The Wedding of the Century & Other Stories (4 page)

Surprised and a little amused, Sunny said, “Surely Swindon Palace can't be that bad. It's said to be the grandest private home in Great Britain.”

Katie sniffed. “A palace built almost two hundred years ago, and scarcely a pound wasted on modernization since then. But don't complain to Thornborough— English husbands, as a rule, are not solicitous in the way that American husbands are. Since the duke will not want to hear about your little grievances, you must learn to resolve matters on your own. I recommend that you take your own maid with you. That way you can count on at least one person in the household being on your side.”

Sunny put a hand up. “If you say one sentence more, I will go downstairs and cancel my betrothal,” she said, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. “I'm beginning to wonder why any woman would want to marry an English lord, particularly if she isn't madly in love with him.”

“I didn't mean to terrify you,” Katie assured her. “I just want to make sure that you won't be disillusioned. Once a woman gets past the discomforts, she may have more freedom and influence than she would in America. Here, a woman rules her home, but nothing outside. An English lady can be part of her husband's life, or develop a life of her own, in a way most unusual in America.”

Since frankness was the order of the day, Sunny asked, “Are you sorry you married Lord Westron?”

Katie hesitated a moment. “There are times when I would have said yes, but we've come to understand each other very well. He says that I've been invaluable to his political career, and through him, I've been able to bring a little American democracy to some hoary bits of British law.” She smiled fondly. “And between us, he and I have produced three rather splendid children, even if I shouldn't say so myself.”

Sunny sighed; it was all very confusing. She was glad when a knock sounded on her door. “Your mother says that it is time to come down, Miss Sarah,” the butler intoned.

“Don't forget your fan. It's going to be very warm on the dance floor,” Katie said briskly. “I'll be down after I've freshened up.”

Sunny accepted the fan, then lifted her train and went into the corridor. At the top of the sweeping staircase, she carefully spread the train, then slowly began descending the stairs, accompanied by the soft swish of heavy silk. She had been told that she walked with the proud grace of the Winged Victory. She ought to; as a child, she had been strapped into an iron back brace whenever she did her lessons. Perfect posture didn't come easily.

The hall below opened into the ballroom, and music and guests wafted through both. As she came into view, a hush fell and all eyes turned toward her. The cream of American society was evaluating the next Duchess of Thornborough.

When she was three-quarters of the way down, she saw that her fiancé was crossing the hall to the staircase. The stark black of formal evening wear suited him.

When she reached the bottom, he took her hand. Under his breath, he said, “You look even more beautiful than usual.” Then he brushed a courtly, formal kiss on her kid-covered fingers.

She glanced at him uncertainly, not sure if he truly admired her or the compliment was mere formality. It was impossible to tell; he was the most inscrutable man she had ever met.

Then he smiled at her and looked not merely presentable, but downright handsome. It was the first time she had seen him smile. He should do so more often.

Her mother joined them, beaming with possessive pride. “You look splendid, Sarah.”

A moment later they were surrounded by chattering, laughing people, particularly those who had not yet met the duke and who longed to rectify the omission. Sunny half expected her fiancé to retreat to a corner filled with men, but he bore up under the onslaught very well. Though he spoke little, his grave courtesy soon won over even the most critical society matrons. She realized that she had underestimated him. Thornborough's avoidance of the fashionable life was obviously from choice rather than social ineptitude.

When she finally had a chance to look at her dance card, she saw that her fiancé had put himself down for two waltzes as well as the supper dance. That in itself was a declaration of their engagement, for no young lady would have more than two dances with one man unless intentions were serious.

When the orchestra struck up their first waltz, Thornborough excused himself from his admirers and came to collect her.

She caught her train up so that she could dance, then took his hand and followed him onto the floor. “It will be a pleasure to waltz,” she said. “I feel as if I've been talking nonstop for the last hour.”

