The Changeling Bride

by Lisa Cach

  The carriage passed under the shade of tall trees that lined the drive to the front gate, then turned onto the road and into sunlight. Open fields interspersed with pockets of woodland made up the scenery they passed through, and Elle drank it in with avid eyes. She had always wanted to see England and was not going to miss out on this chance to see what she could of it.

  The distant, familiar barking of a dog brought her eyes to the crest of a hill, and her fingers gripped the window embrasure when she saw the white shape that was flying down the slope towards the carriage. For a moment she thought she was imagining things, then was certain of it when the boy she thought she saw chasing after Tatiana disappeared in a flash of sunlight. The joyous baying of her dog begged to differ.

  “Stop!” she shouted. “Stop the carriage!” She leaned out the window, yelling at the driver. “Stop! Stop!” Marianne and Mrs. Moore erupted into babbles of concern, but Elle ignored them. The carriage finally slowed to a halt, and after several frustrating moments of fumbling, Elle released the catch on the door and fell to the ground outside. She had forgotten her clothes and their inhibition to her movement. She didn’t care, though, as she rolled over and pushed herself up in the dust, her wig now definitely awry, one ribbon streaming down over her shoulder.

  “Tatiana! Here, girl! Tatiana!” she cried. Tatiana’s white ears lay flat against her head as she ran even faster, tongue lolling in a wide-open, joyful grin. Elle crawled a few feet into the field, then spread her arms as Tatiana barreled into her, her wet tongue slopping all over Elle’s carefully made-up face. Elle felt tears start in her eyes, hanging on her lashes and washing the primitive mascara onto her cheeks.

  “Here, Tatiana, be careful; I have to get married in a few minutes,” she chided, but there was no reproof in her voice.

  “Eleanor, what in God’s name are you doing?” came her mother’s distressed cry.

  “Miss, miss, your hair! We’re going to be late, oh please, miss, let go of that dog,” Marianne wailed, stumbling from the carriage.

  “I won’t let her go,” Elle stated, pressing her forehead against Tatiana’s. “She’s coming with us.”

  “Eleanor Margaret, return to this carriage this instant. You are not bringing that dog with you.”

  Elle turned and glared into the carriage, where Mrs. Moore sat appalled. “Oh, yes I am, and if you try to stop me I won’t marry the earl.”

  “Insolence! Do you dare to threaten your own mother?”

  “You know I do. You said yourself you know better than to argue when I have my mind set.” She held Mrs. Moore’s eyes with the strength of her determination, backed by her bottomless love for Tatiana, and the older woman slowly gave way, her cheeks flushed in anger.

  “I vow, Eleanor, I think I shall be pleased to be rid of you. Let the earl handle your willful nature, and good luck to him.”

  Elle untied the gold sash around her waist, then made a leash of it and led Tatiana back to the carriage. She wasn’t taking any chance of losing her again, and anyone who didn’t like it could stuff it. They could think her irrational or crazy, she didn’t care. Tatiana was the only living creature in this entire world who knew who she was, and that was not a bond she took lightly.

  The remainder of the ride was chaos. Tatiana bounded from seat to seat, panted drool onto an angry Mrs. Moore, waved her tail in Marianne’s annoyed face, and took every chance to bark at animals out the window. Marianne did her best to rearrange Elle’s coiffure, tacking the ribbon back into place and struggling to resecure the roses. She used a handkerchief to try to wipe away the smudges beneath Elle’s eyes, and brushed vigorously at the dirt marring the dress. Upon arrival at the small village church Elle was almost presentable.

  Mr. Moore was waiting for them, pacing impatiently in front of the church. His frown deepened when Elle emerged from the carriage with leash in hand.

  “She refuses to part with the dog,” Mrs. Moore complained to her husband, passing the problem onto more assertive shoulders. “She claims she will not marry the earl if she has to part from the beast.”

  Mr. Moore narrowed his eyes at his daughter. “I am calling your bluff this time, my girl. If you think to delay this over a dog, you had better think again. You want it with you? Then bring it. You are getting married either way.”

