ColonelAndEnchantress_PGolden-eBooks

by Golden, Paullett

  “Not as such. We shared a brief battle or two, nothing more. One of the many fellow officers I met in my short career. Why the dislike?”

  “His father was one of the suitors my mother arranged. I’m positive I wrote to you about him, but there were so many, it’s difficult to recall who made it into the letters and who didn’t. This lecher brought his sons with him, both of whom were as interested in me as their father. If that doesn’t tell you all you need to know, nothing will.”

  “Indeed, it does.” Duncan shuddered. “He was a good man, as far as I can remember. Brutal on the field, though. There’s a fine line between fighting for Crown and country and enjoying the kill.”

  “Right, well, enough of that. How do I look? Is it safe to leave? Am I still flushed?”

  “You’re ravishing, my love, but I believe your cheeks are a safe enough color for us to return. Shall we?”

  The game was enormous fun, Mary thought. When they arrived in the billiard room, the men were playing while the ladies admired and giggled. Mary rolled her eyes at their silliness and challenged Winston to a game. After their initial shock, the ladies decided if Mary could play, so could they, initiating a game of ladies versus gentlemen.

  A few of the enterprising men took it upon themselves to teach the women how to hold the cue stick. Naïve chits.

  Mary moved about the table with skill, paying little attention to those around her other than to flash a haughty boast to make everyone laugh. Part way through the game, she looked up to find Duncan leaning against a pillar some distance away. Casting him a questioning look, he shook off her concern.

  Near her, Winston lit a cigar, the ladies about him coughing and fanning their faces.

  “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. Is this offensive?” he asked, blowing a cloud their way.

  He passed cigars around the room for the other gentlemen to join, effectively eliminating the women from the room.

  Lord Altonwey leered. “Aren’t you going to follow the ladies to safety?”

  Mary narrowed her eyes. “If you think I’m not accustomed to cigar smoke, you’ve forgotten who my brother is.”

  She lingered with the gentlemen a tad longer, at least to finish the game. Before leaving to make her way back to the drawing room, she paused by Duncan’s pillar, her brows raised, her eyes saying she would not take another dismissal as an answer.

  “It’s nothing,” he said. “Just fatigue. Left leg is shaky, if you must know. Go on. I’ll stay here, rest my legs for a time, and make a new friend or two.” When she hesitated, he growled. “I don’t want a nursemaid, Mary. Go.”

  Chastised, she bade her farewell to the group and followed the stairs down and into the gallery, leaving only because she did not want to embarrass him by fussing over him. Men and their pride. Granted, he had done a considerable amount of walking today, and so soon after his recovery. She hoped he had not overworked himself. The last thing he needed was a setback. He had come too far to be back in the wheeled chair.

  Halfway through the gallery, she about-faced and walked back to the closed door of the stag parlor, resting a hand to the woodgrain. Biting her lip in memory, she opened the door and slipped inside.

  The room was as they had left it. The fire burned low still, the candelabra’s candles snuffed. But if she closed her eyes, she could recall the feel of his lips on hers. Soon, she would be a married woman and know the completion of what they had started, know what it was to be held and loved.

  And he said he could feel! She was not fully aware of what he meant by that statement or what it was he could not feel before, but she did understand he lacked sensation in his legs. Did that also mean…oh, she was uncertain. Naiveté was not exclusive to the ladies in the billiard room. She pressed cold hands to hot cheeks.

  The week’s wait to see him had been worth it. Each time she saw him, the more she longed to be with him. If there had been any doubt, the house party nullified it, for though she enjoyed this life, she prioritized more being known. With Duncan, she would know love.

  A rustle at the door stole her attention. Mary pivoted, her heart in her throat, expecting to see Duncan leaning against the doorframe.

  Her fingers curled into her palms.

  Lord Altonwey stood where Duncan ought. “Your betrothed appears to be indisposed.”

