A Ring From a Marquess

by Christine Merrill

  This was a new tactic. It was doomed to failure, Stephen was sure. Silence was his oldest friend. He could remain wrapped in it indefinitely, quiet as a rock, still as an open grave. But Larchmont was an orator, an arguer, a speechifier. He could not not talk any more than he could hold his breath and wait to grow gills.

  A minute passed. And then another. It was an eye blink for Stephen and an eternity for his father. And then, the duke erupted in a stream of curses, elegant and un-repetitive. He damned his son, his shop girl, resulting children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. He damned the whole Larchmont line from Stephen until the end of time and then, with a final shake of his cane, he turned and stormed off, trailing invective like a stable boot trailed muck, all the way down the hall and out into the street.

  * * *

  It was the middle of a workday and Margot was trapped, against her will, two roads down from Milsom Street. While the sign on the shop insisted, in delicate gold letters, that it was a beau jour, she found nothing particularly beau about it. She had a new goldsmith to train and shrinking receipts from a sudden lack of custom. She did not have time to shop.

  She swatted at the hands of the seamstress, trying to coax her into yet another style fresh from London, and glared at her sister. ‘I told you, this trip is unnecessary. I have gowns enough. Any of them will do.’

  ‘You would wear an old gown to your wedding?’ Justine looked at her in amazement. ‘Surely that is bad luck.’

  Fine words from a woman who had eloped to Scotland after several months of pretending marriage to the man she eventually wed. Justine had been too much in love to care what she wore to the brief ceremony. And Will Felkirk had been so bewitched, he’d have declared her radiant though she had been wrapped in a grain sack.

  Of course, Lord Fanworth was not similarly blinded by love. Someone of his rank probably expected that she would dress for the nuptials. It made her want this even less. ‘The situation is unlucky enough already. I doubt my choice of gown will make it worse.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Justine said, turning her sister and unfastening the current unsatisfactory choice. She had all but dragged Margot by the hair to get her to the modiste’s. Perhaps she sought to make up for her own lack of a wedding gown by choosing her sister’s. ‘You got on fine with Fanworth before. Whatever problems you are having now will pass as quickly as they’ve arisen.’

  For a moment, Margot felt that fleeting hope as well. It had been so good, when they had just sat together and talked. Of course, that was before she had seen the man he really was. Now, they seemed to get on best when the lights were out and no talking was necessary. But what was she to do with him, when the sun was up? Were they destined for a lifetime of sitting across the breakfast table from each other in uncomfortable silence?

  ‘At least I will not have to sit in his house, day in, day out, pretending that I am content. I will still have the shop.’ Not really, of course. Once they married, it was his. But surely, he could allow her this one small thing, after casually disrupting her entire life.

  ‘You are not planning on continuing with this.’ Justine’s expression was incredulous, as though the possibility had never occurred to her.

  ‘Have I said anything, at any time, about a wish to give it up?’ Surely she had sacrificed enough since meeting Fanworth. She had given him her innocence. She had tarnished her reputation. And now she was marrying him to keep the peace. But she had no intention of moulding herself into a new person, just to gain approval from him or society. It was simply too much to ask.

  Justine opened her mouth to argue, then smiled. ‘That is something you must discuss with your husband, not with me. I am only here to find something suitable for a future marchioness to wear to her wedding.’

  ‘Discuss it with Fanworth? What a ridiculous notion. Once he got what he wanted from me, he no longer had a reason to speak. If there is to be a discussion over my future, I will have both sides of it, while he stands in the corner and glares.’

  Her frank admission that there had been something more than polite courting involved in the match caused the seamstress to drop her pins in shock. Then she scooped them up, slipped a few between her lips and pinched them shut in a tight, disapproving line.

  And now, if she did not spend according to her new station, there would be more gossip. Margot sighed and pointed to several of the most expensive gowns in the catalogue and requested they be made in equally expensive fabrics.

  Justine and the modiste gave mutual sighs of satisfaction, both convinced that they had won the battle of wills.

  Perhaps they had. When she did not focus on the reason for the purchase, she was rather enjoying the attention. It had been ages since she’d spent time or money on herself. Since she could afford the purchase, what harm would it do her to look nice?

  And she had to admit, if Justine was an indication of this woman’s skill, this shop would be an excellent place to start. Her sister’s gown was neither as gaudy as Mr Montague had encouraged, or as overly simple as she’d chosen for herself. Since she had married, Justine favoured styles that were well cut and elegant, often trimmed with the lace she made with her own hands.

  Now that Margot looked at it, the frock they had all but forced her into was really quite charming. A bit of colour in her wardrobe would not be a bad thing. The pale blue of this silk suited her well, though it could have used some sort of ornament on the bodice.

  As if she had guessed what Margot was thinking, Justine removed a small parcel from her reticule and set it on the counter in front of them. ‘And you will do me the honour of wearing this as well,’ she said. Then she unwrapped the tissue to reveal the most splendid lace fichu Margot had ever seen. ‘I made it for your wedding day.’

  ‘But when did you find the time?’ There had to be many hours of work in the little triangle, for the threads that made up the knots were as fine as cobweb.

