by Eva Devon
So that left him only one possibility.
He would pursue his own wife because she, devil take it, was fascinating. Worse. She was interesting.
That kiss had rocked him to his core. While he had promised himself never to feel such a thing again, that kiss had consumed him in a way that he could not ever recall being consumed. And that was a dangerous thing indeed.
Chapter 13
Felicity clapped her hands with delight, then picked up a bundle of pink silk ribbons and waved them about as she danced through the small salon. "You are to be married tomorrow. You are to be married tomorrow."
Augusta felt those words deep into her soul.
They terrified her now. Married to the Duke of Blacktower, that dark soul of a man?
She did not any longer think that he was some flyby bon vivant of a fellow who merely had pleasure in his heart. No. There was something far darker there, but he was a seducer. It was the only way that she could explain how she had responded to him so entirely.
Nothing had ever led her so entirely astray. All her life she’d been entirely in control of herself. Until his kiss. . .
"Yes," she said brightly, shoving the thought of his mouth upon hers from her head before her cheeks could flush.
"And then I shall be married,” Felicity crowed happily. Her cheeks pink, not with some naughty thought, but with anticipation of her long wished for soldier. “It shall be the most wonderful thing in the world."
"Shall it?" Augusta asked, longing to be happy for her sister but feeling doubt in her heart. "Are you certain you wish to marry him, my dear? We all barely know him at all."
"What do you need to know," Felicity said, her happiness dimming for a brief moment as she pinned Augusta with a frustrated look. "He's a captain in Her Majesty's Guard. He is handsome and he adores me, and now I'm an heiress. We shall be wed as soon as you are!”
Augusta frowned. She barely knew the man that her sister loved. They had met in card parties, but she had but a few words with him.
As far as she could ascertain, her sister had written him many letters and he to her. Her sister never allowed her to read them, and she wondered what the contents had been and how her sister's heart had been won.
But she could not deny that her sister was deeply in love with Captain Barrow and she wanted her sister to be happy.
Finally, her sister would have that.
Yet Augusta could not shake her sense of foreboding. Was she simply too accustomed to unhappiness?
Perhaps she should ask her soon-to-be husband to do a bit of research about Captain Barrow.
Research. . .
That kiss.
Would she allow herself to be swept up by such research again? The temptation to give in had swept through her and it had only been her much-practiced principles that had made her pull back.
Phillipa stroked the silk of Augusta's wedding gown. "My goodness,” she teased. “You're blushing!”
"I am not," Augusta choked, desperate not to be caught out. She dug her fingers into her sewing basket and immediately jabbed her finger onto a needle. "I am simply overheated."
"Oh, of course you are," said Phillipa, her lips twitching with amusement. "You're not thinking anything naughty or scandalous at all. Such a thing could never happen to you."
"That's right," Augusta said, before she sucked lightly on her offended finger. ”I will never think a naughty thought in my entire life."
Which was now a lie and one of the first lies she'd ever told.
Oh dear Lord, was she headed down a slippery slope of fabrications now that she was to be wed to him?
Felicity peered at her through her blonde lashes. "You look most embarrassed. Whatever are you thinking, Augusta?"
"I know, I know," Phillipa piped happily as she carefully laid the gown upon the faded settee. “She must be thinking about the Duke of Blacktower and the fact that she's going to be his wife, and that she will be his wife in truth tomorrow night."
"That is not at all what I am thinking," Augusta countered firmly. In fact, she'd been steadfastly avoiding the thought of her wedding night, which was not like her, but that kiss had made it plain that her wedding night was going to be a most interesting affair. "And don't you dare say such a thing again."
"Why not?" Felicity asked with a sigh. "He's going to be yours. Just imagine how delightful it shall be. We've all heard the rumors about how marvelous marriage can be. And he is supposed to be a marvel.”
“Yes." Augusta cleared her throat and took up her sewing. She was not about to confess that she’d already nearly swooned in her future husband’s arms. “There are rumors that it can be absolutely terrible as well."
