“We may certainly spend some time getting to know one another. We shall be married in the morning, and I will not accost you afterward,” he offered. “I’m not without feeling, after all, and this is certainly a lot to take in.”
She let out a sigh of relief. “I see. Thank you for understanding.”
“But it is a short reprieve, Miss Upshaw. This marriage will be a real marriage, a true marriage in every sense of the word… but I am certainly willing to give you time to adjust to the notion,” Leo stated. “Temporarily, of course. Your uncle will be looking for any opportunity to challenge our marriage.”
Her expression went from relief to consternation in less than a second. “How temporarily?”
Leo considered his answer carefully. “One week… and in the interim, I hope that we might engage in certain activities that might help to assuage your fears.”
“Such as?”
“A kiss, Miss Upshaw… to start with. An embrace. The ability to touch you in the more innocent ways a husband might, such as holding your hand, sitting closer to you than propriety would normally permit. I find it best to leave some things to develop in their own time and in their own way.”
“And if I disagree?” she asked.
Leo didn’t utter it as a threat, but as a simple reminder. As understanding as he wished to be of her obvious nerves and perfectly understandable fear, there was more at stake than just her feelings. If the marriage wasn’t legal and binding, they both stood to lose everything. “Considering that your other potential suitor is Neville Snead, would it really be in your best interests to do so?”
Her gaze hardened and her jaw clenched. “Very well, Lord Amberley. We have an agreement.”
“I shall see you at the church at ten in the morning… St. Paul’s. Good evening, Miss Upshaw.”
Chapter Two
Meg tucked the last pin into her hair and surveyed her reflection critically. The chamber she’d been given was small and simple, likely intended for a governess or upper servant. But it had served her well enough. It had provided a degree of privacy that any of the chambers on the lower floor would not have. Indeed, the little attic chamber had been well isolated from the gay and raucous activities of The Lyon’s Den.
Why, when she’d arrived at such a place, she’d thought surely there’d been a mistake. She’d wondered if perhaps it hadn’t been a trap set for her by her uncle. But then Mrs. Dove-Lyon had greeted her warmly and settled her jangled nerves. Mrs. Dove-Lyon was rather grandmotherly, if one’s grandmother draped herself in gold and ran an establishment that was at best a gaming hell and at worst a bawdy house.
A blush stained her cheeks at the implication of such an establishment and what services might be provided there. She shouldn’t even know of such things, but Neville had often boasted of his visits to them in a way that left her terribly uncomfortable.
What had brought Lord Amberley to The Lyon’s Den? Had he been there only to partake of cards, or had some other vice brought him to the establishment? He was in dire straits financially and might very well be, at least partially, responsible for that predicament.
Meg shook her head to clear it of the many clamoring doubts that had settled over her like a pall that morning. Mrs. Dove-Lyon had assured her that he was a man she could trust, as much as any man could be trusted. It was hardly glowing praise. But again, as he’d pointed out, she had very little choice. The idea of being forced into a marriage with Neville, after all that her dear stepfather had done to spare her that fate, was more than she could bear.
Taking one last look at her reflection, she had a moment’s regret that she didn’t have the pretty orange blossoms in her hair or a posey in her hand. It was certainly not the sort of wedding her mother had spoken of when she was a girl. There was no hopefulness or giddy feelings of love or infatuation. There was only caution and necessity.
Thinking of Lord Amberley, Meg was forced to admit that he was impossibly handsome. With his dark, waving hair and glittering gaze, he’d been arresting. There was something about the chiseled planes and sharp angles of his face that she’d been unable to look away from him. He’d been taller than her, she thought, which was fairly unusual as she towered over most men. Though how tall precisely was impossible to guess given that he’d been leaning on a silver-handled cane. Whatever his injury was, it didn’t seem to pain him overly much. There was an entire world of curiosity inside her about him. Had he been injured doing something gallant? Or had it been something foolish and reckless on a dare or bet? Was he kind to his half-sisters? Would they be kind to her? Recalling the way his expression had hardened when she’d spoken of Neville, it was clear that he held the man in deep disregard, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was any better than Neville was, only that they’d had some disagreement. And yet, despite his rather hard appearance, he hadn’t been unkind. Pragmatic and to the point, yes, but not unkind. She could pray that she was not seeing it simply because she wished to do so, but there were no guarantees. It was a thing to be taken on faith and faith was in very short supply when she was about to marry a man she’d spent a grand total of ten minutes with.