  ‘I have been making things for you for years.’ Justine gave an eager smile. ‘Mother’s old trunk is full of them.’

  Margot did not like to think of the hundreds of hours her sister must have spent, preparing for a day that she had been doing her best to avoid. It was clear that Justine had pinned all her hopes on a favourable match for her little sister, ending in a proper, church wedding. Despite her misgivings, Margot owed it to her to at least attempt the part of happy bride.

  It would be interesting to see Fanworth’s reaction should she appear, for once, smartly turned out. He had only seen her dressed for work.

  And naked, of course.

  ‘Would the mademoiselle like a glass of lemonade? Or water, perhaps. She is quite flushed.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Margot said, trying to find an explanation for her sudden blush. ‘The stays are just a bit too tight for me.’

  ‘Of course.’ The woman loosened the lacing and paused in the fitting to bring the promised refreshment.

  Margot took a sip, but it did nothing to cool the heat as she thought of the marquess, gazing at her in surprise. Perhaps he would be moved to comment on how well she was looking. Even if he did not respond with the effusive compliments he had paid her in the past, it would be nice to see him smile again.

  Or perhaps he would give her the same cold stare he had used lately, as though he could not quite remember what had moved him to speak in the first place.

  She dragged her mind back to her sister, who had draped the lace around her shoulders and was tucking it into the neckline of the gown. Margot ran her finger along the picot edge of the scarf. ‘It is too beautiful. With all the trouble I have caused, I am not worthy of such a gift.’

  ‘You must accept it, for I have made you an entire trousseau,’ Justine said, with a happy sigh. ‘I cannot tell you what a relief it is that you are getting married. I have been planning for this day for as long as I can remember. When I had no hope for my own future, I dreamed of yours. And I made sure that you would have all the things I would not. It gave me hope.’

  ‘Oh. Tha
nk you.’ Margot took another sip from the crystal glass of lemonade, which seemed overly sweet compared to the bitter taste in her mouth. She’d had only one wish for her own future: a successful jewellery shop where she could design and sell pretty things she had not even planned to wear for herself. That dream had come true, through her own hard work and stubbornness.

  And through Justine’s sacrifices, of course. She had been the one to endure the advances of the repellent Mr Montague while Margot had stayed safe at school, oblivious to what was happening. Even after she had learned the truth, she had been no help in rescuing Justine from her predicament. All that Justine asked in return was that she be happy.

  And married.

  ‘I am sure your current nightgowns are very sensible.’ Her sister was still talking, Margot’s lack of enthusiasm ignored. ‘But I have made things for you, Margot. For your wedding night.’ Justine gave a sly smile. ‘Soft fabrics. Lace as delicate as a moth wing. You will look beautiful. And I am sure the marquess will find them very flattering.’

  ‘The marquess,’ Margot repeated. At least she knew what to expect from him, on their wedding night. Perhaps he was not the kind, friendly man who had visited her shop. But neither was he the odious Mr Montague, or pompous Mr Pratchet.

  Fanworth was young, handsome and virile. Would a man like that find a lace nightrail flattering? Like the wolf in the fairy story, he would lick his lips and swallow her whole. And it was a shock to realise what a willing victim she would be. She could already imagine his hot breath on her skin.

  Her sister pushed against her arm to wake her from the daydream. ‘You are so busy thinking about your husband to be that you cannot see him right before your eyes. He is walking on the street, opposite.’

  And so he was. She had not seen him since the curious day of his proposal. But then, she had not really expected to. Will had mentioned that he would be gone for at least a week, since he must go to London for the licence. When he had returned, he’d abided by her request for privacy, sending the date and time of the ceremony in a message to her brother-in-law.

  If he were to break his vow and walk past her shop, this was his usual time to do so. But instead, he was several streets away and walking in the wrong direction. And he was not alone.

  He walked arm in arm with a lady she had not seen before. She was a dark-haired beauty, nearly his equal in height, and moving with the grace and poise of the finest society ladies.

  Stephen was absorbed in conversation with her, totally unaware that his future wife watched from a dress-shop window. But then, why would he expect her here, in the middle of a workday? She should be in her shop, nearly a quarter of a mile away from where he talked with this beautiful stranger.

  The easy flow of his words was something she had not seen in weeks. While she watched, he tipped his head skyward and laughed out loud at something the woman said to him. It was not the usual behaviour of the Marquess of Fanworth, who had no time or desire to speak or be spoken to.

  What she was witnessing today was annoyingly familiar. From her concealment, she watched Stephen Standish, at his most charming. And he was using that charm on his next conquest.

  Chapter Twelve

  Stephen was a nervous bridegroom.

  That was all right, he supposed. According to the cliché, such nerves were expected. He had always assumed that they were in some way pre-coital.

  He had no concerns in that matter. Even if they had not dispensed with the first intimacy some weeks ago, he had the utmost confidence in his abilities once the lights were out and the conversation was over.

  But, the actual wedding required speaking, on cue and without hesitation. That was another matter entirely.

  Since the moment he had been sure of her acceptance, he had got out the lectionary and begun to practise his part. The servants were used to the sound of him droning to himself before events such as this. On the rare times he had to speak in a crowd, he practised incessantly until the words came as second nature.