“I believe that you have been,” he said as he drew her into position, a light hand on her waist. “It must be fatigu
ing to be so popular. In the interests of allowing you to recover, I shan't require you to talk at all.”

“But you are just as popular,” she said teasingly. “Every one in Newport wants to know you.”

“It isn't me they're interested in, but the Duke of Thornborough. If I were a hairy ape from the Congo, I'd be equally in demand, as long as I was also a duke.” He considered, then said with good-natured cynicism, “More so, I think. Apes are said to be quite entertaining.”

Though Sunny chuckled, his remark made her understand better why he wanted her to call him Justin. Being transformed overnight from the Gargoyle to the much-courted Duke of Thornborough must have been enough to make anyone cynical.

It came as no surprise to learn that he danced well. She relaxed and let the voluptuous strains of music work their usual magic. The waltz was a very intimate dance, the closest a young woman was allowed to come to a man. Usually it was also an opportunity to talk with some privacy. The fact that she and Justin were both silent had the curious effect of making her disturbingly aware of his physical closeness, even though he kept a perfectly proper twelve inches between them.

Katie had been right about the heat of the ballroom; as they whirled across the floor, Sunny realized that a remarkable amount of warmth was being generated between their gloved hands. It didn't help that their eyes were almost level, for it increased the uncomfortable sense of closeness. She wished that she knew what was going on behind those enigmatic gray eyes.

A month before, she had waltzed like this with Paul Curzon and he had told her that his heart had driven him to follow her to America. The memory was jarring and she stumbled on a turn. If Justin hadn't quickly steadied her, she would have fallen.

His dark brows drew together. “Are you feeling faint? It's very warm—perhaps we should go onto the porch for some air.”

She managed a smile. “I'm fine, only a little dizzy. It's absurd that we can turn only one direction during a waltz. If we could spin the other way now and then, it would be much easier.”

“Society thrives on absurdity,” he observed. “Obscure rules are necessary so that outsiders can be identified and kept safely outside.”

While she pondered his unexpected insight, the waltz ended and another partner came to claim her. The evening passed quickly. After the lavish supper was served, the engagement was formally announced. Augusta was in her element as even her most powerful social rivals acknowledged her triumph.

Sunny felt a pang as she accepted the good wishes of people she had known all her life. This was her last summer in Newport. Though she would visit in the future, it would not be the same; already her engagement to an Englishman was setting her apart.

The first phase of her life was ending—and she had no clear idea what the next phase would be like.

 

I
T WAS VERY LATE WHEN
the last of the guests left. As her official fiancé, Thornborough was allowed to escort Sunny to her room. When they reached her door, he said, “My train leaves rather early tomorrow, so I'll say goodbye now.”

“I'm sorry that you'll have to travel without a proper night's sleep.” Almost too tired to stand, she masked a yawn with her hand. “Have a safe and pleasant journey, Justin.”

His gaze caught hers, and she couldn't look away. The
air between them seemed to thicken. Gently he curved his hand around her head and drew her to him for a kiss.

Because she didn't love him she had been dreading this moment, yet again he surprised her. His lips were warm and firm. Pleasant. Undemanding.

He caressed her hair, disturbing the rosebuds, and scented petals drifted over her bare shoulder in a delicate sensual caress. She gave a little sigh, and his arms went around her.

The feel of his broad chest and his hand on the small of her back triggered a vivid memory of her last kiss, in Paul Curzon's embrace. All the anger and shame of that episode flooded back. She stiffened and took an involuntary step backward.

He released her instantly. Though his eyes had darkened, his voice was mild when he said, “Sleep well. I shall see you in October.”

She opened her door, but instead of entering her room she paused and watched his compact, powerful figure stride down the hall to his own chamber. In spite of the warmth of the night, a shiver went down her spine. Her feelings about Justin were confused, but one thing was certain: it would be disastrous to continue to let the shadow of Paul Curzon come between her and her future husband.

Yet she didn't know how to get rid of it.

