by Jane Goodger
“If I have to sit through one more lecture about agricultural advances, I shall become a drunkard. Our situations are far different, thank God.” Rand would forever be grateful to his friend for tolerating his newfound passion for learning everything about farming. If he was going to make a success out of Bellewood, he would have to compete with the Americans and grow produce as cheaply and efficiently as they did.
“No more lectures and only one more dinner. You should feel sorry for me. I have to stay here until at least March when the seas calm down enough for Miss Cummings to travel. I wish I were home now.”
Edward looked over to his friend. “This all weighs heavily, doesn’t it?”
“You’ve no idea. I wouldn’t be here, would I, if it didn’t.” He looked for his fiancée and found her chatting with a small group of people, smiling as if delighted in the conversation. They were all elderly, all women, and yet he felt a twinge of jealousy that they could hold her attention. He wondered what would happen if he wandered over to her and put his hand on her back, just high enough to touch the skin that was exposed so enticingly. If he leaned toward her and pressed his mouth against her exquisite neck, if he tasted her.
“I wish to hell this was all over,” he said shortly.
A footman walked by at that moment carrying a tray of champagne. Edward grabbed two, handing one to Rand. “To getting the hell out of here,” he said, lifting his glass.
Rand smiled and took a sip and wondered what the hell he was going to do in bed with a bride who wouldn’t even look at him.
Dinner was interminable, despite Alva’s efforts to keep the conversation lively and interesting. Elizabeth simply would not look at him, as if doing so would so unhinge her and she’d have to run from the room. Perhaps worse was that he was beginning to suspect that others at the dinner party had noted the bride’s rather chilly reception for the groom. What had happened since he’d been gone? Certainly he had not expected her to hang on his arm and gaze at him with adoration, but when he spoke at the dinner party she did not even lift her head to acknowledge him. Rand had thought the gifts, the letters would have been enough to keep him in her thoughts. While he had no illusions she loved him, he at least hoped she liked him and missed him a bit while he was gone. Because he damn well missed her.
It struck him then, like a blow to the gut, that she had seen Henry Ellsworth. And perhaps not only just seen him, but had an assignation. She didn’t only look exceedingly unhappy, she looked guilty. And why wouldn’t she look at him? Rand was well aware his thoughts were drifting the way a jealous husband’s would, but at the moment he did not care. The thought of her gazing into that man’s eyes, all doe-eyed and love-soaked, filled with the tragedy that the big mean duke was keeping them apart—it was far too much to bear.
After dinner, the party moved to the music room where a string quartet was set to entertain. Rand, with the determination of a soldier on a vital mission, headed directly to his fiancée.
“You have been avoiding me,” he said softly when he reached her side.
She looked at him with surprise that was so contrived, he nearly laughed.
“You are a poor actress,” he said.
“I must admit it is a bit awkward, seeing you again after so long. And on the eve of our wedding,” she said.
“Something that could easily be remedied by some conversation.”
She took a bracing breath as if about to face a task that was not entirely pleasant. “Your letters were quite interesting,” she said, dutifully. “It was almost as if I have been to all those places myself. Your descriptions were quite…thorough.”
“I’m afraid writing is not my forte. I would have waxed poetic for you had I been capable of putting such sentiments on paper. Lord Hollings did offer to write the notes for me, but I thought that rather disingenuous. I suppose you are quite used to flowery letters of adoration from your great many admirers.”
Her cheeks heated profusely, serving to fuel his suspicions that she had been in some sort of contact with Ellsworth. “I’m certain my letters weren’t the stuff of poets, either,” she said dryly, ignoring his comment.
No, Rand had to admit, they were not. They were, however, a catalogue of wedding events, stuff he could have gleaned from the New York Times, which seemed to be covering every detail of the wedding in amazing detail. Her letters were brief and held nothing personal in them. They could have been from a business associate for all the warmth they contained.
