A Kiss Before the Wedding - A Pembroke Palace Short Story

A Kiss Before the Wedding

A Pembroke Palace Short Story

Julianne MacLean

Copyright © 2012 Julianne
MacLean

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One

June 12, 1842

Though she was young—only one
month shy of her nineteenth year—Lady Adelaide Robins possessed the
wisdom to understand that certain moments in one’s life were
turning points that could never be undone.

This, she knew, was one of those moments.

Years from now, she would look back on the
choice she had made this evening as she sat at her desk, quill in
hand, and wonder, what if I had acted differently? What if I had
never written this letter?

Lady Adelaide did not know if she was making the
right decision tonight. How could she? She did not possess a
crystal ball, nor the life experience to judge most men of the
world.

Except, perhaps, for one man, who was very dear
to her heart.

William Thomas, her friend since childhood, was
the second son of a viscount, while she was the daughter of an
earl, raised on a vast estate in Yorkshire with her two older
sisters, who were now married.

Their father was thankful for the husbands her
sisters had procured, for it was common knowledge that their family
was impoverished, and there was no money for dowries. Not a single
farthing.

Nevertheless, Mary and Margarite had married
well, which was no great surprise, for they were widely regarded as
incomparable beauties.

Margarite had married the handsome eldest son of
a baron from the south who would inherit his father’s prosperous
estate one day, while Mary had wed a less handsome but exceedingly
amiable youngest son of a marquess, who was a well-loved vicar in
Devonshire.

Now it was Adelaide’s turn to walk down the
aisle, and her father was beside himself with joy, for she had done
better than both her sisters. Somehow, against all likelihood, and
without intent, she had captured the heart of a duke.

Not just any duke, mind you. Adelaide was now
famously engaged to Theodore Sinclair—His Grace, the Duke of
Pembroke—one of the highest ranking peers in the realm, wealthy
beyond any imaginings, impossibly handsome of course, and with a
palace considered to be one of England’s greatest architectural
achievements. It was an extravagant baroque masterpiece with
splendid Italian Gardens (recently designed by the duke himself), a
complex cedar maze which provided hours of entertainment for
prestigious guests, and it was allegedly built upon the ruins of an
ancient monastery.

Some said the complex network of subterranean
passages beneath the palace was haunted by the monks, but Adelaide
did not believe in ghosts. She
did
believe, however, in the
properly documented particulars of history, and in that regard, it
was a well-known fact that the first Duke of Pembroke had been a
close, intimate friend of King Henry VIII, who had awarded the
dukedom in the first place.

Yes, indeed. Theodore Sinclair, the current Duke
of Pembroke, was the most sought-after bachelor in England, and for
some unknown reason, he had taken one look at Adelaide from across
a crowded ballroom and fallen head over heels in love with her.

She wasn’t sure what she had done to arouse his
passions to such a heightened degree. She had danced with him twice
at the ball where they met, then accepted his invitations to go
walking in the park the following three days in a row, and had sat
with him in his box at the theater the following week.

She could not deny her own infatuation, for the
duke was very handsome and very grand. Even now she was distracted
by the image of his fine muscular form, his charming smile, and the
flattery of it all.

And then... he had come to her father
practically
begging
for her hand in marriage. Her father had
agreed and was now his old self again, pleased that his family
circumstances would improve, as were her sisters who would also
benefit from her marriage.

Which was why this letter was probably a
mistake.

Adelaide set down her quill.

No... I must not write to William. It would
be the equivalent of sticking a hot poker into a hornet’s nest and
stirring it around.

She was engaged to Theodore now. William had
been gone from Yorkshire for more than a year, and he had left
without expressing any feelings for her, other than friendship. She
had shed enough tears and waited too long for letters that never
came. Her good sense told her she must forget him once and for all
and move on with her life. Without him.

Rising hastily from the chair, she padded across
her candlelit bedchamber to the fireplace. The flames danced wildly
in the grate and the charred log snapped and crackled in the
silence of the room.

It was nearly midnight. She should go to sleep
and forget about the past. In three weeks she would marry one of
the greatest men in England and become Duchess of Pembroke. Her
family would rise very high in the world, and she suspected there
was some promise of a generous settlement that would end her
father’s financial hardships.

Knowing that she must act responsibly and
dutifully, she padded back to her desk, crumpled the letter that
began with ‘Dear Mr. Thomas,’ and threw it into the fire. Then she
snuffed out the candle and climbed into bed.

The following day, Adelaide
struggled with her decision not to write to William.

How can I marry without a word to him? Surely
he deserves to know. What will happen when—
if
—he comes home
from Italy and discovers I am a duchess and had not told him a
single thing about it? He will be shocked and very hurt.

