Wedding of the Season: Abandoned at the Altar

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  Oh God, she thought, growing desperate. Aidan was going to kiss her. Her guilt deepened into dread.

  He released her hands suddenly and cupped her face. “It’s a mistake I should like to remedy.” Before she could even fashion a reply, he bent his head and pressed his lips to hers.

  She waited for something to happen, hoped in desperation for passion to stir, but though the contact of his lips against hers brought warmth, it was the same sort of feeling she might gain from a hot water bottle at her feet or a nice cup of tea in her hands, agreeable and comfortable, but not precisely earth-shattering.

  She opened her eyes. Aidan’s eyes were closed, and she stared at his brown lashes fanned across his cheekbones with the same objectivity with which she might have studied . . . well . . . blades of grass. They were nice lashes, she thought, straight but thick and dark brown, very attractive.

  But surely, she thought in bewilderment, surely the previous time he’d kissed her, the night she’d accepted his proposal of marriage, she hadn’t been staring at his lashes, had she? That kiss couldn’t have been like this one, could it? Warm and pleasant and nothing more? There must have been some spark of feeling in it. There must have been.

  When his lips moved to part hers, deepening the kiss, she allowed it. When his arms came up around her to pull her closer, she strove to remember the night nine months ago when she had accepted his proposal and the kiss they had shared.

  She got as far as remembering that it had been nothing like Will’s kiss before Aidan pulled back, and as she watched his eyes begin to open, she hastily closed hers. She waited until she felt his arms slide away, and then she opened her eyes. His face, so gravely handsome, looked much as always, so steady and sensible, and yet she could sense desire in him. Physical desire.

  She’d seen that same look in Will’s eyes earlier, but it wasn’t really the same. It didn’t make her feel the same way.

  Beatrix wanted to sink through the floor. She wanted to grab him and kiss him again and will herself to feel something. She wanted to bolt, call the whole thing off, lock herself in an attic, join a convent.

  In the end, she did nothing. When he said, “Good night, Beatrix,” she smiled, though it was more as a reflex than an expression of actual feeling, because inside all she felt was sheer, overwhelming panic, and that was nothing to smile about.

  It wasn’t the kiss that was different. She was different. She’d felt something that night he’d proposed, she knew that. But was it the stirrings of passion she’d felt? Or simply hope that she finally had a second chance at love? Whatever it was, that feeling had now faded into the background because of the return of her first love. And her wedding was only two months away.

  Beatrix turned before Aidan’s perceptive eyes could detect the awful sense of dismay and guilt that must surely be written on her face. She went upstairs, walking slowly until she had turned on the landing and vanished from his view before running full bore to her room.

  Safely inside, she closed the door and fell back against it with a gasp of relief. When her maid came out of the dressing room, she saw a frown of concern cross the girl’s face, and she could only conclude that Lily could see what Aidan had not.

  “Is everything all right, miss?”

  She straightened away from the door. “Yes, Lily, thank you. I just have a bit of a headache. I’d like to go to bed.”

  As her maid brushed out her hair and assisted her out of her evening gown and into her nightclothes, she worked to push aside her panic and think. It was ridiculous, she told herself, that she could have changed during the past nine months. Even more ridiculous to think Will was responsible. How? By taking his shirt off? It was absurd.

  Wasn’t it?

  By the time she had dismissed Lily and slid beneath the sheets of her bed, her panic had thankfully subsided, but in its place was something else, something deeper and much harder to extinguish: uncertainty.

  She tried to tell herself this was all Will’s fault, that if he hadn’t come back, Aidan’s kiss would have stirred her deeper feelings tonight. After all, her affection for her fiancé had deepened with the passage of time, and a deeper, more ardent passion would surely follow. But was that true, or was it just wishful thinking?

