Her Scottish Groom

by Ann Stephens

  Nodding, the young man hurried away.

  “You can safely turn Diantha over to me, young man.” She spoke with the crisp air of a military officer. At the mention of her name, the girl looked up before sagging back onto her shoulder. Alarmed, Kieran reached to relieve the small woman of the burden. She waved his assistance away impatiently.

  “You get yourself back to your hotel. I’ve a great deal of work to do if she’s to show up at church unimpaired.”

  He regarded the pair of them with concern. “I quite understand, madam, but will you not need help getting her into bed?”

  Despite the circumstances, the old woman chuckled. “My late husband weighed nearly two hundred pounds in his prime and I certainly helped him to bed often enough. Now shoo!”

  On the short walk to his hotel, Kieran shook his head in disbelief. Despite her condition, he had enjoyed his fiancée’s company more in the last hour than he had in the previous six months.

  Chapter 2

  Accompanied only by James Quinn, his lordship stood attentively before the altar of St. Martin’s the next morning. As the moment for the bride’s expected arrival came, he joined the assemblage in peering down the long nave to the church doors. Unlike the guests, however, he remained unsurprised at her absence. As much as she had had to drink the night before, he had half expected to receive a note from the Quinns delaying the ceremony.

  He should have known better. His prospective mother-in-law had expended too much time, effort, and money on this ceremony to delay it because of the bride’s indisposition. The church swam with swags of exotic blossoms in shades of peach and pink. They hung between the arches along the main aisle and fountained up in filigree holders attached to every other pew. Additional vases of blooms rose in waves on the altar steps behind him.

  If the woman had crammed any more of the bloody things in, he thought, the entire church would drown in a sea of petals. The vulgar female now sat alone in the front pew on the bride’s side, dressed in an elaborate toilette of aquamarine blue satin and lace that suited her coloring admirably. Under ordinary circumstances, she would enjoy her solitary place under the gaze of New York’s elite, but she seemed as confused as everyone else as the minutes ticked by. Her fair skin flushed as whispers ran through the crowd and gentlemen surreptitiously consulted their pocket watches.

  “Where is the stupid girl?” James muttered the question out of the side of his mouth. From her pew, Mrs. Quinn’s glare snapped to him and he subsided. By now, several guests were staring at Kieran, eager to see if the aloof British aristocrat showed any sign of discomfiture.

  He merely shifted slightly on his feet and gazed disinterestedly at the choir stall above the back of the church, currently occupied by a boys’ choir that served as a fashionable charity. To one side of them stood a tenor who repeatedly patted sweat off the jowls overflowing his formal collar.

  Beyond the pillars supporting the stall, he watched the bridesmaids take turns peeking out of the great double doors, no doubt searching for any sign of Miss Quinn’s arrival. A flurry of activity ensued when the doors opened, but only the bride’s grandmother entered. Duly escorted to the front pew by Thomas, she seated herself. Catching Kieran’s eye, she gave a slight nod. A tension in his shoulders he had not noticed earlier eased somewhat.

  Several more minutes passed until a faint cry from the crowds lining the streets outside indicated that the bridal coach approached.

  The cheers grew louder, reaching a crescendo as the doors opened to admit the bride and her father. The bridesmaids scrambled into order and waited for the organ to begin the processional. After they duly marched up the aisle, it was Diantha’s turn.

  She leaned heavily on her father’s arm as they slowly made their way toward the altar. It might have been a trick of the light, or perhaps because the creamy shade of the dress did not entirely suit her, but his bride looked quite pale under the sheer veil covering her face. As she reached his side, he realized her skin had a distinct greenish tinge. From that and the desperate grip of her hand on his arm after her father handed her off, he guessed she suffered ill effects from the night before.

  The miserable expression on her face reminded him of some of his own early experiments with spirits. Recalling them, he patted her hand sympathetically. He leaned close to the small ear under the fashionable coif. “There now, my dear. We’ll get through the day together.”