New York City
October 1885

T
HE
W
EDDING OF THE
C
ENTURY
.

Justin stared at the blaring headline in one of the newspapers that had just been delivered to his hotel room. It was a rude shock for a man who had disembarked in New York City only two hours earlier.

Below the headline were drawings of Sunny and himself. The likeness of him was not flattering. Were his brows really so heavy and threatening? Perhaps.

He smiled wryly as he skimmed the story; it was every bit as bad as Sunny had predicted. Apparently Americans had a maniacal interest in other people's private business. There was even a breathless description of the bride's garters, which were allegedly of gold lace with diamond-studded clasps. The item must have been invented, since he could not imagine Sunny discussing her garters with a reporter.

The thought of Sunny in her garters was so distracting that he swiftly flipped to the next newspaper. This one featured a cartoon of a couple getting married by a blindfolded minister. The tall, slim bride wore a martyred expression as she knelt beside a dissolute-looking groom who was half a head shorter.

The accompanying story implied rather strongly that
the Duke of Thornborough was a corrupt specimen of European cadhood who had come to the New World to coldly steal away the finest, freshest flower of American femininity. At the same time, there was an unmistakable undercurrent of pride that one of New York's own was to become a duchess. Apparently the natives couldn't decide whether they loathed or loved the trappings of the decadent Old World.

Disgusted, he tossed the papers aside and finished dressing for the dinner that Augusta Vangelder was giving in his honor. Afterward, the marriage settlements would be signed. Yet though that would make him a far wealthier man, what made his heart quicken was the fact that after three long months, he would see Sunny again. And not only see, but touch…

After his Newport visit they had written each other regularly, and he had enjoyed her whimsical anecdotes about the rigors of preparing for a wedding. If she had ever expressed any affection for him, he might have had the courage to tell her his own feelings, for it would be easier to write about love than to say the words out loud.

But her letters had been so impersonal that anyone could have read them. He had replied with equal detachment, writing about Swindon and acquainting her with what she would find there. He had debated telling her about some of the improvements he had ordered, but decided to keep them as a surprise.

He checked his watch and saw that the carriage the Vangelders were sending should be waiting outside the hotel. Brimming with suppressed excitement, he went downstairs.

As he crossed the lobby, a voice barked, “There he is!”

Half a dozen slovenly persons, obviously reporters, bolted across the marble floor and surrounded him. Refusing to be deterred, he kept walking through the babble of questions that came from all sides.

The loudest speaker, a fellow with a red checked vest, yelled, “What do you think of New York, Duke?”

Deciding it was better to say something innocuous rather than to ignore them entirely, Justin said, “A splendid city.”

Another reporter asked, “Any of your family coming to the wedding, Duke?”

“Unfortunately that isn't possible.”

“Is it true that Sunny has the largest dowry of any American girl to marry a British lord?”

The sound of her name on the man's lips made Justin glad that he wasn't carrying a cane, for he might have broken it across the oaf's head. “You'll have to excuse me,” he said, tight-lipped, “for I have an engagement.”

“Are you going to visit Sunny now?” several chorused.

When Justin didn't answer, one of the men grabbed his arm. Clamping onto his temper, Justin looked the reporter in the eye and said in the freezing accents honed by ten generations of nobility, “I beg your pardon?”

The man hastily stepped back. “Sorry, sir. No offense meant.”

Justin had almost reached the door when a skinny fellow jumped in front of him. “Are you in love with our Sunny, your dukeship, or are you only marrying her for the money?”

It had been a mistake to answer any questions at all, Justin realized; it only encouraged the creatures. “I realize that none of you are qualified to understand gentlemanly behavior,” he said icily, “so you will have to take my
word for it that a gentleman never discusses a lady, and particularly not in the public press. Kindly get out of my way.”

The man said with a leer, “Just asking what the American public wants to know, Thorny.”

“The American public can go hang,” Justin snapped.