There was a knock on the door, but the person behind it did not wait for her to bid them enter. The door opened and Mrs. Dove-Lyon appeared. “Oh, good! You’re ready. Well, almost. You haven’t anything a bit more… well, less dowdy?”
Meg looked down at her dress. It wasn’t a terrible dress. Perhaps a bit plain in its simple floral print, and maybe the color had faded somewhat from washing. “Is it really so awful?”
“Well, such things may do for the country, but here in London, you will need a smarter look. I daresay your charming viscount will be able to help you spruce up your wardrobe. He certainly knows what is fashionable. Regardless, we’ve no time to rectify the matter now. If we don’t go now, you’ll be late for your own wedding.”
Shrugging into her butter yellow pelisse, Meg fastened the buttons and then donned her bonnet. It wasn’t a fashionable ensemble, but like everything else about her pending nuptials, it was adequate and would see the job done. Joining Mrs. Dove-Lyon, they made their way downstairs and to the waiting carriage.
Leo resisted the urge to check his watch once more. It hadn’t been more than a few minutes since he looked the last time. Glancing over at his half-sisters, he noted that they were now worriedly watching the door, as well. The idea that she might not show, that he could be left standing at the altar, and that, even worse, his financial difficulties might continue to be an issue, hung over him like a pall.
“You’re certain she’s coming?”
Leo glanced over at his older friend, Miles Herndon, Lord Armstrong, whom he’d brought with him to act as a witness given that his half-sisters were too young to do so. He knew that Mrs. Dove-Lyon would be there as well to serve that same function. If Miss Upshaw showed, he thought nervously. But he was saved from giving voice to that thought when the church doors opened once more. Every head swiveled in that direction and Leo instantly felt relief. His betrothed had arrived. She didn’t look entirely pleased about it, of course. But then why would she? She was hoping to choose the lesser of two evils, after all, and he was the devil as yet unknown to her.
“Blast it! You think Mrs. Dove-Lyon could find me one of those?”
At Miles’ too-loud exclamation, Leo gave him a quelling look. “Would you like to shout it in the gallery so that everyone might hear?”
Miles had the decency to look chagrined. “Sorry,” he muttered. “But why did she need to have that old bird get her a husband? She could find one on her own with no trouble at all!”
“It’s more about expedience than anything else,” Leo stated. “She needs to marry quickly due to her stepfather’s failing health, as do I for reasons of my own.”
Miles’ eyebrows arched upward. “You’re certain that’s it? First brat that comes along, you know everyone will be counting the months to—”
“I’m certain that is all it is, Miles. Now, please, shut up befor
e you say something completely stupid,” Leo urged him.
Behind them, the vicar cleared his throat and gifted them both with a disapproving stare. Chastened, Leo and Miles both faced forward as Miss Upshaw approached. It was quite clear, as she neared them, that she’d heard all of Miles’ less than discreet musings. It was hardly an auspicious beginning.
“Do you have the license? Clearly, the banns have not been posted,” the vicar said, his tone heavily laced with censure.
Leo produced the document from inside his coat and passed it to the vicar who inspected it thoroughly. It had been delivered by a courier that morning, no doubt at the behest of Mrs. Dove-Lyon. The man then turned his attention to Miss Upshaw. “Miss, are you certain you wish to proceed? You aren’t being coerced into this, are you?”
