To Make a Marriage

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Spencer was already in motion. His heart in his throat, his pulse racing, he had needed to hear nothing past Victoria has fainted and fallen to the floor. He shoved his cue stick into Jefferson’s startled hands, barked out a gruff “Here!” and loped for the closed door. Just as he reached for the doorknob, the door was thrown open from the other side by Catherine Redmond, who charged into the room. In that same instant, Neville raced out and down the hallway, bellowing as if he’d been scalded. Other voices from various parts of the house were raised in confused alarm. The sound of running feet converged on the billiard room.

  But none of this mattered to Spencer because the door had caught him squarely and vertically in the middle of his forehead and almost knocked him senseless. Losing his balance, he staggered back against a decorative sideboard that held the liquor service … and managed to upset that for his hosts. Crashing crystal and shattering glasses combined with the sudden strong smell of good Kentucky bourbon and the loud report of a silver tray hitting the hardwood floor.

  But these sounds were secondary noise to Spencer over his own cry of pain, as he had, when he fell backward, jarred his kidneys against the edge of the hardwood furniture. And now, holding his forehead with both hands, he cursed roundly: “Son of a bitch! Will I make it through even one blasted day in this godforsaken swamp of a miserable city without someone trying to kill me? Damn! Damn the blue-blazing hell—”

  Spencer bit back the rest of his tirade in order to keep from further insulting his hosts and their city and from killing, with his language alone, his horrified and apologetic mother-in-law.

  “Oh, my word, Spencer, you poor man, I am so sorry. Here, let me see.” She reached up, almost on tiptoes, trying to feel his forehead—which was already swelling … he could feel it … with a lump. “I should have knocked first, but Victoria— Oh, my word, now you’re bleeding! Sit down, Spencer. Wait here.” Catherine Redmond whipped around to the congregated servants. “Virgil, send Zebediah after Dr. Hollis. Tell him there’s been an accident.”

  But Spencer had no intention of sitting and waiting for anyone or of arguing the point. He pulled a handkerchief out of a pocket and pressed it to his forehead as he raced out the door and around the wide-eyed staff, all of whom quickly cleared a path for him. Spencer heard running feet behind him, right on his heels. In the next instant his shirtsleeve was grabbed and he was nearly pulled off balance.

  Not happy, he turned to face Jefferson Redmond, a man who matched Spencer’s height but not his breadth. “You’re covered in blood, Spencer. You can’t go up there like this. You’ll scare her to death.”

  Spencer’s glare for his brother-in-law was a practiced, icy one that served as a warning. “How can I scare her if she’s fainted dead away? And I suggest, sir, that you unhand me.”

  Jefferson immediately complied. “Fine, but we’re going with you.”

  “Suit yourselves.” With that and the Redmonds on his heels, Spencer charged down the hall to the staircase and took the first riser. As he did, the dog Neville flew past him and up the stairs in a bullet-quick flash with his long toenails scratching at the polished wood of the stairs. Though momentarily startled, Spencer followed on the dog’s heels, taking the wide yet curving stairs two, three at a time. The hound quickly outdistanced him and disappeared around the landing. Of course he can go faster. He has four legs, the bloody cur, was Spencer’s uncharitable thought.

  Just then, on a wide part of the stairs, Jefferson Redmond also pushed past Spencer and sprang as nimbly up the remaining ones as had the dog. Spencer did not even waste breath on cursing the younger man. But in another two stairs, Isaac Redmond’s polite “Pardon me, sir” as he hared by had Spencer narrowing his eyes at the white-haired man’s back. The last straw came when Mrs. Redmond nudged him with her hip and, skirts held high in both hands, tore up the steps like a woman half her age. “What the hell? Are the Redmonds descended from a herd of deer?”

  “Language, Your Grace,” she chirped, not slowing down.

  “Excuse me, madam, but I’ve suffered a head injury! I think I am allowed to curse!” Spencer called after her bouncing bottom. As slowly as he apparently was going, he felt certain that by the time he achieved the top of the stairs, Victoria would have already delivered the baby and it would itself be grown and married and the parent of three small children of its own.

