Lord Buckingham’s Bride

by Sandra Heath

  Katya had been flung to the floor of the carriage by the force of the halt, and the postboy was preoccupied with trying to calm his terrified horses, so that neither of them saw Alison push her way around the fallen tree and then gather her skirts to run on along the drive, ignoring the storm. Her white muslin gown was soon drenched and mud-stained, and her pelisse was torn by the jagged branch she had caught it on while pushing past the tree. The ostrich plume in her little hat was soon a very sorry sight, hanging low and dejected over her wet shoulder as she ran tearfully along the drive, determined to somehow reach the house. Her panic was overhwelming and all she could think of was getting to Pamela and telling her the truth.

  Sobs rose in her throat as she ran blindly through the storm, her little shoes offering no protection to the soles of her feet as she hurried over small stones amid the gravel. The wind soughed impatiently through the trees, and the clouds raced menacingly overhead. Lightning flashed again and was followed by thunder, but all she could hear was the pounding of her own heart and the accusing whisper of her own conscience. She had had no right to fall in love with Francis, no right to think even for a moment that she could marry him; he belonged to Pamela and must still make her his bride … Lady Pamela Linsey was meant to be Lord Buckingham’s bride, not Alison Clearwell. Not Alison Clearwell. Not Alison Clearwell. The three uncompromising words were repeated over and over again in her head, and fresh tears stung her eyes as she ran on through the wildness of the storm. Her heart was in turmoil, tightening accusingly within her breast, and she was soaked to the skin as at last the drive led out of the trees and across the open park toward the house, which stood splendidly on a small hill above a bend in the Thames.

  Marchington House had been built in 1762 by Robert Adam, and was a perfect example of his design. It faced grandly across its deer park, standing out sharply as another flash of lightning stabbed the surrounding countryside with electric blue. Alison stumbled on through the wind and rain, the sight of the house spurring her on. She had to reach Pamela, she had to tell her how and why everything had happened. Pamela had to believe her, and had to turn a deaf ear to Mrs Fairfax-Gunn …

  Lights had been lit in the house because of the gloom of the storm, and as she drew nearer, she could see the elegant ballroom, which was built to one side of the main house. She could see the dazzling chandeliers and the beautiful mirrors lining the green-and-gold walls, and she could see a man and a woman, elegantly clad, dancing alone together. Their faces were flushed and smiling as they looked into each other’s eyes, she so dark and lovely, he so tall, manly, and protective, with sandy hair and brown eyes.

  Alison’s steps faltered, and she stood in the rain staring at them as they danced. Her clothes clung wetly to her body, and a wild confusion of emotion was still swirling enervatingly through her as she watched Lady Pamela Linsey gazing adoringly up into William Clearwell’s dark eyes. Pamela wore a pink silk gown that plunged low over her curvaceous bosom, and there were diamonds at her throat and in her ears; she looked breathtakingly beautiful. They paused in their seductive dancing and he drew her closer, his arm slipping around her slender waist. Then he bent his head, kissing her on the lips, and she did not hesitate before linking her arms around his neck and returning the kiss.

  The rain washed coldly over Alison as she stared at them. It was all a dream, she wasn’t really here at all … She looked toward the house, taking a hesitant step, but then her legs wouldn’t support her. Everything was spinning – the storm, the ballroom, the earth – and day turned to night as she sank to the wet grass. She was only vaguely aware of shouts from the doorway as some footmen emerged to see if there really was someone there, as a frightened maid had claimed she had seen from an upstairs window. She heard their steps and then felt them gathering her up from where she lay. She didn’t see the two in the ballroom draw guiltily apart as the servants’ voices carried from the house. Another flash of lightning illuminated the gathering gloom of the stormy evening, but Alison was barely aware of it.

  Then she heard the echo of a vast entrance hall and Pamela’s anxious voice asking the butler what had happened.

  ‘It’s a lady, my lady, the maid saw her outside in the storm.’

  Pamela hurried closer, looking anxiously at Alison’s pale face. Her breath caught in surprise. ‘Alison?’

