“Yes, Giselle, it is.”
“Will you still come visit—even after Samir gone?”
“You know I will. You and Maria will always be my dearest friends.”
“I’ll miss you, Gabriel, but I’m proud you will give yourself to your marriage with a whole heart—it’s the right thing to do.”
Gabriel wondered if his new wife would feel the same way.
Chapter 7
Drusilla stared at her reflection and grimaced. She looked wrecked—absolutely, positively wrecked. Dark smudges beneath her eyes—which were heavy and bloodshot from lack of sleep. She’d been too nervous to eat at dinner last night. The atmosphere around the marquess’s table had been so genial and normal it had felt . . . dreamlike. Or nightmarish, rather.
“You look lovely, Dru.”
She started at the sound of Eva’s voice, meeting her friend’s gaze in the mirror. Drusilla forced a smile.
“You’re not frightened, are you?” Eva asked.
What could she tell her friend? That she was terrified of her feelings for her brother? That she’d loved and wanted Gabriel with a fierceness that had almost paralyzed her since the first moment she saw him?
“I’m not frightened,” she lied.
Eva chewed her lip, clearly agonizing over something. “I know you and Gabriel have sometimes rubbed each other the wrong way—”
Drusilla snorted at her friend’s understatement.
Eva took her hand. “And I know he can appear . . . imperious—”
“Because he is imperious.”
“Very well then, because he is imperious,” Eva conceded. “But he can also be very caring, kind, and protective.” She shot Drusilla a direct look, making her feel like an ungrateful shrew—because that was how she was behaving. Here was a man who’d not only fought for her honor, but was marrying her and would soon be putting his life at risk for her.
“I know he’s kind, Eva. He’s also been a savior to me—twice. I appreciate what he is doing. I only wish he didn’t have to do so much, to sacrifice himself for me.”
Even her friend could not argue with her words: Gabriel Marlington was sacrificing himself. If he was going to offer for any woman this Season, it would have been Lucinda Kittridge and everybody knew it. It was mortifying to know he would now be forced to settle for Drusilla.
Luckily the door opened, and Lady Exley and Aunt Vi entered. The marchioness stopped in the doorway and smiled.
“Oh, Drusilla, you do look lovely.”
Aunt Vi kissed her on both cheeks in an unprecedented display of affection. Neither her aunt nor her father had been given to physical warmth, and she guessed what her aunt was mostly expressing was relief. Dru didn’t blame her aunt for looking relieved to have shed the burden of finding her a husband. No doubt the older woman had believed she’d be chaperoning Drusilla until the end of her days.
“You look very fine, Drusilla. Your father would be so happy for you today.”
“Thank you, Aunt Vi. How are you feeling? I hope you’ll not overexert yourself.”
Her aunt squeezed her hands. “Don’t worry about me, please. I want you to enjoy your special day.”
Drusilla swallowed down a hysterical bubble of laughter. Her special day? Enjoyment was the last thing she expected from this day.
The marchioness enfolded Drusilla in a warm, tight embrace, her hard pregnant belly pressing against Drusilla in a way that made her realize she might be in a similar condition before too long. That was the wrong thought to entertain; it left her feeling weak, woozy, and unaccountably hot. And . . . eager.
Lady Exley then held her at arm’s length and laughed up at her. “Good, you have some color in your cheeks—no doubt because you are horrified at me for touching you so familiarly.” Drusilla opened her mouth to protest, but the vivacious woman waved it away. “You will learn I frequently act before I think. The marquess says it is part of my charm.” She waggled her eyebrows, making everyone laugh before she turned to her stepdaughter, who returned her embrace with enthusiasm.
“And you, my wonderful daughter,” Lady Exley said, examining Eva with keen eyes and making a tsking sound. “You must be the loveliest young woman in all of England, and you get prettier every day.”
“Oh, Mama.” Eva squirmed under her stepmother’s affection, but Drusilla could tell she loved it—and Lady Exley.