  Spencer renewed his efforts and his speed—or tried to. With one hand pressing the increasingly blood-soaked handkerchief to his forehead, he found his balance was off and he was forced to grip the banister and pull himself along. How many bloody stairs are there? Finally, he achieved the landing and its one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn … and stood there, staring disconsolately at the next flight up. “Son of a bitch.”

  But, ever the trouper, he firmed his lips and his resolve, exhaled mightily, and attacked each tread with renewed vigor. He kept thinking—fearing—he would pass out, but he didn’t. Actually, he didn’t see how he could. With all the exerting he was doing, he was thoroughly pumping blood to his head—and right out through the gaping hole in his forehead. So, though he might remain conscious, he could drop dead at any moment.

  Just then, as his hope flagged, he achieved the second floor. Full of pride for his accomplishment, he stood there … simply breathing, his hand on the newel cap. And that was when the piercing female scream, coming from somewhere down the hall, jerked him upright and chilled his blood.

  “Oh, my God, Victoria!” Catherine Redmond screamed. “Oh no, my baby!”

  CHAPTER 15

  Victoria returned to consciousness with no recollection of where she was. She couldn’t seem to focus her attention on any one thing, except the filmy canopy hung above the amply stuffed feather mattress on the incredibly comfortable bed that hugged her to its bosom. The room was low-lit and smoky from the kerosene lamps. Yet, she thought she smelled the clean, tangy scent of damp air, like one encountered following a rainstorm. A window must be open. Restlessly, she moved her limbs and fussed: “Where am I? What happened?”

  A rush of voices met her words. “Oh, she’s come to again.” “Thank God.” “I was so scared, Isaac.” “I know, my dear.”

  Immediately, a large, warm hand enfolded one of Victoria’s and a masculine voice said, softly, “You’re fine, Victoria. You fainted, and now you’re in bed. At River’s End.”

  She turned toward the voice and saw Spencer seated beside the bed. Her cotton-stuffed brain and unfocused gaze told her only that he didn’t look quite right. There was something wrong or different about him, but her mind would go no farther in trying to decide what exactly the matter was. Her gaze traveled past him, and she saw he was flanked by her entire family and Rosanna and Hornsby and Mr. Milton. Not quite fully aware, she mumbled, “What is everyone doing in here?”

  “We’re concerned for you, sweetheart,” her mother explained. And judging by the sympathetically frowning family and servants surrounding her mother, Victoria judged she must be right. “You gave us all quite the scare,” Catherine Redmond continued. “You fainted but apparently came to after I ran to get everyone. Then you tried to stand on your own too quickly, according to Rosanna, and before she could assist you. Then, when I came back up here, I was in time to see you faint again. I was so frightened, I screamed and doubly scared everyone.”

  “An excellent and concise rendering of the sequence of events, Mrs. Redmond,” Spencer said. “Thank you.”

  Victoria’s shocked gaze was now pinned on her husband. “Spencer. Good Lord, you’re bleeding. And it’s all over your shirt.”

  “Oh, damn.” Grimacing, he pressed a folded white cloth to his forehead. “I thought it had stopped. Sorry.”

  She looked him over for other signs of violence. “What happened?”

  He smiled. “It was nothing.” He glanced at Victoria’s mother before saying, “I merely lost an argument with a quickly opened door.”

  “You poor man.”

  “Hardly. I feel certain that the
infamous hardheadedness of the Whitfields will see me through. How are you feeling?”

  “I don’t know.” Victoria pulled her hand from his and distractedly rubbed her forehead. “All I remember is I was talking to my mother—”

  “Now, baby, don’t try to remember everything at once.” Her mother rushed forward and around Spencer to lean over Victoria and kiss her cheek. “How are you, sweetheart?” She smoothed Victoria’s hair, so like her own, back from her face. “I just wish I knew what in the world is wrong with you. Something has to be, honey. You haven’t been yourself since you’ve been home, and I want to know why. I sent for Dr. Hollis to see to you and Spencer, and I am going to tell that man to give you a thorough going-over.”