  Alison’s eyes filled with tears of wretchedness. ‘Forgive me, Pamela,’ she whispered brokenly, ‘forgive me for everything. It’s you that he loves, not me, you must believe that.’

  ‘What do you mean, Alison? I don’t understand.’ Pamela took her cold, wet hand. ‘What on earth are you doing here like this? I thought you were in St Petersburg. Where is your carriage?’

  Alison tried to concentrate upon her, but it was so very difficult. ‘You must believe me, Pamela. Francis doesn’t love m-me, he l-loves only you. He was just being honorable toward me by saying he would marry me. You m-must still marry him; you mustn’t l-listen to Mrs Fairfax-Gunn.’

  Pamela stared at her, the diamonds she wore flashing with a brilliance that was almost as dazzling as the lightning outside. She spoke again, but Alison didn’t hear. The light was fading. It was as if she was slipping into a dark tunnel, leaving Pamela farther and farther away. Her heartbeats echoed through her whole body, and she felt suddenly as if she were on fire. Her clothes were wet and cold, but her skin was aflame, and she knew nothing more except the lingering, relentless pang of guilt that reached past her heart and into her very soul.

  Pamela turned quickly to the butler. ‘Send someone for Doctor Arrowsmith and tell my maid that she is to attend Miss Clearwell in the Italian room without delay.’

  ‘My lady.’ He hurried away.

  She nodded at the footmen who had brought Alison in. ‘Take her to the Italian room. I’ll be there directly.’

  As they did as she ordered, she stood alone in the center of the entrance hall’s red-and-white-tiled floor. The hall was in the Roman style, with black marble columns and white marble statues on plinths. The statues were of emperors, gods, and goddesses, and the floor was laid out in the classical key pattern.

  William emerged from the ballroom entrance and paused by a statue of Juno. ‘Did you say Miss Clearwell? Is it Alison?’

  Pamela turned to face him. ‘Yes.’

  ‘But she’s supposed to be in St Petersburg.’

  ‘She’s very much here and is apparently without a carriage. She’s been soaked through and is quite delirious. William …’

  ‘Yes?’

  She went to him, slipping her arms around his waist and resting her head against the rich blue brocade of his waistcoat. ‘The things she was saying, about Francis and about Mrs Fairfax-Gunn of all people …’ She looked up into his eyes. ‘She said something about Francis still loving me. What’s it all about, William? Why is she here like this, and so distressed? Do you think that Francis and she…?’

  He kissed her on the lips. ‘I hope so, my darling, oh, how I hope so, for there is nothing that would suit us more than for Francis to fall in love with my little cousin. Just think of the wonderful fait accompli we could present to your parents on their return from Paris.’ He smiled. ‘If it is so, Pamela, we’ve suffered tortures of conscience for nothing.’

  ‘I can’t believe that things could work out quite as neatly as that,’ she replied, glancing toward the staircase.

  ‘I love you, my darling, and I don’t mean to ever lose you again, no matter what your parents might think. You and I were meant for each other, and if I’ve behaved basely in deliberately seeking you out the moment they and Francis are out of the country, then I make no apology.’

  ‘If you’ve behaved basely, then so have I. My parents left me in the safekeeping of my old nurse, who would have seen to it that you weren’t admitted tonight when you called. But she is unwell and confined to her bed and I have admitted you, a fact that is known to all the servants and that will compromise me beyond redemption. Tonight I have committed myself to you,
my dearest William, and nothing is going to change that.’ She paused, lowering her lovely eyes for a moment. ‘Besides, I don’t think it will come as a great surprise to Francis, who I’m sure suspects anyway.’

  ‘Suspects?’

  She nodded. ‘When he was about to leave England, he and I had a terrible disagreement. Oh, it was about something and nothing, but it brought certain problems to the forefront. He said that he trusted I would have made up my mind completely when he returned, and I pretended not to know what he was talking about. But I did know, for he was referring to my feelings toward you, feelings he knew had not been eradicated. I let him depart on that note, which I would not have done if my heart was involved. I didn’t even inquire about his plans. I’ve learned them subsequently from you. I must go to Alison now.’

