Autumn Glory and Other Stories

by Barbara Metzger

  Hugh could feel Marian stiffen at his side. He was not about to let some harpy destroy her pleasure in the evening, her burgeoning confidence in her social acceptance. He stepped in front of Mrs. Sondebeck. “I do not believe I have had the pleasure of an introduction, but my wife and I wished to offer our sympathies.”

  “I will accept no condolences from the whore who caused my husband’s death. He would be here with me now, if not for her.”

  A nearby matron gasped. Marian pulled on his arm, but Hugh was not leaving. “You are speaking of my wife, madam.”

  “Who is nothing but a highborn strumpet.”

  “My wife is a lady, Mrs. Sondebeck, a lady by birth, by marriage, and by nature, which is more than I can say for you and your wicked tongue. My lady”—he emphasized the lady—“was your husband’s prey, not his pursuer. She came here to the Peninsula because of Sondebeck’s professions of love for her and his promise to wed her, a promise he made without ever mentioning your existence. The traitor, the evildoer, was your husband, not his innocent victim. And my lady wife is no more responsible for his death than I am, except that I would have shot him if the French had not done the deed first. Consider yourself fortunate to be rid of such scum, for he would have gone on betraying you. And consider that if you had not been such a fishwife—perhaps, only perhaps, mind you—he might not have strayed in the first place.”

  Now Marian gasped.

  Mrs. Sondebeck paled. “How dare you!”

  “Oh, I dare a great deal. In fact, if you ever speak ill of Lady Hardesty, or show her any disrespect, you will see what I dare. All doors will be closed to you, all chances to make another, better marriage will be ended.”

  “Hugh,” Marian whispered in his ear, “stop. She is a grieving widow. I feel sorry for her.”

  “I do not,” he said, loudly enough to be heard by those avid listeners nearby. “She is a spiteful shrew who made your life miserable here.” Then he relented. “My wife and I are taking a private yacht home, so our cabin on the army transport ship is open. Please accept its use, instead of the women’s quarters, with my compliments and condolences. Good evening, ma’am.”

  They left soon after, and as soon as they were in the carriage to return to their lodgings, Marian threw herself into Hugh’s arms. “You were wonderful, my husband. You were brave and noble and defended me as no one ever had.”

  He was enjoying the feel of her in his embrace too much to notice the pain from his broken arm. “Of course I defended you. You are my wife. No one shall ever hurt you again, I swear.”

  “Not even you?”

  “Especially not me.”

  And Marian believed him. For the first time in her life she felt truly safe, protected, cherished. If he did not outright love her, well, she might have to love enough for both of them. She was his, and he was hers, to have and to hold. So she held him, and kissed him, and let his good hand wander where it would, and let her own fingers go exploring. Soon they were both gasping. Then the carriage halted at their lodgings.

  “Later, my love,” he said, as he accepted a packet of mail from the majordomo. “I shall join you as soon as I read the post.”

  But the reading took longer than he thought, especially the letter from his solicitor. By the time Hugh went upstairs, undressed, shaved, and bathed again, to Kirby’s aggravation, Marian was already in bed, waiting for him.

  Except she was fast asleep. So was the dog, who nonetheless raised his head and snarled when Hugh would have joined his bride beneath the covers. Hugh knew how early they had to arise in the morning, and how exhausted Marian must be, so he let her sleep. He did tell the dog, “I will leave now, but you’d better remember who your master is in the future.”

  The dog remembered. He growled louder.

  9

  Hugh did not mind the wait. He would have his bride alone on the elegant yacht, in the luxurious stateroom, with the wind in the sails to serenade them and the gentle rocking of the sea to lull them when they rested afterward.

  Unfortunately the rocking was not so gentle, and they had not even left the dock. The cabin smelled of stale cigar smoke and seaweed, and the oil lamp swayed in its gimbal. After five minutes Hugh bolted for the fresh air on deck, and the railing. Too late he recalled one of the reasons he had thrown himself so heartily into the battle against the French: He would never live through another water crossing anyway, so he might as well die in a good cause.

