The Marriage Spell

by Mary Jo Putney

  Celeste’s comments caused both Abby and Jack to blush. After he beat a hasty retreat, the ladies resumed the fittings. The number of gowns and accessories seemed endless, but Abby found herself much more patient than she had been in the past. Patience was easier now that she realized she was going to enjoy being well dressed.

  It was midafternoon by the time the dressmakers and their assistants left. Abby and Celeste collapsed in Abby’s sitting room after the duchess rang for refreshments. As they demolished a selection of small sandwiches and sweets that again had Abby thinking about ensorcelling the Alderton chef, the footman returned bearing a silver tray with two small stacks of letters, one for each lady.

  “Thank you, Williams.” Abby accepted her letters with enthusiasm, glad for news from home.

  She and Celeste sipped tea and read until Abby said, “Ah, a reply from Judith.”

  Celeste looked up eagerly as Abby scanned the letter. After general news of Melton Mowbray and the progress of several patients, Abby reached the information she had been waiting for: “About that matter you inquired about. I have thought and consulted my case notes and even wrote Mrs. Lampry in Birmingham, who has more experience with such problems than anyone.”

  As Abby continued reading, her brow furrowed. Unable to bear the tension, Celeste said, “Mrs. Wayne says nothing can be done for me?”

  “No,” Abby said slowly. “She said that in cases like yours, where neither physician nor healer can find anything amiss with the wife, it is logical to ask if the problem might lie with the husband.”

  Celeste gasped, her eyes widening. “It has never occurred to anyone that there could be any…any weakness in Alderton.”

  “Women are generally blamed when a couple is childless,” Abby said dryly. “And of course one does not suggest that a duke might be less than perfect. But blame is not appropriate. Infertility is a physical problem, not a sin.”

  “I see.” Celeste bit her lip. “Can male problems be healed?”

  “Sometimes, especially if the problem is a minor blockage. Would Alderton allow a healer to examine him? As you know, there is no pain or discomfort.”

  The duchess shook her head. “He despises wizardry. Nor would he welcome the suggestion that he is in some way deficient. Would it be possible to examine him without his knowledge?”

  Abby frowned. “That would be unethical. Also probably useless, since I imagine that the duke carries a powerful anti-magic charm.”

  “He does.” Celeste clutched her teacup so hard Abby thought it might break. “He and I are barely talking. I can’t imagine asking him to allow a healer to perform an examination to see if he’s capable of fathering a child.”

  “There are two issues here,” Abby pointed out. “If you can heal the estrangement and become intimate again, it will be much easier to talk to him about an examination.”

  “You’re right. Heaven knows the first problem is difficult, but it’s simpler than trying to solve both problems at once.” Celeste’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think an aphrodisiac might help?”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it. You are husband and wife, not an anxious girl trying to catch the attention of a local boy.” Or a Spanish wench trying to catch the eye of a generous English officer. “Your relationship is deeper and far more complicated. Already trust is strained because he suspects your motives in encouraging him to take a mistress. If you try to manipulate him with a love potion and he finds out, he will be justly furious. You must solve your problems with honesty, not trickery.”

  Celeste sighed. “I know you’re right, but I wish there was a simple solution.”

  Abby had learned much about men in the last few days. “What about going to his room some night wearing sheer silk and nothing else?”

  The other woman looked away. “I tried that. He…he has locked his door to me.”

  Abby winced, guessing how painful that rejection must have felt. “It sounds as if your solution must come through words.”

  “That man could make a rock look talkative when he’s in this mood. But I’ll try. He has withdrawn before, but eventually he always thaws. I shall have to wait him out.” Celeste glanced down at her hands. “Though he looks the image of a duke, he was a third son, mostly ignored until his father and brothers died of a virulent fever. Perhaps he might have had more confidence if he’d been raised as the heir.”

