Dear God.
Suddenly the duke’s idea of throwing oneself off the Westminster Bridge didn’t sound like such a bad notion.
It was unfortunate timing on the curate’s part that he came to, “therefore if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it,” right at that moment.
Elizabeth thought and thought and thought. Run? Stay? Swoon? Stand?
“I don’t suppose if the groom is suspected of murder that would be considered an impediment?” she asked in desperation.
The poor curate went goggle-eyed.
“Elizabeth,” her mother hissed. Someone gasped.
“I,” the curate stuttered, “I don’t believe so. He, ah, would have to have been convicted of such a crime, I believe.”
“Oh,” she responded dismally. She glanced at the duke, expecting him to be furious. Instead he looked down at her approvingly, nodding his head. “Too bad. It was a rather good idea. I never thought of paying someone to object.” He turned back to the curate. “Is it too late to do so?”
“To do what?” the curate asked.
“Pay someone to object?”
The poor man began to sweat, giant beads of it dripping down his head. “I should say so, Your Grace.”
“Hmm,” the duke murmured. “Pity. Very well, proceed.”
The clergyman’s mouth gaped. It was a moment before he looked back at Elizabeth. “As you wish,” he said, staring between them both like they were a ball bouncing between walls. “Then, ah,” he began, blinking a few times before looking down at his prayer book, “if no impediment be alleged, then I ask you, wilt thou, Lucien Albert Zavier St. Aubyn, twelfth duke of Ravenwood, thirteenth earl of Chalmly, sixteenth baron of Blackwell have this woman to be thy wedded wife to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her—”
Elizabeth snorted.
“Comfort her.”
Not if I can help it.
“Honor her—”
She snorted again.
“And, ah, keep her in sickness and in health.” The curate paused as if waiting for another noise from her, and when none was forthcoming, said in a rush, “forsaking all others, keeping thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
Elizabeth waited. The congregation waited. Likely God waited.
“I will,” Ravenwood answered.
Someone sighed. Her mother, likely. The poor curate turned to her, his eyes wide, his lips quivering nervously. “Wilt thou, Elizabeth Montclair, have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony?”
“Noooooo,” she said, at least, that’s what her mind screamed, but in reality she said, “I will.”
“Wilt thou obey him—”
“Only if he’s quite lucky,” she said softly.
“And serve him—”
“I wouldn’t wager upon it,” she added.
The clergyman faltered. “Ah, er. Wilt thou,” he seemed to wince. “Wilt thou love him—”
She snorted again.
“Honor him,” the curate continued, “and, ah, keep him in sickness and in health?”
“No,” she answered.
The curate almost dropped his prayer book. “You shan’t?” She shook her head. “I cannot guarantee to keep a man healthy when everyone knows he regularly tries to drink himself to death.”
The man’s mouth dropped open. Elizabeth waited, breath held, for the duke to erupt. But he didn’t. She darted a glance up at him again. The wretch was staring at his nails. His nails. Looking down at them as if a potential hangnail concerned him quite a lot indeed.
“Well, then, ahh. Do you, er, do you promise to try, my dear?” the curate asked.
Knowing if she disagreed the whole farce of a ceremony would come to a grinding halt, she looked back at the curate, knowing that the final chance to object was at hand.
But had she really ever had a choice?
“I will,” she choked.
The curate rocked back on his heels, apparently weighed with himself if he should continue, looked at the duke, then apparently decided he should. “Very good. And do you promise to forsake all others, to keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”
She didn’t say anything.
The silence in the church was complete. She could hear someone scratch themself, their nails raking fabric.
“Do you, my dear?”
“I am wondering if a bolt of lightning will strike me down should I say yes.”
Laughter from the audience mixed in with the furious hiss of her mother, “Elizabeth, I will surely disown you if you do not say I will.”
Elizabeth looked up at the duke once more. He turned to her, lifted a brow, just raised it as if to say to her he cared not a whit what she did.
