For Annabel, the days after Christian’s departure went by in a blur.
Lady Sylvia took her to the dressmaker Vivienne for her wedding gown. “I know you adore Worth, my dear,” Sylvia said, “but we haven’t time. They take forever nowadays. Vivienne is actually Vivian Marlowe, the sister of Viscount Marlowe, and a personal friend of mine. She will put you at the top of her list, and we’ll have a splendid gown in a matter of days.”
When Annabel found herself in the showroom of London’s most fashionable dressmaker, being assessed by the slim, willowy Vivienne herself, she felt as if the other woman’s keen green eyes would find her full-figured shape a difficult one to work with. Fashionable dressmakers, she’d learned a long time ago, preferred slender figures without many curves. But she soon realized she’d underestimated this particular dressmaker.
“Not satin,” Vivienne said at once. “Silk chiffon for you, Miss Wheaton, no doubt about it.” She waved a hand. “The ivory silk, Claudette, the one with peachy undertones.”
Moments later, one of her assistants was bringing a bolt of that fabric, and Annabel was being swathed in it.
“I’m thinking a sort of Grecian, draping effect for the skirt and a bodice that wraps the bosom.” Vivienne spoke through a mouthful of pins, wrapping and pinning fabric to Annabel’s underclothing as she spoke. “I hope you didn’t have your heart set on satin. Most brides are still wearing it, but it’s not right for you at all. It would cling to you in a most unforgiving way.”
Annabel bit her lip, remembering her first wedding gown had been exactly like that, and how she’d ignored the feeling of being encased like a sausage for the sake of fashion.
“This will flatter your figure much better. What do you think?” Vivienne inserted the last pin and stepped aside to allow her to see her reflection in the long mirror. “Before you answer, I must warn you, and your mother, too,” she added to Henrietta, who stood a few feet behind them, “this silhouette is not yet in vogue. Only the most daring girls wear the very latest fashions.”
Daring? It was more than just daring. It was unlike any dress design she’d ever seen, and yet, as she studied her reflection, she realized the dressmaker was right. Already, even when it was just yards of silk pinned in place, she knew the draping folds and soft fabric flattered her shape and skin tone far better than the bright white satin and swan bill shape of her previous gown.
“So, how daring are you, Miss Wheaton?” Vivienne asked her. “Are you willing to trust me and allow me to design for your figure, or do you simply want the current mode and none of my pert opinions?” Vivienne’s eyes met hers in the mirror, and Annabel saw in them both a hint of amusement and a challenge.
“I’m already considered a fish out of water,” she answered ruefully. “Might as well be modern, too. Besides,” she added, smiling at her refection, feeling that exquisite thrill of knowing she’d found a beautiful gown, “I love it already.”
“Excellent! I so adore dressing women like you.” She turned to Sylvia. “Fitting a week from today, darling? Two o’clock?”
Sylvia pulled her appointment book and a pencil out of her handbag, flipped a few pages, and gave a nod. “Two o’clock.”
“Excellent. Claudette will take out all these pins and measure you, Miss Wheaton, and I will see you next Friday.” Vivienne gave Annabel’s shoulders an encouraging squeeze. “Many brides come to me, and I can say from experience that you will feel quite overwhelmed during the coming weeks, but don’t let that feeling ruin things for you. After all, this is one of the happiest times of a woman’s life.”
With that, she turned away, waved farewell to Henrietta and Lady Sylvia, and with a swish of her greenish-bronze silk dress, she departed.
“Easy for her to say,” Annabel muttered, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Swathed and pinned into pristine bridal silk, she suddenly felt like a complete hypocrite.
“Don’t worry, Annabel,” Sylvia said, putting an arm around her shoulders. “You’re not doing this alone, you know, and though all this might seem overwhelming, I intend you to see that you enjoy yourself.”