Miss Upshaw shook her head, her lips primped into a firm line. “I am here of my own accord, sir. Our haste is warranted due to my stepfather’s failing health. He wishes to see me wed and settled before he passes.”
The vicar nodded then. “Ah, I see. And does this woman have some authority on his behalf? Clearly, you are of an age that would require consent in the absence of having the banns read.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon produced the document that had been prepared by Sir William Ashby and had been provided to her that conveyed his consent to the match. “Here it is, sir. You will find all is in order.”
The vicar reviewed the second document, examining it much more closely than he had the license. When he at last seemed satisfied with it, he returned it to her. “Very well. We shall begin… your full name, Miss?”
“Margaret Eleanor Upshaw, sir.”
The vicar turned to him, his expression souring immediately. “And you, sir?”
“Leander Thurston-Hunter, Viscount Amberley,” Leo replied.
The ceremony was underway then, the words spoken and recited as indicated. It was all very quick, terribly hasty, and then they were signing their names in the register and were once more back on the street in front of the massive cathedral. The lot of them huddled together in the chilled air.
Realizing that no one knew anyone, Leo sighed. “Miss Margaret Upshaw—”
“No!” Julia cried suddenly, startling all of them.
“What?” he asked.
“She’s not Miss Upshaw anymore,” Julia offered with a smile. “She’s now Lady Margaret Thurston-Hunter, Viscountess Amberley.”
A shock settled over him at that pronouncement. It was as if hearing his half-sister call Margaret by her new name, that he suddenly realized Margaret was actually his wife. The enormity of what they’d done settled over him then. “Of course, Julia. You are quite right. But as you are family, I’m certain Lady Margaret will tell you how best to address her.”
“You will call me Meg,” his bride said softly. “And what should I call each of you?”
“This is Julia and this is Louisa,” he said, bopping each of them on the head in turn and prompting indignant squeaks in return. “And this loudmouthed fellow is Miles Herndon, Lord Armstrong.”
“You needn’t introduce me,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said with a laugh. “Heavens. Let’s not court scandal any more than we already have. Get your bride and your half-sisters home, Amberley. And Armstrong, you come see me when you’re ready to settle down.”
Miles grinned. “Right then. I’m off. Felicitations to the happy couple and all that… Julia, Lou… behave yourselves.”
And then they were alone, the four of them who had suddenly, with a few spoken words and flourished signatures, formed a family.
Chapter Three
Meg surveyed the chamber that she’d been shown to, strolling the perimeter of it as she examined the luxurious setting. Done in shades of rich blue and soft buttery yellows and creams, it was lovely and far finer than anything she was used to. It wasn’t as if their country estate had been a hovel, far from it. But it had been years and years since it had been refurbished or redecorated.
Almost against her will, her gaze darted to the large wooden doors with their ornate trim work and shining brass handles that flanked either side of the fireplace. One led to a dressing room. The other led to an adjoining chamber. Her husband’s chamber.
The notion that he was just on the other side of that door, doing heaven only knew what, left her feeling unsettled. Would he keep his word? Would he give her the time that she’d asked for?
A knock at her chamber door pulled her from her pointless ruminations. They were married, after all. It was too late to back out and too late for regrets. Calling out for whomever was on the other side of the door to enter, she was greeted by the freckled face of a young maid.
The girl bobbed a curtsy. “I’m Belinda, m’lady. His lordship sent me to tend to you tonight as you’ve no maid. I’m not a ladies’ maid by trade, but I do help Miss Louisa and Miss Julia from time to time.”
“Oh, well… I have a maid, but she’s more companion than anything else. I usually just tend to everything myself.”
The maid’s eyes widened. “Oh, no, my lady! That might do in the country, but it’ll never do for town.”
“I suppose I’m terribly unfashionable,” Meg mused. “It was pointed out to me today that my gown was rather drab.”
“I did put your things away earlier. And they’re very fine things,” the maid said, stepping deeper into the room.
“But not fine enough.”
