Vice v-7

by Jane Feather

  Juliana felt an almost irrepressible urge to burst into hysterical laughter at the solemnity of Mistress Dennison's voice. It wasn't as if the woman didn't know the truth about the sham marriage and the duke's intended role. And yet she could manage to sound completely convinced and convincing as she put forth this ludicrous version of the truth about the sham marriage and the duke's intended role. And yet she could manage to sound completely convinced and convincing as she put forth this ludicrous version of the truth.

  "It's so wonderful, miss," Bella breathed. "To see ye wed, all respectable, like."

  "All respectable," Juliana murmured, opening the door. "Yes, of course."

  She was unprepared, however, for the excited chorus of girls awaiting her in the hall. They fluttered around her, examining her gown, exclaiming at her good fortune with clearly genuine pleasure. They would take hope and encouragement from the luck of one of their number, Juliana reflected. Where one of them had good fortune, another could soon follow. She responded as warmly as she could, since the truth was not to be told, but was relieved when Mr. Dennison with great ceremony gave her his arm and ushered her outside, into a waiting hackney. Bella climbed in after her and busily straightened Juliana's skirts, making sure they were in no danger of catching in the door.

  The church was in a small, quiet lane. Marylebone was almost in the country, and the air was cleaner, the sound of birdsong more easily heard. Bella jumped down from the coach first, and Juliana gathered up her skirts, praying that she would manage this maneuver without disaster. It would be typical of her luck to catch her heel on the footstep and tumble headfirst to the ground.

  But the duke appeared in the open doorway. He was looking grave and held out his hand to assist her.

  Juliana took the hand and managed to extricate herself and her skirts through the narrow aperture without mishap. "Where's your cousin?"

  "Waiting at the altar." He straightened her veil with a deft twitch.

  "Do I pass muster, my lord duke?" She couldn't manage to keep the sting from her voice, but he merely nodded.

  "You look just as I expected." While she was still trying to decide whether that was a compliment or not, he had tucked her hand into his arm. "Ready?"

  As I'll ever be. Juliana lifted her head boldly and faced the open church door. Bella, with an air of great self-importance, bent to straighten the bride's skirts, then solemnly stood back and watched, dabbing a tear from her eye as the Duke of Redmayne and Juliana disappeared through the church doors to meet her bridegroom.

  Lucien, standing at the altar with Quentin, looked impatiently toward the door, shuffling his feet on the cold stone. Lawyer Copplethwaite sat in the front pew, staring intently into the middle distance. The elderly priest flicked nervously through the pages of the prayer book as if looking for the right section.

  "I can't think why you wouldn't officiate yourself," Lucien muttered. "Keep it in the family."

  Quentin's face was carved in granite. "I'd not commit such sacrilege," he responded in a clipped whisper, wondering why he was there at all. Except that he had never been able to refuse his brother anything. And he felt a compulsion to stand by the girl. She was in need of a friend, however much Tarquin might swear that she would not be hurt . . . would indeed only be better off by lending herself to his scheme.

  He turned toward the door as the couple entered the dim nave, Juliana a shimmer of white against the duke's dark red.

  "Tall, isn't she? Quite the Long Meg." Lucien observed in an undertone. "Hope she's not some hatchet-face into the bargain. Don't want to be the laughingstock of town."

  Quentin's mouth tightened, and his fingers closed over the simple band of gold in his pocket. The bride and her escort reached the altar, and Quentin nudged Lucien to step forward. Juliana, still on the duke's arm, stepped up beside him. Quentin could detect no hesitation in her manner, but he could see nothing of her face beneath the veil.

  Juliana peered through her veil at her bridegroom. Her first impression was of a curiously shrunken figure, hunched and hollow-chested. She felt very tall and robust beside him. It gave her a comforting sense of advantage. She couldn't see his face too clearly, but his pallor struck her powerfully-the dead whiteness of a fish's underbelly. And his eyes were just sockets, deep-set, burning holes as he glanced incuriously at her when the priest began the service. A little prickle of apprehension lifted her scalp, and without volition she turned toward the duke on her other side. He placed his hand on hers as it rested on his arm and smiled reassuringly.