Before the reporters could commit any further impertinence, several members of the hotel staff belatedly came to Justin's rescue. They swept the journalists aside and escorted him outside with profuse apologies and promises that such persons would never be allowed in the hotel again.

In a voice clipped by fury, Justin told the manager, “I hope that is true, because if there is another episode like this I shall move to quieter quarters.”

Temper simmering, he settled into the luxurious Vangelder carriage. The sooner this damned wedding was over and he could take his wife home, the better.

 

S
UNNY WAS WAITING IN THE
Vangelder drawing room. She came forward with her hands outstretched, and if her smile wasn't quite as radiant as he would have liked, at least it was genuine.

“It's good to see you, Sunny.” He caught her hands and studied her face hungrily. “You were right about the publicity surrounding the wedding. I'm afraid that I was just rather abrupt with some members of the press. Has it been hard on you?”

She made a face. “Though it's been dreadful, I'm well protected here. But everyone in the household has been offered bribes to describe my trousseau.”

“Gold-lace garters with diamond-studded clasps?”

“You saw that?” she said ruefully. “It's all so
vulgar!
”

She looked utterly charming. He was on the verge of kissing her when the door swung open. Justin looked up to see a tall, blond young man who had to be one of Sunny's older brothers.

“I'm Charlie Vangelder,” the young man said cheerfully as he offered his hand. “Sorry not to meet you in Newport, Thornborough, but I was working on the railroad all summer. Have to learn how to run it when my uncle retires, you know.”

So much for being alone with his intended bride. Suppressing a sigh, Justin shook hands with his future brother-in-law. A moment later, Augusta Vangelder swooped in, followed by a dozen more people, and it became clear that the “quiet family dinner” was an occasion for numberless Vangelders to meet their new relation by marriage.

The only break was the half hour when Justin met with the Vangelder attorneys to sign the settlement papers. His solicitor had bargained well; the minute that Justin married Sunny, he would come into possession of five million dollars worth of railway stock with a guaranteed minimum income of two hundred thousand dollars a year.

There would also be a capital sum of another million dollars that Justin would receive outright, plus a separate income for Sunny's personal use so that she would never have to be dependent on her husband's goodwill for pin money. As an incentive for Justin to try to keep his wife happy, the stock would revert to the Vangelder family trust if the marriage ended in divorce.

Gavin would have been amused to know that the value of the Thornborough title had risen so quickly. May Russell would have brought only half as much to her marriage.

Impassively Justin scrawled his name over and over,
hating every minute of it. He wished that he could marry Sunny without taking a penny of her family money, but that was impossible; without her wealth and his title, there would be no marriage.

As he signed the last paper, he wondered if Sunny would ever believe that he would have wanted her for his wife even if she had been a flower seller in Covent Garden.

 

W
HEN HER DAUGHTER ENTERED
the breakfast parlor, Augusta said, “Good morning, Sarah.” She took a dainty bite of buttered eggs. “There's a letter here for you from England.”

Sunny tried unsuccessfully to suppress a yawn as she selected two muffins from the sideboard. The dinner party for Thornborough had gone on very late, and she had smiled at so many cousins that her jaw ached this morning.

She wished that she had had a few minutes alone with her future husband; she would have liked to tell him how much she had enjoyed his letters. She didn't know if it had been a deliberate effort on his part, but his descriptions of life at Swindon Palace had made her future seem less alien. His dry wit had even managed to make her smile.

She slit open the envelope that lay by her plate and scanned the contents. “It's from Lady Alexandra Aubrey, Thornborough's youngest sister. A charming note welcoming me to the family.”

Uncomfortably Sunny remembered that Katie had said the girl had been nicknamed the Gargoylette. Her lips compressed as she returned the note to the envelope. The girl might be small, shy and seventeen, but she was
the only Aubrey to write her brother's bride, and Sunny looked forward to meeting her.

“Are you only going to have muffins for breakfast?” Augusta said with disapproval.