  Elle smiled in relief. This formidable man, with the scowl etched so ferociously upon his brow, was not putting up a fight. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.

  There was some fussing and delay in the front of the church, as people took their places, and then the organ started up in an unfamiliar hymn. Louise walked slowly down the aisle, and then it was Elle’s turn, Mr. Moore on one side, Tatiana heeling nicely on the other. At least Tatiana’s fur matched the occasion, Elle thought, and the sash leash made a decorative touch.

  The scene had a sense of unreality about it, and her eyes were having trouble focusing on the guests sitting in the pews. Her heart was pounding under those layers of cloth and corsetting, and she realized with detached bemusement that she was light-headed from excitement and too little oxygen. She wondered if she was about to faint.

  She felt the brush of Tatiana against her leg and was reassured. All would be well. Those fairy people had heard her, and she’d be home by this evening, with the memory of a wedding in which she was finally the bride. Her eyes cleared, and she gazed blissfully up to the altar, where her bridegroom awaited.

  Henry watched his bride and father-in-law approach, and could not for the life of him decide what to make of the spectacle. The woman had brought a dog with her, into a church, to take part in a sacred ceremony. Mr. Moore looked uncharacteristically bewildered, Eleanor serene, and the dog obliviously happy. He did not know if he should be insulted or amused. It was a lovely dog, but if he had been a more devout man he might easily have called off the ceremony until its removal.

  He watched Eleanor’s face, and saw the moment when her eyes cleared of their glazed serenity. Her eyes met his in consternated surprise, then darted around, looking for someone or something that she could not find. Her eyes came back to his, and he could swear that he saw fear in them. Fear, and a displeased recognition. Well, what had she been expecting?

  Eleanor had been expecting an old man. She had not, most definitely not, been expecting the obnoxiously self-composed man who’d caught her spying. This man, with his wicked black eyebrows and intense dark eyes, embarrassed her down to her silk-clad toes. She suddenly felt small and vulnerable under all her finery.

  She took her place beside him, her hands shaking. When the time came, she repeated her vows, thankful she would not have to keep them. She was so aware of his presence beside her that she caught his subtle jerk of surprise at the sound of her voice. She realized then that he had not recognized her as the woman outside the window until that moment. No one could forget her mangled attempts at a British accent, once heard.

  Her mind distracted by his surprise and wondering what he was thinking, she did not realize when the ceremony was all but over. His fingertips were suddenly pressing lightly under her jaw, tilting her face, and his mouth descended to take possession of her own. His lips were smooth and firm, both gentle and strong as they moved upon hers, sending a warm rush from her heart to her loins.

  His size and his closeness, the heat radiating from his body, and the faint scent of clean linen intoxicated her senses. It had been too long since she’d been kissed, and she was taken by surprise by the melting sensation. She wanted to savor it, but it was over in a moment.

  She staggered slightly when he released her and was steadied by his strong arm. She looked up into his eyes but could read nothing there. All the same, the shivers of her flesh told her that a wedding night would not be as unwelcome as she had thought.

  Chapter Six

  Henry watched his new wife with suspicion. She was several feet away, speaking with an elderly aunt who was earnestly holding her hand and apparently giving heartfelt advice on marriage and the proper handli
ng of husbands. Eleanor was nodding at the proper intervals, but she hardly looked as if she were paying attention. She looked downright uneasy.

  He had been watching her throughout the afternoon and evening as she accepted congratulations from friends and family, ate at his side, and quietly listened to others talk. The woman was not consistent, and it unsettled him. At their first meeting, she had been distant, cold, and acidic. At the second, a smart-mouthed but spirited voyeur. And today, that dog that she still held by the leash declared her rebellion, yet she seemed subdued, even uneasy, and her wig was slightly askew.

  It could be that she was finally accepting that she could do nothing to change her situation, and was resigning herself to being his wife, but that did not feel like a complete explanation. There was something strange about her today that he could not quite put his finger on, and he had the nagging feeling that he was missing some piece of the puzzle.