  Beatrix groaned and turned onto her side. Though she closed her eyes, she could not silence the doubts whispering to her, and she hated Will for it, hated him for coming home and stirring up the ashes of a burned-out love. Yet she knew she really had no right to hate him. She was the mistress of her own feelings. She was responsible for them, and for their consequences.

  She had loved Will for so long and with such desperation, but nowadays, whenever she thought of those lonely years without him, years of clinging to the futile hope that he would change his mind and come home, she felt only relief that those days were over. She’d given up any stupid, girlish ideas that Will loved her too much to live without her, that he would become a responsible, steady partner in life, someone she could count on. She’d finally accepted reality, and now she felt like kicking herself in the head for allowing one stupid glimpse of him without his shirt to send her somersaulting back to a time when she’d been a complete fool.

  It wasn’t even as if her engagement had made Will realize he’d made a terrible mistake all those years ago. He hadn’t come home to win her back. Nothing of the kind. According to what Paul had told her, Will hadn’t come home because of her at all, but for business that involved that damned excavation of his. And even if he had come for her, it wouldn’t matter. It was too late, they’d gone their separate ways ages ago, and Will had nothing to offer her. Nothing but the sweet, piercing, momentary joy of a smile and the burning ache of desire. It wasn’t enough. It never had been, and it never would be.

  Desire did not endure. Fondness, affection, a shared vision of the future, friendship—those were the things that sustained a marriage through decades. Passions were fleeting, and in the end, meaningless.

  Beatrix knew that from experience. Her own mother had been carried away by passion, and when the passion died, her lover had abandoned her, and she’d ended up alone, disgraced, and miserable.

  She thought of the couples she knew who seemed happy together—Lord and Lady Marlowe, for example, and Lord and Lady Weston—couples who were not only marriage partners, but also contented companions. They might have passion—Beatrix wouldn’t know, for no one expressed such sentiments publicly—but she did know they had affection and friendship and a mutually agreeable vision of their lives and their future together.

  Beatrix knew all this. She’d been over these things again and again. She’d agonized over them during many other sleepless nights. When Aidan had proposed, she’d spent three days considering the ramifications before she had accepted him. After years of letting her heart lead, she had finally listened to her head. And the kiss they’d shared upon her acceptance of his proposal, a kiss that had been vastly different from the ones shared with Will so long ago, had not changed her mind. She had gone on with her life, made her decision. It was pointless to agonize over it now.

  She had no intention of backing out. There was no reason to, and besides, she could never hurt Aidan in such a way. In the twelve months she’d known him, he had become very dear to her, as dear as any member of her family, and she knew, better than most, how heartbreak felt. She’d cut off her right arm before she’d abandon Aidan as Will had abandoned her.

  She closed her eyes, but the moment she did, an image of Will came into her mind, an image of smooth, bronzed skin and hard, lean muscles and green eyes filled with hunger. With an aggravated sigh, she opened her eyes again and turned onto her back to scowl at the ceiling.

  She refused to let one stupid—not to mention indecent—incident rob her of her common sense. And even if Will removing his shirt had caused her brains to inexplicably take a holiday, once he departed for Egypt, then what? She would be herself again, not this muddled mess of a woman who didn’t know her own heart and mind.
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br />   Beatrix took a deep breath, striving to be logical about all this. What she was experiencing right now was nothing more than a case of cold feet. She was less than two months from her wedding day. Surely all brides experienced a moment of doubt, a moment when there was a vague sense of dissatisfaction, as if . . . as if she knew somehow that she was settling for less, when something more, something beautiful and wondrous and incredible, might be down the road, and if only she were to wait just a little bit longer. . .

  This was ridiculous. Hadn’t she waited long enough, in heaven’s name? And how could she think for a moment that by marrying Aidan she was settling for less? Aidan was a duke and a man of considerable wealth, power, and consequence. He was good-looking, intelligent, honorable, and considerate. What more could any woman want?

  Listing all Aidan’s fine qualities had the strange result of making her even more miserable. She huddled into a little ball, plagued by doubts she thought she’d conquered ages ago, and she felt an absurd desire to weep.