“After the dinner last night, it's all I have room for.” Sunny broke and buttered one of the muffins, wondering why her mother had requested this private breakfast.

Expression determined, Augusta opened her mouth, then paused, as if changing her mind about what she meant to say. “Look at the morning paper. Thornborough was intemperate.”

Obediently Sunny lifted the newspaper, then blinked at the screaming headline.
Duke Tells American Public to Go Hang!

“Oh, my,” she said weakly. The story beneath claimed that Thornborough had bodily threatened several journalists, then bullied the hotel manager in a blatant attempt to infringe on the American public's constitutional right to a free press. “He mentioned yesterday that he'd been abrupt with some reporters, but surely this story is exaggerated.”

“No doubt, but someone should explain to Thornborough that it's a mistake to pick fights with men who buy ink by the barrel.” Augusta neatly finished the last of her meal. “A good thing that he was in England until now. Heaven knows what trouble he would have gotten into if he had been here longer.”

Feeling oddly protective, Sunny said, “He's a very private man. He must find this vulgar publicity deeply offensive.”

“Unfortunately, wealth and power always attract the interest of the masses.”

Sunny poured herself coffee without comment. Her
mother might say that public attention was unfortunate, but she would not have liked to be ignored.

Augusta began pleating her linen napkin into narrow folds. “You must be wondering why I wanted to talk to you this morning,” she said with uncharacteristic constraint. “This will be difficult for both of us, but it's a mother's duty to explain to her daughter what her…her conjugal duties will be.”

The muffin turned to sawdust in Sunny's mouth. Though she didn't want to discuss such a horribly embarrassing subject, there was no denying that information would be useful. Like all well-bred young ladies, her ignorance about marital intimacy was almost total.

Briskly Augusta explained the basics of male and female anatomy. Then, rather more slowly, she went on to describe exactly what a husband did to his wife.

Sunny choked on her coffee. “That's disgusting!” she said after she stopped coughing. She had heard whispered hints and giggles about the mysterious
something
that happened between men and women in the marriage bed, but surely it couldn't be what her mother was describing.

“It
is
disgusting,” Augusta agreed, “as low and animal as the mating of hogs. It's also uncomfortable and sometimes painful. Perhaps someday scientific progress will find a better, more dignified way to make babies, but until then, women must suffer for the sins of Eve.”

She took a piece of toast and began crumbling it between nervous fingers. “Naturally women of refinement are repulsed by the marital act. Unfortunately, men enjoy it. If they didn't, I suppose there would be no such thing as marriage. All a woman can do is lie there very quietly, without moving, so that the man will please himself quickly and leave her alone.”

Lie there and think of England, in other words. Sunny's
stomach turned. Had her tall, athletic father actually done such things to her delicate mother? Was this what Paul Curzon had wanted when he was kissing her? And dear God, must she really allow Thornborough such liberties? Her thighs squeezed together as her body rejected the thought of such an appalling violation.

Seeing her expression, Augusta said reassuringly, “A gentleman will not visit your bed more than once or twice a week. You also have the right to refuse your husband once you are with child, and for at least three months after you deliver.” She glanced down at the pile of crumbs she had created. “Last night, after the settlements were signed, I took the duke aside and reminded him that you are gently bred, and that I would not permit him to misuse you.”

“You spoke to Thornborough about this?” Sunny gasped, so humiliated that she wanted to crawl under the table and never come out. “How did he reply?”

“He gave me the oddest look, but said that he understood my concern for your welfare, and assured me that he would be mindful of your innocence.” Augusta gave a wintry smile. “It was very properly said. He is, after all, a gentleman.”

Sunny's mind was a jumble of chaotic thoughts. The marriage bed sounded revolting—yet she had enjoyed Paul Curzon's kisses, and kissing was supposed to be a prelude to doing
it.
Surely the women who carried on flagrant affairs wouldn't do so if they found the whole business distasteful. Timidly she asked, “Do all women dislike the marital act?”