While waiting for his bride’s arrival, he surveyed the crowd bunched up within the church and experienced a moment of dizziness. So many faces, so many people. Sitting on open pews without walls separating them from one another. Staring at him. A few leaning over to whisper to the person sitting beside them. It was a sight he’d seen numerous times in his youth, but suddenly it seemed strange, disorienting.
What were they saying? What were they thinking?
He had to remind himself that all was normal around him, that people were supposed to sit in the open, not be blocked off from viewing each-other. People were meant to have the freedom to whisper to each other. They weren’t to be denied the pleasure of another’s company.
Many of the people looking at him were elderly. Some he thought he recognized as friends of his father’s and grandfather’s. Men like them, who had approved the building of Pentonville in 1842, who had agreed about and advocated for the separate system of confinement. Men who considered themselves modern-day thinkers.
The irony of their beliefs and how they’d affected him didn’t escape him. These men would never experience what they had wrought on others. Robert had, and once he no longer needed to worry over proving who he was and could safely take his place in the House of Lords, he was going to become an advocate for those imprisoned during this enlightened age—which, in his humble opinion, was anything but enlightened.
The isolation didn’t reform men as argued. It drove them insane. Unfortunately he often felt that it had carried him right up to the precipice of madness. He didn’t think he’d crossed over, but he experienced moments when he wondered, when he had doubts, when he wasn’t certain how he’d managed to hold on to his sanity in that madhouse of desperation.
Suddenly the organ music rose in crescendo, the unexpectedness of it taking the very breath from Robert’s body. A Gray’s organ had provided the music in the chapel at Pentonville, and for a heartbeat, he was transported back to the horror of isolation and loneliness…
He found himself breaking out in a cold sweat, unexplainably feeling exposed and vulnerable. He hadn’t realize how accustomed he’d become to hiding his identity, to people not knowing who he was, to people not seeing his face, to looking at the world through peepholes that until that moment he’d not realized provided a certain amount of security. Everything with which he’d become familiar during the past eight years was no longer surrounding him. He’d thought he’d welcome shedding the vestments of captivity. Instead he found himself longing for the comfort of the familiar.
It wasn’t that he wanted to return to Pentonville. He was simply completely unprepared for the moment. He’d expected his first ventures out after his escape to involve small crowds, only a few people he’d selected to surround him. Not a church packed to the rafters with near strangers.
He wanted to run, to escape, but this time he couldn’t. He’d not worked loose the flooring beneath his feet. No hole was going to open up for him to squeeze through. He had to stand firm and make the best of this situation. At its very worst, it would be better than what he’d endured the day before.
It was time. Time to follow through on the masquerade that his brother had begun.
He focused on a young girl walking down the aisle, tossing petals from a basket dangling on her arm. Two young ladies soon followed. Lovely ladies. Smiling, graceful. Unfamiliar to him. He wondered if he should know their names, if he would be forced to speak to them. Good God, he hoped not. He was terribly out of practice when it came to politely and charmingly speaking with ladies, when it came to talking to anyone. As they neared, he did nothing more than acknowledge them with a curt nod.
He returned his attention to the aisle where a lady and gentleman—a man he assumed to be her father—now made their way toward him. His bride, no doubt. Her gown was white satin and lace, the satin train trimmed with flowers. A lacy veil flowed down to her shoulders.
Should he recognize them? Was she someone he might have known in his youth? Was her father titled?
“I daresay, Killingsworth, you are one fortunate man, one fortunate man indeed,” Lynmore murmured.
As the woman came to stand before him, her father beside her, Robert acknowledged the truth of his best man’s words.
She was lovely beyond measure. The lacy veil provided an ethereal quality that couldn’t quite hide her features. Her hair was dark, pinned in place, giving him no hint as to its length or thickness, although it appeared a few strands curled about her face. Her dark eyes were focused on him, and he wondered if they were brown or black. It was difficult to tell. She was small, her head barely reaching his shoulder. She looked to be so incredibly young.
Or was it only that he felt so incredibly old?
Either way, he could well imagine come nightfall that John would throw his body against the door, would pound the walls and floor, would be desperate to escape as he was filled with the knowledge of what Robert might be doing with the bride John had planned to marry. That was the true horror of Pentonville.
The unbearable imaginings that isolation could bring forth in a man’s mind when it was continually tortured by silence and loneliness.
It took determination, control, and concentration to hold the nightmares at bay. And sometimes, no matter how much he wanted to, Robert couldn’t latch on to any of the skills needed to be free of the nightmares. He would be too weary, too beaten, too tired. The emotional strain…yes, his brother would suffer tonight.
The archbishop was asking something, her father answered, and Robert realized that he couldn’t continue to drift off into reminiscences of the hell he’d endured, but that he had to remain focused on this precise moment. If anyone suspected that he’d swapped places with his brother, he could very well find himself trying to justify his own scheming before he was ready, and it would place him at a huge disadvantage.