“And I noticed you did not include the fascinating information about your garters. Diamond clasps and all that.”
Elizabeth grimaced. “I want you to know I had nothing to do with that article. My mother has been delighting in handing out tidbits about the wedding. I gave her a firm talking to about the matter.”
“I would think that diamond clasps on garters was more of a tidbit about the wedding night rather than the actual wedding,” he said in an effort to get some sort of reaction from her. She gave him a reaction, but it was not the one he expected: alarm, turning to fear. Or was it revulsion? He thought she would blush or perhaps gently chastise him for bringing up such an indelicate topic, but she had done neither of those things.
“Is thinking about our wedding night so objectionable to you, then?”
Alva saved her daughter by announcing that everyone should take their seats, forcing their brief talk to a close. He held up his arm and she placed her hand in the crook of his elbow, a light touch, the touch of a woman who doesn’t feel comfortable, who doesn’t wish to touch at all.
Chapter 15
Fifth Avenue outside St. Thomas’s church was beset by an enormous throng of onlookers. It seemed as if every young woman in New York City was craning their necks to catch a glimpse of Elizabeth, likely wishing they were walking down the aisle to marry a handsome duke. Police officers, looking decidedly unhappy with their duty, held the crowd back from the cathedral’s broad entranceway. Sitting in her coach waiting for the crowd to clear, Elizabeth peeked at the crowd waiting outside the church, with its two-hundred-sixty-foot tower looming over them. The tower seemed almost sinister to her, and she hoped God would forgive such a dark thought about His house.
“Why are they all here?” she said to herself. “Why do they care?”
“Because you are a Cummings. Because you are becoming a duchess. It is every girl’s dream. They come to see American royalty,” her mother said. It was as if her mother, having planned this day all her life, was more than pleased with the turnout. It made Elizabeth feel slightly ill, knowing she had to step out of the carriage and be in view of hundreds of strangers. The press of faces along the street made Elizabeth feel more like a curiosity, a sideshow attraction. They were all smiling, as if it was a grand and happy day, as if they were somehow a part of what was happening. No one could call what Elizabeth was feeling simple nerves—she was terrified.
“My goodness, Elizabeth, you are not going to your execution,” her mother said, laughing.
“I’d gladly trade places with any one of them,” she said softly. Her mother pressed her mouth tightly, likely restraining herself from saying anything that would further upset her.
“There she is!” someone shouted from the crowd, forcing Elizabeth to pull back from the curtained window. She wondered if Henry were in the crowd waiting for a glimpse of her. She prayed he would do nothing foolish, like storm into the church and drag her away. And perhaps in a small part of her heart she prayed he would, if only to escape this madness. If he did, she wondered whether she would go with him or not? Or would she stand by the duke, dutiful and calm, and say her lying vows. She wasn’t certain if she still loved Henry or if she loved the idea of the freedom he represented. She was still so angry with him for tormenting her heart. And yet, she wore the necklace beneath her wedding dress. Oh, just imagine what her mother would do if she knew she wore a gift from Henry beneath her gown. That thought, at least, made her smile.
Though Elizabeth longed to run into the c
hurch like a woman being chased by an angry mob, her mother put a restraining hand on her arm and hissed, “Turn and smile at them.”
So she turned. And smiled.
It wasn’t until she stepped into the church to walk to the room where she would make the final preparations that her fear hit her full force. Until that moment, she’d simply been dragged along, surrounded by a swirl of activity and smiling faces and everyone telling her how lucky she was. The church was decorated magnificently, as only her mother could have planned it. St. Thomas’s clergy was most likely thrilled to have had their entire church decorated for Christmas at no expense.
Huge garlands of holly draped from the church’s great dome. The aisles were lined with hundreds of red and white poinsettias, and her own bouquet, large and unwieldy, was of poinsettias and holly. Elizabeth had always loved Christmas, and now she would always remember it as the day she was forced to marry a man she did not love. Every Christmas, until the day she died, the holiday would be tainted with this farce.