"I don't think the Duke of Blacktower shall be terrible," Phillipa said, her eyebrows waggling playfully. "I'm sure that all of his experience will make him absolutely..."
"I don't wish to hear about his experience," Augusta all but roared.
Felicity and Phillipa blinked back at her.
“Everyone says he’s most passionate,” Phillipa finally ventured.
Passionate? She did not think the word was strong enough to convey the Duke of Blacktower’s abilities. And he had declared her to be passionate. . .
The kiss danced through her thoughts again. Drat it!
It had plagued her dreams. It had plagued her waking thoughts almost every moment. For in all her life, she had never felt so entirely alive as in that kiss.
It both made her feel melancholy that her life had been so without excitement and simultaneously overwrought at the idea that it could happen again.
Would he kiss her thus again?
Would she allow it?
Of course she would allow it if he wished to kiss her again. She was going to be his wife, but surely she could keep herself in check? She wouldn’t be bowled over to passion as others were. She’d worked her entire life not to be controlled by any temptation. Now would be no different.
Augusta tugged on her embroidery thread. "I will be the most proper of wives, and I will not allow myself to be carried away with emotion."
"How sad," sighed Felicity.
"Yes. That sounds like a miserable tragedy," said Philippa. "When one has the chance to be married to such a man as that, one would think that a young lady should give into him.”
"Give in?” cried Augusta. “No, that would be a disaster! I shall not give away to the foolishness of emotion. We've seen the way that went. Look at Mama. Look at Papa."
"Yes, but, Augusta,” Phillipa ventured gently beside her. “That is not the way it always goes."
"Does it not?" countered Augusta as she jabbed her needle through the linen. She’d never truly liked embroidery but the action proved oddly soothing at that particular moment.
"Look at Pride and Prejudice for goodness’ sake. And look at Sense and Sensibility."
"Yes, look at Pride and Prejudice and look at Sense and Sensibility," Augusta agreed, jabbing her thread again. "Did you not see what happened to at least one of the female characters when they gave way to pleasure? No, no, Lizzie and Marianne and Eleanor are extremely sensible young women in general."
"Marianne is not terribly sensible," pointed out Philippa.
"No, but she's sensible in the end,” defended Augusta. "And that’s truly all that matters."
Phillipa groaned. "Is that truly what you think? That sensibility is all that matters in the end?"
“Yes," Augusta declared, realizing she had sewn the most ghastly petal on the most bedraggled flower. “Because sense will protect you from a life of sorrow and ruin. One must simply brace themselves, see the troubles of this life, and get on with it."
“Well,” Phillipa huffed. “I think you're going to be getting on with the Duke of Blacktower very well and won't that be most interesting?"
“Phillipa,” Augusta narrowed her eyes. “You are far too pleased with all of this, and this is all your fault."
"Mine?" Phillipa gasped, lifting a hand dramatically to her cott
on-covered bosom. "Whatever can you mean?"
Augusta tsked. She had not accused her sister before. What point was there? But now, she declared, “If you had simply gone out into that hall with me, none of this should ever have occurred."
Phillipa nodded, her lips pursed in thought. “True. Do you truly think it's such a terrible thing?"
Augusta paused. It was hard to say. If she'd been asked but a few days ago, she would have said it was the most terrible thing in the whole world to be forced to marry a rake like Blacktower.
Even with all his money.
Even those with great titles and funds could have terribly unhappy marriages.
There were several ton marriages that she could immediately bring to mind that demonstrated it. But since that night, their lives had improved remarkably. Their father had, apparently not giving a whit for the difficulty of him not attending her wedding, left for Italy.
It seemed that Blacktower did not mind.
Nor did she. Not anymore. That strange pain in her heart was nothing. No. She refused to let him hurt her any longer and she was glad he couldn’t ruin her wedding day as he likely would have done.