He had to remain cautious and alert until he could determine the best course of action.
No one around him was speaking, everyone seemed to be waiting, and he feared he might have reached the portion of the day when he was supposed to know precisely what to do without assistance from anyone.
“If you’ll extend your arm to your bride, Your Grace,” the archbishop whispered.
Of course. Her father was giving her into Robert’s keeping. He was familiar with this part of the ceremony, having attended a few weddings as a guest. It was simple enough to perform. So he held out his arm.
Then she smiled, an incredibly sweet, joyous smile, her eyes shining with such happiness that the veil couldn’t disguise the hope, faith, and affection that she was showering on him.
Oh, dear God. He’d made a ghastly mistake, vastly misjudged the situation. It wasn’t the duke she was here to marry, it was John. As unlikely as it seemed, she cared for John. If the warmth reflected by her expression was any indication, she might actually love his brother.
It was an aspect to the marriage that he’d not even considered. The ramification of what he was about to do almost brought him to his knees.
During all his scheming, his carefully thought out plans, the many hours he’d lain on the hammock that stretched between the walls of his cell and stared at the unadorned high ceiling, pondering his strategy, his escape, his retribution, he’d not once considered that he might shatter a young woman’s heart, that he might betray an innocent.
He should simply stride out of the church while murmuring his apologies and regrets. Better to embarrass the lady now than mortify her later. He could say that he’d had a change of heart, which was the truth. The duke’s heart was different, because the duke was a different man. Convoluted reasoning to be sure, but the truth nonetheless.
But if he marched out, he’d find himself in a worse situation than he was already in. Because people would want to know exactly why he wasn’t willing to go through with the ceremony.
Besides, crying off generally carried grave consequences, and he had no idea what those might entail. All he knew was that
he wasn’t in a position to deal with them while righting all the other misbegotten affairs of his life. He cursed his brother, cursed his own lack of planning, and cursed his wife-to-be for good measure. Even though she was innocent, she was going to sticky up an already dreadfully sticky situation.
He saw no other recourse except to go through with the ceremony. But not the marriage. He would find an excuse to distance himself from the woman—to allow her to remain chaste. And once he’d determined how to prove he was the true duke—then what would he do?
He would release his brother from captivity, undo the ridiculous marriage, and magnanimously return his brother’s love to him, not so much out of kindness to his brother but rather his concern for fairness to the woman. It wasn’t honorable for her to have to marry a man other than the one she’d intended, especially when she looked upon him with such adoration.
Yes, his plans could all still work. Not as smoothly as he’d originally hoped, but it could come about. He would set himself to the task—as diligently as possible—to prove his claims. Then they would all be free from his brother’s troublesome—not to mention illegal—meddling.
He forced himself to give her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
She placed her hand on his arm, and they both stepped forward, giving their attention to the archbishop, whose voice began to ring out to the rafters with the words that would soon seal both their fates.
Robert surreptitiously slid his gaze over to the woman who was to have been John’s bride and was now his. She was much more interesting to study than the aging archbishop. Her eyes were her dominant feature: large and almond-shaped. They were almost exotic. He wondered what details the curtain of lace held secret. Were her lashes as long as they appeared, or was that merely an illusion of the lace? Did she have blemishes or delicate lines that had been etched by laughter? Did she smile often, or did she save her smiles for the most special of occasions, such as when greeting the man whom she was to marry?
He knew about women from a distance, as mothers, governess, servants. But he had no intimate knowledge of them, of how they reacted, of what they expected.
He found himself wondering the silliest of things: what colors did she favor, what foods did she relish, what entertainments might she enjoy?
And he found himself speculating about the most important of all questions. What had brought her to this moment? What had she seen in his brother? What had caused her to want to marry the blighter?
Was there goodness in John? He’d once thought there was, but John’s actions had stripped him of any favor he might have found in Robert’s eyes. Still, should Robert have been less bent on revenge and given his brother a chance to apologize, to explain, to make amends?
For surely an angel such as she appeared to be wouldn’t dare dance with a devil.
She turned her head slightly and peered over at him. Her mouth curled up, her gaze grew warm. His heart tightened, and he wished her adoration was truly for him, not his brother.
Yet Robert couldn’t help but consider that John had taken everything from him. Would it be poetic justice if Robert now took his brother’s lady? Not only her body, but her soul and her heart? To hold them all as though they rightfully belonged to him—as his brother had held his titles, his inheritance, his position in family and society?
It was something to ponder, to debate within himself. A possibility that would no doubt keep him awake at night, when he’d so been looking forward to sleeping without care.
Again he bestowed on her a semblance of a smile that he hoped concealed his misgivings and his perilously treacherous thoughts.
Forcing his attention away from her, he concentrated on the rituals of the ceremony, kneeling when he was supposed to kneel, repeating words that meant nothing to him as though they meant everything. And in the process, he did at least learn something of great importance: her name was Victoria Alexandria Lambert. Such a large, important-sounding name for such a petite and delicate woman.