  Juliana licked suddenly dry lips. How would she feel at this moment if she were marrying the Duke of Redmayne? Not apprehensive, certainly. It could surely be said that she knew all there was to know about him already.

  She wasn't marrying him, but she was inextricably twining her life with his. He intended to be the father of her child. How much closer could two people get? Much closer than any counterfeit marriage could afford. The idea gave her courage, and she heard herself make her responses in a clear, firm voice.

  Lord Quentin handed his cousin the ring. Only then did the duke remove the support of his arm from Juliana. She extended her hand. It was not quite steady, but not as shaky as it might have been. The viscount's fingers, however, trembled almost uncontrollably as he tried to slide the ring on her finger. He cursed savagely, muttering that it was deuced early in the day and he needed a drink to steady him. The undertone readied the priest, nervously nodding and smiling as he oversaw the ritual. He looked shocked and uttered a faint protest as the fumbling continued.

  The duke moved swiftly. In the blink of an eye he had taken the ring from Lucien and slipped it onto the bride's finger. The priest, still clearly shocked, pronounced them man and wife in a quavering voice.

  "Thank God that's over," Lucien declared as soon as the priest's voice had faded into the shadows. "Am I to be vouchsafed a look at this wife of mine?"

  "Sir … I beg you . . . must you . . ." But Lucien ignored the stammering, violated priest and reached for Juliana's veil with his violently shaking hands. He threw it back and then surveyed her critically in the gloom.

  "Better than I expected," he commented. "I need a drink. I bid you join me, madam wife, in a toast to this auspicious event." With a mocking bow he proffered his arm.

  He was dressed impeccably and lavishly in emerald-and-gold brocade, but Juliana shuddered at the thought of touching him. Some infection seemed to emanate from him, from his caved-in chest and his thin shoulders, his burning eyes and ghastly green-white complexion. Like some graveyard maggot, she thought, feeling queasy. Some loathsome, crawling inhabitant of the tombs. He was supposed to be sick. But what could he have that would waste him so, would produce this waft of corruption, as if he were rotting from within?

  Juliana's eyes darted in almost frantic appeal to Quentin, then up at the duke, as she hesitated. "I imagine we would all like some refreshment." Quentin said before Tarquin could move. "Come, my dear." He took her hand, tucked it under his arm, and Viscountess Edgecombe walked back down the aisle after her wedding on the arm of her husband's cousin. Her husband lounged after them, taking snuff, and Tarquin moved into the sacrist, with the priest and Lawyer Copplethwaite, to settle the business side of the ceremony.

  Outside Juliana breathed deeply of the sultry air and forced herself to look again at her husband. In the bright sunshine his color looked even worse. The greenish skin was stretched taut on his skull, showing every bone and hollow. He looked as old as Methuselah and as young as Juliana herself. Suddenly he doubled over with a violent coughing fit, his thin chest heaving, perspiration gathering on his brow. She gazed in sympathetic horror while he coughed as if he would vomit up his lungs.

  "Can't we do something?" she said to Quentin, who was standing beside her, his face tight and furious.

  "No," he said shortly. "He needs cognac."

  "What is the matter with him?" she whispered. "The duke said he was ill . . . but what is it?"

  "He didn't t
ell you?" Quentin's eyes flashed with anger, and he looked remarkably like his half brother.

  "Didn't tell her what?" Tarquin's voice came from the church steps behind. He glanced at the still-convulsed Lucien, then came down the last step.

  "The child does not know what ails her husband," Quentin said harshly. "For shame, Tarquin!"

  "Juliana will have nothing to do with Lucien, so what does it matter to her what ails him?" Tarquin said, drawing out his snuffbox. "Your husband is riddled with the pox, mignonne. But I promise he will not lay so much as a finger upon you."

  Juliana stared at the duke, speechless, as he took a leisurely pinch of snuff, dropped the box into his pocket again, and slapped Lucien hard on the back. "Come, Edgecombe. We'll put a glass of cognac down your gullet, and you'll be right as a trivet."

  Lucien straightened, burying his streaming face in his handkerchief. "Odd's blood!" he rasped when he could catch his breath. "Thought I was never goin' to breathe again." He wiped his nose and mouth and thrust the handkerchief back into his pocket. Then he surveyed his wife with a distinct leer. "Sorry about that, m'dear. Not a particularly good first impression for a man to make on his bride, what?"