  Well, whatever it was, it should be an easy bit of work to discover. He was, after all, twelve years older than she and vastly more experienced. Once he discovered it, her actions and moods would make logical sense, and he could help her to fit neatly and unobtrusively into her position as the countess of Allsbrook, and she would give him no more trouble.

  An unwelcome thought came to mind. He had been fairly certain that no insanity ran in the Moore family, but there could always be the odd mad cousin stashed away. Pray God that that was not the explanation.

  Elle could feel eyes on her and turned to find Lord Allsbrook staring at her. Her breath caught under his gaze. For all that she hoped to be gone before the evening was finished, she could not escape the feeling that this was her husband. She was bound by cords of law and faith and honor to a stranger. And she was, for now at least, at his beck and call. He nodded slightly, acknowledging her, then turned back to the man who was talking to him.

  She felt like a marionette whose strings had been cut when his attention shifted away, the release of tension was so dramatic. She brought her eyes back to the earnest woman in front of her and watched the woman’s lips move back and forth over discolored teeth. Elle had long ago stopped listening to the words.

  The violins in the small orchestra scraped out an attention-getting string of notes, and Elle felt Lord Allsbrook’s presence behind her in a tingle that ran up her neck and tightened the muscles of her scalp.

  “Shall we dance, my lady?” his smooth voice inquired, and she could feel the vibrations of it throbbing against the timpani of her ears.

  She turned to him, and he took her hand before she could muster a response. She let him lead her out onto the floor, too flustered to think straight. He took the end of Tatiana’s sash from her hand, giving it into the care of a man who stood at the edge of the floor. It was as he took his position, other couples lining up behind them, that Elle belatedly realized her folly.

  The orchestra was not going to belt out some pop Madonna tune, and the guests were not going to dance however they pleased. They weren’t even going to waltz or do a simple foxtrot. This was going to be a dance with complicated rules, and whatever they were, she didn’t know them.

  Her stomach twisted, and fresh sweat broke out under her arms, adding to that which the room of candles and overdressed bodies had already created with their heat. She felt a fine rivulet creep down her scalp under the wig and trace a path down her forehead. She was suddenly nauseated by the heat, the odor of so many bodies, and the knowledge of the humiliation that was about to come.

  Lord Allsbrook gently squeezed her fingers in his gloved hand, and glancing up at him, she saw him raise his eyebrows expectantly. She twisted her head to see the women behind her and tried to mimic their positions beside their partners. Perhaps she could fake her way through this.

  There came a brief hush, the music started, and Elle closed her eyes in a brief prayer that the dancing gods were feeling merciful tonight.

  She let Lord Allsbrook lead her forward, then when he stepped away craned her head to watch the woman behind her. She twisted from side to side as the dancers’ positions changed, her feet fumbling along a half beat behind everyone else’s.

  The dance increased in its complexity, and she became more and more lost, making little running steps under cover of her skirts to put herself in the right position, too busy concentrating on where everyone was to even look up at her partner. More than anything she wanted to walk off the dance floor and escape this spectacle she was making of herself, but she couldn’t. She was the bride, and this was her first dance with her husband. Her chest was tight with unshed tears of frustration, but she wouldn’t quit.

  She clenched her jaw and sniffed back the threatening tears, determined to complete the dance, however badly. Her world narrowed to her own feet and the woman who danced beside her. Her lips set in a grim line, she plodded her way back and forth and around, until with a final flourish the music ended, and Lord Allsbrook led her from the floor.

  Once they had broken through the edge of the crowd he grabbed her arm pulled her with more force than necessary into an alcove. His face was flushed, his jaw tensed, but as she gaped up at him she saw his features smooth out, as if he were deliberately hiding his anger from her view.

  “I know you have had dancing lessons,” he said in a low voice. “I can only presume that you are attempting to punish me in some childish manner for this marriage. You are an adult now, Eleanor, and it is time you took on adult responsibilities. Your behavior today has shamed your family and has shamed yourself.”

