Downstairs, Peters greeted her politely. “The carriage is waiting for you, miss. Martha is to ride with you.” He handed the serving woman her cloak and ushered them outside, where the footmen waited to help them into the vehicle.
The coach moved off. Aurora did not need to ask where it was going. She would have been a fool not to know. When they reached their destination, it would be St. Anne’s Church, and indeed it was. The grooms jumped down from the back of the carriage where they had been riding, and opening the door, pulled down the steps and helped the two passengers out. The dowager and Lady Elsie were awaiting them upon the stone porch of the church.
“I am pleased by this,” the dowager told Aurora, “but shocked by the haste with which my grandson has effected this event.”
“He has given me no choice in the matter,” Aurora replied. “My sister is hardly in her grave, and he is forcing me to the altar. You know the deception of which I am guilty, ma’am. If I had wished to marry Valerian in the first place, I would have done so.”
“Oh, my dear,” twittered Lady Elsie, “Sir Ronald will not marry you if you are being coerced. It goes against Christian law.”
“As the duke has taken my virtue from me already, and has threatened to dispossess George’s family from St. Timothy, Lady Elsie, I believe I must acquiesce to Valerian Hawkesworth’s demands. Besides, there is the little matter of my betrothal, is there not? It is all, I fear, quite legal. His grace has the law on his side.”
Lady Bowen grew beet red with the bride’s indelicate admission. “Quite,” she managed to say. Heaven forfend that Betsy and her dear husband suffer the consequences of this outrageous chit’s unruly behavior!
The dowager’s blue eyes twinkled. “Would you be so kind,” she said to Lady Bowen, “to tell Sir Ronald that we are ready, m’dear?” And when the good woman had bustled into the church, she turned to Aurora, saying, “Do not let him bully you further, my child. By marrying him you right the wrong you previously committed against him. All debts are now paid in full, especially given your revelation of a moment ago. I will ask nothing, you understand,” she murmured with a smile. “You look none the worse for wear. If he is like the rest of the men in the family, he is a vigorous lover. Now, let us get this business over and done with, Aurora Kimberly, so we can get on with our lives. And remember, I will be your ally in most cases. Men are charming, and an absolute necessity, but they are not always particularly intelligent.” She then linked an arm in Aurora’s and led her into the church.
Inside, an altar boy hurried forward to remove her cloak and hand the bride a small nosegay of white rosebuds tied with gold ribbons. She accepted them, smiling at the child, and then continued on with the dowager to the altar, Martha following them.
The church looked very much as it had a few days before, when George and Betsy had been married. Lace-trimmed white linen bedecked the altar with its gold candelabra burning beeswax candles. The duke awaited her dressed in cream-colored breeches, a flowered waistcoat, and a fawn-colored coat with silver buttons. Lace dripped from his sleeves and from the neckline of his fine cambric shirt. He was wearing a wig the dark color of his own hair, a small queue tied with a ribbon at the back of his neck.
Sir Ronald, however, did not look very happy with the part he was about to play. The duke had appeared in his home at ten o’clock that morning and presented him with a special license he had obtained from the local magistrate at the crack of dawn. He explained briefly the deception that had been played upon him, and said the whole matter would be corrected by his immediate marriage to Aurora Kimberly. When the minister had protested the unseemly haste and the scandal it would cause, the duke had shrugged. Then he had suggested that if Sir Ronald did not perform the ceremony, his eldest daughter’s life could be changed for the worse. The cleric was outraged. He had never before imagined Valerian Hawkesworth capable of such harshness toward others, but he realized he had no choice in the matter.
The bride came quietly forward with the dowager and her servant, who would, along with Lady Elsie, act as witnesses. Sir Ronald then performed the ceremony that united Valerian Hawkesworth to Aurora Kimberly. When it was over, and the duke had kissed his bride, Sir Ronald softened his stance. It was, after all, not the bride’s fault that her new husband was such a hothead, and he had, despite the unseemly haste, only righted a wrong, and they were, after all, family now. He shook the duke’s hand and offered his genuine congratulations.