  He did live, but barely. He had to be half carried off the yacht by Kirby and Allenby, who had been reassigned to London until someone at the war office found a use for the lovesick pup.

  Hugh did not notice that no one met them at the dock. If he thought of it at all, he would have been happy that none of his friends or family saw how weak he was, how woefully debilitated, and not by his war wounds.

  Marian noticed, and twisted the strings of her reticule. Her aunt could not have come from Bath in time, if her father had been willing to travel to the capital that he disliked, but surely someone in Hugh’s family could have sent a carriage for them—if they wished to acknowledge the marriage. The strings on her purse were so tangled, she had to cut them when they reached the hotel.

  Hugh’s bachelor rooms at Albany House were not suitable for a respectable woman, so he directed the hired hackney to take them to one of the new Mayfair hotels. With Allenby gone to report in to the war office, and Kirby left at the docks to see to the baggage, Hugh was able to make the arrangements he wished: one bedchamber, not two. And a cushion on the floor for the dog. Marian blushed, but made no demur. Hugh was feeling better by the moment.

  He had a good meal in the dining parlor, his first in days. He was empty and starving, and the hotel’s chef was trying to impress these important guests, to build his reputation. Hugh sampled everything, and declared it delicious. Marian picked at her food.

  Old Nick picked on the dog.

  “No! No! No!” he shouted, looking at the large bed in the room where Hugh and Marian were to sleep. They would not sleep a wink, he estimated, and was furious. “Passion will ensnare him. He is already more than half in love with the woman. Sex would bind him to her side forever. Lawful fornication, faugh! What good is that to me?” He aimed a kick at Impy. “You keep them out of this bed, do you hear?”

  Impy heard. He knocked over the candle and set the mattress on fire.

  *

  There was nothing for it but that they go to Hardesty House in Grosvenor Square. It was late, Marian was upset, Hugh was frustrated, and their clothes smelled of smoke. The dog needed salve for his burns, Marian needed a good night’s rest, and Hugh needed…

  Well, he was not going to find what he needed at Hardesty House, not anytime soon, at any rate. Chaos reigned there, with servants rushing in all directions and baggage in the hall, even before they arrived with theirs.

  His mother shrieked when she saw him. Actually, she shrieked when she saw an unfamiliar dog lift his leg on one of her potted plants. Then she noticed her son.

  “You? Hugh? But you are not due!” she wailed, hugging him tightly, then stepping back to survey her firstborn son for damage. “We expected you to arrive at the end of the week.”

  He handed her his handkerchief and said, “We chartered a yacht. What difference does it make?”

  “Difference? My whole surprise is ruined, that’s all. The ball is not for a few days.”

  “I did not know you were throwing a ball.”

  “Of course not, or it would not have been a surprise. And of course I am throwing a ball. How could I not when my son comes home a hero, and brings a bride with him, besides? It is to be the largest, grandest fete anyone can remember. His Grace says that it is already the most expensive ever. The prince is attending—more’s the pity, since he’ll be late as usual and the food will be cold, but no matter. He wants to give you a citation for bravery. Goodness, that was supposed to be another surprise. Oh, I am truly at sixes and sevens. Here you are, and I have not even greeted your brid
e!” She embraced Marian, not waiting for formal curtsies. “My beautiful new daughter-in-law!”

  Marian had a lump in her throat at such a welcome. “You are throwing a ball for us?”

  “Of course, my dear. How else are we to introduce you properly to the family and our friends?”

  “Then you don’t mind?”

  “What, that I missed my son’s wedding? Of course I do. I was going to plan another ceremony for you, this time at St. George’s Cathedral, but His Grace said I should wait to see about your wishes.”

  Marian was overwhelmed. “I…I… The one in Spain was fine. But I meant, do you mind that I am your son’s bride?”

  “Mind? I am thrilled! You are everything I ever wanted for my son, for the mother of my grandchildren. I already adore you for saving Hugh’s life, you know. And for writing to us about his condition. I am positive I shall come to love you too, for yourself and because you are going to make my son happy. I just know it. The general sent us a note in the army’s dispatch bag saying so, besides.”