  Abby reached out to the duke and did the kind of light reading that could be done even on someone who was shielded. Celeste was right. Her husband had learned to play the role of a duke, but in his heart, he was still an unnecessary son. “That explains a great deal. He needs to feel that he is loved, not merely the prize in a successful husband hunt.”

  “I knew that, but sometimes I haven’t remembered as well as I should,” Celeste said softly. “I’m grateful that you and Jack are in town to distract me. Otherwise I would be half mad with worry by now.”

  “Then I must be grateful for his moods, because you have been a godsend for easing my visit in London.” Abby contemplated what she had accomplished so far, and what remained to be done. “All I must do is watch Jack take his seat, which should be easy, and survive the ball, which will be less easy. I’ll manage.”

  “And then you’ll both be off for Yorkshire.” The duchess looked pensive. “I wonder how Jack will get on with Sir Alfred?”

  “What do you think of your stepfather?”

  “He’s my mother’s husband, not a father to me.”

  “That’s exactly what Jack said. How am I likely to react to Sir Alfred? I know what Jack thinks of the man. I’d like to know what you think.”

  Celeste considered her words. “He is cold as Scottish granite, except when he looks at my mother. Then he…he burns. Perhaps I should find his devotion romantic, but it seems rather unwholesome.”

  If Scranton was so obsessed with the dowager Lady Frayne that he’d had spells cast to injure her first husband and son, he was more than unwholesome. He was a menace. Perhaps even a murderer. If so, he must be stopped from injuring anyone else.

  Yorkshire promised to be interesting.

  Taking his seat in the House of Lords proved more painless than Jack had expected. In keeping with his mischievous desire to avoid political alignment, he was sponsored by one Whig viscount and one Tory viscount.

  When he emerged from the Robing Room with his sponsors, he surreptitiously scanned the chamber and found Abby and Celeste in the gallery, both watching with beaming approval. Abby wore one of her new gowns, this one high-necked and demure. She looked lovely and entirely at home in London. Clothes really did make a difference. In his formal robes of state, Jack almost felt as if he belonged in the House of Lords.

  Alderton had orchestrated the ceremony and it went off without a hitch. Jack was unexpectedly moved when he swore allegiance to king and country. He had served both for years, could easily have laid down his life. Yet it was different to pledge his loyalty and best efforts toward governing this nation. Dying was easier than making good laws.

  The Langdons of Langdale had been peers for centuries, cultivating their lands and doing their duty. The family had supplied its share of soldiers and clergymen, and even a few diplomats. In the thirteenth century, a Langdon had stood with the other barons at Runnymede to face down King John.

  God willing, Jack would return to this chamber year after year to debate issues great and small. Just standing here made him feel more opinionated. But it also gave him a desire to find a middle ground. He had seen enough of war. Talk was better.

  Winslow, who was one of his sponsors, murmured, “Sobering, isn’t it? I took my seat at twenty-one and still haven’t recovered.”

  Jack nodded, glad his friend understood. He shook the hand of the Lord Chancellor, then was escorted to the benches reserved for viscounts.

  When they reached the viscounts’ bench, there was more handshaking and congratulating and welcoming him to the House. Jack knew some of his peers personally, and many more by reputation.
For today, at least, all was goodwill.

  He was sharing a joke with Ashby when he heard a man behind him remark, “They say Frayne has married a rustic wyrdling.”

  Another voice said, “He married her?” There was a knowing laugh. “Wizard wenches make demmed fine mistresses, but one doesn’t marry them.”

  Jack felt a blast of pure rage. After drawing several deep breaths to master it, he turned and asked pleasantly, “Did I hear my name mentioned?”

  Something in his face caused the two men’s expressions to change. “Glad to have you here, Frayne,” one said hastily. “Demmed fine work in the Peninsula.”

  “Right, right,” the other man said. “Your army experience will be useful here. Good you’ve taken your seat.”

  Formalities observed, the two peers withdrew. Jack recognized one as a baron called Worley, from East Anglia, he thought. The other was a stranger.

