Regency 01 - Honor

by Jaimey Grant

Connor brought Verena around to stand before him, his hands on her shoulders in a very possessive manner. Feldspar took one look at the young lord and promptly retreated from the line of fire, leaving the three main participants alone.

  Carstairs stood and regarded his daughter with the look of a worried, loving parent. “My daughter, thank God! It was very naughty of you to run away as you did, my dear. Everyone has worried about you so.”

  Appearances, again, Verena thought with a measure of disgust. Always appearances. She only hoped Connor didn’t believe the nonsense being fed them by her father.

  “Sir, I would like permission to pay my addresses to Lady Verena.” His words were laced with steel, every nuance hinting at the utter disgust he felt. Verena decided he was a good judge of character.

  Verena stared at her father. To look at him, one would think he was any well-to-do peer, handsome and well-dressed, charming and witty. She always felt like she could see the evil behind the blue eyes and handsome features. A tiny part of her was delighted to see additional gray in his black hair. Perhaps he did worry over her. Over the loss of the money she’d have brought him, that was.

  “No,” Carstairs said flatly, all pretense of fatherly love vanished.

  “Verena, please wait for me in the hall,” Connor said softly, his eyes on the earl, daring him to countermand the order.

  Apparently, he dared. “You will go to your room and pack your things, girl, and return with me to Greendale. Winters has been gentleman enough to overlook this childish escapade, your running away, and is still willing to marry you. Now go!”

  Verena turned slowly around, ignoring the rush of helplessness that the mere name of her childhood home could cause, and locked eyes with her would-be knight. With a fleeting smile, she gave a little nod and left the room.

  “I demand that you bring her back and cease this foolishness about marrying her. She’s betrothed.”

  “To Percival Winters.” Connor stifled the rage that rose at the thought of Verena in the clutches of that man, a man that most of Society admitted was evil but whose money made him tolerable. “How can you consider him suitable for your sweet daughter?”

  “That does not concern you! I’ll thank you to stay out of my affairs and those of my headstrong daughter, sir!”

  “Address me properly when insulting my intelligence, sir! I know your daughter is the least headstrong woman alive. Her reasons for flight are her own and she is entitled to her privacy.”

  Carstairs’s normally handsome features twisted into a mask of disgust. “Your whiggish views are not appreciated.”

  “Whigs don’t believe women should have rights and well you know it. My views are common sense, nothing more,” Connor returned hotly. They were getting off track and he couldn’t let Carstairs have the upper hand.

  “None of that is to the point. You will let me marry your daughter.”

  “Then you will pay as much as Winters.”

  “I will pay you no more than is reasonable.”

  “Then you will not marry her!”

  “She is not your property to sell!”

  Their voices were becoming increasingly loud, and Connor sought for control. He gripped the back of a chair, his knuckles turning white. Carstairs glanced down and smiled at the obvious anger Connor felt. Connor smiled inwardly at the man’s transparency and gullibility.

  “But that is where you are wrong, my lord,” Carstairs told him smugly. “She is my property and while the law does not allow me to sell her, per se, that is exactly what marriage arrangements are. She has a dowry. You will triple that amount if you want to marry her.”

  Connor straightened, all visible signs of distress disappearing. “And you would want it to become known that I purchased her?”

  “Society would laugh at you for the price you paid.”

  A slow smile curved Lord Connor’s mouth. “Then I will not marry her and neither will anyone else. I will make sure everyone knows how she spent her time here and tricked everyone into thinking she was a mere servant.”

  “That can be overcome,” Carstairs insisted although his bearing stiffened at the thought of such a scandal being attached to his family.

  “Can it also be overcome when the world knows she spent inordinate amounts of time in my company? Alone?”

  The insinuation he placed on the words sickened him and he prayed Doll—Verena—never discover his threats. Her fragile trust would shatter and he was quite sure he would never get it back.

  “You—you—trifled with a lady, with the daughter of an earl, and you expect me to believe you’d ruin yourself to ruin me?”