  Mary raised her chin. “Is there something you need? Shall I ring a footman for you?”

  “Only here for friendly conversation, my lady. One foot in the door, one foot out, nothing improper.” His eyes swept over her, his body blocking the exit. “How might I please you, Lady Mary?”

  Her eyes widened and her teeth clenched. “I beg your pardon?”

  “We both know your preferred sort of man, and it’s not a commoner. For someone like you, the colonel is a bit of fun, not for marrying. I, on the other hand…” His voice trailed off. One corner of his mouth lifted in a mock smile.

  “My relationship with my betrothed is none of your concern.”

  He took one step forward.

  She took two steps back.

  “I wish to make it my concern. We all know you’ve been angling for years for a peer, the more powerful the better. A stream of suitors flowing in and out of Lyonn Manor, and yet no one has suited you, not even my father. Not many in England were as powerful as he. What do you want, Lady Mary? What do you want from Colonel Starrett that, say, I could not offer?”

  “You?” She stared, her expression blank.

  “Marriage to me would be advantageous to us both, would it not? And I wouldn’t begrudge you a bit of fun if you wished to keep the colonel as a pet.”

  Her face contorted into a sneer, but her voice remained steady. “I beg you not to interfere with my life. You know nothing of me. I find this conversation offensive and wish to return to the drawing room.”

  He took another step forward.

  She took another two steps back, bumping into a leather chair. Bracing herself against its back, she lifted her chin higher, looking down her nose at him, refusing to be cowed.

  “Mary?” A commanding voice asked from the doorway.

  Duncan saw red, fury pumping through his veins.

  He had not heard much of the conversation, but what little he did hear infuriated him. Was this what his old friend thought of him? Was this what they all thought of him? Some commoner who was good for nothing but the battlefield and a bit of fun?

  And there stood Mary, clearly discomposed, her hands trembling against the back of the chair, her eyes darting to the door. To anyone else, she looked a strong woman in control of the situation. To him, she was a woman cornered, antagonized by unwanted advances of an arrogant swell.

  However much legal trouble he might face in laying hands on a peer of the realm, he was prepared to plant a facer if need be, or worse. His body readied for battle.

  Charles turned to face the door, as surprised to see Duncan as Duncan had been to hear their voices carrying through the hall as he reached the gallery.

  As Charles’s brows drew together, he let out a mighty howl. “You little bitch,” the earl hissed through gritted teeth.

  Duncan looked to Mary just in time to see her stomp on the man’s foot, for the second time, apparently.

  “If you ever speak disparagingly against my betrothed again,” Mary said, her heel grinding into the man’s foot, “you’ll face more than my wrath. Oh, and your proposal is declined.”

  She walked around him to the doorway. Duncan stepped aside so she could pass.

  Nodding to her, he said, “I’ll be but a moment, my love,” and shut the door behind him.

  He folded his arms over his chest, not convinced he would not punch the man. Charles hobbled to one of the leather chairs and sat, nursing his foot.

  Duncan broke the silence. “Your title aside, give me one reason I should not take you outside and beat you.”<
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  His companion laughed. “As a good friend, I’ve tested the sincerity of your bride. You should thank me. Her loyalty did not waver, though I had not yet added my charm to be certain.”

  “Ah, yes, I can see the logic of a good friend cornering one’s betrothed.” Duncan’s fists remained clenched.

  “Even you have to admit it’s peculiar. Everyone wonders. She’s the unattainable Lady Mary, after all. And whatever your merits, you’re crippled now with not the brightest of futures outside the battlefield. People wonder. The duke is a powerful ally and has the ear of the prince. She has a dowry that would save half the haut ton from debt. And yet she chose you? You were a grand soldier, old chap, but this match is preposterous.”

  Duncan said, “I believe my beloved voiced it well when she told you that you know nothing of her. I valued your friendship for the years you served, Charles. I entrusted you with my life many times over. From this point forward, however, I beg you not to come near Lady Mary. Crippled though I may be, I will rain pain as you’ve never felt. You know what I’m capable of, in or out of a wheeled chair.”