  That a few short phrases should be so difficult was annoying. He supposed it was the gravity of the situation that caused the trouble. That such an important word should begin with a D made it all the worse.

  And now, he was pacing in the nave, muttering softly to himself while awaiting the appearance of his bride. ‘To love and to cherish, until d-d-duh…’ He punched his fist into his twitching left hand. ‘Damn it to hell!’

  The curse echoed through the high ceiling of the Abbey, bringing a shocked gasp from the bishop.

  Stephen smiled to put the man at ease, then went back to his practising. At least he would not have trouble with the bit at the beginning. He took a deep breath to relax and let the two words flow from his lips. ‘I will.’

  ‘You will what?’

  He turned to see his bride, standing in the doorway with her sister and Felkirk. She had heard him practising. But the empathy that had drawn him to her on their first meeting was gone. Today, she was annoyed.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said hurriedly, glancing down at his watch as though obsessing over a prompt start to the ceremony.

  ‘Fanworth?’ Felkirk was at his side now, offering a frown of disapproval and a shallow bow. The man was still not sure whether his sympathies lay with the bride, the groom, or neither of the above.

  ‘Felkirk.’ Stephen bowed in response.

  ‘Are we ready to begin?’

  Stephen nodded.

  Felkirk glanced about him and gave a nod of acknowledgement to the Coltons, who had accompanied his future wife and her sister. They were the only guests. ‘I do not see your family here to witness the event.’

  It was because Stephen had not bothered to inform them of the date. It would have been nice to see his mother again, so that she might meet the woman who would be the next duchess. But if Mother came, so would the duke. The interview with his father had been difficult enough without encouraging him to come and spoil the wedding.

  And God forbid either of them brought Arthur. It would be a disaster.

  He had told his sister, of course. She was the last person in the world he wished to offend. But she could not come alone. As a sop to Louisa, he had taken her to the jewellery shop, hoping that a violation of his promise to avoid his bride would be forgiven, so that he might make this very important introduction. But on that day, of all the days in the year, Miss de Bryun had elected to go shopping rather than man the counter of her shop.

  Perhaps it was a sign that she might be ready to forgo the place in favour of married life. It would make things easier if she were just a bit more like other women of his acquaintance. Of course, none of those women had fascinated him in the way this one did.

  At the moment, the object of his affections was having a whispered argument with her sister who was straightening the very attractive lace collar that adorned Margot’s ordinary work frock.

  ‘I thought we agreed, the blue was more becoming.’

  ‘And I told you that such purchases were not necessary. Your gift suits this just as well.’

  ‘But it is so plain,’ her sister was practically wailing at her.

  ‘Hush.’

  It was true, he supposed. She was hardly dressed for a wedding. But it was very similar to the dress she had been wearing the first time he’d seen her. That was a day worthy of commemoration. He saw no reason to complain.

  The frown upon her face now did not bode well for their future. She swept a glance over the empty church, then back at him, accusing. ‘Are we waiting for other guests?’ It was clear from her expression that she knew they were not. ‘Or might we get this over with?’

  He tried to smother his annoyance. Perhaps things had not gone as either of them had hoped. But was marrying into one of the noblest families in England really such a hardship?

  Then he thought of his family and gave her credit for an accurate understanding of her future as a Standish. He signalled the bishop that they were ready to begin.

  Once the ceremony was unde
rway, he breathed a silent sigh of relief. There were not likely to be any objections from the bride’s family, since they had arranged the match. The empty pews on his side would be peacefully silent. Margot was far too sensible to refuse, rather than say the vows. More importantly, she would never have gone to the trouble of leaving her shop just for the opportunity to embarrass him at the altar.

  The success of the day was all on him. If he could manage to say the words, just as he practised them, there would be no trouble.

  And then, the bishop began to read. ‘Who can find a virtuous woman? Her price is far above rubies.’ Why, of all topics, had he picked that one? He could not have chosen worse if he’d read all of Revelations. Stephen could feel the rage rolling from the woman at his side like a cloud of steam. She must think he’d suggested it as some sort of cruel joke. But now that they were in the midst of things, he could not demand that the officiant stop and chose a more suitable verse. He would find a way to make it up to her later. For now, they would have to brazen it out.

  And then, things got worse.

  The bishop began the vows. ‘Do you, Stephen Xavier, take this woman…’

  Do.

  He had read the prayer book for hours, until he knew the entire ceremony by heart. Apparently, he knew it better than the bishop. The phrase was supposed to begin… ‘Will you…?’ And to that, he could answer effortlessly. But this sudden, unexpected move to the present tense made everything impossible.

  He could answer, ‘I will’, just as he’d expected to. But would she think there was some doubt about his willingness of the moment? The more he thought about it, the harder it was to say anything at all.

  The church was silent. The bishop had got to the end of his part and was waiting for an answer. It was his turn. He must say something, and say it immediately. ‘Yes.’

  For a moment, the bishop paused, as if about to correct him.

  So Stephen chased the single word with a scowl of such ferocity that the man immediately turned to Margot and repeated her part.