  Chapter Eight

  If Will had hoped for the aid of the pixies—or any other magical forces, for that matter—to get him through the coming weeks, it seemed he was destined to be disappointed. The evening he’d just endured wasn’t any easier than the previous ones had been.

  Night after night of pretending to be debonair, carefree, and perfectly at ease in the same room with his old love and her new one took quite a toll, but it wouldn’t do for him to be dog in the manger about things. Julia had played up beautifully, putting on the same act as he for her own impish reasons, but even with her assistance, the evenings seemed endless.

  Tonight had been the worst, the tension nearly unbearable. When the clock struck one and the party broke up, Will was filled with profound relief, but as people began making their way to bed, he found himself reluctant to do the same. Though he’d been up since dawn, he was still too much on edge, too stirred up for sleep.

  He caught up with Julia on her way to the stairs, finagled a cigarette and a match, and stepped outside. The lamps in the drawing room and study were still lit, making the limestone floor of the terrace seem to radiate with an incandescent, golden glow.

  He walked to the very edge of the terrace, where a rail of carved marble prevented anyone from tumbling to the rocks far below. He lit the cigarette, propped his elbows on the rail, and stared out to the sea. In the moon-lit distance, the water’s surface seemed calm as a millpond tonight, but down below, he could hear the waves crashing against the rocks. Behind him, voices bidding each other good night echoed through the open doors and windows.

  “Ah, Sunderland, not gone to bed yet, I see.”

  Will straightened and looked over his shoulder to find Marlowe in the doorway leading from the study. “No, sir,” he answered, turning as the other man began crossing the terrace toward him.

  “You don’t have to call me sir anymore, Will,” he reminded with a smile. “You’re no longer a boy. Besides, you outrank me.”

  Will smiled back. “I always did,” he reminded, “but old habits die hard. Too many visits to Pixy Cove under your watchful eye, I suppose.”

  “You mean Antonia’s watchful eye.” The viscount halted beside him at the stone railing.

  “Your grandmother is a formidable woman. I may be a duke, but whenever she looks at me through her lorgnette, I always feel like a misbehaving lad of ten all over again.” He held up his cigarette. “I don’t have another,” he said, “but I’d be happy to share.”

  Marlowe shook his head. “Thank you, no. Emma hates the smell of tobacco, so I gave it up long ago.”

  “That’s probably wise. I smoke occasionally, but I strive not to make it a habit. All the workmen on the excavation site smoke like chimneystacks, and I’ve observed that the ones who smoke the most also cough and wheeze the most. Adversely affects the lungs, I expect.”

  “Tell me about these excavations of yours. You’re searching for some ancient king’s tomb, I believe?”

  That was the opening Will needed. He talked about Tut, the work they were doing, the discoveries they were making, and the indications that he believed showed they were now digging in the right place.

  By the time he’d finished, Marlowe was smiling. “Your enthusiasm is infectious, Will. I find myself wanting to take Emma on a dahabiyeh up the Nile. Just to see the Valley of the Kings and let you show me what you’re up to.” He leaned one hip against the rail and folded his arms. “Danbury tells me you need a sponsor.”

  “Yes. I have been sponsor for the past few years, but—” He stopped, well aware that confessing that he was broke because of the excavation wasn’t an intelligent way to raise funds. Marlowe, however, was astute enough to have figured that out on his own.

  “But you’ve run out of money?” the viscount finished for him.

  Will took a pull on his cigarette, and he didn’t know which burned more, the smoke in his lungs or Marlowe’s words. Still, no hiding it, he supposed. He exhaled and gave a curt nod of affirmation. “We plan to resume excavations in the autumn, as usual, but if I can’t find a sponsor, I won’t be able to return home. I shall have to remain here until funding is found.”

  “You regard Egypt, not England, as your home then?”