The tiny redhead leaned close to Drusilla. “We ladies are all too fine for our menfolk, but such is the way of things.” She squeezed Drusilla’s arm. “You must not tell my son I said that. Jibril believes he is the most beautiful, perfect creature alive, thanks to his doting mama.”
Drusilla could have told her, in all honesty, that she agreed. Yes, she could have said that easily. But she would have followed her declaration with weeping and the mortifying confession that she was about to marry a man with whom she was madly in love and who actively disliked her and wanted to marry another.
Fortunately, she kept her tongue behind her teeth.
Lady Exley chattered all the way down the stairs, into the drawing room where the rest of the small party waited, not stopping until the carriage arrived at the church perhaps a quarter of an hour later. The marquess watched his wife through slitted eyes the entire time, a half smile hovering on his cruel-looking mouth.
Aside from greeting her, telling her she looked lovely—a valiant lie—Drusilla’s bridegroom hardly said a word. He sat across from her and looked out the window, his expression like that of a man in a tumbril on his way to Madame Guillotine. As always, he was gloriously handsome. Her dress was a pale blue, and he had donned a dark blue coat over a gray silk waistcoat, fawn pantaloons, and glossy Hessians. The wedding was to be quiet and informal, so both he and Drusilla looked little different than if they’d been going for a walk in the park.
It did not disturb her to have a small wedding. After all, she had never planned to marry. Even so, part of her wished she’d possessed the courage to invite the members of her small circle, no matter that marriage went against everything they’d always stood for.
But she’d worried that, like Theo, they would have given her disapproving looks for joining the ranks of those who spent their lives frittering away time and money on the selfish pursuit of pleasure. An activity that would no doubt comprise the majority of her life henceforth.
Thinking about Theo brought back memories of their surprising—and rather unpleasant—discussion after Gabriel had left.
“My God, Drusilla—that man is—is, well, he is a barbarian. He is one of those responsible for terrorizing Christians in the Mediterranean, for ransoming captives—for raping Englishwomen.” He’d paused in order to let the full horror of his words sink in. “He is a slaver, Drusilla. Surely you cannot think to marry such a man.”
Rather than cause her to feel shame, his words had angered her. “You are doing nothing but rumormongering, Theo. Mr. Marlington had the support of Baron Ramsay, a man famous for his hatred of the slave trade. I find it hard to believe Lord Ramsay would countenance slavery, don’t you?”
Theo had shrugged that off. “Perhaps everything you’ve heard about Ramsay is mere rumormongering, as well.”
“Mr. Marlington’s sister, Lady Eva, assures me my fiancé was fighting for a new future for his people—one that didn’t rely on slavery.”
“Of course she does; she is his sister. Besides, everyone knows she is—”
“Theo.”
He’d lifted his hand in a gesture of placation. “I am sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” His expression said he thought otherwise. “Even if what she says about her brother is true, the man was reared in an environment where women were less than things, not even worthy of taking the sacrament of marriage for. It is said his father had over a hundred—well, one can’t call them wives.” He stopped and eyed her.
Her lips had twisted into an unpleasant smile. “Oh, and Englishmen behave so much better toward women? It is more civil and pleasant to marry one woman and
keep others as mistresses, is it? Or to behave like the Regent, who married that poor Fitzherbert woman and denies it whenever it is convenient for him?”
He’d opened his mouth, looked into her eyes, and then shut it. Drusilla had just known he’d been about to mention Gabriel’s notorious union and thought better of it.
But then he’d veered onto another subject. “You know his mother was never—”
“Do not, Theo. Do not say what you are going to say.” Drusilla had been stunned by the force of her anger. “These people are to be my family. And the woman you are about to disparage survived unthinkable conditions.”
Theo’s pale face had darkened. “You’re correct, Drusilla. Please, forgive me. In my zeal to convince you, I’ve behaved badly.” He’d taken her hand again, but this time she’d pulled it away; his touch hadn’t been nearly as comforting after he’d exposed his prejudice. “You do not need to marry him to save your reputation—marry me, instead.”