  "No." Juliana said faintly. "Must we continue to stand on the street in this fashion?" She flicked at her bridal white with an expression of deep disgust. Of all the travesties, to be dressed up like this for such a diabolical mockery.

  "My carriage is here." Tarquin took her arm, directing her across the street to where stood a light town chaise with the Redmayne arms emblazoned on the panels. "Quentin, do you accompany us back to Albermarle Street?"

  His brother hesitated, still angry. But when Juliana looked at him in silent appeal, he gave a curt nod and crossed the street.

  "You won't mind if I don't join you?" Lucien popped his head through the open carriage window. "Think I need to quench m'thirst without delay. Can't risk another fit. There's a tavern on the corner." He gestured with his hat.

  "By all means," Tarquin said amiably.

  "But I'll be there for the bridal feast . . . count on me for that." Laughing, Lucien went off, heading purposefully for the Lamb and Flag on the corner.

  "Bridal feast?" Juliana glared at the two men sitting opposite her. "When will this mockery end, my lord duke?"

  "Lucien's idea of a jest," Tarquin said. "I had planned no such thing. What I had planned was a visit to the play, followed by supper in the rotunda at Ranelagh. If that would please you, Juliana. D'you care to accompany us, Quentin?"

  "If Juliana would permit me to join you," his brother said still coldly. "But maybe she would prefer to retire to her own quarters and weep."

  "Oh, I don't believe Juliana is given to such melodrama," Tarquin responded. He was hoping his bracing words would keep her from losing courage. He knew instinctively that if she broke down now, it would be much more difficult for her later.

  "And how would you know, sir?" Juliana was hunched into the corner, her baleful eyes never leaving the duke's face.

  "An educated guess," he said. "Now, don't fall into a fit of the sullens, child. I'm suggesting an evening of pleasure. You'll not see Lucien-indeed, it's possible you won't see him until you have to make your society debut. Oh. I sent notices of the marriage to the Morning Post and the Times, so you can expect to receive bride visits within the week. I imagine."

  "Without my husband's support, I suppose?"

  "Oh, it's hardly Lucien's kind of thing. But Quentin and I will be there to lend our own support. Won't we, dear brother?"

  "Of course." Quentin realized that whether he wished it or not, he was now deeply entangled in his brother's scheme. Juliana had embroiled him much more effectively than Tarquin. Juliana, who could be no match for Tarquin … no match for Lucien . . . would need all the friendship and protection he could provide. Her eyes were shadowed as they gazed out of the window, her mouth taut, her hands tightly knotted in her lap.

  She was so young. So vulnerable. So innocent. Poor child. She could never have dreamed she'd find herself caught up in this twisted scheme of the Duke of Redmayne's. Tarquin had always preferred a devious route to his goals, and this was as cunning and artful as any route he'd ever taken. But how inexcusable that he should involve someone as unprotected and as inexperienced as Juliana.

  He glanced sideways at the still figure of his brother beside him. Tarquin was leaning back against the squabs, arms folded, eyes half-closed. But Quentin knew they were resting intently on Juliana. Tarquin's mouth was slightly curved as if he found something amusing or pleasing. Startled, Quentin felt a curious softness emanating from his brother. He had always been able to read Tarquin's mood; it was a skill that arose from the years of closeness, from the years when he'd worshiped his half brother and tried to emulate him.

  He no longer tried to emulate him … no longer chose to. Quentin had found his own path, and it was not his brother's. But the bond between them was as strong as ever. And now Quentin, to his astonishment, sensed a tenderness in Tarquin-a warmth, as he looked at Juliana, that belied the dispassionate cynicism of his manner.

  Quentin returned his gaze to Juliana, so tense and still in her bridal white, the veil thrown back so that her hair blazed in the dimness of the carriage. If Tarquin was stirred by her in some way, then perhaps this would not turn out as badly as Quentin feared.

  The chaise slowed and drew up. Juliana came out of her bitter, angry reverie. She looked out of the window and recognized the house on Albermarle Street. The house that was to be her home for the foreseeable future. And if she managed to give the duke the child he desired, then it would be her home for many, many years.