  “Why not?” Will said lightly, but he looked out over the view so the other man wouldn’t see his face. “God knows, there’s nothing for me here.”

  “Nothing?”

  An image of Beatrix and Trathen strolling arm in arm out of the drawing room went through his mind. “Nothing worth staying for,” he said, and took another pull on his cigarette, still staring out at the moonlit ocean. “I don’t suppose there ever was.”

  “I see.” Marlowe straightened away from the rail. “I’ll be honest with you, Will. Despite your infectious enthusiasm, I’m no Egyptologist myself, and though I might enjoy a cruise up the Nile, I’ve never been particularly keen on archaeology.”

  Will’s spirits, already low, sank still further, and he began preparing himself for the inevitable refusal.

  “However, I am in the business of selling newspapers,” the viscount went on, “and my readers are passionately interested in the science of Egyptology. Petrie’s writings on the subject have been extremely popular. And if you were to find Tutankhamen’s tomb and if it were as spectacular a find as you believe it will be, the news would spread across the globe like wildfire. In light of that possibility, I might be able to sponsor your excavations. Given certain conditions, of course.”

  Will’s spirits began rising once more. “What conditions?”

  “I can envision the Social Gazette or one of my other newspapers acting as your sponsor, but in exchange, I’d want the exclusive right to publish firsthand accounts of your excavations and photographs of artifacts you find.”

  “I would have to discuss that with Howard Carter. He’s the chief inspector of Egyptian Antiquities now, and it’s up to him to grant such requests.”

  “If you find Tutankhamen, newspapers from all over the world will be clamoring for the story. I would want to be first. I’d want my own reporter and photographer on site with you from the moment you start digging, not locked away in some hotel, waiting for scraps of information. I’d also want exclusive rights to publish any books you might write about your discovery.”

  Relief flooded through him. “Marlowe, if you sponsor the dig, I’d be happy to write twenty books about Tut for you. When we return to Torquay, I’ll cable Carter straightaway, and if he agrees, we have a deal. I can’t imagine he would refuse, given that we can’t continue without funds. Once he agrees, I’ll sit down with you and we’ll hammer out the specifics.”

  “Excellent. I have one other request.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a tradition for all of us to come to Pixy Cove in August, and since you are in England for the month, I would not have denied you the right to come as always, even if a possible business opportunity weren’t in the offing.”

  “I appreciate
that.”

  “I feel the same way about Beatrix and Julia, too. My sisters are their best friends. I realize Trathen’s presence makes things a bit awkward, and I appreciate the fact that you are staying away from him and Beatrix as much as possible, but see if you can persuade Julia to stop antagonizing the man, would you? It’s bad enough that that bulldog of hers growls at every man in sight, but she also seems to take great delight in needling Trathen with that audacious manner of hers. Help me keep the peace, will you, old chap, and get her to stop?”

  Will, Julia’s coconspirator, tried to keep a straight face. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Beatrix spent another restless night, but she finally fell asleep, and when she woke the following morning, she found her mood had lightened considerably. The light peeking between the draperies at her windows hinted at a perfect summer’s day, and when she drew the draperies back, bright sunlight poured into every corner of the room. It seemed a good omen.

  She flung up the window sash and leaned out, smiling at the view of Pixy Cove and the ocean beyond. The caps on the water’s surface were like glittering diamonds, and there wasn’t a cloud in sight. In the far distance she could see the Maria Lisa surging out to sea, its white sails rippling in the breeze, and she knew what Sir George and Lady Debenham were up to this morning. She couldn’t tell who else was on board, but she suspected Will was with them, and that conclusion added relief to her lightened mood.

  As she looked out on the beautiful view, breathed in the luscious ocean air, and savored the warmth of the sun on her face, Beatrix felt certain everything in her world had shifted back into place. She realized now there was no foundation for her bout of guilt, and the dark doubts that had troubled her last night seemed terribly melodramatic.