Adelaide frowned.

Despite the fact that William had inflicted
great pain and frustration upon her lately—for he had not written a
word since February—she could not bear the idea of hurting him. All
her life he had been her closest friend. She could not take this
step without telling him. He must hear it from her, and no one
else.

That was it, then.

After dinner, she sat down at her desk and
brushed the feather quill across her chin. She would write this
letter and send it to him in Italy. William probably wouldn’t even
receive it until after the wedding—so there would be no danger of
him talking her out of it—but at least he would know she had cared
enough to explain herself to him personally. And though she was
angry with him for leaving her behind, she did care, more than
words could say. More than she should.

Carefully dipping her quill into the rich black
ink, she touched it to the page and began, at last, to write.

My dear Mr. Thomas,

There is something I must tell you...

Two

William was half in his cups when
he returned home from the doctor’s dinner party at the villa. He
had not yet learned how to keep pace with the Italians and their
constant flow of fine wine, but he was no quitter, dammit. And by
God, he enjoyed their hospitality and was learning a great deal
about things that were of enormous interest to him.

Human anatomy. Medicines. The workings of the
brain.

They were fascinating subjects, and he was
thankful to have been given the opportunity to travel here. Though
he had not expected to remain so long...

Two years ago his sister had married an Italian
count. Nine months later, William had come, at his father’s
request, to acquaint himself with his new nephew.

Little did William know that he would discover a
new passion, a life’s calling, while in the presence of his hosts.
It happened on the day he arrived, when they’d introduced him to
their neighbor, Giulio Donatello, a prominent Italian physician and
medical researcher.

Since that day, William had immersed himself in
every medical book he could lay his hands on, and was considering a
life devoted to science and discovery and medicine, despite the
fact that his father would most certainly frown on such pursuits.
His father considered any profession outside of the church or the
army to be well beneath his sons, for they were aristocrats—though
not very highborn aristocrats in the greater scheme of things.
William’s father was viscount, and as a second son, William was a
mere ‘mister.’

Not that it mattered. William never coveted his
father’s title. Instead, he craved freedom—freedom to choose his
own path in life.

And tonight he felt positively euphoric.
Donatello had invited him to attend a dinner at the Vatican the
following week with a group of physicians that had come all the way
from Amsterdam.

As William made his way up the stairs to his
bedchamber, he realized it had been months since he’d written a
letter home. He felt a sudden compulsion to pick up his quill and
write to Adelaide about all that had happened recently. He wished
she were here so that he could show her all the wonders of Rome. It
had been too long since they’d sat in the same room together, or
went riding across the moors, or swam under the waterfall on her
father’s estate. God, how he missed her.

She would celebrate her nineteenth birthday
soon. A woman, at last. Perhaps, finally, it was time to go home,
for he had been waiting a very long time to declare his feelings.
His whole life, it seemed.

When he reached the door to his bedchamber, he
entered quietly, as it was late and he did not wish to wake anyone
in the household.

He closed the door behind him and set the candle
down on the cabinet to his left.

Shrugging out of his dinner jacket, he glanced
at the fireplace. The kindling was laid out for him, but he did not
wish to light a fire on such a warm summer night. A few candles at
his desk would serve him well enough.

William tossed his jacket over the upholstered
bench at the foot of his bed, but as he tugged at his neck cloth,
he noticed a letter on the corner of the desk. It must have been
delivered while he was out.

Quickly, he crossed to it, picked it up, and
turned it over. As he beheld the familiar red seal, his heart
leapt, for the letter had come from Adelaide. What perfect
timing.

Surely there was some form of destiny at play
here, for now that he knew his true purpose in the world, he had
been thinking such wonderful thoughts about the sort of future they
could enjoy together.

He tore eagerly at the seal, sat down in the
chair, and began to read...

My dear Mr. Thomas,

There is something I must tell you. It
hardly seems possible that I am writing this. I cannot believe it
has been almost two years since you left Yorkshire. I am sorry for
not writing to you more often these past few months, but recently I
have been rather swept away by circumstances that I must now convey
to you.

In May, I visited London for part of the
Season. At one particular ball, I was introduced to a most
illustrious person, His Grace, the Duke of Pembroke. If you were
here, I would tell you every detail, but I cannot possibly write
the words. To put it plainly, the duke has asked for my hand in
marriage, and I have accepted. His Grace does not desire a lavish
or extravagant wedding, so we will be married at his private family
chapel, at Pembroke, in July.

The whole world turned white before William’s
eyes. He rose abruptly from his chair and knocked it over onto the
floor.

Adelaide had accepted a marriage proposal from a
duke? No, it could not be!

I wonder what you must be thinking as you
read these words. I hope you are not too terribly astonished.