Annabel appreciated the kindness that lay behind Sylvia’s intentions, but enjoying herself wasn’t easy. The newspapers were full of the engagement, and though, as Christian had told her, the stories were mostly positive, some were unbelievably vicious. But it was Christian’s interview that was hardest of all. He spoke of being carried away by his feelings, and how fortunate he was that she’d at last accepted him. He agreed that to marry for love as well as duty was a splendid thing indeed, and he emphasized several times how ecstatic they both were. Reading that interview only made the knot of misery in her stomach even heavier, because even though she knew it was all just lies for the press, she wished it could be true. After that, she stopped reading the newspapers.
She went in to Vivienne to be fitted for her gown as scheduled, and the moment she put it on, she wanted to cry. It was beautiful, perfect, but what did it matter? It didn’t make the wedding less of a farce.
She tried not to think. With Lady Sylvia’s help, Mama’s encouraging hugs, and Dinah’s not always tactful opinions to make her laugh, she got through the choosing of invitations, the guest list, the flowers, the menu for the wedding tea that would follow the ceremony, and the dozens of other choices that had to be made. Having done it all before, she ought to have found it easier this time around. But it wasn’t easier. It was much, much harder.
Nonetheless, the days rushed by. Journalists followed her everywhere, and her jaw ached from smiling, her heart hurt from acting happy, and sometimes, she just wanted to run away.
The wedding was set for May 26, and it was arranged that Sylvia would bring her and her family to Scarborough a week earlier, but so much was still undone that she, Henrietta, Dinah, and Sylvia were forced to stay in London longer than they’d expected. Arthur and George went on ahead to tour Scarborough Park, sign the marital agreements, and decide what needed to be done to the place. Arthur was only slightly mollified by Christian’s flat refusal of an income, especially after Annabel made him slip in funds for Christian anyway. A duke, she insisted, had to have an income. She could afford it, and she could only hope Christian wouldn’t read the thing before he signed it. He was trying to do right by her, and in the marital agreement, she intended to do right by him.
They arrived at Scarborough in the early afternoon with only two days to spare before the wedding. Christian, an entourage of journalists behind him, was waiting for them as they descended the platform of Harrowgate’s tiny train station, and he bustled her, her mother, and sister to a waiting carriage at once while his valet dealt with their luggage and Sylvia deftly took charge of the journalists.
“Lord,” Henrietta said, falling back in her seat as the carriage jerked into motion. “These reporters! I’ve never seen the like.”
“They are relentless,” Christian agreed. “They’ve been prowling around, skirting the edges of Scarborough Park for days, hoping to catch me out. They’ve become so brazen that I should advise staying near the house as much as possible. I fear we shall have to save any grand tours of the estate until after the wedding.”
He turned toward her. “How are you, darling?” he asked, picking up her gloved hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Holding up all right?”
“Of course,” she lied. “I’m just fine.” After all, what else could she say?
Scarborough was a vast structure of gray stone accented with crenellated parapets, octagonal turrets, and climbing green ivy. It seemed to sprawl in all directions, wings sticking out and chimney stacks popping up without any consideration of architectural beauty, a fact that gave it a haphazard appearance.
Christian laughed, watching her face as the open landau pulled into the graveled drive. “A bit fantastical, isn’t it? Sylvia’s husband always said a restoration of Scarborough Park would be an architect’s dream or nightmare, depending upon how much money was involved.”
She stu
died it for a moment. “I kind of like it,” she told him.
“Like it?”
“Yes. It looks . . . a little tipsy.”
That made him laugh again, an easy, relaxed-sounding laugh. He didn’t seem to share any of the worry that niggled at her. That was a good thing, she reminded herself. Wasn’t it?
The staff was gathered by the doors awaiting their arrival, and as the carriage came to a halt, a footman stepped forward to roll out the steps for them. Christian presented her and her mother to the staff, introduced Morgan, the butler, and Mrs. Houghton, the housekeeper, and escorted them inside. “We’ll have tea, Morgan,” he said over his shoulder as he led her across a vast hall to a wide, sweeping staircase of limestone and wrought iron. “In the drawing room. And watch for Lady Sylvia’s carriage. She’ll be a bit behind us.”