“There will be no further celebration,” the duke said, “for we are in mourning for my wife’s sister.” Then with a smile in Lady Elsie’s direction he escorted his bride from the church to the coach.
“You may not gossip about this until Sunday,” the dowager told Lady Elsie sternly. “Not even to your girls. Especially not to your girls or your servants. St. John must be told first, you understand.”
“Yes, your g-grace” came the nervous reply.
“If I hear so much as a whisper, I shall know where it came from, m’dear, and then I shall not introduce your Isabelle to that nice young baronet I have in mind for her. Such a handsome man, and two thousand a year plus a manor house and a hundred acres.” She smiled toothily at Lady Bowen. “Good day, m’dear.” Then she hurried off to get into the coach.
They returned to Hawkes Hill, Martha wiping her eyes all the way. The dowager sat with a pleased smile upon her face. Aurora and Valerian were silent for a time, and then he spoke.
“I have asked St. John to come after lunch,” he said.
“I would be there,” she answered.
“I do not think it wise,” he replied.
“Nonetheless I will be there, else he obtain some foolish idea about this matter,” Aurora responded firmly. “Please understand, Valerian, that you may be my husband now, but you are not my master. I will not be treated like a child, nor will I be dictated to by you. You wanted me, and so you must accept me for what I am. St. John is entitled to face both of us under the circumstances, and he will.”
Mary Rose Hawkesworth could not help herself. She burst out laughing at the surprised look upon her grandson’s face. “Well, my boy,” she chortled, “you wanted her, you took her, and now you have gotten exactly what you deserved. Oh, my dears, I could not be happier! You are a perfect match!”
And Martha, in her corner next to the dowager, chuckled right along with the old lady.
Chapter 12
The ducal coach drew up before Hawkes Hill and the servants hurried to help its occupants out and escort them into the house. There, the entire household staff was lined up in the foyer.
“The staff wishes to offer you and her grace their congratulations, my lord,” Peters said solemnly.
“God bless the duke and duchess,” the servants dutifully chorused, and then they exited the foyer to return to their duties.
“Please convey to the staff our thanks, Peters,” the duke said. “Is the luncheon ready? We will be expecting Mr. St. John about two this afternoon. Will you see he is shown into the main drawing room?”
“Of course, my lord,” the butler replied. “Luncheon is served.”
A footman came forward to take the ladies’ cloaks. Martha had already gone upstairs to fill Sally and Molly in on the wedding.
“If it please your grace,” Peters said as they entered the dining room, “I have had the table set en famille with her grace on your right and Lady Mary Rose on your left hand.”
They were seated, the duke at the head of the long, mahogany table, the ladies on either side of him. The places were set upon heavy linen mats with beautiful silver and fine crystal. The service plates were snow white with a wide gold band edging them. Soup plates were brought, and the hot clear consommé served, a thin, round wedge of lemon floated upon the surface of the soup. Aurora lay her nosegay upon the table to her right, noting that the flowers upon the table matched them.
“What a lovely day for a wedding!” the dowager said, attempting to break the ice and bring a sense of normalcy to the
ir gathering.
“I had not noticed,” Aurora said. The soup was wonderful, and took the chill from her extremities. A footman poured wine into her goblet, and she sipped it for contrast.
“It’s unusual for us to have so bright and sunny a day in November, and not a cloud in the sky,” the dowager continued.
“I don’t even know what day it is,” Aurora replied, sipping a bit more wine as she finished up her soup.
“Why it is the fourth of November, my dear,” the dowager said. “Certainly you will always want to remember this date.”
Aurora couldn’t resist a small chuckle. “Certainly the entire county will remember it, so I may have no need to, for there will be plenty of people to remind me. It will be recalled as the day that dreadful Duke of Farminster married his second wife, and his first not even cold in her grave a week! And, of course, the duchess is no better than she ought to be, y’know. Tossed over that fine Mr. St. John for a title, she did, the ambitious jade!” She looked directly at her husband as she spoke, her manner mocking and bold.