  “She tricked me. I thought she was a simple servant. Society will forgive me and condemn her. You will be seen as pitiable by some but damned by most. Are you willing to take that chance just for money?”

  Carstairs fumed in silence while Connor watched and prayed. He had played his trump card and there was nothing else he could say to convince this heartless parent to give in.

  Finally, just when Connor was beginning to think he’d gone too far, Carstairs relented, with ill-grace. “Very well. She is yours if you match her dowry in property.”

  “That is reasonable,” Connor conceded, containing his exhilaration with an effort. “Shall we call Verena back and tell her the news?”

  “Are you sure you know what you are doing?” Adam’s skepticism sliced through the early morning peace.

  Connor didn’t pause in his work of saddling his hunter. He also didn’t bother looking at his best friend, afraid a mere glance at the slightly older, supposedly wiser man’s mocking expression would elicit violent behavior. Connor would have to pummel him. He succumbed to the urge to ignore him instead, just to see if Adam would go away.

  He didn’t.

  “It seems to me like it’s just another of your impetuous starts. When will you outgrow that and realize that you can’t change the world?” Connor still ignored him. “How many other ladies masquerading as servants are you going to rescue from their parents? You should start a home for them, you know. It would be filled within a sennight.”

  When his younger friend still ignored him, Adam added scathingly, “Do you really know anything about this girl? She is some sort of adventuress, Con, and will make your life a misery.”

  “Hell and the devil confound it, Adam, you are not my father! Leave off!”

  “That’s another thing,” Adam continued, heedless of the fury in his friend’s bearing. “What will Denbigh say when you bring home a bit o’ muslin as your bride? She masqueraded as a servant. She’s no better than she should be.”

  Moments later, Adam lay sprawled in the dirt fingering a bruised jaw with little recollection of how he got there. Connor stood over him seething with rage.

  “If I ever hear you refer to Verena so disrespectfully again, we are no longer friends. You know nothing of the situation!”

  He moved to walk away but turned back to say woodenly, “If you hold me in any affection at all, you will put aside the animosity you feel for Verena and protect her while I am away.”

  Connor stalked back to his horse, threw himself into the saddle and galloped out of the stable yard. He was upset that he had lost control, but to have his best friend questioning his actions was just too much. He had hoped to have an ally when he took Verena home to Denbigh Castle.

  A few years ago, Adam would never have spoken thus, nor would he have done anything other than help in any way he could. Connor hated the change war had wrought in his friend and wished for some way to help him.

  But right now, he had other things to worry about. Such as traveling to London to procure a special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury. He then had to return to Verena posthaste.

  *

  Four

  Wedding ceremonies were simple gatherings officiated by a local clergyman. While some may have boasted many observers, Lord Connor Northwicke’s did not. The local vicar arrived, waiting in Fledspar’s drawing room with those who woul
d attend the ceremony. Adam Prestwich stood by sporting a bruised jaw and a scowl. Lord Carstairs wore a similar expression that alternated between anger and disgust, thinly concealed beneath a social smile. The house party guests, with the exception of gossipy Lady Aldrich, refrained from joining them, no doubt wary of the tension in the air.

  Verena decided she was glad for it. As a young girl, she’d made the decision to never marry, so she’d never envisioned a large gathering of family and friends, a church service in London or the merry wedding breakfast after.

  Bridgette attended her mistress, at Verena’s request. Connor suggested that she hire the maid for herself and Verena leapt at the chance.

  Bridgette accepted, much to Verena’s relief. She knew she could endure whatever happened with Bridgette there to help her along.

  And Connor, of course.

  The previous week had been mostly taken up with fittings for Verena’s new trousseau. As the wife of a duke’s son—even the younger son—she discovered she had to have carriage dresses, pelisses, morning gowns, walking dresses, riding habits, day gowns, evening dresses, and even two ball gowns. Then she had to have hats, shoes, half boots, shawls, gloves, reticules, any number of lacy underthings, and even jewelry. She wondered where on earth the small town in Hereford had acquired all the many things she suddenly had need of.