He led them up to the drawing room, where George and Uncle Arthur were already partaking of scones and jam. Afternoon tea was one of things about England Arthur genuinely liked, a fact made clear by the dab of strawberry jam Annabel noticed on his chin. She tapped her own chin meaningfully with her finger, and he took the hint at once, scrubbing away jam with his handkerchief.
Henrietta poured tea, as Arthur and George told them all about the estate. Even Arthur sounded enthusiastic as he recounted tales of all the trout fishing they’d been doing. When he began to rhapsodize about the pheasant hunting they’d be able to do in the fall, she shot Christian a look of surprise across the tea table. He merely smiled back and gave her a wink.
Sylvia arrived a few minutes later, and Annabel had no chance to ask Christian anything about Arthur’s change of heart until they were able to steal a few minutes alone together, and only then because Christian insisted upon taking her for a walk in the rose garden.
“How on earth did you manage it?” she asked him as they walked arm in arm amid rose beds edged by low boxwood hedges. “Did you cast some sort of spell on Uncle Arthur or something? He’s talking as if he actually likes England!”
He stopped as if to admire the fountain, causing her to stop beside him. “Well, it is rather a nice place, you know,” he said, letting go of her arm and turning toward her as he reached into his pocket. “I have something for you.”
She was too amazed to be diverted by a present, especially now that she seemed to be the only one with apprehensions about the wedding. “Uncle Arthur was all prepared to hate it here. When Bernard and I called things off, he wanted us to go straight back home, and it was only because of my reputation that he went along with staying here and having you as a trustee. Now he’s talking like he wants to stay awhile. I never thought I’d see—”
“Annabel,” Christian interrupted, and picked up her hand. She looked down, watching as he slipped a ring of diamonds and platinum onto her finger.
“It was my mother’s,” he said. “Min—that was Andrew’s wife—didn’t like it. The main diamond’s only two carats, and she thought it too small for a duchess, so it’s been sitting in the vault for years. I know it’s rather late in the day for an engagement ring, since our wedding is the day after tomorrow, but still, I thought you might like it all the same.”
“It’s beautiful,” she said, and meant it. Seven years ago, she’d never thought in a thousand years she’d wear diamonds of any size, and though now she had a treasure trove of jewels, she never forgot where she came from. So to her, this ring, one that had been handed down in Christian’s family for generations, seemed far more beautiful than any of the Tiffany or Cartier jewels she owned.
She turned her hand, watching the diamond wink at her in the sunlight. An engagement ring was a circle, a symbol of eternal love. But what did it mean when the love was one-sided? Suddenly, the diamond began to blur before her eyes.
Remember, this is one of the happiest times of your life.
Annabel blinked, bringing the ring back into focus. She swallowed hard, and tried to believe that was true. After all, a girl didn’t need a man’s love to be happy. She’d figured that out a long time ago.
Chapter Eighteen
The following morning, the men had already breakfasted and left the house by the time Annabel came downstairs. Christian, she was told, was going about estate business, while Arthur and George had, not surprisingly, gone fishing. Dinah, too, was gone. “Exploring,” Henrietta explained in answer to her question as she sat down at the table.
“Dinah seems a very adventurous sort of girl,” Sylvia commented.
“That’s one way of putting it,” Henrietta said in her wry way. “I worry sometimes that she’s too much of a tomboy.”
“She is a bit of a hoyden, certainly, but she is only eleven. And girls are much more independent and athletic nowadays. I’ve no doubt she’s destined for all sorts of adventures.”
Annabel looked down at her hand, watching the result of her own “adventure” winking at her in the light.
Remember, this is one of the happiest times of your life.
She jerked to her feet. “Excuse me,” she said as the two other women stopped talking and looked at her in surprise. “I think I’ll be adventurous and go exploring, too. I should like to look over the house.”
“Of course you want to see the house.” Sylvia started to rise. “I’ll take you.”
“No,” she said, grimacing at the curtness of her voice. “Please, finish your breakfast. I just want to wander a bit, on . . . on my own, if that’s all right.”