  Diantha barely heard him through the hammers pounding in her head. She had a vague memory of wishing to do something outrageous the evening before, and of drinking some of Papa’s cognac. She had no recollection of returning to her room even though she had awakened in her own bed.

  Her only other memories of the previous night consisted of a few fuzzy images, or perhaps she had dreamed them. In one clear vision Lord Rossburn, very handsome indeed in evening dress, stared down at her with something like amazement. In another, someone smelling of bay and lavender carried her down hall after endless hall. She liked that one very well indeed, and had experienced a severe shock when the arms cradling her so tenderly dissolved into Mama and Granny shaking her awake.

  The morning had been a nightmare. On top of marrying his supercilious lordship, she suffered from the worst headache she had ever experienced in her life. Mama’s fussing and scolding only made her head and stomach ache more and her eyes had developed an unaccountable sensitivity to light.

  As she mounted the steps to the altar, a whiff of the banked roses and jasmine blossoms floated into her nostrils. She supposed she suffered from a severe case of nerves, for even the most pleasant scents made her feel downright ill today. Earlier, her favorite breakfast of an omelette, steaming chocolate, and buttered toast had failed to ease her misery, for everything had smelled and tasted dreadful.

  Thankfully Granny understood how she felt. “Send the meal back down, Mally! For heaven’s sake, Dina just needs something light in her stomach.” She waved the offending food away. “Leave the toast and send up a pot of hot tea for Miss Quinn.” When it arrived, she had shooed her daughter and the servants out of the room, and sat with Diantha while she ate and drank. With her stomach partially settled she could face the ordeal of dressing for her wedding. Even so, when she came down the marble stairway, she found her father scowling at the Tiffany pocket watch he carried.

  He had looked her up and down and grunted. “You’ll do. Now come along, you’ve made us a quarter of an hour late.” Ignoring her cry of agony at stepping into full sunlight, he chivvied her into the waiting carriage.

  A sense of unreality now enveloped her as she took Lord Rossburn’s arm. He looked stunningly handsome, as always. The severe charcoal gray of his morning suit proved a perfect foil for the dark hair neatly combed back from his forehead. Unlike most fashionable gentlemen, he did not wear a beard. Diantha’s female acquaintances had discussed the titillating cleft in his chin at length at the round of teas and balls in their honor.

  To her surprise, the cool aqua eyes held an expression of concern as he encouraged her to lean on him. He even spared her a tiny smile. As he led her to kneel before the priest, she reflected glumly that she must look truly dreadful to elicit such concern from her normally aloof fiancé.

  The rector, a man whose comfortable view of the Christian faith found favor in high society, pronounced the words of the ceremony almost as though he meant them. Diantha dared a glance at his lordship while he repeated his vows. As usual, the expression on his face was one of bored tolerance. Greatly disheartened, she spoke her own vows in a flat voice scarcely audible to anyone but her groom and the divine. Numbly, she heard them pronounced man and wife.

  When he lifted the veil for the kiss, she composed her face into the serene visage she supposed everyone expected of a new bride. His lips left a warm trail on her cheek and lingered near her ear. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted as his soft breath brushed her ear.

  “Will you be able to get back down the aisle?” Disregarding the rector’s confused express
ion, she managed a slight nod.

  “Yes, thank you.” Her lips remained fixed in a slight smile as she breathed the reply. How he knew of her headache and roiling stomach she did not know, but he sounded more sympathetic than most of her family.

  Supported by the arm linked with hers, she tottered back down the aisle. The notes of the recessional boomed out from the organ and choristers so loudly she swore they vibrated inside her skull. Even worse, a crowd of onlookers gathered outside St. Martin’s erupted into an enormous cheer as the newlyweds emerged. The noise and bright sun sent colored lights rattling through her brain.

  Clinging to her groom’s muscular arm, she somehow descended the steps to the coach waiting to drive them back to the Fifth Avenue house for the reception. As they settled opposite one another inside, she closed her eyes and leaned against the squabs.