  Not that it mattered who they were, for their opinions were common in this place. In the weeks since the accident, Jack had been among people who accepted magic. Though he was still uneasy with his own power and probably always would be, he was much more accepting of wizards in general. He’d half forgotten how many aristocrats believed magic was contemptible, an occupation for inferior people.

  Not for the first time, he pondered why the upper classes were so dead set against wizardry. He suspected that it was because magic was a talent that paid no attention to class. No amount of money could buy magical ability. Most of the best wizards were of humble origin.

  No wonder aristocrats despised magic. It was a power they couldn’t control, so they feared it. And fear was usually at the root of hatred.

  Jack wasn’t sure when he would make his maiden speech. Certainly not before the next session of Parliament. But when the time came, he would not settle for a safe, noncontroversial topic. He’d make a plea for tolerance and acceptance of wizards on the grounds that they were Britons, too, and no different from anyone else. “If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die?”

  He smiled as he remembered the words from The Merchant of Venice. Leave it to Shakespeare to say everything important first.

  Chapter XXV

  Celeste’s personal maid tied the last ribbon in Abby’s hair and carefully trained the narrow lengths of dark blue silk to curl down over her right shoulder. “There, milady. You are perfection.”

  Abby studied her reflection in the bedroom mirror. She was not perfection. She would never be as beautiful as Celeste, with features so exquisite they took the breath away.

  But for a woman of average appearance, she looked very fine. The shimmering blue silk of her gown made her eyes electric and emphasized the cornflower shade of the embroidered underskirt. Madame Renault’s corset shaped her figure into a sensual hourglass, and her shining brown hair glinted with auburn and gold highlights in a sophisticated upswept coiffure.

  The maid was not responsible for the fact that Abby wore the expression of a woman about to be hanged. She reminded herself that all she need do was endure the evening without disgracing herself or Jack or Jack’s family. She could manage that. “Thank you, Lasalle. You’ve done a wonderful job. Now go to your mistress.”

  The maid inclined her head and withdrew. Because she had to dress two ladies this evening, she’d come to Abby early. Now Abby had entirely too much time to make herself feel even more nervous. Needing distraction, she left her room, crossed the sitting room, and knocked on the door of Jack’s bedchamber. “May I come in?”

  “Of course, lass,” he called. “I want to see you in all your glory.”

  She entered to find Jack wearing his scarlet regimentals. He was a sight to dazzle the hardest female heart. Abby caught her breath, her nerves temporarily forgotten. No wonder the wench in Spain had used an aphrodisiac to capture his interest!

  Though Abby had always admired Jack’s looks, now he had truly come into his own. He had accepted himself and his station in life, and the result was a powerful authority that riveted the eye. “You look magnificent! I’ve never seen you in uniform before. You must have left a chain of broken hearts wherever you marched.”

  “Hardly. Remember, all officers wore uniforms and many were better looking and more gallant with ladies.” He tweaked the sash so that it lay perfectly. “Morris will miss the uniform. He says it displays my shoulders to advantage, which compensates for my lack of elegance. He was generous enough to say that while it is harder to dress a large man fashionably, at least I am not fat.” Jack grinned. “He’s a hard taskmaster. It was easier when we were in Spain and standards were lower.”

  “Celeste’s maid did her best for me, but I could hear her thinking that she prefers dressing her mistress, who is a perfect showcase for a maid’s skills.”

  Jack cocked his head to one side. “You can read minds?”

  “No, but I could read her feelings. She was doing her best, and grateful that she would soon be dressing madam.” Abby smiled wryly. “I’m duty, Celeste is pleasure, from the point of view of Lasalle.”

  “Nonsense. You look glorious, lass,” he said warmly.

  “So do you.”

  He smiled at her. “I was never one to wear my uniform when not on duty, but since I’m almost out of the army, I realized this might be my last chance to show my colors.”

  “Will you miss the army?” she asked quietly.