Drusilla had been flabbergasted by his desperate expression and passionate tone. But she had been even more shocked by her immediate, and visceral, response to his offer: she did not want to marry Theo. The truth—the painful truth—was that she wanted to marry Gabriel Marlington. Drusilla wanted him. And, at the end of the day, she didn’t care if he loved another woman. She knew such a thought doomed her to a well-deserved life of misery. But she simply did not care. Meanwhile, she’d needed to come up with a response that didn’t crush her friend.
“I—I can’t, Theo, although I do appreciate your offering to sacrifice yourself and—”
He’d seized her hand again. “It is no sacrifice, my darling. I have a confession to make—I’ve loved you almost since we first began working together. In my eyes, you’re the perfect woman. Together we might—”
She’d yanked her hand away. “Theo, please recall where we are.”
He’d glanced round the teahouse, as if only now noticing they weren’t alone, and hung his head. “Forgive me—I’ve behaved like a fool. It’s just that I’m terrified our good work will now stop.” When he’d looked up, his eyes had been anguished. “And as to the other . . . Well, I do hold you in high regard, Drusilla—the highest. Together we would be such a marvelous team. We could continue your plans and even expand them. We could establish houses for poor women and children in every town and city in Britain. I love you, Drusilla, and I—”
She’d leaned back in her chair, deeply uncomfortable with his declaration and not wishing him to repeat it. “I’m engaged to be married, Theo. Please say no more on the topic.”
His cheeks were flaming red. “Yes . . . of course. I’m so sorry. Can you forgive me?”
“Of course I forgive you. And even though I will be married, I’ll never abandon our work, Theo. You should know that. Marriage will free me from the economic constraints I’ve lived under.” She didn’t want to directly mention her father’s will, but just about everyone in London knew the conditions. “I will now have more resources than ever to put toward our cause.”
“I do know that, Dru. And I’m sorry. It’s just—”
“Just what?”
“Well, Marlington, he will be your husband. Are you certain he won’t—”
“He’s taken nothing in the marriage contract, Theo.”
His jaw had dropped. “What?” he’d demanded in a skeptical tone. Her displeasure must have been clear on her face because he’d made a swift recovery. “Do remember, Drusilla, that as your husband, he’ll have complete authority over you. What if he decides your work is not suitable or appropriate?”
The question had irked her, but she could see why Theo would be concerned, given all the work, time, and effort he had put into the various projects. “He will not interfere.”
“But—”
“I won’t discuss such private affairs with you, Theo. He is to be my husband and our marriage is our own concern.”
He’d behaved with far more circumspection after that, and they’d discussed two of the recent projects he’d been overseeing.
“Miss Clare?”
The carriage had stopped, and Gabriel was waiting to help her out. He was looking up at her, his hand outstretched, his beautiful face unreadable. In less than an hour he would be her husband.
She swallowed hard and took his hand.
Viscount Byer and a small clutch of other guests—mostly Lady Exley’s family if the hair color was anything to go by—had just arrived and were greeting one another outside the church.
Drusilla was introduced to her husband-to-be’s terrifyingly proper grandfather, the Duke of Carlisle, as well as a dizzying number of cousins and aunts and uncles. She became weak with relief when they all followed Lady Exley into the small church and left her alone with Eva and Byer. She didn’t have much of an opinion of the viscount, who appeared to spend his time drinking, gaming, womanizing, engaging in foolish bets, and becoming the oldest student in Great Britain.
Byer examined Drusilla through an ornate quizzing glass as they stood waiting in the narthex. Gabriel and the marquess had gone to meet with the vicar, and the other guests were taking their seats, almost filling the tiny church.
“You’re looking lovely this morning, Miss Clare.” Byer’s voice had the bored, languid quality of an exhausted fop. He wore rings on every finger of his hand but one: the ring finger on his left hand.
Before Drusilla could answer him, Eva burst out laughing. “Lord, Tommy, you put on such a horrid show with your wretched glass.” She punched him in the shoulder hard enough to make him wince.
He rubbed his arm. “Proper young ladies do not punch proper young men.”
