Because of what his Nanny had referred to when he was small as ‘a black monkey on his shoulder’, it did not make him feel any better to notice the huge marquee set up a short distance from the house, where the tenants and employees would be entertained tomorrow.
He regarded it with a scowl and had an impulse to turn his horses round and go straight back to London.
Then, as he thought of it, he could hear the Baroness say in her soft, seductive broken English,
“I shall be waiting for you, Buck darling, and you know I would never do anything to interfere in your life in any way, but I am always here, if you want me.”
As she made this touching declaration, her red lips had been very close to his and the exotic Parisian perfume she used seemed as enticing as the invitation in her eyes and the pressure of her soft arms round his neck.
‘The Baroness is waiting,’ he told himself now, ‘but so is the boring, gauche young woman my sisters have chosen for me as a bride.’
At the moment everything that marriage meant to him seemed to sweep over him like a tidal wave and he felt drowned in the horror of it.
He could imagine all too clearly the boredom of listening to the ill-informed chatter of a girl who had had little experience of life and even less of men.
He was used to the cut and thrust, the double entendres and what he recognised to be a duel of words that inevitably ended in the contact of two excited bodies.
He was also loathing the idea of seeing the amused smiles on the lips of his relatives and friends as he came down the aisle a married man, encumbered with a wife he had not chosen for himself, but who was suitable because her lineage was as old as his.
“Suitable!” the Duke muttered, and made the word sound almost like an oath.
He thought now, too late, that he had been a fool.
If he had to marry, he should have chosen a woman from his own world, where there were plenty of widows who would have accepted the responsibility of being his Duchess without any difficulty.
She would also have kept him amused by arranging parties of his special friends and being sophisticated enough to close her eyes to any indiscretions on his part, while he would do the same for her.
Instead of which, not thinking it over carefully as he did with any new project, he had relied on his sisters to choose his wife.
They, of course, had no idea except the conventional one – that she should be young and of a good family and therefore obviously competent to produce the sons who were so essential to the succession.
Vaguely at the back of his mind he remembered that he had added his own proviso to this – that she should be pure and innocent – and he thought he must have been demented to think of anything so foolish or so incredibly boring.
What did such ideas matter when what he wanted and what he should have insisted upon was a woman like the Baroness, but without the encumbrance of a husband?
There was a dark look on the Duke’s face as he alighted from his phaeton and walked up the wide grey stone steps, which were partially covered by a red carpet and in through the magnificently carved stone doorway.
The Major Domo was waiting to greet him, besides the butler and at least a dozen footmen.
“Welcome home, Your Grace!” the Major Domo intoned respectfully.
The Duke nodded to him and, without asking any questions, walked up the exquisitely carved and gilded staircase towards his own apartments.
His feelings of horror at what lay ahead was not assuaged by finding that the passages, as well as the hall, had all been decorated with white flowers.
When he reached the Master suite and entered his own bedroom, which, redesigned and embellished when the house was rebuilt by his grandfather, was so splendid as to be awe-inspiring, he was again assailed by the fragrance of flowers, which merely increased his irritation.
This came not from his own bedroom, where he would undoubtedly have thrown them out the window, but from the boudoir next door, which connected his room with that which had always been used by the Duchesses of Buckhurst.
Even to think of it increased the Duke’s anger, because the bed, inherited from the time of Charles II, was a riot of golden angels, hearts and coronets, while the ceiling, painted by an Italian Master, depicted Aphrodite embracing Ares, the God of War.
The Duke walked into his bedroom, where his valet was waiting and said disagreeably,
“Open the windows! The stink of flowers is overpowering!”
“It’s the white lilies, my Lord,” his valet replied. “Her Ladyship thought they was appropriate for the boudoir and the Bridal Chamber.”
The Duke’s lips tightened, but, by a superhuman effort of self-control, he refrained from expressing his feelings on the subject.
Only as he bathed in cold water did he begin to feel some of his tension and anger ebbing away and he remembered that it would be a mistake for anyone other than his sisters to realise his true feelings.
He was aware that in a house packed with his relatives it was going to be extremely difficult to keep them from learning first that he had never seen the girl he was to marry and secondly that he loathed, not only the whole idea of marriage, but also the woman who had so complacently accepted him.
He had not until this moment thought of her as a person, but just as a wife he did not want.
Now he thought that she must in fact be a type of woman he loathed, that is to say a ‘social climber’, a female who would put up with any husband, whatever he was like, so long as he could give her a title and provide her with the comforts that went with it.
Too late it seemed to him that he had been much too arbitrary in insisting that his wedding should take place within a month.
It was obvious that no woman with any pride would accept such conditions, especially when it was made clear that he did not intend even to see her or to make the gesture of proposing to her personally.
At the back of his mind, he remembered reading a letter from his sister saying that a number of the parents they had approached first had turned him down.