  ‘Pamela, what exactly did she say about Francis?’

  ‘That he didn’t love her and was only being honorable when he said he would marry her. And something about Mrs Fairfax-Gunn, who I know is in St Petersburg now. I don’t know what’s been going on, but something has, and that something involves Francis having asked Alison to marry him. She says he was doing it out of a sense of duty, and she’s distraught that I must accept that he still loves me.’ Pamela drew a long breath. ‘No doubt she’ll tell me in due course.’ Gathering her soft pink silk skirts, she hastened away toward the staircase.

  Outside, the storm raged on, with lightning blazing blue white across the rainswept countryside and thunder echoing over the dark sky.

  The sun was shining as Alison opened her eyes. She was in a room with walls painted with Italian scenes and there was a beautiful Italian crystal chandelier suspended from the golden coffered ceiling. Katya was standing by the window.

  Someone spoke. ‘Alison? Are you awake?’

  It was Pamela. She was seated by the bed, a cup of tea in her lap. There was a dainty lace day bonnet on her dark head and she wore a frilled blue-and-white-striped lawn gown. She put the cup of tea on the tray on the table and then leaned forward to put her hand over Alison’s. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I don’t really know. I can’t remember …’ The storm. Her breath caught. ‘There was a terrible storm, a tree was struck by lightning.’

  Pamela squeezed her hand reassuringly. ‘Poor Alison, how unkind fate is to repeat itself like this. But you’re all right, truly you are, and the storm has been gone a week now.’

  Alison’s eyes widened incredously. ‘A week?’

  ‘You were delirious and suffering with a fever, but then last night you slept easily and the doctor said you would be better this morning. And so you are, for you know me now.’

  Alison swallowed. ‘I don’t deserve your kindness, Pamela.’

  ‘And you don’t deserve to suffer with guilt, for you haven’t done anything that I haven’t done myself. You said many things when you were feverish, so that I know all that happened in St Petersburg. You love Francis, don’t you?’

  Alison couldn’t reply.

  Pamela smiled. ‘Would it help if I told you that I love William, and that I mean to marry him?’

  Alison stared at her.

  22

  London was just stirring into life for another day as the chaise drew up at the curb in Berkeley Street. Mayfair was quiet, except for the milkmaids with their heavy yokes, and the night mist that had cloaked everything with silver was already beginning to thread and disperse.

  Francis alighted wearily from the chaise, pausing on the pavement to toy with the frill protruding from his cuff. He wore a charcoal coat, wine-red silk waistcoat, and cream corduroy breeches. His Hessian boots boasted handsome golden tassels, and his top hat was tipped wearily back on his hair. He was tired, and he knew that dawn was not the time to call upon William, but he was not in the mood to wait upon a more civilized hour.

  He nodded at the postboy. ‘Wait for me,’ he said, then he went quickly to the door of the elegant red brick house that faced toward Lansdowne Passage opposite.

  A maid had been attending to the fire in the kitchen, and at the peremptory knock at the front door she hastened to answer it. She recognized Francis, who had visited the house before. ‘Why, my lord, it’s you,’ she said rather unnecessarily, for she was taken by surprise by such an early call.

  ‘Is Mr Clearwell in?’ he asked, entering the cool gray-and-white hall without invitation.

  ‘Yes, my lord, but he’s in his bed.’

  ‘Is Miss Clearwell here?’

  ‘Miss Clearwell?’ The maid looked blankly at him. ‘No, my lord, there’s no Miss Clearwell here. Mr Clearwell’s aunt, Lady Lowthes, has been staying …

  ‘Has she been here at all?’

  ‘Miss Clearwell? No, my lord.’

  He removed his hat and tossed it on a table, then he teased off his gloves. ‘Have Mr Clearwell awakened straightaway, for I must speak to him.’

  The butler had appeared, his coat donned swiftly over his nightshirt, for he hadn’t intended to rise for another half an hour. ‘What is it, Kitty?’ he asked, coming down the staircase, but then he halted in surprise on seeing Francis. ‘My lord?’