  Carstairs had made sure his daughter had had a suitable array of gowns for country living but had never planned to give her a Season, thereby saving a great deal of money. Appearances were upheld for where they lived even if they’d not been quite the “thing” in a more fashionable place.

  From what Verena understood, her new frocks were much more fashionable in cut and quality than the ones provided by her father. It was Lord Connor footing the bill this time, so no expense was spared.

  Upon his return, Connor looked critically at her modish new gown, sprigged muslin with a wide sash under her breasts, and informed her quite casually that she would receive a more proper trousseau when he took her to Town for the Season. She’d almost laughed until she noted his earnest countenance.

  Lady Feldspar had been of great help. She hired dressmakers and seamstresses who worked around the clock to make sure the fashionable clothing was ready by the day of the wedding. As Lord Connor enjoyed an easy rapport with her ladyship, she graciously ignored the impropriety of a highborn lady running away and disguising herself as hired help. Lady Feldspar threw herself wholeheartedly into the wedding preparations quite like a mother hen.

  And, in truth, Lady Feldspar had little love for the Earl of Carstairs and thought Lord Connor very gallant for rescuing the poor girl. Just like a hero from a novel!

  When Verena discovered her wedding dress—a lovely creation of cream satin, seed pearls, and Brussels lace with short sleeves, a high waist, and low bodice—was a gift from Lord and Lady Feldspar, she had tried to protest. First Lord Connor and then Lady Feldspar herself brushed aside all Verena’s protestations, insisting that it would please everyone to no end should she accept. Verena felt she had little choice but to acquiesce and did so with heartfelt gratitude.

  Verena supposed she would have to be satisfied with that.

  She looked up at her betrothed where he stood with her before the vicar. As if feeling her eyes upon him, he turned his head and smiled down at her.

  The vicar’s droning voice broke into her thoughts just as he mentioned “‘men’s carnal lusts and appetites, like brute beasts that have no understanding…’” and Verena felt her face drain of color, her hand clenching involuntarily. She’d been to weddings before but the common words of the service had never really mattered, never really broken through the intense sorrow she felt at the sight of a woman binding herself to a man, agreeing to obey him in all things. Poor, wretched thing!

  Connor squeezed her hand. Verena looked up to see understanding and reassurance. She felt the tension slowly leave her shoulders even while she wondered how he could possibly understand. Then they both turned their attention back to the vicar.

  “…show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.”

  A sharp inhalation drew Verena’s gaze to her father. He stood with his arm behind his back and Adam Prestwich whispering urgently in his ear. Carstairs growled low in his throat but smiled and nodded to the vicar, who had stopped at the mild uproar.

  Verena only had a moment to wonder over Adam’s intervention on her behalf. Indeed, he’d spent the duration of Connor’s absence following her about, always there when her father tried to have a moment alone with her. He’d been curiously stubborn about leaving her alone and at the time, she was too appreciative to care what made him so attentive. Her intelligence told her it had more to do with Connor than herself but she was grateful nonetheless.

  The brief ceremony ended and the bride and groom signed the license.

  Connor turned away to accept the heartfelt congratulations of Lord and Lady Feldspar and the more dubious well-wishes of Adam and the earl. Verena watched him from the corner of her eye. She murmured appropriate responses when spoken to but her whole concentration remained taken up with the odd sense of recollection she felt.

  There was a young man once, a long time ago. He was nothing more than a faint memory, a girlish dream of a fair-haired knight in shining armor.

  She shook away her strange thoughts, glancing away as she did so. Her eyes locked with those of Adam Prestwich. Shocked by the thinly veiled hostility she saw there, she instinctively inched closer to her new husband. He sent her a puzzled look before his attention was claimed by the very man causing her discomfort.