All the fight drained out of her. Goodness knew why, but she just gave up then.
The curate looked at her as if her head had cracked upon and pigeons had begun to fly from it. People had started to murmur. Elizabeth debated—debated and decided—lifting her chin before saying, “Very well, I will.”
“Bravo,” someone called from the back. A person clapped. The duke turned to her and said with a twinkle in his arrogant eyes, “Good choice, my dear.”
Elizabeth looked away, a sudden misery choking her with its intensity.
And that was when it hit her, though why so late, she didn’t know. That was when she realized what it was she’d committed herself to. A farce. A parody of a marriage. She was married to his grace, and they would be nothing more than polite strangers. There would be no children. No little ones to keep her company, not even the daughter she’d always yearned for. It would be she and he and a lifetime of loneliness.
Just like her aunt.
“You are an embarrassment. A disgrace. How could you do this to me?” her mother cried from inside the church.
“If you were still under my care, you would be made to pay for your behavior,” her father added, blue eyes glittering. “The Lord Chancellor was here today. You can be sure your disgraceful behavior will be related to every peer in London.”
They were standing near the door, her mother having stomped up to her practically the moment the little church had emptied.
“Ravenwood,” her mother said, turning to the duke, “I would not blame you in the least if you wanted to disown her.”
Ravenwood smiled enigmatically. “On the contrary, my lady. As a new husband, I shall do nothing of the sort.”
If her mother caught the duke’s clipped tone, she didn’t reveal it. Nor did her father. It caught Elizabeth’s attention, however. She glanced up at the him. No. At her husband. She gulped. Husband.
“You are more forgiving than I, duke,” her father said.
“How will I hold my head up?” her mother added. “How will I ever live this down? She has made a farce of my beautiful marriage. I tell you, a farce.”
“I thought it was my marriage, Mother?” Elizabeth finally gained the courage to say.
Her mother drew herself up, the blue gown she wore all but popping its seams. “Do you hear this, George? Do you see what I have been dealing with since her comeout? She is willful and outspoken. I wonder that the duke doesn’t ask for an annulment right now.”
Elizabeth glanced at Ravenwood. There was the oddest expression on his face.
“If I might interrupt?” he asked politely.
Her mother and father looked at the duke.
“I have decided Elizabeth and I are going to Raven’s Keep for our honeymoon.” He smiled widely. “We leave now.”
Elizabeth gasped.
Her mother gasped, too. “You what?”
“Here now, Ravenwood,” her father said, “there’s no need to hide your head in shame. I understand that my daughter’s behavior was reprehensible today, but you do not need to run. If you put a brave face upon it, you should be able to weather the s
candal nicely. Goodness knows, you’ve weathered worse.”
Elizabeth tensed.
“I assure you, sir,” Ravenwood answered, though his teeth seemed to stick a bit, “ ’tis nothing to do with Elizabeth’s somewhat unorthodox idea of wedding vows. Quite the contrary. Considering the circumstances, I thought she behaved rather well. Most brides would have swooned when under such stress. Besides, anything she could do couldn’t possibly be worse than what I myself have done in the past, as you yourself just alluded to. No, I wish to leave because the journey will take two days. More if the roads are rough. Much as I enjoy society’s company, I wish to enjoy my new wife’s company more.”
Elizabeth’s mouth dropped open. It hung there like a giant fly trap as the duke’s words ran through her head. Leave? Today?
“But the breakfast guests,” her mother wailed. “What will I tell the guests?”
The duke smiled. “Why, exactly what I told you.” And with that, he took Elizabeth’s arm. “Shall we?” he asked.
Escape. He offered her escape.
Suddenly she didn’t care that it was Ravenwood who did the offering. She turned toward the door. But it wasn’t as easy as that.
“Elizabeth, you will not leave,” her mother ordered.
Elizabeth straightened, looking her mother full in the eye. “On the contrary, Mother. I believe I shall.”