  He gave an exaggerated shudder. “Lord, no! Bad food, worse quarters, stupid orders, and the chance of dying nastily in a strange place. I won’t miss any of that.”

  “But surely there were some good things, too.”

  After a long silence, he said, “The people. My friends, both living and dead. My troops. The way war can turn a man who would never be your friend in regular life into something closer than a brother. Such things are beyond price.”

  She drew a deep breath before saying, “You don’t have to sell your commission, you know. I would not ask that of you.”

  Jack hesitated, then shook his head. “Though selling out isn’t my choice, it’s time to take up my responsibilities.” He smoothed the gold lace that trimmed his scarlet coat. “I’ll regret losing the uniform, though. There isn’t a man born who doesn’t look his best in scarlet regimentals.”

  “I suspect the uniforms are designed with that in mind. It must help persuade men to join up.” She regretted the fact that he would prefer to stay in the army if he could, but at least selling out was his decision. An idea struck her. “As a wedding present, I’d like to commission a portrait of you in your uniform. I’m sure that Celeste can give me the name of a painter worthy to the task.”

  “I’d have to look at myself forever?” he said warily.

  “If you don’t like the portrait, I’ll hang it in my private boudoir. Assuming I have one. Long after we are gone, it will be a Langdon family treasure.” She smiled mischievously. “If only because the uniform is so splendid.”

  “I’ll agree to the portrait if you will, too. I want to have a painting of you as you look tonight.”

  She blushed with pleasure. “I’d like that, since I’ll never look better.”

  He cocked his head to one side. “Why are you so anxious? In most matters you are fearless, so what do you fear in London society? This is merely a ball. What’s the worst that can happen to you?”

  “Burn, witch, burn!” she blurted out. She stopped, shocked at what she had said. “I don’t think of such things every day, but knowing that I am going among people hostile to what I am stirs up ancient fears. Even though wizards have been tolerated since the black death, it’s still not uncommon to hear of one being killed in some benighted, superstitious corner of the country. Two hundred years ago, women like me could be burned for having a house or a piece of land some man coveted. All he had to do was accuse me of cursing his children or his cattle and I’d have to run for my life. Those fears are in my family’s bones, Jack.”

  “I can see how that would make
a person wary, but there will be no burnings in the Alderton ballroom tonight. The worst that might happen would be the cut direct.” His eyes narrowed. “And anyone who offers that to you will have to deal with me.”

  “What happens in the future if it becomes known you have magic and the cuts direct are offered to you?” she asked, genuinely curious.

  He frowned. “I haven’t thought about that. Magic still seems like something other people have. But if I’m ever condemned for having some magical ability—well, bedamned to the bigots!”

  Abby wished she had that sort of confidence. Would the day ever come when all men and women could live freely, without the fear of persecution if they were different? She wanted to believe this would happen, but it wouldn’t be in her lifetime. “Over the years, the situation has improved. These days, the average person accepts magic and is willing to visit a wizard or healer when needed.”

  “Perhaps you will help bring the beau monde into greater acceptance. After all, you are one of them now as well as a wizard.”

  She sighed. “That is part of my fear. It’s only a matter of time until it becomes known that Lady Frayne works magic. It could even happen tonight, which won’t be good for your sister’s ball.”

  “If it does, hold your head high and know that you are the equal of any man or woman in Britain.” He gave a sudden wicked smile. “But for now, perhaps I can relax you since it’s still too early to go down.”

  The midnight blue ribbons that fell enticingly from her hair began gliding sensuously over her bare skin. When they curled into the hollow between her breasts, she gasped with shock, startled by the erotic charge of his touching her magically when he was on the far side of the room. “I thought you didn’t believe in using your power.”

  “I’m willing to make an exception for a good cause,” he said mischievously. “Let’s see what more I can move.”

  As one end of the ribbon caressed the top of her breasts, the other end rose upward to stroke her mouth with gossamer promise. Instinctively she licked her lips, imagining the taste of one of his kisses.