  The footman opened the door. Tarquin jumped lightly to the ground, disdaining the footstep, and held out his hand to Juliana. "Welcome to your new home, Lady Edgecombe."

  Juliana averted her face as she took his hand and stepped to the ground, Quentin following. Her anger burned hot and deep as the earth's core. How could he have wedded her to that defiled wreck of a man without telling her the truth? To his mind she was no more than an expensive acquisition with no rights to knowledge or opinion. He'd asked for her trust, but how could she ever trust in his word when he would keep such a thing from her?

  But she would be revenged. Dear God, she would be revenged a hundredfold. The resolution carried her into the house with head held high, and her dignity didn't desert her even when she caught her heel on the doorstep and had to grab the bowing footman to stop herself from falling to her knees.

  Quentin jumped forward to steady her with a hand under her elbow.

  "Thank you," she said stiffly, moving away from both Quentin and the footman.

  "Juliana has a tendency to topple and spill," Tarquin observed. "In certain circumstances she can produce the effect of a typhoon."

  "How gallant of you, my lord duke," she snapped, roughly pulling the veil from her head and tossing it toward a rosewood pier table. It missed, falling to the marble floor in a shimmering cloud.

  "Well, let's not brawl in front of the servants," Tarquin said without heat. "Come with me and I'll show you your apartments." Cupping her elbow, he urged her toward the stairs.

  Left behind, Quentin picked up the discarded veil, placed it carefully on the table, then made his way to the library and the sherry decanter.

  Juliana and the duke reached the head of the horseshoe stairs.

  "As I've already mentioned, I thought you might like to use the morning room as your own private parlor," the duke said with a determined cheerfulness, gesturing down the corridor to the door Juliana remembered on the first landing. "You'll be able to receive your own friends there in perfect privacy."

  What friends? Juliana closed her lips firmly on the sardonic question. "Your bedchamber and boudoir are at the front of the house, on the second floor." He ushered her up the second flight of stairs to the right of the landing. "You'll need an abigail, and I've engaged a woman from my estate. A widow-her husband was one of my tenant farmers and died a few mon
ths ago. She's a good soul. Very respectable. I'm sure you'll deal well together."

  He didn't say that he'd decided that Juliana needed a motherly soul to look after her, rather than one of the haughty females usually engaged as abigails to ladies of the fashionable world.

  Juliana was still silent. He flung open a pair of double doors.

  "Your bedchamber. The boudoir is through the door on the left." He gestured for her to precede him into a large, light chamber furnished in white and gold. The enormous tester bed was hung with gold damask, the coverlet of white embroidered cambric. The furniture was delicate, carved spindle legs and graceful curving arms and backs, the chaise longue and chairs upholstered in gold-and-white brocade. Bowls of yellow and white roses perfumed the air. Juliana's feet sank into the deep pile of the cream carpet patterned with gold flowers as she stepped into the room.

  "Oh, what an elegant room!" Her bitter anger faded as she gazed around in delight. The involuntary comparison of this epitome of wealth and good taste with the ugly, heavy, scratched, dented, and faded furnishings in Sir John Ridge's house would not be quashed.

  Tarquin smiled with pleasure, then wondered faintly why this chit of a girl's approval meant so much to him. Juliana had bounced over to the door of the boudoir, and he could hear her delighted exclamations as she explored the small, intimate room. "How pretty it is." She came back to the bedchamber, her eyes shining. "I never expected to find myself inhabiting such elegant surroundings," she confided.

  "You will grace them, my dear," Tarquin said, an involuntary smile still on his lips at the sight of her ingenuous pleasure.

  "Oh, I dareswear within ten minutes the entire chamber will look as if a typhoon hit it," she retorted.

  Tarquin held out his hands to her. "Come, cry peace. I meant no offense. Actually, I find your . . . your haphazard locomotion very appealing."

  Juliana regarded him incredulously. "I fail to see how anyone could find clumsiness appealing."

  "There's something utterly alluring about you, Juliana. Whether you're on your head or your heels." His voice was suddenly a caress, his smile now richly sensual, issuing an irresistible invitation.