But because Elizabeth had been too tactful to state the real reason for this, the Duke supposed it must have been because of the speed at which the marriage had to take place.
“The whole thing is a mess from start to finish!” he exclaimed aloud.
He knew that actually there was nobody but himself to blame, although that did not make things seem any better.
At last he was ready and his valet was aware that nobody could look more magnificent or more impressive than the Duke in full evening dress.
His satin breeches became him and his silk stockings showed off his fine legs, which every boot-maker had claimed were perfectly formed for a riding boot.
Below his knee the Garter glittered, just as his decorations did on his well-fitting evening-coat.
His cravat was a poem in itself, but the Duke did not even glance in the mirror as he walked from the room, thinking as he did so that this was his last night of freedom.
Because he felt he had nothing to celebrate in his marriage, he had refused all suggestions from his friends that he should have a bachelor party.
He had attended too many in the past not to find them a bore, the guests always drank too much, the jokes were bawdy and the bridegroom doubtless felt ill for at least forty-eight hours from over-indulgence.
The Duke had wanted to spend his last night with the Baroness and he only wished he could have her with him now, instead of having to face the curious, speculative and amused glances of his relatives when he greeted them downstairs.
He anticipated the worst and when, a few hours later he retired to bed, the Duke knew he had underestimated how unpleasant it all would be.
He thought the toasts that were drunk to him at dinner were all insincere and the gushing flattery of his female relatives was false.
He thought also that, of the thirty people who sat down to dinner in the huge Baronial dining room, there was not one, with the exce
ption of his sister Elizabeth, for whom he had the slightest feeling of affection.
The dinner was delicious, the wines were superb, but as far as the Duke was concerned he might have been eating sawdust and drinking ditch water.
As he sat at the head of the long table laden with the gold candelabra and gold ornaments which had been in the family for years, all he could think of was that tomorrow night and every night after this a strange woman would be sitting at the end of his table whom he was obliged to call his wife.
He was aware that his moodiness was affecting the ladies who sat on either side of him.
After doing their utmost to make him reply to their animated remarks, they looked at him out of the corners of their eyes and talked instead to their dinner partners on their other side.
Only when the ladies had withdrawn and the port was being passed round the table did the Marquis move to sit next to the Duke and say a little hesitantly,
“I hope we have arranged everything to your satisfaction, Buck. Elizabeth and Margaret have certainly worked hard to please you.”
“If you were pleasing me,” the Duke replied, “I would not be here at this moment!”
The Marquis sighed before he replied,
“I know that, but at the same time, as you have been in London, I expect you have heard how Edmund is behaving.”
“I have!”
“He is spouting forth a pack of lies,” the Marquis said angrily, “to anybody who will listen to him and unfortunately there are always a few who will do that.”
The Duke’s lips tightened, but he did not reply and after a moment the Marquis went on,
“Equally, I hear he is desperately worried. The money lenders are calling in their loans.”
“He should have expected that,” the Duke remarked.
“Of course,” the Marquis agreed. “But I don’t like the situation. Desperate men do desperate things, Buck, as you well know.”
“I should not imagine that Edmund could do anything more desperate than marry Lottie!” the Duke said.
The Marquis sighed again.
“I hope you are right, but I just feel uncomfortable about the whole scenario.”
“What do you think I feel?” the Duke asked savagely.
The Marquis did not reply and then somebody else engaged the Duke’s attention.
Fortunately, the evening ended early, as the majority of the relatives were getting on in age and many of them had long distances to travel after the wedding was over.
The Marchioness had made it quite clear to them that they could not continue to stay at Buckhurst Park, since the Duke would be there for the first few nights of his honeymoon.
Elizabeth was in fact guessing this, because she had no idea what her brothers plans would be after he had married.
She had written two letters to him asking him where he was going for a honeymoon, but he had not replied and she had merely hoped that he had made his arrangements with Mr. Dalton and left it at that.
She was quite sure that the first night at any rate would be spent at Buckhurst Park and she had therefore made it quite clear that the wedded couple were to be left alone.
She had also hoped to have a talk with Buck early in the day before the party arrived, but, as he was so late, she thought despairingly that there was nothing more she could do to ensure that everything went off well.
She could only pray that the expression that had been on his face all through dinner would not frighten Samala from the moment they were married.
Every visit she made to The Priory had made her grow fonder of her future sister-in-law, besides making her more convinced than she was already that she was everything that Buck had asked for in a wife.
At the same time her friends in London could not prevent themselves from telling her how alluring the Baroness was and how she and Buck had spent every moment of their time together since they had arrived from Leicestershire.
“Why did that woman have to come into Buck’s life at this particular moment?” Elizabeth asked her husband.
“She is very attractive!”
“All Buck’s women have been attractive, but she sounds rather worse than the rest.”