Her mother’s eyes all but goggled. Elizabeth felt a fledgling sense of freedom. She bent, gathering her massive train while somehow holding on to her flowers, all the while expecting her mother to protest further. But she didn’t. Her father remained strangely quiet, too. Nor did they follow her when she peered over the fabric of her train and followed the duke to the door, though she could hear them whispering furiously as they exited.
He paused at the entrance. She stopped next to him. Elizabeth blinked at the sudden sunlight.
A cheer went up.
“By George, she brought ’im up to scratch,” a lady yelled. “Bully fer you, yer ladyship.”
Hundreds of people stood outside the church, some of them the remnants of her wedding guests, their faces filled with curiosity, others perfect strangers.
“Yur Graces,” a red-and-purple-liveried servant pushed through the crowd and bowed. “Managed to squeeze yur carriage through a wee crack. If you’d follow me.”
Ravenwood nodded, his grip tightening as they pressed through bodies. She was glad for his helping hand, though she hated the way his touch made her feel. Almost relieved.
Some of the bystanders snatched at her: at her dress, her train, anything they could get their hands on. But the duke’s tall form helped to keep any but the most bold at bay. Still, she was grateful when they reached the waiting coach, the familiar coat of arms—two ravens facing each other—gleaming from its doors. A tiger stood by the horses’ heads, trying to keep them calm. But even the blinders the horses wore didn’t help much. She could see their skins twitch nervously, their ears swivel back and forth. Two outriders on matching gray horses stood in front of the team, their backs ramrod straight as they stared straight ahead.
“ ’Ere ya go,” the coachman said. “And may I be one o’ the first to wish ye the best?” he added.
“Thank you, Cedric,” Ravenwood answered as he helped her into the carriage. There was just one problem.
Her train wouldn’t fit.
Ravenwood stuffed the material inside, having to stuff some more when it still spilled out. For some reason, the sight of him shoveling her dress made her want to laugh. Hysteria, she supposed. When he finished, the satin surrounded her like foam waves.
“You could ride upon the roof,” she said to Ravenwood upon noticing there was no room for him to sit.
He met her gaze.
And smiled.
It wasn’t a cynical smile. It wasn’t that irritatingly scampish smile … the one she wanted to smack off his face. It was a genuine smile. The first she’d ever seen from him.
Good Lord, it changed the whole look of his face.
“Yes, I suppose I could,” he said, “though I rather dread the thought of my face colliding with bugs. No, I’d much rather sit in here with you.”
She swallowed. Nodded. How could a man look so masculine yet so perfectly handsome at the same time?
“Lovely flowers,” he drawled, his smile creeping higher.
She looked down. The flowers she’d clutched so diligently were nothing but stems with a few broken leaves.
“Perhaps if we locate a pair of scissors, I can rid you of some of this fabric,” Ravenwood said dryly, eyes shifting to her dress again.
Elizabeth stiffened. She’d been half-tempted to take a pair of scissors to the gown from the moment of its creation. Instead, she tossed her stems outside the still-open carriage door. The crowd outside scrambled for them like they were guineas, then she grabbed an armful of fabric and made just enough room for the duke to sit down on the opposite seat. When she released the fabric, neither of them could see their legs.
She felt very, very hot of a sudden.
“This must have been what Moses felt like as he crossed the Red Sea,” he said, a faint hint of his breath reaching her. Lemon. His breath smelled of lemons. How … odd. “I only wish I had a staff and a fake beard. I should like to see the looks on peoples’ faces as we roll by, me with my arms stretched out over a wedding dress sea. Most biblical.”
Elizabeth didn’t comment. What was there to say? Was he trying to be amusing? And if so, why? Heaven knew nothing he could say would make her relax. She felt as charged as static on silk fabric during a thunderstorm.
The carriage shook a bit as the coachman climbed up the side of it, then took his seat. In the back, she could hear the tiger settle himself in the exterior rear seat. The brake lever released with a groan. She felt her nerves stretch taut as she waited for them to move forward, though why the prospect made her suddenly more nervous, she couldn’t say. She supposed ’twas because they were leaving London. She was going to a place she’d never been before, with a man she hardly knew.