But the duke was not in the least intimidated. He equaled her rhetoric with a bit of his own. “And, my precious, should you deliver a child in less than ten months’ time, nay, a year, I think, we will be accused of carrying on a passionate affair even while poor Calandra yet lived. I believe I should like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Valerian!” his grandmother said. “You go too far.”
“Do I, my precious?” he demanded of Aurora.
“Perhaps,” she considered, and turned her attention to the meaty prawns that had been placed upon her fresh plate. They had been broiled in lemon butter and wine, and served upon a small patch of cress.
“The aquamarines suit you,” he said softly, pleased to see her cheeks grow pink.
The trio now turned their full attention to the meal at hand. The fish course was followed by beef with small roasted potatoes, turnip, peas, a fat capon, a marrow pudding, and bread and butter. Aurora ate with her customary good appetite. When the plates had been cleared away, Peters brought a small bride’s cake iced in white and topped with a fully blown white rose. He set it before Aurora and handed her a silver cake knife. “Will your grace do the honors?” he asked.
“Now, how on earth did Cook manage that?” the dowager said.
“A small, uncut fruitcake was found in the pantry, your ladyship,” the butler replied. “It was quite fortunate, as it is the last of Cook’s supply, and time to make them again for the year.”
“Please thank Cook,” Aurora said, “and tell her the meal was superb, especially given the short notice.”
“I shall tell her, your grace,” Peters replied. Now, this was a duchess. Not like the other lady, who never had a kind word for any of them, or ever said thank-you. And it had not been just his disapproving notice. His granddaughter, Molly, had had much to say to him on her late mistress. Moving sedately about the table, he poured champagne into the glasses provided.
The dowager raised her glass to her grandson and his bride. “To you both,” she said. “Long life, happiness, and healthy children.”
They drank, and then Valerian Hawkesworth raised his glass to Aurora. “To you, my precious, and to the truth, which you will always tell me from now on,” he said, a twinkle in his eye.
“Perhaps,” Aurora said, and then she lifted her glass, saying, “To Calandra.”
The others raised their glasses solemnly, repeating, “To Calandra.”
Aurora cut the cake, giving them all small slices of the dark, rich fruitcake. When they had finally finished, the dowager excused herself, claiming fatigue, but Aurora knew she did not wish to be there when St. John came to call. The clock in the foyer struck two o’clock as she and her husband entered the drawing room. Peters was already hurrying to open the front door, for St. John was always punctual. Aurora settled herself on a settee, her skirts spread about her.
“You look perfect, and are the most beautiful woman I have ever known,” the duke said. Then he continued. “St. John will be quite piqued, I fear.” He chuckled wickedly.
“If I did not wish to muss my attire,” Aurora told him, “I should smack you, Valerian! If you expect St. John to act like a grown man, then you must stop behaving like a childish boy!”
He laughed even as the double doors to the drawing room were opened, and Peters announced, “Mr. St. John, my lord.” Then, closing the doors behind the duke’s guest, Peters left them.
Justin St. John’s eyes went immediately to Aurora. They took in her attire, lingering a moment upon the necklace she wore. He was no fool. “Have you married her, then, Hawkesworth?”
The duke nodded.
“You bastard!” St. John replied, and turned angrily to go.
“Wait!” the duke called to him.
St. John turned. “Why? What more is there to say about it?”
“She is the heiress to St. Timothy, not Calandra,” Valerian told his cousin, and then he went on to explain the deception that had been enacted, and how Dr. Carstairs, coming in place of Dr. Michaels, had revealed the truth to the duke after Calandra’s unfortunate demise.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” St. John chortled, his mood suddenly lightened. “So Aurora was your betrothed, and not Calandra. And if you had not learned of it, and I eventually had, then I should have been able to lay claim upon St. Timothy! Well played, cousin!”