And, her impending marriage had brought Lady Montcrief into her life. Her sisters and she had found a host of gowns to wear and many simple things, like tea, sugar, and wood for their fire that made their lives better.
Augusta drew in a deep breath. "No, I shan't say it's a terrible thing, Phillipa, but I am most wary of the future."
Phillipa reached out and took her hand. ”Augusta, one can never know what's going to happen in the future.”
The touch of her sister’s hand warmed her heart and she squeezed back. That affection meant more than she could ever say.
"Except me," Felicity proclaimed from beside the fire as she wound the ribbons. "I'm going to marry my true love and I cannot wait. I'm so glad you finally are getting married to allow it."
"I'm sorry that Father ever put such a rule into place," Augusta moaned.
"So am I," Felicity confessed, her gaze softening. "It hasn't exactly created sisterly affection, has it?"
"No," Augusta agreed, trying not to feel fury at her father anew.
"But then again, nor has your parsimonious nature, Augusta,” put in Felicity with a frown. “You've always been rather reticent in allowing us to enjoy ourselves.”
Felicity’s blue eyes, usually so light and full of fun, filled with emotion. “Perhaps now you shall allow yourself to be happy, to enjoy yourself, and then we can all be happy together.”
It would have been so simple to be angry with her sister for her insistence she was parsimonious. But she couldn’t be. She had been hard on her sisters, demanding even, when faced with their father’s pulchritude. No, she realized now that her sister, in truth, longed for Augusta’s happiness as much as she hoped for her own.
It was touching. And heartbreaking.
The truth was, she did not know if she could do as her sister hoped. To allow herself to let go of all the rules and propriety that she had clung to over the years. Those things had sustained her under the terror of her father's reign.
Lady Montcrief bustled into the room. "What's this I hear about rules and propriety?"
Felicity let out a little sigh. "Augusta is, no doubt, planning to continue to live her life without extravagance."
"Impossible," Lady Montcrief scoffed as she gave one of the worn seats a withering stare before she lowered herself into it. "A duchess cannot live without extravagance. The very idea is absurd."
She leaned towards Augusta, her feather turban, this one purple, bobbing. “The houses you live in, my dear, shall be absolutely sumptuous. The carriages that you shall ride in, the gowns that you shall wear, everything about your life shall be extravagant."
Augusta sat a little straighter and picked up the teapot, ready to pour a proper cup of tea for her soon to be in-law. “But my emotions needn't be."
"Of course not,” Lady Montcrief announced, gripping her cane firmly. “You're English, after all. Not everyone has to be a watering pot or effusive things such as your sisters. I do enjoy you two girls, of course, but you are a bit young."
"Well, we are young." Laughed Felicity as she tucked Augusta’s ribbons into a simple ivory box.
"It's true," agreed Lady Montcrief, a dark brow arching. "It's very clear that none of you have ever had a governess."
For the last several days, Lady Montcrief had been attempting to take them in hand and threatening to hire professionals. But for all their laughing and mischief, Lady Montcrief was far too much fun for Felicity and Phillipa to give her too much trouble.
In fact, they quite enjoyed all the stories that Lady Montcrief like to bestow upon them. It seemed that Lady Montcrief had been a diamond of the first water in her day and she, well, she knew secrets about a great many people. When one had little to do in the evening, such as they did at present, except play the pianoforte or read a sumptuous novel, it could be equally exciting to listen to the tales of a glorious former diamond.
Phillipa suddenly exclaimed, “You know, I'm absolutely certain the Duke of Blacktower will fall in love with you, Augusta. Though you are stern, you are absolutely marvelous."
Augusta smiled at Phillipa, amazed she’d say such a preposterous thing. "That's a remarkably kind thing to say, but I highly doubt it. Don't you agree, Lady Montcrief?”
Lady Montcrief paused. "You know, my dear, I think it best not to hope for his affection. He might enjoy your company and like you or approve of you, but love? Love is not something I think that my nephew shall ever endeavor to achieve."