Her husband. Her handsome husband.
“Cold?” he asked.
Had she shivered? She shook her head, refraining from acting on the urge to rub her suddenly chilled arms.
And as if the horses couldn’t wait to be off, the carriage lurched suddenly. She leaned back, her heart clattering nearly as loudly as the crowd that cheered as they began to roll down the road. A shadow enveloped them, then more and more as they passed between buildings. An occasional stab of light illuminated his face in a sudden burst, the interior of the carriage seeming to be lit from within. ’Twas the same coach she’d seen clatter down the road outside her home on that long-ago day when he’d proposed. The inside was everything the outside promised it to be. Luxury enveloped her, the plush, red velvet seats peeking out from behind his back. Mahogany panels gleamed with a fervent shine, silver fixtures—and she was sure they were real silver—flashed brightly. Even the carpet beneath her slippers felt lushly woven, and Elizabeth, who prided herself on never feeling intimidated, felt extremely out of place.
Her eyes caught on her ring. An oval-cut diamond surrounded by baguettes. Pinpoints of light spotted the carriage roof when the sun caught the stones, Like a tiny constellation of rainbow stars. ’Twas easily the biggest ring she’d ever seen, and it illustrated the phenomenal wealth of the man she’d married.
“A ring befitting a duchess,” he said, obviously following her gaze.
She nodded, and Lucien, who for some odd reason felt the need to converse with her, tried again. “Do you like it?”
She nodded again before looking away, her face in profile as she stared out the window. So much for conversation.
The carriage picked up speed. Either the crowd is thinning or the coachman has decided to run people down, one of the two, Lucien thought. Whichever, the quick jerks and starts of the vehicle smoothed.
And Lucien merely stared. If he’d thought Elizabeth stunning the night of t
he Derbys’ ball, that was nothing compared to her now. With her hair drawn up and her skin glowing from the reflection of her gown, she looked like a sea goddess come to tempt him to a watery grave.
“You’re staring at me,” she said, her voice all but startling him.
“Am I?”
“You are.”
She met his gaze directly, trying to assess him. That was what he liked about Elizabeth Montclair, no, St Aubyn now, he corrected. “If I am, ’tis because I find myself rather flummoxed to think of you as my wife.”
She didn’t look pleased by the reminder.
“In fact, I find myself wondering what to call you. Shall it be wife? Mrs. Duke? Or simply the Leg Shackle? I confess myself rather partial to the last.”
Her blue eyes didn’t grow amused, as was his hope. Instead, she took his comments seriously. He hated when people did that.
“You may call me Elizabeth,” she offered.
“Well, I should certainly hope so, my dear. After all, one of these days you shall bear me a child. ’Twould destroy the mood if I had to call you Lady Ravenwood during the marriage act.” He placed an index finger upon his chin thoughtfully. “Speaking of which, when do you want to consummate our marriage? I quite look forward to seeing how you look out of that gown.” He allowed his smile to grow in volume. “Then, too, there’s something to be said for simply lifting your skirts and having a go at it right now.”
The color drained from her face.
He threw back his head and laughed. He couldn’t help it. She looked so genuinely terrified. And from nowhere came the thought that her fear of him was most ego deflating. Didn’t she know that his skills as a lover were quite renowned amongst the demimonde?
Apparently not.
“Surely you are not serious?” she asked.
“Oh, but I am,” some little devil prompted him to respond. “Or didn’t you realize I was serious last night about begetting an heir?”
Her mouth opened, then closed. “You—” But then her eyes narrowed. She didn’t say anything, merely stared hard into his eyes. “You are teasing me,” she pronounced.
Yes, he was, and damned if he knew how she knew that. The only other person who had been able to read his jests so easily had been his brother.
Seduced Page 6