  There were tears in Marian’s eyes as Hugh’s mother led her off to the suite of rooms assigned to her, freshly painted in her favorite colors, with a wardrobe full of new half-finished gowns and with a maid to attend her.

  “Well, you will have a day or so before the ball to get acclimated,” Her Grace said. “Perhaps it is better this way, meeting the houseguests as they arrive rather than all at once at the ball. I expect you’ll want to visit with your aunt and brother too. The young scamp left his university as soon as he heard of your return, and has been haunting the stables ever since. I expect your aunt is resting. She has been such a help, I don’t know what I would have done without her. I’ll send for them both, shall I, or do you wish to refresh yourself?”

  “They are both here? That is the best surprise of all, for I have missed them sorely. Is my father going to attend the ball?”

  “Oh, he is here too. His Grace insisted.” The duchess’s voice said she would have seen the curmudgeon rot in Bath instead.

  Marian met up with her family as soon as her new maid tidied her hair. Her aunt blubbered with joy, and her brother kissed her cheek, thrilled to be in town, and with a top-of-the-trees brother-in-law who promised to introduce him to Gentleman Jackson himself and take him to Tattersall’s.

  Her father was…her father. The earl patted Marian’s shoulder and noted that she had landed on her feet, after all.

  “Are you happy for me, Papa?”

  “I’d have been a deuced lot happier if you’d been a proper daughter and wed the man I picked. Now where is my cane? There is a new physician His Grace recommends. Quacks, all of them, but I might as well consult with the man while I am here.”

  Hugh’s welcome-home took longer, and was more enthusiastic. His sister almost knocked him over, once his mother had stopped dampening his shirtfront with her tears, and his brother-in-law’s slap on the back nearly brought him to his knees. All the aunts had to weep over his scars, and the cousins wanted to hear about his experience. But his father enfolded him in his arms—the first time since Hugh was in short pants—and said, “I am glad you came home, boy. I am proud of you.”

  They parted quickly, awkwardly, unfamiliar with such physical displays. They each turned aside to hide the evidence of tears in their eyes. Hugh would discuss extortion and blackmail and underhanded dealings with solicitors later. For now he was happy to be in the bosom of his family, happy to be in His Grace’s good graces. He was happiest of all that what pleased his august parent pleased him, for once. His bride was being embraced by his family, and soon enough she would be embraced by him.

  They had little time together, with the house so full of company and more arriving daily. Marian was swept off for fittings and morning calls and sight-seeing with her brother. Hugh was busy consulting with the war office, his man of affairs, and his tailor. He had to make time for that same brother, so the boy did not land in any of the London pitfalls he himself had blindly stumbled into. In the evenings the duchess kept them busy with the opera and the theater and plans for the ball. Hugh and Marian fell into bed at night, exhausted and alone, but content that they were growing closer in understanding, that their worlds were meshing, that their time would come.

  The dog was exhausted too, but not alone. He had a bed in the kitchens, all the bones he could eat, and the cook’s terrier bitch beside him. Impy was in love, and to Hades with his orders. He was a dog. He was staying a dog. He’d earned the choice and he was taking it. His might be a short life on earth instead of eternity in hell, but he’d die with his tail wagging. Saint Peter had rewarded him with a new life and freedom from Satan’s shackles.

  The day of the ball finally came, clear and temperate, just the way Her Grace had ordered. The music was superb, the refreshments sublime, and the decorations stunning. But it was the honored couple who starred that night. Hugh was at his most elegant, looking raffish with his scar and his sling, but Marian was magnificent. She wore a new gown of blue gauze, with the Hardesty diamonds around her neck, the Fortenham tiara on her head, and a new ring that Hugh had bought just for her, to start an heirloom collection of their own. Mostly she wore a smile, not a feigned social simper, but a genuine smile of happiness, all the brighter when she looked at him, which was often, if not always. And Hugh could not take his eyes off her, either. If anyone commented on the circumstances of the wedding, it was merely to mention that fate worked in mysterious ways, finding this perfect match in such an unlikely setting. If anyone commented on the fact that the bride and groom left their own ball hours before its end, they said it with a wink and a smile, happy that the newlyweds took such joy in each other.