  The unfairness of his accusation made Elle’s face flush in an anger she, for one, was not about to hide. It drowned her embarrassment in a cleansing wash of fury. “You, dear husband, have all the sensitivity of an ice cube,” she hissed. “You have no idea what I’ve been through today, and frankly, I doubt you could understand even if I spelled it out for you in three-foot capital letters. God help me, my palm is itching to smack that cool look right off your face.”

  “I doubt God’s going to be much help to you with that. He was the one who blessed our union today.”

  She broke away from him, too angry to bear his presence. She found Tatiana, snatched the leash from the man’s hand, and wove her way to the French doors that led out onto the patio. She had to get out of here, away from Lord Allsbrook, away from the heat and stench of bodies.

  Lord Henry Allsbrook and the rest of this shallow, self-satisfied crowd could go to hell for all she cared. She had done nothing of which to be ashamed. Who were they to judge her?

  The night air brought a welcome kiss of coolness to her flushed neck and cheeks, and she paused at the top of the terrace steps to savor the breeze that blew across the gardens and swirled in the lace of her gown. Tatiana tugged at her silken leash, reminding Elle that the Samoyed had been patiently awaiting an opportunity to use the facilities.

  She let Tatiana lead her down the steps and onto a gravel path, avoiding the other party-goers who had come out for a bit of fresh air. For Tatiana the garden was an amusement park of smells, and she trotted happily from bush to bush.

  Elle wandered with her dog down to the long reflecting pool, along its length, and up to the pavilion at its end, her mind cooling along with her body. There were lanterns in the garden up by the house, but none down here, and she found the darkness welcome, concealing her as it did from the watching eyes of others.

  There were cushioned benches inside the pavilion, one of which she sat on now, finding to her dismay that her stays prevented her from attaining a comfortable slouch. Had it only been two days ago that she had thought it would be entertaining to wear a corset? Her dresser drawer of soft, faded bras and panties had never seemed so precious.

  The benches were long enough to lie down on, so she lay back and swung her legs up onto the cushions, finding that the bustle tied around her waist was made of quite solid material, solid enough to feel like a log under her back. The monstrous wig shifted as she rested her head on the cushions, so she reached up and pulled the pins from it,
tugging it off and setting it farther along the bench. She dug her fingers into her flattened, pinned-up hair, loosening it and letting the cool air touch her scalp.

  This would be the perfect opportunity for those glowing fairies to come to her and take her home. She’d had enough of this adventure.

  She rested her arms across her stomach and was almost comfortable, despite the bustle in the small of her back. She would just close her eyes for a bit and do some deep breathing exercises, and send up a private prayer that when she opened her eyes again she would be back home.

  Henry searched the crowd again for the powdered head of his wife. She still was not back from the gardens, and he felt his irritation rise yet again. It had been literally years since he had allowed himself to lose his temper, yet this girl who was now his wife was nudging him ever closer to that precipice.

  He excused himself and made his way out to the terrace, then down into the gardens. She should be easy to pick out, with that damn dog trailing after her, but she was nowhere to be seen. His eyes narrowed on the pavilion.

  A low canine growl greeted his arrival in the dark structure, and he knew he had found her. The two indistinct white shapes shifted, and he realized Eleanor had sat up.

  “Thank God, you’re here,” she said, her voice filled with relief. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t stick to our bargain.”

  “Once again, madame, God is not on your side.”

  A stunned silence met his words, then at last she spoke. “Lord Allsbrook.”

  “My lady.” He heard the edge of anger in his own voice and for once did not care to dull it. “Has your lover stood you up? How unfortunate.”

  “It’s not how it looks.”

  “You do admit the situation is suspicious.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. How do women stand it, being watched every hour of the day? I can’t even go cool off in the garden of my own home, can’t even get off my sore feet for a few minutes without someone chasing me down and accusing me of fornicating in the shrubbery, as if I didn’t have better things to think about.”