Mallory and Thalia exchanged another set of looks.
“Well, despite his undeniable physical appeal, he can be rather formidable,” Mallory said. “So, is it because you dislike him, then?”
“No, I do like him,” Esme said. “At least I think I do. I’ve hardly been around him enough to decide. But I certainly liked it both times he kissed me.”
“Both times?” Mallory gave her a speculative look. “I heard about the thorough bussing Northcote gave you in the hallway before he left for London. But when was this other time?”
“The day he came here to propose,” Esme said. “It was in the drawing room. He kissed me to . . . seal our bargain.”
Thalia studied her. “And you enjoyed it?”
Esme’s cheeks grew warmer. “Yes. Shouldn’t I have?”
Mallory and Thalia laughed again, each woman looking subtly relieved.
“Of course you should,” Mallory told her.
“Especially with a rakehell like Northcote,” Thalia added before she turned serious again. “Esme, if I, for even so much as a second, thought you had anything real to fear from Lord Northcote, I would stop this wedding immediately, no matter how socially expedient it is for the two of you to wed. And scandal or no scandal, your family wouldn’t be letting Lord Northcote marry you if they weren’t certain you would be safe and well cared for as his wife. I even discussed it with Leo when this whole thing began.”
“You did?”
Thalia nodded. “I just wanted to be sure of Northcote, since we have met only a handful of times, and then only in passing. But Leo assures me that in all the essentials Northcote is . . . well, perhaps not a good man in the conventional sense, but he is a fair one and one who in no way abuses women, children and other creatures weaker than himself. Dreadful as his reputation may be, and there’s no denying that it is, you’ve nothing to fear from him in that regard.”
“As I said already, I am not afraid of him.” Esme took Thalia’s hand. “But you are so kind to be concerned for me.”
Thalia gave her hand a quick squeeze. “Of course. We are sisters now.”
Esme’s heart warmed. She didn’t know all the details, but she was aware of a small bit of Thalia’s own history and the brutal nature of her first husband, so she understood why Thalia was expressing such concerns.
But those were not her concerns. She wasn’t worried that Gabriel Landsdowne would mistreat her; such an idea had never even entered her mind. No, she was afraid instead that he might make her unhappy and in return that she might do the same to him. Marriage was for life, regardless of the happiness it might or might not bestow. It was that knowledge that had her standing paralyzed with sudden angst and indecision.
But she’d promised them all.
She’d promised him.
How could she turn her back on him now? Leave him to suffer the ridicule of his peers when he was doing what many men would never have agreed to do in order to salvage her reputation?
As she had on the day she’d consented to be his wife, she knew again what she must do.
“I’m only being foolish,” she said, forcing another fake smile and wishing she could have Leo’s flask back for another drink or two. “It’s just cold feet. Every bride gets them, right?”
Even the ones who don’t consider their grooms virtual strangers.
“You’re sure?” Mallory ventured. “Adam and I would be more than happy to have you come live with us. The children would adore it.”
“You and Adam would be sick of me in a month’s time, two at the most, and you know it,” Esme said. “But you’re a dear to offer.” Esme brushed a hand over the full skirt of her ivory bridal gown, relieved to see that her hands hadn’t started shaking again. “No, I’m ready. Let us go put an end to Ned’s waiting. He must be wondering what has become of us all.”
“Knowing our brother, he probably nipped off to the library for a book to pass the time.”
“Or gathered up some estate papers to review.”
Esme smiled in agreement, then walked across to where Thalia had laid her bridal bouquet aside earlier and picked it up.
Taking a deep breath, she let her sisters lead the way from the room.
Chapter 11
Gabriel resisted the urge to fidget with his watch fob as he waited at the altar. Lawrence Byron, his best man, stood at his side dressed in the same formal black and white as himself. He might have asked Cray to do the honors instead, since they had known each other for more than a decade. The two of them had met under rather unusual circumstances one evening in London when Cray had been set upon by thieves and Gabriel had charged in to help. They’d been good friends ever since. But until yesterday Gabriel had had no idea that Cray had decided to return home unexpectedly from his hunting trip in Scotland.
As it was, Cray and a pair of Cray’s hunting cronies, with whom Gabriel was barely acquainted, were the only ones seated on the groom’s side of the chapel. The absence of Gabriel’s family was notable. Then again, he’d rather have no one there at all than endure the misery of putting up with his uncle, aunt and pack of irritating cousins. Had she still been living, he would have asked his maternal grandmother to attend. She was the last person on earth who’d loved him without condition or reserve. But Nanna had passed on when he’d still been a boy.
Then there was Matthew. Gabriel had loved his brother and still grieved his untimely death, but their relationship had never been an easy one. As the heir, Matthew had always received special treatment, while Gabriel, the spare, had often been shunted aside and left with the unwanted seconds. Their uncle’s marked partiality for Matthew after their parents’ deaths had driven a further wedge between them, one they’d never had time to repair as adults. Still, he thought that Matthew would have gladly stood by his side today as best man.