  ‘I wish to see Mr Clearwell.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Now,’ snapped Francis.

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Turning, the butler hastened away again, returning a moment or so later to say that Mr Clearwell would be but a minute.

  Then William appeared, still tying the belt of his green silk dressing gown. He paused at the top of the staircase, his eyes wary. ‘Francis?’

  ‘William.’ Francis waited until the butler and the maid had withdrawn, then he looked at William again. ‘Where is she? Marchington House?’

  ‘Yes.’ William knew from the butler that Francis sought Alison.

  ‘I take it that you and Pamela know all that went on?’

  ‘Yes.’ William came down the staircase toward him.

  Francis smiled a little. ‘Just as I know all that has been going on between you and Pamela. It was plain to me before I left the country.’

  ‘I love her and she loves me.’

  ‘Do you mean to marry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Without parental consent, I take it?’

  William nodded. ‘If necessary. Francis, I—’

  ‘Don’t apologize, my friend. If I were an innocent party, and if I still loved Pamela, then I might feel it necessary to call you out, but since neither criterion applies in my case, then I cannot with any honesty complain about the situation.’

  ‘You bear us no grudge?’

  ‘How can I when I am far from guiltless myself? I wish you well, William, for I know that you and Pamela were meant to be together. Just as Alison and I …’ He broke off. ‘What has she said about me, William?’

  ‘That you feel honor-bound to marry her.’

  ‘She still thinks that?’

  ‘Isn’t it true?’

  Francis met his eyes. ‘No.’

  ‘Then you must tell her, Francis.’

  ‘That’s why I’ve followed her. How is she, William?’

  ‘On the road to recovery at last.’

  Francis’ eyes sharpened. ‘Recovery? She’s been ill?’

  ‘She drove to Marchington House by chaise on arriving in England, and there was a terrible thunderstorm. Lightning struck a tree, which fell across the road in front of the chaise, and Alison walked the final mile or so to the house in the rain. She was soaked through and took a fever. She was ill for a week, and only began to recover yesterday.’

  But Francis had already snatched up his hat and gloves and was running to the door.

  William hurried after him and was in time to see him get swifly into the waiting chaise, which immediately drove away into the thinning mist. William stared after it, and then a slight smile curved his lips. All was indeed going to end well …

  Pamela was informed that Francis had arrived, and she received him in the magnificent crimson drawing room, where priceless paintings adorned the silk walls. S
he wore a simple white muslin gown embroidered with coffee-colored spots, and a shawl trailed on the floor behind her as she came to greet him. She hesitated a moment and then extended her hands.

  ‘Hello, Francis.’

  ‘Pamela.’ He took the hands, smiling at her. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘You know it is. You and I would have made a very bad match of it, whereas you and William will do very well, I fancy.’

  ‘You knew about William before you left, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She smiled. ‘And now it is you and Alison?’

  ‘I trust so.’

  ‘She loves you, Francis, but she thinks that you feel only a sense of duty toward her.’

  He drew a long breath. ‘It was never a mere matter of duty. Pamela, does she know about you and William?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve told her everything.’

  ‘So she knows that if she and I were to marry, she would not be hurting you?’

  ‘Yes, Francis, she knows.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘The rose garden. Go to her, Francis, and tell her that you love her. That’s all she needs to hear.’ Pamela hugged him suddenly. ‘I’ll always love you, Francis, but as my dearest friend.’

  He dropped a kiss on her dark hair. ‘The affection is mutual,’ he said softly, then he left her, hurrying through to the rear of the house and the terrace overlooking the sunken rose garden, where Alison sat on a shady seat beneath an arbor of sweet-scented pink roses.

  He paused, watching her for a moment. Her ash-blonde hair was loose about the shoulders of her cream lawn short-sleeved gown, and there was a blue silk shawl over her bare arms. Her face was very pale and she looked so fragile that he longed to put his arms around her and protect her. She was leafing through the book on her lap, but she wasn’t reading it. Her thoughts were obviously elsewhere, for occasionally she stopped idling through the pages and gazed at the rose beds in front of her.