  With a steely glare, he left Charles to his own devices, closing the door with a soft click behind him.

  Chapter 18

  The earl’s words echoed in Duncan’s head all the way to the church. Would marriage clip Mary’s wings? Was he doing her a disservice by shackling her to him?

  It was an unlikely match. It always had been. As youths, they did not care. As adults, they clung to their youthful ideals. Perhaps they both should have faced reality and let each other go, she to marry someone of her station, he to do the same.

  He could not even promise the wedding night would be successful. Sensation had flowed into his thighs the day of the soiree and thrummed through his pelvis until he thought he would be back to normal by the end of the day. Alas, it had stopped just above his knees.

  His lower legs remained without feeling, but by Jove, he could feel the important bits necessary for a wedding night. But would it last? He worried at any moment he would lose sensation, or a leg might give out from beneath him, or any other myriad of concerns.

  None of his worries kept him from the church. He stood at the altar, his father to one side of him, his brother in front, waiting for his bride on their wedding day.

  Nervousness clenched his stomach. He had not checked since he arrived, but he suspected half the village waited outside to celebrate. Inside the church, it was immediate family only, a quiet ceremony. Bernard sat with his cousins in the first pew. Duncan wondered how much of today Bernard understood, for despite a long talk between men, the boy continued to ask if his new friend would be staying with them for long.

  A noise from behind him stirred his pulse. He turned just in time to see the church door closing. Disappointment.

  The Duchess of Annick, with her son the Marquess of Sutton, looked about her, then granted a smile and took her seat next to his family. The wait began anew. Quinn cleared his throat, thumbing the Book of Common Prayer in his hand.

  The door opened and closed again with an echoing thunk. When he turned this time, his stomach somersaulted. Elation!

  His bride stood mere pews away.

  Mary, on her brother’s arm, halted Duncan’s breath. In a dress of blue with silver embroidery and elbow-length sleeves that ended in laced cuffs to her wrists, she stole his heart. Raven hair coiffed in an array of curls with a bandeau of pearls interwoven with some sort of tiny white flowers. Two pink ovals dotted her cheeks, but he knew them to be genuine spots of color and not rouged. As she walked the nave, the pink darkened her neck until disappearing into the fichu at her chest.

  Could this be happening? After all these years, was he really marrying her? Life stretched before him, a life full of promise and enticing mystery. From this moment forward, he would do all he could to ensure she never regretted marrying him.

  When Quinn began to speak, Mary waved a panicked hand, “Wait. No, not yet. Please, just a few more minutes.”

  Duncan heard a buzzing in his ears, his heart pounding erratically. Was she having second thoughts? Afraid of what he might see in her expression, he rested a hand on the hilt of his sword, imbuing himself with strength.

  “Mary?” he asked, his voice cracking.

  Her teeth tugged at her bottom lip. “My mother’s not here. I—I don’t want to begin without her.”

  He frowned but nodded.

  And so, they waited.

  And waited.

  Not until her chin wobbled did Duncan nod to Quinn to begin again. His heart broke when a tear rolled down her cheek, but there was naught he could do. Why did she care if her mother attended? The woman did not approve of the marriage. Duncan could have told Mary the dowager duchess would not appear, and yet Mary had all too clearly hoped she would.

  “‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God,’” Quinn began.

  As the vicar continued, Duncan took Mary’s hand in his. She gave him a quick smile, her eyes red-rimmed but looking no less beautiful.

  “‘It was ordained for the procreation of children, to be brought up in the fear and nurture of the Lord, and to the praise of his holy Name,’” Quinn continued.

  Mary gave a sniff, but as her chin raised higher and the vicar moved further into the ceremony, her tears dried.

  “‘I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgement when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully—’”

  His words cut off as the door opened and closed with a gust of cold air.