Suddenly, it all became too much for her, too much red, too much lace, too many pearls strung around her slim neck. Her corset, pulled so tightly she looked slightly distorted, made it nearly impossible to breathe when all she wanted to do was take deep, deep breaths and try to get through the day. She left her mother in the vestibule and went to a small room where her father waited for her to walk her down the aisle. For some reason, the sight of him in his dark gray pinstripe trousers and black frock cloak made what had seemed like a dream a striking reality. This was her wedding day. Her father was giving her away, and then she was going to be a duchess. Her life would never be the same, would never be her own.
She felt the blood drain from her face. “I…Father. I can’t do it.” A sharp stab of nausea hit her at that moment and she bent over and vomited into a small trash can.
“Elizabeth,” her father shouted, coming immediately to her side.
Her empty stomach heaved and protested against her brutally tight corset.
“I can’t, Father,” she repeated, still hanging over the can. Her bouquet lay beside the trash, her diamond tiara tilted forward and threatened to fall into the can. “I can’t. I can’t. How can you make me do this? How?”
She looked into her father’s face, seeing empathy and love. And guilt—but perhaps that was just her imagination. “You’ll be fine, my girl. You’ll see. The duke is not a cruel man. He seems intelligent. You could have done much worse, you know. You could have ended up with someone like me.” He laughed, clearly hoping to gain a smile from his daughter. “Now, don’t you cry. What will the duke think to see tears?”
“I don’t care. And he doesn’t, either. He cares only about the money,” she said, even though she knew that wasn’t true. “This is not what marriage is supposed to be like. My Christmases are ruined forever,” she said, knowing she sounded like a little girl. At the moment, her most fervent wish was that she could be a little girl and it was Christmas and she would wake up to find presents beneath the tree brought by St. Nicholas. Instead, she would become a man’s wife, wake up a duchess, and she would never, ever capture the wonderful magic of her childhood Christmases.
Her father chuckled and patted her back awkwardly, letting her cry. “All your Christmases are not ruined,” he said. “You’re not a little girl anymore, Elizabeth. You are a beautiful young woman.” This last was said a bit gruffly.
“He doesn’t love me. And I don’t love him. We shall be miserable,” she said, ending with a soft hiccup.
“I think he may be halfway in love with you already. Who wouldn’t be, with my little Beth?”
“Oh, Father,” she said, breaking down further upon hearing him use her pet name. He gave her his handkerchief and she dutifully blew her nose. “I’m sorry. I know I’m being silly. It’s just hit me all at once, what I am doing. I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself. I know that,” she said a bit fiercely. “Half the women in New York are outside wishing they were in here. The poor duke would feel horrible if he knew I was in here crying.” She took a bracing, shaking breath, at least as much as her corset would allow.
“Feeling better?”
Elizabeth nodded, giving a little sniff. “Perhaps we should wait just a bit for my eyes to clear.”
Jason nodded. “I’ll go tell everyone you’re repairing your gown. Here,” he said, straightening out her veil and tiara. “Now it can be true.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Jason cleared his throat, then left the small room to inform her groom that his bride would be out directly. Already she was twenty minutes late. He was probably imagining that she was running away. In truth, she suspected her mother feared something awful would happen to stop the wedding. She’d been hovering over her for a week, and she was quite certain that the footman positioned down the hall from her room was there solely to make certain she did not escape.
Her father was right, of course. The duke was not a cruel man and he was very handsome. And if they never loved each other the way she and Henry had loved, perhaps they could become friends. How many married couples were in love, anyway? Certainly not her mother and father. Still, she wondered what her mother would have done, her strong, ferocious mother, if she’d been forced to marry someone while loving another.
Rand nearly smashed the glass he held after Jason left him alone with Edward. Repairing her dress. What balderdash. Already he could hear the titters from the congregation, the speculation that she was about to leave him at the altar. No doubt she was hoping Ellsworth would rush into the church and save her from the horror of marrying him.