  Her moment of peace shattered as the vehicle set off with a jolt. With a groan her lids lifted. Lord Rossburn gazed out the window at the cheering crowd with a frown.

  “I’m sorry.” She searched for something else to say, but her mysterious indisposition prevented coherent thought. Fortunately his good breeding came to the rescue.

  “Sorry for what?” He spoke with the impeccable courtesy he had used the entire length of their engagement, to her, to her family, to the servants. Such politeness chilled her.

  She cleared her throat and mentally cursed the awkwardness that plagued her in his presence. Tongue-tied, she gestured to the onlookers outside their window. “For this. I have always believed weddings should be private events.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I did not hear you say anything about your preference to your mother.”

  “Whatever would that have accomplished?” Surely he had seen enough of her parent to understand that one did not say “no” to Amalthea Quinn. Contempt flickered in his eyes as he made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.

  Stung, she persevered. “I am also truly sorry you had to marry without the support of your family and friends.”

  “Thank you, but my mother has been an invalid since before my father’s death and is quite unable to travel. My only other close relatives are my aunt, who looks after her, and my cousin, who acts as my deputy when I am absent from my estate.” He shrugged. “Doubtless you will meet my acquaintances when we arrive in London.” The implication that his marriage was not important enough to invite them hung unspoken between them.

  The rest of the drive passed in silence.

  Mercifully, their duties at the reception precluded the need for more conversation between them. Footmen served and removed the elaborate courses of the wedding breakfast, most of which she declined. Thomas pressed her to join Papa’s toast to the guests with champagne, ignoring her whispered plea to use water instead. Even the thought of drinking wine increased her headache.

  “I prefer that Lady Rossburn refrain from drinking spirits today.” Her groom reached over from his place and turned her empty glass upside down on the table.

  “Nonsense! Nothing like a champagne toast to liven up a dull gathering!” Her younger brother reached for her glass again, but his lordship did not move his hand.

  “My wife declines champagne.” He accompanied the civil words with an icy stare. Thomas backed down with an angry mutter. Despite his words in the coach, she threw her new husband a grateful smile and picked up her water goblet. The ice in his eyes melted for a moment. A few minutes later he placed a small piece of broiled chicken on her plate along with a roll and a few pieces of steamed asparagus.

  “This might sit better in your stomach.” He turned away immediately, but after a cautious nibble, she realized he was right. Nearly as high-handed as her parents, but right.

  She lost count of the toasts offered over the course of the afternoon. Thanks to his lordship’s intervention, she responded with water, gradually feeling better. Still, the din of voices and music left her wishing to seek refuge in her room. As the light outside the French windows in the ballroom turned to late afternoon gold, her mother quietly signaled that the time had arrived for her to slip upstairs and change out of her wedding gown.

  She gulped. In all the preparations for the wedding ceremony, the fact that she would leave with Lord Rossburn had been often mentioned, but not dwelt on.

  She opened the bedroom door to find her grandmother waiting along with her maid. As they helped her out of the cream gauze gown and into her wrapper, she stared blindly at her reflection in the mirror. Only after the maid rearranged her hair did she glance at her going-away dress. Her eyes widened in surprise.

  “That’s not what Mama ordered.” She ran a wistful hand over a cerulean blue velvet polonaise. Her fingertips sank into the thick nap, relishing cool softness. The skirt consisted of layers of more velvet and matching taffeta, draped into a bustle.

  “I ordered it from Mr. Worth on the sly.” The old woman’s eyes sparkled wickedly. “I figured as much as your mother ordered, nobody would notice one more.” Diantha could not help but smile in spite of her pounding heart.

  At last Granny dismissed the woman and took her hands.

  “Well, Dina, you’re facing what comes to every woman that marries.” Her gaze took in Diantha from head to toe before settling on her face. Meeting the old woman’s eyes, a faded version of her own, the girl nodded, unsure what to say.

