat of black wool, richly embroidered with a silk floral pattern, immaculate as always. His black shoes with their silver buckles seemed to have come through the puddles without ill effect.
“Sir Mark, if you hold the umbrella over us, I’ll carry Arabella to the church and return for Meg,” he said matter-of-factly, handing the umbrella to the baronet.
“I don’t need to be carried,” Arabella protested. “I can walk perfectly well if you hold the umbrella.”
“Your feet will get soaked and the hem of your gown will get dirty. I’m not marrying a gypsy,” he told her briskly, ignoring her protestations as he lifted her easily into his arms. Sir Mark hoisted the umbrella and hurried beside them as Jack strode up the path with his burden. He set her down in the church doorway and he and the baronet went back for Meg.
Once Meg had been deposited beside Arabella, Jack returned to his place at the altar.
“There’s something to be said for having a decisive man with strong arms around,” Meg observed, smoothing down a flounce in Arabella’s skirt.
“Tush,” Arabella said.
Meg gave her a searching look. “Regrets, Bella?”
Arabella shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t sound too sure,” Meg observed. “It’s not too late to change your mind, you know.”
“I’m not going to change my mind,” Arabella responded firmly.
Meg inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Then let’s get on with making you a duchess.”
Arabella stepped into the dark interior of the church. Meg followed her, Sir Mark stepped up beside her, and the three of them walked to the altar, where Jack and David waited.
It was over in what seemed to Arabella a very few minutes. Such a momentous step surely should have taken longer, she thought as she signed the register, watching the candlelight catch the dull gold of the wedding band on her finger.
<
br /> Arabella Fortescu, Duchess of St. Jules.
A little shiver ran down her spine as she watched her husband sign his name next to hers. What had she done?
But whatever it was, it was done now and couldn’t be undone.
Jack carefully placed the quill back in its stand. Their two names stared up at him from the white page of the register. It was over now. He had what he wanted. Every last possession of Frederick Lacey’s, right down to his title. He glanced sideways at Lacey’s sister, who now also belonged to him, body and soul. He could feel the tension in her frame and wondered if she was regretting this bargain they had struck. It had been forced upon her, after all.
But at least she was alive, with a future to look forward to. Unlike Charlotte.
He turned away from the register and offered Arabella his arm to walk back down the aisle. Her fingers quivered for a minute against the black wool of his sleeve, and then stilled. She gave him a small, distant smile.
The rain had slowed to a drizzle by the time they emerged from the church. Jack paused in the vestibule and looked up at the sky, which was still gray and heavy, promising another downpour.
“Not an auspicious day for a wedding,” Arabella murmured, shivering in the damp chill.
Jack made no response and Arabella wondered if he thought the same thing. There was no knowing what he was thinking. What little she knew of this man who was now her husband all seemed contradictory.
He broke the moment of silence. “Come. You mustn’t get your feet wet.” He lifted her into his arms and she made no protest. There was little point, and she really didn’t want to get her feet wet.
He strode down the path, towards the carriage that waited beyond the lych-gate. He set her inside the carriage and stepped aside for Meg, giving her a hand up into the interior. “I’ll walk back and see you at the house, madam wife.” He closed the door, giving the coachman the signal to start the horses. There was room for him in the carriage, but he was suddenly in need of some time with his own thoughts. Time to rejoice in the completion of his long-planned vengeance? Or time to contemplate the prospect of the evening and night to come?