“But we are neither of us proper, are we?” Eva countered, twisting her gloves—which were already grubby—into a tight spiral with both hands. “Tell me, did you ever manage to sell that wind-sucking mare of yours?”
“To which horse are you referring, my child?” Byer turned his glass on Eva, but she just grinned up at him and then poked him in the abdomen with her wad of gloves.
He coughed and dropped his glass.
“That dreadful roarer you bought from Lord Buckingham.”
Byer looked pained. “Such cant does not become a young lady,” he said repressively.
Eva laughed, unrepressed. “I shall take it that is a no. Next time you’re in the market for cattle, you’d do far better to allow my brother to choose for you, or, better yet, bring me along to Tatt’s.”
Byer rolled his eyes, but Eva was looking over his shoulder.
“Ah, there you are, Gabe. Are you ready for us?” she asked.
Gabriel was accompanied by Lord Exley, who’d offered to give Drusilla away. Just thinking the words made Drusilla want to scowl: give her away. As if she were a parcel or a jar of calf’s-foot jelly or a bundle of old rags. Drusilla would have preferred walking alone to accompanying the intimidating marquess but declining his offer had seemed the wrong way to begin her new life.
“Ah, Marlington—at last,” Byer said, “Come and save me from your sister.”
Gabriel ignored his groomsman and cut Drusilla a quick glance and, surprisingly, a reassuring smile. “Are you ready?”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
Gabriel turned to Eva. “You and Byer will come with me.”
And so Drusilla found herself alone with Lord Exley.
“Miss Clare?”
She looked up from her clenched hands. “Yes, my lord?”
“You are pale—do you feel well?”
His solicitousness surprised her. “Just fatigued from lack of sleep, my lord.”
“Yes, it has been a whirlwind. As I am standing in place of your father, I want to ask if you are quite certain of this? It’s not too late to change your mind until the vicar pronounces you man and wife.”
Drusilla found the energy for a smile somewhere. “I do not wish to change my mind, my lord.” No, what she wished to do was change who she was—or her appearance, to be more precise. The shallow, vapid
desire shamed her. Although she had occasionally wished she were prettier, it had been years ago, when she was a young girl. But tonight, Gabriel Marlington would come to her and—
“I’m pleased to hear you wish to go through with the ceremony, Miss Clare,” the marquess said, his cool tone mingled with amusement. “I’m afraid my wife would beat me black-and-blue if I walked down that aisle without you.”
Drusilla laughed at the image of the tiny marchioness beating her terrifying husband. The marquess stared down at her, his strange crystalline eyes seeming less cold, but his expression as unreadable as ever. “That’s better, my dear; you no longer look as though you might faint.”
“My lord?”
“Yes?
She hesitated. “Do you know if... well, the duel . . . Is it still—”
“Nothing has changed.”
She swallowed. “I’m sorry this happened.”
“I know you are. I’m sorry you had to endure such treatment at the hands of a man who is supposed to be a gentleman. But I’m proud Gabriel was there to assist you.” His message was clear: Lord Exley would do nothing to stop the impending meeting, nor did he wish to discuss its particulars with a mere female.
Music flooded the tiny building, and the marquess held out his arm. “Are you ready?”
Drusilla was as ready as she would ever be. She took his arm, and they entered the church.
* * *
The wedding breakfast was almost at an end and Gabriel felt his stomach clench—a sensation that was not so dissimilar to going into battle. Except the thing that was causing him anxiety was not potential harm to his person, but the unavoidable knowledge that he was now a married man.
He looked at his wife, who was seated between his stepfather and Byer. The marquess had finished eating and was dangling a glass between his fingers, his eyes—where else?—on Gabriel’s mother at the far end of the table.
Byer was saying something to Drusilla that was making her frown. Gabriel caught the word—Wollstonecraft—and gritted his teeth. Good God. Byer would be baiting her. Wouldn’t that be bloody helpful! Byer could get her all worked up, and Gabriel would have to deal with the results. He would throttle the man.
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