The archbishop made mention of a ring. Robert turned to his best man, then stared at the delicate circle of silver that he’d placed on his gloved palm. He should have known, should have prepared himself. His mother’s ring. He closed his fingers over it and battled for the strength to finish what he’d begun.
He distanced himself from everyone and everything around him until the vows were exchanged, only then acknowledging that they were both well and truly locked on to this matrimonial path.
Then the archbishop announced that Robert could kiss the bride. Kiss Victoria Alexandria Hawthorne, the new Duchess of Killingsworth.
Drawing on his memories of a distant cousin’s wedding, Robert slowly lifted the veil. Dear Lord, but she was lovelier without the mist of lace to blur her features. Her lashes were indeed as long as they looked. Her eyes a deep brown, outlined in gold. He’d never seen eyes such as hers. She had no blemishes, no freckles, no lines formed by worry. Her lips were plump and moist-looking, and he wondered how many times his brother might have kissed them. Would she notice a difference in the shape of his mouth, the feel of his lips against hers, the taste of his kiss?
He raised his gaze to hers, surprised to find tears shimmering within the dark depths of her eyes. Then he chastised himself because her tears of joy made a mockery of what he’d just done. She thought he’d reaffirmed his love for her, that she’d exchanged vows with the man who had asked for her hand in marriage. She was crying because she was happy, overjoyed at the prospect of being his wife until death parted them. She was crying because she wanted this moment—when he sealed their vows with a kiss—more than anything else in the world.
“I’m sorry,” he heard himself whispering hoarsely right before he placed a light kiss near the corner of her terribly tempting mouth.
She seemed as surprised as he by his words and his actions, her eyes blinking, the tears disappearing, her brow furrowing. And he realized that he might have made a grave error in judgment, might have revealed himself to be not who she thought he was.
But then the archbishop, in his booming voice, was presenting to the gathered assemblage the Duke and Duchess of Killingsworth, and Robert was left with no recourse except to escort his wife from the church.
Chapter 4
Torie sat in the open carriage, striving not to take offense that her husband was fairly hugging his side of the conveyance, his gaze averted, as though he wished to be as far away from her as possible.
Within the vestry of the church they’d signed their documents before heading out to the carriage. Because an aristocrat’s wedding tended to draw a crowd of strangers, they’d had to weave their way through the gathering, she clinging to his arm while he tried to keep his top hat from flying off. They’d both waved at the people milling about as they’d been driven away from the church, but she’d sensed that he held little enthusiasm for the ritual. It was ceremony only, something to be tolerated, and now that they were beyond the crowds, he seemed to have forgotten that she sat beside him.
She fought to hold on to her happiness and push back the ominous sense she had that something was dreadfully wrong. That she’d somehow disappointed him beyond measure, perhaps in the choice of her gown or the style of her hair. When she’d joined him at the altar, he’d stared at her as though he couldn’t quite determine who she was.
Or worse yet, perhaps he’d sensed her misgivings. She was so terribly unskilled at hiding her true feelings. Although she’d been wearing a veil, he might have been able to see through the lace to the doubts reflected in her eyes.
But they would have been apparent for only a moment. Because she’d seen the same qualms swirling within his, and she’d wanted to quickly reassure him that all would be well. One of them needed to believe that if their marriage was to have any success at all. And so she’d smiled as lovingly as she could, with all the hope for a blissful future that she could bring forth. Her overture seemed to have given him the confidence to offer her his arm.
Once they’d
taken their places before the archbishop, she’d found herself returning her attention to Robert, unable to believe that she was about to truly become his wife.
He was so amazingly handsome, now and in the church. The deep wine color of his frock coat enhanced his dark features, brought out the incredibly rich hue of his eyes. Sunset always reminded her of him, just before the sky gave way to night, when it was at its most vibrant blue. The light gray of his cravat gave him an air of nobility.
But now they were no longer in the church, no longer in need of concentrating on ceremony. They were free to give their undivided attention to each other. Yet here he was, glancing around as they traversed through the crowded streets as though he’d never before visited London.
After his courtship, and the time they’d spent together while she planned their wedding, she knew she should be accustomed to his penchant for staring off into space, but it always managed to unsettle her.
“Is it John?” she asked softly.
He jerked his head around, his brow deeply furrowed, something akin to fear in his eyes—which made absolutely no sense.
“What about John?” he asked, his voice hoarse as though he’d dredged the words up from the bottom of a deep well.
She smiled warmly, sensing his tenseness, unable to fathom the reason behind it, but desperately wanting to put him at ease. “You seem so melancholy, I thought perhaps you were thinking of your brother. I know how very disappointed you were when his missive arrived stating that he’d be unable to come to the wedding, but I’d like to think he’s with us in thought if not person.”
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