Shaking off the maudlin thoughts, he glanced again toward the chapel’s open oak double doors and the empty drive beyond.
She was late—his bride. No doubt having second thoughts.
I wonder if she’s going to desert me at the altar.
He scowled, not entirely sure how he felt about the idea of her reneging at the eleventh hour. Though if she did, he supposed it might be a lucky escape for them both.
From the domed ceiling high above, painted angels looked down from their perch amid cerulean skies and fluffy white clouds. Since entering the chapel, he’d done his best to ignore them, feeling curiously sacrilegious beneath their gazes.
He was just about to give in and check the time on his watch when the sound of gravel crunching under coach wheels came from outside the chapel’s main door. Murmurs rippled through the small crowd gathered to attend the ceremony.
The bride was here at last.
He caught a glimpse of ivory satin skirts as Esme stopped just out of his line of sight. He craned his neck for a better view but still managed no more than a frustrating peek. The sounds of low, indistinguishable conversation drifted inside while feminine hands moved in and out of view as her sister and sister-in-law helped straighten her gown and veil.
Then a hush fell.
It was broken seconds later by Lady Leopold as she darted inside. A few kindhearted chuckles erupted as she hurried to take the seat saved for her by her husband, who grinned hugely as she slid in next to him.
Everyone turned their heads to watch the bride’s sister, Mallory—the matron of honor—start gracefully down the aisle, leading the way for the bride.
But Gabriel spared her hardly a glance. His eyes were all for Esme, who stood framed beneath the arched doorway, one small gloved hand resting securely atop her brother Edward’s arm.
His heart thumped, warmth rushing through his veins with an almost electric pulse. He knew he was staring and he didn’t care, a peculiar craving rising within him that was almost primitive in nature.
She’s mine, he thou
ght, any lingering doubts about their union falling away.
Silently, he willed her to look at him, to meet his eyes and acknowledge him as the man who would shortly claim her for his own. But her gaze remained lowered behind the sheer lace of her veil, dark eyelashes fanned like downy half circles against her creamy cheeks.
Finally, she reached the altar and stopped, but still she did not lift her gaze to his. Clybourne squeezed her hand and murmured something into her ear that Gabriel couldn’t quite catch. She nodded and whispered something back as Gabriel stepped up to take his place at her side.
The vicar, dressed in crisp vestments that smelled of starch, opened the Bible in his hands and smiled at everyone gathered. He cleared his throat. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony . . .”
And so the ceremony began.
• • •
Esme kept her eyes on her slippers. In spite of the whiskey with which Mallory and Thalia had plied her, she feared that if she looked at Northcote she’d never make it through the next few minutes.
The traditional ceremony continued, the vicar’s words swirling like smoke inside her brain, leaving her fuzzy and strangely unfocused.
Or maybe that was the whiskey again. Perhaps she shouldn’t have drunk quite so much back at the house. Then before she had any warning whatsoever, she heard her name spoken. Then spoken again. She scowled and forced herself to concentrate, becoming aware that the vicar wanted her to say something. To her relief, she realized that the only response required of her was a simple, “I will.”
Despite not being one hundred percent certain what she was actually agreeing to, she said the words anyway. A ripple of quiet relief traveled through those gathered in the surrounding pews.
Then Edward was speaking, answering some other barely heard question of the vicar’s.
Suddenly her hand was no longer on her brother’s arm. Instead he was placing it inside Northcote’s large grip, then stepping away. What was he doing, leaving her alone up here at the altar?
But as she stood there, she became aware of the comforting warmth of Northcote’s hand and how the heat of his touch drove the last of the lingering chill from her fingers. She trembled, aware of how strong and sure his touch was, how very male and yet how very unlike her brother’s it was.
For after all, tingles never chased through her like quicksilver when she touched Edward, or any of her other brothers come to that.
And her breath never grew oddly shallow in their presence, as if she’d suffered a sudden fall and couldn’t quite manage to get her lungs working right again.
And she certainly did not flush, cheeks and neck bursting with heat and telltale color.
Suddenly she was glad for the veil that partially hid her from his gaze—a gaze whose force continued to compel her to look up, to obey his will and do exactly as he wished.
He began reciting his vows, his voice rich and melodic, almost hypnotic, as he spoke words of love and made promises of lifelong devotion that she knew he could not possibly mean.
And yet he said the words, agreed to that final step, which would forever after bind his fate to hers.
Then her turn arrived, only this time she had to say more than two simple words.
“Repeat after me,” the vicar told her solemnly.
Concentrating, she took a fortifying breath and began the recitation, promising things she also did not feel but would try her utmost to honor.
She finished saying her vows, grateful that she verbally stumbled only a single time when she had to swear to obey him—which she most certainly would not be doing.
Then Lawrence, whose presence she had nearly forgotten about, handed Gabriel the ring.