  In Victoria’s still weakened state, her mother’s sympathy and concern quivered her chin as she burbled tearfully: “Oh, Mama, it’s been the most awful time. I don’t know what to do. You see, I’m going to have a—”

  “Nap. She’s going to have a nap now. So, if you will excuse us, please.” Speaking loudly—or so it seemed to Victoria’s heightened senses—Spencer surged to his feet. Smiling yet firm in his manner, he gently drew a surprised Catherine Redmond away from Victoria. “I think it best if we allow her time to rest, don’t you? And if you don’t mind, I would like to be alone with her for now and until Dr. Hollis arrives.”

  A murmur of protests and shuffling of feet ensued. Victoria shifted her gaze from her frowning, muttering family to her husband, who raised a hand to silence them. “She is, after all, my wife. And so my wishes for her must take precedence over yours. I would ask, also, that you have our supper trays brought up to us as I think it best we dine here. Too, if you would be so kind as to ask my cousin to come up, should he arrive. Or at least have someone inform me of his safe arrival.”

  His outright dismissal of them silenced any arguments. One by one, her family came over and kissed her or squeezed her hand, said sweet but inane things to her and then filed out. As her father was the last of the procession to leave, he closed the door behind him. Though she loved them all, Victoria was glad Spencer had made them leave. So many people. She hadn’t been able to concentrate. But now that she was alone with her husband, she gave him her undivided attention.

  He sat again on the chair beside the bed. His handsome features radiated concern. “What did happen, Victoria? Why did you faint?”

  She had to think about it. “I’m not sure … oh, yes: I jumped up from the couch to find a basin because my mother’s perfume made me ill.”

  “Her perfume?”

  “Yes. Certain smells. Perfumes and cigar smoke, mostly. I cannot tolerate them. Liquor, the taste of it, also makes me ill.”

  “I had no idea.” He pulled guiltily at his ruined shirt. “I’ve been smoking. Is the scent on me bothersome to you?”

  “No. Not yet, at any rate. However, the blood is, Spencer. We are going to kill you yet.”

  “I had wondered if that was the intention. However, to be on the safe side—with the smell of cigar smoke on me, I mean—I will keep my distance.” She really wished he wouldn’t, but how could she say that? “How are you feeling now, Victoria? Any stronger? Would you like a glass of water?” He grinned devilishly. “I promise not to fling it on you.”

  Victoria stared at her grinning, teasing husband. Who was this man? Could he really be the same stern and distant duke she’d married? Why was he doing this, revealing a warmer side of himself? It wasn’t fair, and she wouldn’t allow it. When she spoke, she injected a more neutral tone and topic into the conversation. “Thank you, no. No water. But … you. I can’t get over your poor head. At least the bleeding has again stopped.” She critically scrutinized his wound. “It doesn’t look so bad. I doubt you’ll need stitches.”

  “Do you, indeed? I wonder, then, why your mother feels a need to send for Dr. Hollis with you here to render medical opinions.”

  She ignored his further teasing. “Oh, dear. Dr. Hollis.”

  “Exactly. Can we trust him to, uh, keep our secret?”

  “Yes. You may not remember, but he examined me in Savannah and promised he would say nothing. Unless I had a complication, as he put it, and my family needed to be told for my health’s sake.”

  “Oh, I do remember that now.” The teasing lights returned to his black eyes. “Will you tell him I don’t need stitches?”

  Victoria picked at a pulled thread in the muslin sheet. “No, of course not.” When Spencer laughed gently, she met his gaze. “You seem different, Spencer.”

  “I do?” He raised his eyebrows. “Different how?”

  “You’re … nicer. To me, I mean. To everyone, really.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “And you sound positively suspicious about that.”

  “I’m sorry. You’re just not … yourself.”

  “Credit these damned head injuries. It’s a wonder I can even remember my name or my titles with a brain like scrambled eggs. But now the worst has happened: I have become … nice.”

  His laugh—a rich, melodic sound—further captivated Victoria’s woman’s heart and had her dangerously encouraging him. “You should laugh more. I like that, too.”