  Stepping to the back set of pews, a gold-handled cane in her hand, was the Dowager Duchess of Annick. A dour butler hovered behind her. Duncan stared in stunned silence; everyone did. Nobody breathed.

  He turned full bodied to face her, waiting for her words of censure, her argument why they should not be married. Though he did not glare, he let his eyes challenge her. She responded by straightening to her full height and looking down her nose at him, an interesting experience since she was across the nave from him. Had it not been his wedding day, and had he not before faced his enemy in battle, he would have cowered in his boots. The dowager duchess was a sight to behold. As regal as a queen and just as austere.

  On the bright side, if this was any indication to how Mary would age, he was to be one lucky man indeed, for the lady, though likely in her late fifties, was remarkably handsome with minimal grey lacing her black hair. When she did nothing but stare back at him, he raised his brows.

  “Well?” she said. “Carry on.” With a smack of her cane to the stone floor, she took a seat in the last pew.

  He glanced at Mary as he turned back to his brother. Her eyes rimmed with red anew, brimming with tears that had yet to fall. Taking her hand in his once more, he nodded to Quinn to resume.

  He heard little of the ceremony after that except the words he had to repeat. All his attention focused on Mary. He was aware of her every motion and could feel the warmth of her hand in his, even through their gloves. At times, their eyes met, and those pink spots returned to her cheeks. By the end of the ceremony, her neck was blotched with red. Had his skin shown beneath his regimentals, she would have been reassured he was just as flushed with happiness.

  In precious moments, they were signing the register, husband and wife until death did them part.

  He was correct, of course, about the villagers. As soon as the couple stepped out of the church, they were showered with an assortment of hothouse flower petals, bits of bread and biscuits, and he dared not ask what else. If the whole of the village were not there to see them, he would be surprised.

  The ducal carriage, courtesy of the duke, awaited to escort them to Cois Greta Park for the wedding breakfast. Before handing Mary up the steps, he wrapped an arm about her waist and for all the world to s
ee, planted a chaste kiss that was not without flair. He dipped her, lifted her, then turned to bow to the applauding crowd, the duke himself whistling.

  Without a backward glance, they climbed into the carriage, renewing their embrace as soon as the door closed behind them.

  A late morning frost silvered the lawn, a romantic sight from the double Venetian windows of the dining room at Cois Greta Park. The children had other plans for the view. Dotting the landscape, children ran to and fro, a well-bundled Bernard among them, frolicking with the vicar’s daughters and other village little ones.

  This.

  This was Mary’s ideal—a house full of family, friends, and children, voices raised to hear over the commotion, the clamoring of footfalls as little feet ran in and out again, laughter filling the air. Knowing she was flushed with happiness, she glanced at Duncan between bites. It was all going to be perfect. She could sense it.

  The wedding breakfast was in full swing. Most of the villagers attended, as did Mary’s cousin and family—the Earl and Countess of Roddam, their two children, and the countess’ father. A few neighbors stopped in, those either close to the Starretts or curious about the couple. Not all neighbors lingered once they realized guests ranged from the duke to the local blacksmith. Mary had not a care in the world for what anyone thought.

  She was not even bothered that her mother declined to attend the breakfast. What mattered was Catherine came to the wedding. Why it should matter, Mary could not put into words, but it had mattered. Oh, how it had mattered.

  Mrs. Georgina Starrett was regaling neighbors and Charlotte with a tale from Duncan’s youth of him hiding eggs on carriage seats. Colonel Sean Starrett was bowled over in laughter alongside several villagers and Mary’s brother, who laughed just as exuberantly. Mr. Quinn Starrett was whispering into his wife’s ear something that made her blush. All the guests smiled and cut up gaily.

  It was all so different from the house party dinners she had recently suffered. Nasal intones, elongated vowels, straight spines, hushed voices, monosyllabic laughs, the ever-present ennui, and if the memory continued, she would spoil her fun.