The air seemed to go out of Augusta's lungs as Lady Montcrief’s pronouncement filled the room.
Of course, she’d already known it. She'd sensed it.
Love was not going to be something that she'd be able to have in her marriage. Nor did she wish it with a man like Blacktower. Truly.
But somehow, the confirmation of it by his aunt only seemed to increase her sadness about her scandalous marriage. She shouldn't care at all, but she found that she did.
She'd had no idea she had such a hunger for love. She was simply going to have to turn to her sisters for affection and perhaps she could find a friend one day, or who knew? Perhaps she could write great novels like the anonymous writer, A Lady.
She could pour out her feelings onto pages and all would be well. Yes, that's what she'd have to do. It was the only thing that would be left to her if she was to have no true companionship in her life.
"Why does he dislike ladies so much that he cannot fall in love with them?” Augusta asked abruptly. Surely, his aunt would understand him far better than she could.
"Oh, he does not dislike ladies," Lady Montcrief said as she stretched out her bejeweled hand for her cup of tea. "He enjoys them very much."
Augusta fought a groan as she passed the steaming cup of perfectly steeped tea to Lady Montcrief. ”Yes, he enjoys them, but he doesn't love them."
Lady Montcrief held the cup to her lips, then skewered her with an unyielding look. “Have you ever fallen in love with a man?"
"Of course not!” Augusta exclaimed.
“Why?" Lady Montcrief inquired easily as she sipped her tea.
Augusta shifted on her chair, wondering what on earth Lady Montcrief was at. The ideal answer would be to say because she had not met such a man yet, but she knew that answer would be false.
Her long silence met a rueful smile from Lady Montcrief. “You see, my dear? Love is not so very simple.”
Augusta felt chastened in that moment. She had always been very rigid in her feelings and it stung her to think that she and the duke might have something in common. But, surely, he could not be afraid of excess as she was? His entire life was one great mixture of excess.
She shook her head. "Lady Montcrief, I understand that you are trying to protect me and I appreciate it greatly, but I refuse to believe that the duke and I have anything in common with regards to emotion."
"You may believe what you like, my dear,” Lady Montcrief said, lifting her cup in salute. “And I shall let you find out the truth of it on your own."
Chapter 14
Adam stood in the nave of St. Paul's, shifting from booted foot to foot. A thing completely foreign to him.
Damnation. He was as nervous as a schoolboy, which was absolutely preposterous. Even as a boy, he hadn’t been prone to such feelings.
As a man, he’d run government. He'd managed economies. He’d funded armies. And now here he stood in the front of a church, an impressive church, to be sure, waiting for his bride to be.
And he felt himself. . . Ill at ease.
Any man who was about to be sent to his own execution, proverbial or not, felt ill at ease. In a few moments, he was about to dance his own metaphorical Tyburn Jig.
Somehow, the fact that he was marrying Augusta was more harrowing than any of the other troubles he’d encountered. Perhaps it was because she was not exactly what he had supposed her to be and he found that unsettling. She was, in short, a mystery.
Brookhaven stood beside him in his perfect morning attire, barely able to contain his laughter. The bastard suppressed it, of course, which only meant that his wide shoulders gave a good jolly shake, shaking his gray, tailored coat.
"Do you think she won't come?” Adam asked, resisting the urge to look back over his shoulder at the crowded pews once more.
Brookhaven gave him a disbelieving stare. "Only if she's absolutely mad as a Hatter."
"She may be," Adam replied.
Brookhaven’s sapphire eyes shone with amusement. “And you're marrying her?"
Adam blew out a derisive breath. “Of course I am. I don't have a choice."
Brookhaven tsked. “You do. You know you do. You're just too good a fellow to do otherwise."
Bloody hell. No one had ever accused him of being a good fellow before. Not even Brookhaven. There was a first for everything. It was the bloody problem with not actually being a complete bastard.
Everything he'd done since Anna’s death had been either to keep her memory or to spite his father.