  “You do? Then I truly have become a pleasant chap.” He leaned forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees. He again took her hand in his, as if this were the usual thing between them, and intimately rubbed his thumb over her fingers. Watching him, feeling his warm touch, and the response her body had to it, Victoria found breathing difficult.

  “All this talk of me being different,” Spencer said, smiling seductively, his black eyes gleaming. “What’s got into you, Victoria? Are you trying to seduce me?”

  Shocked, she tried to pull her hand free, but he held on. “I hardly think—”

  “Please don’t. We’ve done too much thinking already, don’t you think?” His laugh was apparently for his own wording, but Victoria was too apprehensive and too enthralled to respond in kind.

  Her eyes were so rounded she felt certain she must look like a hoot owl. She had to get him off this subject. Simply had to. If she didn’t, and before she knew it, she would be under his spell and would give in to what her body urged her to do. Embarrassed for herself, Victoria shifted her legs under the sheet and swallowed and sniffed. “But we have to think, Spencer. There’s too much wrong between us not to.”

  The teasing lights in his eyes slowly died. “Of course.”

  Though she hated losing this precious moment between them, though she wanted to give in to him, Victoria knew she could not. To be thrust aside later with a broken heart would kill her. “I almost told my mother about … the baby, Spencer. I’m sorry.”

  “Yes. That.” He let go of her hand and sat back. His powerful legs spread, his knees apart, he crossed his arms over his chest. His frown produced faint lines across his forehead and puckered his wound slightly. “Of course, I couldn’t allow you to tell her. And we know all the reasons why.”

  Well, she’d certainly succeeded in putting him off, hadn’t she? Here they were again—back to the distance and the hesitation and the hard, hard truth between them. As she returned his steady gaze, as the silence stretched out between them, something inside Victoria, at that exact moment, cried out, saying it could take no more. Not one moment more of this struggle, this yearning for him and, at the same time, fearing the consequences in six months. She must do something—and do it now.

  Suddenly flooding Victoria’s consciousness was the instantaneous knowledge of what she had to do. “Spencer, I’ve made a decision regarding myself and my baby.”

  Spencer’s features stretched with surprise and raised his eyebrows. “You have? When did you do this?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it all along, only at the back of my mind until now.”

  “I see. Go on.”

  Now that she’d begun, it felt like jumping off a cliff. So final. No way back. And no way not to jump. “When the baby is born, no matter whose it should prove to be, I wish to…”


  She looked down, fighting tears, hating how hard this was, this facing one’s past and paying the price of it. Even worse was having her painfully vulnerable child pay along with her. Inhaling a bolstering breath, preparing her heart for what she had to say, Victoria met Spencer’s waiting, wary gaze. “What I’m trying to say is I wish to be on my own. Only, I will not be returning to Georgia.”

  “I see.” Though he’d retreated behind his granite duke’s façade, he had to be recalling, Victoria figured, that day in the parlor at Wetherington’s Point when he’d told her he would send her back here to her father. “Where would you go?”

  “I don’t know exactly. But I’d stay in England.”

  If it was possible, he appeared uncertain, even hurt. “Where in England, Victoria?”

  “I don’t know, Spencer. Somewhere. I don’t yet know all the details.”

  “How will you live?”

  “I have my allowance.”

  He smiled rather bleakly. “I don’t know what to say, Victoria, except you’ve thought this through, haven’t you, with no regard to me, or even the possibility of a change of heart?”

  “I feel I must be prepared when the day comes.”

  “Admirable, but not necessary.”

  “How can you say it’s not necessary?” Victoria’s heart burned like a lump of coal. She struggled to a sitting position atop the mattress and pushed her hair back over her shoulders. “I know this is hard to hear—”

  Spencer had come to his feet. He stood … so tall and handsome … and silently beside the bed. His mouth no more than a thin, rigid line, he stared down at her. “We have no need to have this discussion, Victoria.”

  “But we do. I can’t go on like this, Spencer. I can’t be around you all these months and see you like this and come to”—she bit back the words care about—“rely on you, only to have you send me away—”