  Somewhat to her surprise, the old woman dropped her hands and paced a few steps away before facing her. “This moment is difficult enough even when you’re leaving your family for a man or a marriage you want.”

  “You’re the only one I’ll miss here.” She clapped a hand over her mouth as soon as she had blurted the truth out. To her relief, Granny did not scold her.

  “The way you’ve been hemmed in all your life, that’s hardly a surprise.” The old woman’s voice turned wistful as she moved to the four-poster bed. “You know, I was madly in love with your grandfather when we married. It didn’t last, though. I found I couldn’t respect a man who ran through the fortune he did, and I raised my daughter to take a far more practical view of matrimony.”

  She fidgeted with the fringe on the bed curtain, still averting her eyes. “It was a terrible mistake. Your mother married for money, and while she’s never regretted it, you and your brothers have all suffered because of it. They grew up into hard, selfish men.” She turned and patted Diantha’s cheek. “You’ve been spared that, thank God, but you were never allowed to be alive like your mother and I were.”

  The girl winced as the wrinkled hands dropped and bit into her flesh under the fashionable dress. They loosened instantly, but her grandmother kept her gaze locked on her face.

  “You may not want this marriage, Diantha, but I tell you, the man you’ve married is three times the man your grandfather was and your father is.” The rheumy blue eyes darkened. “You have a chance to find happiness, Dina. Take it.”

  An angry sob escaped the girl. “How? How, Granny? The man despises me! I bribed the servants to find out about him.”

  The gray brows rose. “Clever of you, my dear. How did you get the money?”

  “I bet James that Tom would get drunk at Mrs. Stewart’s ball. But that’s beside the point! I found out that his—his—” She took a deep breath. “His mistresses have all been great beauties. With dreadful reputations, but clever.”

  She waited for Granny to ring a peal over her for speaking of a class of women she should not even know of. Instead the old woman gave a crack of laughter. “Of course, he has other women.” Diantha gaped at the blunt words. If Mama ever found out about this conversation, she would have a spasm. “My girl, a man picks out a mistress for the same reason he picks a suit of clothes. He wants something that looks good on him, and he changes them just about as often as he does his coat.” She stared hard at her granddaughter. “We’re wives, not strumpets. A wife has a permanent place in her husband’s life and his home, and this gives her what little power she’s got.”

  “It’s not fair.” Tears rose t
o her eyes as she muttered the words.

  “Fair or not, that’s the path open to us.” A hand lifted her chin. Her grandmother’s face softened under her regard. “I’d like to see you make more of it than your mother and I did.”

  Diantha sniffled, then pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. “I’d rather find a different path.”

  A sly smile tugged at the corner of the old woman’s mouth. “You’ve got more heart and common sense than both your parents combined—maybe you will.” Briskly, she turned to gather up an elegant paletot and bonnet obviously designed to match the dress. “But not in the next quarter of an hour. Your mother’s expecting you downstairs. And your husband.”

  The girl clutched at the wrinkled hands. “Granny, I’m scared.”

  “I know. But the realities of married life aren’t the horrors they’re made out to be.”

  As her grandmother embraced her, Diantha wondered if she referred to the mysterious conjugal duties that ladies were not permitted to speak of. They involved a bed, she gathered, and some of her friends described them as very pleasant. But they had not specified the mechanics involved.

  “Don’t forget about your old granny after you cross the ocean, will you?” Despite her sharp manner, the withered lips trembled and her voice broke.

  Diantha swallowed a lump in her own throat and forced herself to smile. “Don’t be silly, you know I won’t.”

  They gripped each other tightly on that last walk from her room to face the crowd waiting to see them off. At the head of the stairs, that disorienting sense of unreality descended once again. Her mother’s artificial smile matched those of the guests crowding the foyer below. Diantha got the distinct impression that they wanted the bride and groom gone so they could return to the ballroom for more dancing.

  “What are you doing in that ensemble?” Her mother hissed the words as she brushed each cheek with cool lips. “I selected the blush pink serge for you to leave in.”