Aurora stared at the two men, now embracing and clapping. “Well played?” She arose from the settee where she had been seated. “Damn you, St. John! Did you not love me? You said you felt for me what you had never felt for another woman!”
The two men turned to look at her, astounded. Only the duke really understood his bride’s outrage. He grinned, and waited to see what she would do next. Poor St. John! He had no idea of how a woman who believed herself betrayed could behave.
“Why, my dear,” St. John said, “I did not lie to you. I did feel for you what I had not ever felt for another woman, but that was because you were not like any other woman I had ever met. Each girl is different, and so, of course, I feel differently for each of them.”
“So you did not really love me,” she responded.
“I loved you in my fashion,” he told her weakly.
“St. John, you are a seducer and a fool! I do not know which is worse,” Aurora replied. “Why on earth were you prepared to marry me, then? To confound Valerian?”
“In part, yes,” he admitted. “Could you not see how badly he wanted you, Aurora? And he could not have you! It was too delicious a situation to resist. The dowager saw a scandal in the making, and was very much on my side, and besides, it was time for me to start my nursery. My mother will be quite disappointed, for she desires grandchildren.”
Aurora’s fingers had wrapped themselves about a small vase upon the table next to the settee as he spoke. Now, as he finished with a small, apologetic smile, she grasped the vase and threw it at him with all the force she could muster. Surprise exploded upon his face as he ducked, but the vase slightly creased the side of his head before crashing to the floor and breaking into several pieces. The duke burst out laughing, then leapt across the space that separated him from his wife, who had obtained a second missile and was prepared to launch it.
“Now, my precious,” he murmured at her soothingly, “you must not be rude to poor St. John. He has answered your questions as honestly as he knows how. Come, Aurora, and let us all make peace.” He yanked a china figurine from her fingers and put a restraining arm about her.
Aurora stamped down upon his foot with all her might, and as he yelped in pain, she pulled away from him. “You may, the pair of you, go to hell!” she said, and then stalked from the drawing room.
“Spirited gel,” St. John noted. “Perhaps you have done me a favor, cousin, by taking her off my hands. I don’t think I could manage such a fierce firebrand, although I will admit,” he confided wickedly, “that she kisses like an angel and has marvelous little tits.”
“Do not honor me with your confidences regarding the lady who is now my wife, cousin. I might be forced to call you out, St. John,” the duke told him pleasantly, but there was an undertone of menace in his voice. “Come, and let us have a whiskey before you ride home to break the news to your mother.”
“Well,” St. John responded sulkily, “I did leave her virtue intact, Hawkesworth. You might at least thank me for that. After all, we were to be married, and no one could have faulted me for breeching her.” He accepted the cut-glass tumbler the duke handed him and sniffed at it appreciatively.
The duke laughed. “Very well, St. John, I thank you for leaving my betrothed wife’s virginity for me to dispose of last night.”
St. John laughed back. “Why, you devil! You were taking no chances, were you? I do believe that I am flattered, Hawkesworth.” He raised his glass to the duke. “To her grace,” he said.
Valerian Hawkesworth acknowledged his cousin’s salute and lifted his own tumbler. “To her grace,” he said, “and to you also, St. John. You are certainly the most gentlemanly cad I have ever known, even if we are related by blood.”
The two cousins drank their whiskey in companionable silence for a few minutes, and then St. John said, “Who the hell am I going to find to marry, Hawkesworth? Mama is going to be furious, and there will be hell to pay. What about that tempting little Isabelle Bowen?”
“My grandmother has her marked for some baronet, but of course she has not introduced the two yet. I see no reason why you shouldn’t make an attempt. Pretty wench. Modest dower, but the Bowens are quite respectable and a very old family. She would be most suitable, and she’s innocent enough to be bowled over by your unctuous charms, St. John. Your mother would be quite pleased if you could pull it off. Best to catch Miss Bowen before she grows much older and discovers what a rogue you really are, cousin,” he finished with a chuckle.
Deceived Page 24