“If you mean she is a Siren,” the Marquis said slowly, “then I suppose that is the type Buck has always favoured. I could name half-a-dozen of his beauties who had a serpent-like grace about them and in consequence were regarded as dangerous by women like yourself.”
“Of course I think they are dangerous,” Elizabeth replied, “but I love Buck, and I know, Arthur, how fond you are of him and we want him to be happy in his marriage. But what chance will a child like Samala have if she has to compete with a woman like the Baroness?”
Because he had no answer to this, the Marquis had merely shrugged his shoulders and Elizabeth thought despairingly that there was nothing she could do that she had not already done.
*
The following morning was brilliant with sunshine and at least it was some satisfaction to know that the garden, where the gardeners had been working feverishly ever since the wedding had been announced, was a bower of beauty.
So was the Church and, as the guests filled it with a kaleidoscope of colour, the Marchioness thought that Samala would appreciate the wreaths of white flowers that had been arranged round the chancel and the star-like white orchids that covered the altar.
‘They are like her,’ she thought and was surprised that she should be so poetical.
Samala was already being entranced by the decorations in the village, which they passed through before they reached the Church, which was just inside the great Park.
Because the villagers were thrilled that the Duke should be married, which meant a party for them and the promise of fireworks in the evening, they had decorated their cottages as well as making two triumphal arches through which the bride must pass before she reached the Church.
Because both Samala and her father, the Earl, lived in a world of their own, struggling with their own problems, they had no idea of how much they were admired locally and how affectionately people felt about them.
The Earl would have been particularly surprised if he had realised that because he was so handsome and people thought him brave under the difficulties of his position, he was pitied and at the same time respected.
“’E be a real gentleman, that’s what ’e be,” the local farmers and their wives said, “and it’s a cryin’ shame ’e ’asn’t got two ’alfpennies to rub together. And if ’e ’ad, ’e’d be sharin’ it with someone and that’s the truth!”
Because they were sorry for him, they went out of their way to do small things for the Kenwyn estate and to obviate extra expense from damage and flood, which might otherwise have cost the Earl money he could not afford.
Because Samala was like her mother they loved her too.
The Countess had had nothing to give them except kindness, love and understanding.
Although their cottages leaked and they knew it was no use asking for repairs, the fact that she was there and would call on them if they were ill and listen to their troubles meant more than rain-resistant roofs and newly painted doors, which could be found just over the border on the Duke’s estate.
Then, after all these years of hoping he would marry, that the Duke should have chosen as his wife somebody they knew and were fond of was deeply appreciated, besides delighting everybody who lived on both estates.
The Duke would have been astonished if he had realised how the choice had enhanced his own reputation.
“He’s got an eye for the right horse and now I knows he’s one for the right wife!” one tradesman said to another and their wives told each other that there had never be a prettier bride than her Ladyship, whatever her wedding gown might be like.
Because nothing could be hidden from local eyes and ears, it was soon learnt that Samala’s wedding gown, like her trousseau, was a present from the Marchioness.
It came from London, and speculation ab
out it excited all the young girls of her age, as well as their mothers, their grandmothers and their great-grandmothers.
When Samala and her father entered the village in the Duke’s largest and most impressive carriage, drawn by four superb horses, the road was lined with women waving their handkerchiefs.
They watched the carriage pass, then ran as quickly as they could through a secondary entrance into the Park.
The carriage went on to pass through the main gate with the rampant griffon carried on the stone gateposts and the wrought-iron gates themselves surmounted by the Ducal coronet.
By the time the horses drew up outside the small grey stone Church, the crowd outside seemed enormous.
Then, as Samala was helped out of the carriage, there was a loud gasp of excitement at the sight of her gown.
The Marchioness had chosen it with care and it was as beautiful as any bride could wish for in her dreams.
The bodice of soft white gauze with a very full skirt accentuated the tininess of Samala’s waist and the veil covering her face made her appear ethereal and almost like a nymph or a sprite, which had risen from a lake.
On her head she wore a tiara belonging to the Buckhurst collection. It was not the overwhelming, crown-like one the Duchesses had always worn for the Opening of Parliament and other State occasions, but had the form of a tiny wreath of flowers.
With the tiara on her fair hair catching the sunlight, she seemed to carry it with her from the brightness outside into the darkness of the nave.
Holding on to her father’s arm, Samala felt as if she was moving in a dream and what was happening could not be true.
It was one thing to think that she was to be married, but now the moment had come when she had left home and was walking up the aisle towards the man who was to be her husband.
She felt as if she was telling herself one of her usual fanciful stories, but it had become real and was no longer just a part of her imagination.
And yet the soft music of the organ, and the rustle of the congregation as she passed them, was like the music of the wind in the trees and all the time she was conscious of her feet carrying her nearer and nearer to the Duke.
A Marriage Made In Heaven Page 7