The maid flushed, but nodded. “I shouldn’t have been so bold to say anything.”
“On the contrary, I find it refreshing. And trained as a maid or not, if it suits you, I shall simply ask the viscount to assign you permanently to the position.”
The girl bobbed a curtsy again. “Oh, yes, m’lady. That would be lovely.”
Meg said nothing more as the girl moved toward the dressing room. She emerged a moment later carrying a nightrail and a velvet wrapper that did not look at all familiar. “I don’t believe those are mine.”
“They were delivered earlier today. Several items were. Gifts from…” the girl paused and then whispered, “Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
Meg glanced at the garments once more. There were masses of lace and ribbon, luxurious and sensuous fabrics. The garments were clearly intended to be worn in front of others. Fighting to calm her frazzled nerves, she moved to the dressing table and began removing the pins from her hair, placing them in the little silver dish she’d brought with her from home, tucked into the single valise she’d spirited away with her. Seeing her familiar items in alien surroundings didn’t provide comfort. Instead, it cemented how like a fish out of water she felt.
Several moments later, dressed in her new nightrail and wrapper, her hair had been brushed until it shone by Belinda who was apparently very suited to her new position. Another moment and the girl was gone, leaving Meg alone in her chamber. But not for long. A split second later, there was a knock on the connecting door from her husband’s chamber.
It took a second or two to find her voice, and when she called out, it sounded tremulous even to her own ears. “Come in.”
The door opened and he stood there, bearing a tray of food and a bottle of wine. His cane was tucked into the crook of his arm. “I thought we might enjoy one another’s company for a few moments… in the sitting room,” he said.
Both of their rooms opened off a small sitting room. It was, for lack of a better term, a neutral space. Despite the rapid pounding of her heart, she felt it was something she ought to do. Even something that she wanted to do. “Yes, I’ll join you,” she agreed.
It wasn’t a smile really, but his lips did lift slightly at the corners. Then he turned away, making for the door to the sitting room that was in his own chamber. She didn’t follow. Instead, she rose, tightened the tie of her wrapper and made certain she was modestly covered before exiting to the sitting room from her own room. When she entered, he’d placed the tray on a small table before the fireplace and was pouring wine.
“I may be from the country, but I’m hardly going to get
foxed on one glass of wine… which is all I intend to have,” she warned him.
“I’m very glad to hear it,” he said, and she could hear a grin in his voice. “Because I don’t want you foxed. All I want, for the moment at least, is to have a conversation.”
For the moment. Those words hung in the air between them. “I see.”
“Probably not,” he said, a slight smirk on his lips and a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I’ve no intention of pouncing on you. We’ve an agreement, Lady Thurston-Hunter, and I mean to abide by it. You are perfectly safe.”
“Said the spider to the fly,” she retorted.
The curve of his smile widened, stretching into a full-blown grin, a sardonic expression, but there was real humor in his gaze, his eyes lighting up with it. “Considering that you’ve been exposed to the filth that is Neville Snead, I won’t even take it personally that you have such a lack of trust. I imagine he and your uncle have gone out of their way to inspire such feelings.”
Meg moved toward the table and seated herself primly on the edge of the chair. The last thing she wished to think about was Roger Snead or his worthless son. The nights she’d spent hiding in the darkness, praying Neville wouldn’t find her, of sleeping in the servants’ quarters with the maids because there was safety in numbers—those indignities were not something she meant to enlighten her new husband about. Back straight, head high, hands clasped in her lap, she might as well have been holding court in a drawing room. “What is it you wished to discuss?”
He placed one of the wine glasses before her, filled to a reasonable level. “Tell me, Meg,” he said, making use of the diminutive form of her name which she’d urged his half-sisters to use. “How much do you know about what your wifely duties might entail?”
She blushed furiously. “I may not have all the particulars, but I’ve spent my entire life in the countryside. It’s impossible to be ignorant of the basics of it.”
Fall of the Lyon: The Lyon's Den Page 3