  Joy? Hugh had never experienced such passion, such completion. Marian had never known that such absolute, incredible ecstasy existed. What she lacked in experience, she made up for in enthusiasm. What he could not manage with his broken arm, he managed with his lips and his tongue and his words of love. And they truly were that, words of love.

  “You do know how much I love you, don’t you, Marian mine?” he asked when they were near to drowsing in each other’s embrace.

  “Hmm. But I think you’d better tell me again.”

  So he did, and showed her the evidence of his affection, so they were anything but sleepy. Later—a lot later—Marian stroked his face, feeling the coarse beard starting to form on his jaw. “We have to talk, my love.”

  Hugh could barely think, much less talk. “I am listening.”

  “Do you remember when you were hurt, and the dog would not let anyone tend you? I would have shot the stupid animal to save your life, you know.”

  “I recall the scene fondly. You were a Viking warrior priestess, calling thunderbolts down on the disobedient. Or else you were a shrew. I could not tell which at the time.”

  “Whichever it was, I truly would have fired at the animal to save you. Know this, my lord, my love, that if you are ever unfaithful to me, ever betray our vows, then I will shoot you to save our marriage and my sanity. I thought I could be a complacent, accepting wife, averting her eyes from her husband’s indiscretions. I cannot, especially after we shared this.” Her arm waved around the room to encompass the tousled sheets, the scent of lovemaking, their contented, floating-on-clouds conditions. “I could not face the idea of your making love to another woman this way.”

  “I have never made love to a woman this way,” he swore truthfully. “For I have never been in love. But you still do not trust me, do you, Marian?”

  “How can I, knowing your reputation? Why, half the women present tonight gave you such looks, I almost threw my champagne at them.”

  “Did they? I never noticed. No matter, for I shall prove to you that my reputation means nothing. Do you think thirty or forty years can convince you of my faithfulness?”

  “Hmm. I suppose that ought to be enough for a proper, loyal husband. I was hoping for eternity, though.”

  “Then eternity it is. You see, I always intended to ho
nor my marriage vows. That’s why I never took a wife, because I never found a woman worth the effort of fidelity. Now I have, and I will never let her go. I love you, Lady Hardesty, only you.”

  “And I love you, Lord Hardesty, only you. Forever.”

  “Forever,” he repeated, before falling asleep.

  *

  “You won.”

  “No, you won.”

  “But you were right.”

  “No, you were. I am honest enough to admit it. You said the love of a good woman would reform the man. He is as good as a saint now, blast it. You won.”

  “But you said her love would not be enough, that it was his love that mattered, and you spoke wisely, so you won. He had to love the woman in return before he put her happiness ahead of his own.”

  They both thought about such a love and what it could do. Then Saint Peter said, “You know, we were both wrong. It is neither the love of nor the love for a good woman that matters. It is the right woman for a man who can change his life, change the world.”

  The devil sighed, then brightened. “But that son she is carrying will be a real hellion. No doubt about it. He’ll be one of mine, absolutely.”

  “It’s a daughter she is carrying,” the saint replied. “An angel as good as gold, as pure as new-fallen snow.”

  “A son, I say.”

  “A daughter.”

  “A boy, damn him.”

  “A girl, bless her.”

  *

  Nine months later, to her husband’s relief and delight, Marian, Lady Hardesty, was delivered of a beautiful blue-eyed baby girl. And a sturdy auburn-haired baby boy.

  About the Author

  The author of more than three dozen Regency romances, Barbara Metzger is the proud recipient of a RITA and two Romantic Times Career Achievement Awards for Regencies. When not writing Regencies or reading them, she paints, gardens, volunteers at the local library, and goes beachcombing on the beautiful Long Island shore. She loves to hear from her readers through her Web site, www.BarbaraMetzger.com, or Facebook.