“Calm down, old man. You look about to explode.”
“Her dress better have a tear the size of New York in it to make me wait here like an errand boy,” he said. Already, she was thirty minutes late coming down the aisle, thirty minutes of pacing, feeling anger and humiliation spread through his veins like poison.
“Just think of all those beautiful pounds,” Edward said.
Rand let out a shaky laugh. At the moment, money was the last thing on his mind. Again and again he found himself hurt by her coldness, and that could only mean one thing. He was most definitely falling in love, if not already there. Never in his life had love entered into his idea of marriage. Finding someone beautiful, compatible, wellborn—those were the things that he thought of, if he thought of marriage at all. Now he was finding himself in the untenable position of loving a woman who did not love him, of wanting things he had no business wanting. “I just didn’t think it would be so damned humiliating.”
Something in his tone, something desperate and unsettling, must have alarmed Edward, for he straightened in his seat where he’d been comfortably sprawled.
“Not having second thoughts, are you?”
He let out a humorless laugh. “How about fifth or sixth thoughts.” He rubbed his forehead and let out a long, shaking breath. “I think she has seen that Ellsworth fellow.”
“Oh, God, Rand.”
He looked up, confused by Edward’s bleak tone.
“I don’t think she’s been with him if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“No. It’s not bloody likely with her mother chaining her in her bedroom.” At Rand’s startled expression Edward explained that Maggie had told him Elizabeth had been held on an extremely short leash the past few months.
“Then what was the ‘Oh, God, Rand’ thing. I’ve got enough on my mind, thank you, without you upsetting me further.”
“You let yourself fall in love. That’s what the ‘Oh, God, Rand’ was about. Not well done, old man.”
Rand let out a curse he hadn’t uttered since his Light Guard days…and on Christmas Eve and in a church. “There are worse things,” he muttered.
Edward raised his eyebrows. “Such as?”
“Such as marrying someone you don’t love,” he said bleakly. “And being in love with someone else.”
Edward was about to respond when a young priest signaled that the ceremony was about
to begin, and he took his place at the head of the aisle, arms behind his back, Edward standing beside him apparently thinking his emotional state was extremely amusing.
He tried to stop his jaw from dropping when Elizabeth began gliding down the aisle. She held her head high, her arm linked with her father, her waist impossibly tiny. The veil hid her features, even when her father handed her over to him he could not see if she were smiling. He, certainly, was not. Her eyes were on the priest, the altar, her multitude of bridesmaids, most of whom he’d never seen. And then, her father lifted the veil and his heart plunged. She had, indeed, been crying.
Rand was angry, and at the moment, he didn’t care if his bride knew it. Certainly everyone in the church would note her pale face, her red-rimmed eyes, and they would know she stood before God and lied her little heart out. He stood there feeling foolish for thinking he might be falling in love, for thinking they might actually make each other happy. For thinking she might someday love him. He’d thought the tears, the resistance, the hope that somehow Ellsworth would rush down the aisle and save her from him were long over. Certainly he had not expected her to look up to him with adoration, but to find her looking at him as if she were marrying the devil himself was more than difficult to bear. And so he was torn between feeling rage and feeling sorry for her, and rage at the moment was the overriding emotion.
Still, she said her lines clearly enough for even the guests in the back of the cathedral to understand. Her hand shook only slightly when she held her finger out for the diamond-encrusted wedding ring that bound her to him forever. When the ceremony was over, the priest wished them all a Merry Christmas, and they turned, Duke and Duchess of Bellingham, to the loud cheers from the congregation. Outside, he could hear more cheers as the hundreds of onlookers who waited for the sight of the new duchess must have realized the wedding was over. Rand looked down at his new wife, but she kept her eyes straight ahead. She’d yet to look at him and he fought the urge to make a crazy face at her simply to obtain some sort of reaction.