“Of course, my dear. This is your home, you know.”
Her home. As Annabel spent the day walking the long hallways, studying the watered-silk wall hangings, glittering crystal chandeliers, and gilt-framed portraits, she wanted to think of it that way, as her home, but she couldn’t quite make her mind form the picture.
It wasn’t the house. On the contrary, she loved the place, with its sprawling wings and endless corridors, its overcrowded gardens, enormous fireplaces, and creaky floors. It was a bit threadbare in places, showing wear and tear and a lack of upkeep from the previous duke, but she had more than enough money to change that.
The problem was that whenever she tried to see this as her home, she felt a strange heaviness descend on her, a sinking feeling of dismay that this would never be her home, not if Christian didn’t love her enough to stay in it with her. Wasn’t that what she was really afraid of? That he’d go off to Paris and she’d be like Evie, walking in the gardens and wandering the corridors alone?
She stared up at his portrait, one of many that hung along a long, wide corridor by the library. He looked so young—about twenty, perhaps, and the lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth hadn’t yet made their appearance. Despite that, he seemed more handsome now than he had as a youth, but men always did seem to age well. Annabel, like most women, found that awfully unfair.
Flanking his portrait were portraits of two women. One was unmistakably Sylvia. The other was an angelic blond in pink silk so pale it seemed almost white. This, she knew at once, was Evie.
Footsteps echoed in the distance, a soft thudding on the carpets, and Annabel glanced up as a maid in striped gray dress, white apron, and cap passed the gallery. The girl happened to glance sideways, and backed up at the sight of her, stopping in the doorway. “May I help you, miss?” she asked.
“No, no.” Annabel smiled. “I’m just exploring.”
The girl glanced at the wall, then back at her. A fleeting expression of—uncertainty, perhaps?—crossed her face, but she gave a curtsy and went on, leaving Annabel to her contemplations of Christian’s first wife.
Evie Du Quesne had been pretty, rather like a porcelain doll was pretty. Her chin was down, her eyes almost peeking at the artist, not in a coquettish way, but tiredly, as if the diamond tiara and earrings she wore were too heavy for her slender neck. Against a backdrop of white draperies, with her almost colorless dress and fair hair, she seemed to fade into complete insignificance.
Annabel’s heart constricted with compassion and that hint of fear. She wasn’t timid or
shy like this girl, but without Christian’s love, what would she be? Bitter, she thought at once. Angry. That seemed almost as bad.
This time, the sound of footsteps made her jump, and this time, it wasn’t a maid who paused in the doorway. It was Christian, looking grave. He glanced—a quick, furtive glance—at the wall, then back at her. “I heard you were in here,” he said slowly. “Anna—she’s the head housemaid—came and found me, asking me to come to you. She seemed concerned to see you wandering about alone.” He paused, looking at her. “Was she right to be concerned?”
She hesitated, then joined him by the door. Glancing around to be sure no one was within earshot, she asked, “Are we doing the right thing? What if . . .” She paused, but heartache, she feared, hovered over her whether she expressed her doubts aloud or kept them to herself. “What if we’re making a mistake?”
“It isn’t as if we have a choice, Annabel.”
That didn’t help reassure her. It only made her want to know even more how he really felt. He didn’t love her, but he did have some regard for her. She knew that. Not because he’d bedded her—she wasn’t naive enough to think that—but because of what he was doing now. But was it enough? Did he respect her? Could love come later? Did he think that was possible? She turned away, staring down the long portrait gallery, to the pale girl on the wall. He came up behind her, put his hands on her shoulders, and turned her around.
“Maybe we haven’t known each other long enough,” she said as he gently, slowly pulled her through the doorway and out of the room. Standing in the hallway outside the gallery, she searched his face, looking for anything that would give her a clue how he felt and what he thought. “Maybe you were right before to suggest a pretend engagement, then at least we might have gotten to know each other better before this happened.”
Trouble at the Wedding Page 26