Gabriel took her hand again and she saw her wedding band for the first time. What with everything having been so rushed, he never had given her an engagement ring, but this one more than made up for its lack. The band was delicate and made of warm rose gold. The stone itself was stunning, a large round diamond surrounded by a circlet of smaller diamonds that glittered like stars. It was as if he’d managed to reach into the sky and pull down a constellation on a recent starry night.
And that’s when she finally looked up at him, meeting his eyes as he slid the ring on her finger and recited the last of the vows that made her his wife.
His eyes were blazing, as gold as coins and as penetrating as a midday sun. She shivered again, but this time from a deep, inner warmth that was shocking in its intensity. She pressed her toes hard against the soles of her slippers and fought to hold herself steady.
But she needn’t have worried, she realized. Gabriel was holding her tight; he would not let her fall.
• • •
Once the vicar had concluded his prayers and finally pronounced Gabriel and Esme “man and wife,” Gabriel lifted her veil away from her face, folding it back so he could see her clearly without any interference.
She looked beautiful and very innocent, her vibrant blue eyes wide with what he guessed was shock. Her cheeks were stained pink with more of the nerves she hadn’t been able to hide during the ceremony. As for her rosy mouth, her lips were slightly parted and ripe for kissing.
Mine, he thought primitively. Mine to touch and taste and claim at my leisure.
He nearly laughed aloud at the realization that she was his wife now, and that beginning today, no one could keep her from him. In his mind’s eye, he gathered her to him and pulled her high inside his arms, coaxing her legs to wrap around his waist as he kissed her breathless.
But he supposed he would have to wait until later for such love play, seeing that they were standing on the wedding altar in front of her family. Besides, such antics might cause the vicar to faint dead on the spot.
He smiled down at her and bent to take a quick kiss, regardless of how unfashionable such behavior might be considered among the upper classes, but stopped short when he caught a surprisingly familiar scent on her breath.
“Have you been drinking?” he murmured low, so that only she could hear.
She blinked up at him, rather like a baby owlet who’d fallen out of its nest. “No,” she said, then frowned at her own lie. “Well, maybe just a little. I needed something to steady my nerves.”
“So you drank your weight in brandy?”
“It was whiskey and I only had a couple of sips.”
A slow grin spread over his mouth; then he chuckled, slid an arm around her waist and tucked her against his side.
Turning them both around, he steered her along the aisle, ignoring the quizzical looks of her family and friends, who were clearly wondering what they’d been whispering about.
Just beyond the wide double doors, he stopped and angled his head toward hers to press a quick, firm kiss against her lips. She tasted sweet with the promise of unexplored passion and a delicious hint of the whiskey she’d drunk.
“We’ll continue this later,” he said, “but that will have to do for now.”
Then they were surrounded as the guests flooded from the church to wish them well.
Chapter 12
It might be her wedding day, but Esme was ready for it to be over.
She’d been on her feet for hours and hours—first at the ceremony and then at the reception. Her only real respite had been during the reception nuncheon, where the bridal party and all of the guests had gathered to partake of the sumptuous meal prepared by Cook and the kitchen staff.
Cook had even found the time to create a lavish four-tiered wedding cake with a traditional fruitcake topper that would be saved for her and her new spouse to share in celebration of their first wedding anniversary.
At the moment, Esme couldn’t even imagine such a possibility; she could barely believe she was married at all. And yet she had the grand diamo
nd ring on her left hand to prove it and Lord Northcote at her side—large and real and undeniably male.
He hadn’t kissed her again as he had outside the chapel right after the ceremony. But brief as their embrace had been, she could still remember the sensation of his lips pressed to hers along with the dizzying pleasure of his touch. Or maybe that had just been the whiskey making itself known, her head hazy from alcohol and nerves rather than from the man who was now her husband.
She shot Northcote a sideways glance where he stood talking with her cousin India and India’s husband, Quentin, Duke of Weybridge. Quentin, whom Esme counted as one of her favorite relations, had once boasted a reputation as bad as—possibly even worse than—that of Northcote himself, although she wasn’t supposed to know anything about such matters, of course. Given his history, she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised to discover that Quentin and Northcote were old acquaintances. Apparently, they had even “cut a swath” through London together in years past when Northcote had still been what Quentin good-naturedly called a “young puppy.”
But despite the fact that Quentin was now a loyal, loving husband and father of three who had long since given up his profligate ways, Esme held out little hope that Northcote would do the same, regardless of his promise to remain faithful to her. For unlike India and Cousin Quentin, she and Northcote had not married for love.
Swallowing a tired sigh, she shuffled her slippered feet beneath her long skirts and gazed longingly toward the doorway, wishing she could slip off to her room.
At least there’d been no mention of her leaving Braebourne tonight with her new husband. What with all the hurry for them to wed, plans for a honeymoon had been overlooked. Given the circumstances of her marriage, though, going off on a honeymoon seemed rather ridiculous. After all, honeymoons were for couples in love like Leo and Thalia, whom she’d caught more than once gazing at each in the most heatedly intimate way when they didn’t think they were being observed.
Happily Bedded Bliss: The Rakes of Cavendish Square Page 11