  In a whispered aside, she heard Connor tell Adam, “We leave for Denbigh immediately after the wedding breakfast. I want as much distance between us and Carstairs as possible.” He paused. “And I want you to travel with us.”

  Verena stifled a gasp. She did not care for Adam Prestwich and knew the feeling was mutual. The thought of traveling for several hours with him was unsettling, to say the least.

  Something of her feelings must have reflected on her features. Adam’s sneering voice broke into her thoughts.

  “It appears your wife disagrees, Con,” he said, putting a slight emphasis on the word wife. “In fact, she looks absolutely livid at your suggestion.”

  They made excellent time and arrived at a posting house just before dark, thankfully without mishap. Connor managed to persuade Adam to join them with a plea for support when introducing Verena to the duke’s family.

  Truth was, Connor was terrified of being alone with his wife. He’d been rash to promise her a marriage in name only. The more time he spent with her, the more he wanted her. He couldn’t betray the fragile trust that bound them.

  He showed her to her room, explaining, “Mine is just here, next door.” He moved to a connecting door. “Both sides lock.” A self-deprecating smile touched his lips at her visible relief.

  He left her with Bri to sleep the peaceful sleep of the untouched virginal bride and went to his own room, sending a servant for a bottle. He wished he had his man with him but at the same time was infinitely glad he did not. No one was better at disapproval like a valet who had known a body since childhood.

  After a sleepless night filled in turns with erotic dreams and a frustrating wakefulness spent resisting the urge to go to Verena’s adjoining room to assuage his raging lust, Lord Connor’s mood left much to be desired.

  Upon waking and dressing himself, he made his way to the private parlor he always secured for his use when staying at this particular posting house. Being the son of a generous duke had its advantages.

  He sat down in the private parlor with Adam refusing to look at him; he didn’t even bother more than a grunt in reply to his best friend’s cynical good morning. Connor dove into a substantial breakfast to avoid conversation.

  Adam must have thought their long-standing friendship made him relatively safe from attack. With the usual mocking lo
ok, he murmured almost too low for his friend to hear, “Waiting to see if she births a bastard?”

  Connor’s chair flew back so hard that it hit the wall with a reverberating crack. He loomed over his friend. “I demand satisfaction! Name your—”

  “Connor, it is quite all right,” interrupted a weary voice from the doorway.

  Verena stood there in a dark purple traveling gown that emphasized the deep violet of her eyes, a ridiculously feminine bonnet dangling from her right hand. She looked from one man to the other until her husband finally sat down in another chair, feeling amazingly as if he were a chastened schoolboy. Connor glanced at Adam, relieved to see a flash of shame cross his features.

  Verena sat down. Connor studied her features minutely, not sure what he hoped to see. Her eyes seemed sad but not fearful.

  An overwhelming desire to strike his best friend tensed Connor’s muscles. He knew, without a doubt, that Adam’s insensitivity was to blame for Verena’s current distress.

  “How far do you think we will go today, my lord?” Verena asked after several uncomfortable seconds.

  “You seem awfully intent on arriving as early as possible,” Adam muttered half to himself, some of his earlier bad manners reasserted.

  Connor noted with interest that his new bride had a keen sense of hearing.

  Releasing an exasperated sigh, Verena turned her eyes on Adam and asked, “Have I done something to offend you, Mr. Prestwich?”

  Adam looked her in the eye. “You entrapped my friend,” he replied simply. “And I don’t trust you.”

  Connor rose to his feet again but Verena held him back with a gentle hand on his arm.

  She laughed without a trace of mirth, muttering bitterly, “That’s novel, I must say. Accused by a man of untrustworthiness.”

  Connor’s hearing was just as keen.

  Verena’s gaze locked with his for the briefest moment before returning to Adam. Connor felt physically struck by the bitter sadness that he’d seen, lingering in the deep recesses of her eyes. Would it always shock him to see such an expression in a woman’s eyes? Or would he eventually grow used to it, accepting even?