A Matter of Duty (11 page)

Madame Coty was holding up yet another gown, this time a dazzling white taffeta slip with an overgown of rich silver lace stitched with sequins. It had a very high waistline marked by a silver drawstring, and little petal sleeves adorned with a shivering silver fringe. ‘Perhaps mademoiselle would prefer this one? It was intended originally for the Countess of Lawton, but she ran away to Gretna Green with a very unsuitable young man and hasn’t been heard of since.’ Madame Coty tilted her head thoughtfully, surveying Louisa’s reflection. ‘
Non
, I think the one you have on now is much more suitable for the occasion in question.’

‘Occasion?’

‘Your wedding, mademoiselle.’ The Frenchwoman looked at her in surprise.

‘Oh. Oh, yes.’ Louisa felt color flooding into her cheeks.

‘You do not like the gown?’ asked the dressmaker, a little offended.

‘It’s very beautiful, I just have so much on my mind.’

‘Oh,
pardon, mademoiselle
, on such a sad day for you I should not be rattling on about happy occasions.’ Madame Coty snapped her fingers at yet another assistant, who stepped forward with some somber but beautiful black clothes. The dressmaker quickly helped Louisa out of the wedding gown and into a mourning gown instead. Trimmed with chenille, it had a matching three-quarter-length pelisse, which was to be worn unbuttoned to show off the gown’s exquisite high waist and jet-studded belt. To go with it there were long black gloves, a hat with a heavy, chenille-trimmed veil to keep out prying eyes, and little black shoes. The dressmaker rattled on in her usual way, relating the story of the original person for whom it had been ordered. A certain Mrs Carrington-Haltrop had intended to wear it at a relative’s funeral, but had then fallen out with the whole family and elected not to attend, after all, leaving the garments on the dressmaker’s hands. So ill-mannered! Never again would the dreadful Mrs Carrington-Haltrop know the joy of wearing a Coty creation.

The words flowed over Louisa. Her black image stared sorrowfully back at her from the glass. This was how she’d look when Tom was laid to rest….

‘Mademoiselle?’

Louisa turned quickly. ‘Yes, madame?’

‘Is there anything else you particularly wish me to provide for you?’

‘No. I’m sure you’ve been most thorough.’

‘For a lady such as you it is a pleasure, mademoiselle. You have an excellent figure, and my clothes could have been made just for you. I shall be much honored to know that the, er, famous new Lady Highclare is wearing my garments.’ The dressmaker smiled. She’d been about to say the astonishing new Lady Highclare, but had thought better of it. ‘I shall gather together everything on the list and send it to this address, and when I am ready for you to take fittings of the garments I have sketched for you, I shall send word.’

‘Thank you, Madame Coty. I don’t deserve such kindness.’

The dressmaker beamed. ‘Anyone who is loved by such a man as Lord Highclare deserves everything, mademoiselle. You are the most fortunate of ladies.’

‘I am indeed,’ murmured Louisa, managing to return the smile. Loved by such a man as Lord Highclare? She wondered what the dressmaker would have said had she known the truth about the Highclare match.

B
y the morning of Tom’s funeral, the Highclare story was all over fashionable London. As Kit expected, the fact that Louisa had been a governess and was residing unchaperoned under his roof proved to be of consuming interest. Society accepted his claim that it was a love match, but delighted in discussing the bride’s character – or lack of it – at great length.

Reggie Carruthers proved staunch in his friend’s support, having formed a favorable impression of Louisa when he’d dined at Grosvenor Square. He’d found her a little quiet and withdrawn, strained even, but had put it all down to her understandable distress about her brother. She was, Reggie confided afterward in Kit, a quite delightful little thing, and would make a creditable Lady Highclare. Kit privately trusted that his friend’s judgment was going to prove correct, for Louisa Cherington was an unknown quantity who might yet turn out to be the greatest mistake he’d ever made.

An hour before the funeral service was to commence at St George’s, the streets nearby became thronged with carriages, as the
monde
turned out to pay its last respects to Tom Cherington; at least, that was its professed purpose, the truth was that everyone was anxious to see the intriguing Miss Cherington.

Louisa was ready to leave. The clock was creeping toward eleven, and she stood by the window of her room, looking down at the sun-drenched square. The weather was beautiful and quite at odds with her low spirits as she pulled on Madame Coty’s costly black gloves. Behind her veil, her face was more pale and drawn than ever, and there were shadows beneath her eyes. She had yet to break down and cry.

Kit’s carriage entered the square and drew up at the curb. The horses’ bridles were fixed with black rosettes, and the coachman wore a black gauze scarf around his hat.

Kit entered the room. He wore a black mourning cloak from which fluttered long weepers, and beneath it a plain black coat and gray trousers. She went to pick up her little reticule and he saw her hand trembling. ‘Are you up to this?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘It will be a considerable ordeal for you.’

‘I know, but I must go. It’s my duty.’

A light flickered through his eyes. ‘That’s a word I seem to have heard a great deal lately.’

‘It’s an important word,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s the reason we’re marrying.’

‘So it is.’ He offered her his arm. ‘Shall we go?’

Her skirts rustled as they descended the staircase, and when Miller opened the front door, a light summer breeze played with her veil. It was warm outside, and she could hear birds singing in the garden in the middle of the square.

It wasn’t a long drive to the church, but it seemed endless. Louisa kept her eyes lowered to the reticule lying on her lap, for every time she looked out of the window, all she could see was the rose garden at Cherington Court, and two children, a brother and sister, playing hide-and-seek.

The carriage drew up at last outside St George’s, having maneuvered through the crush of similar vehicles conveying the astonishingly large congregation of mourners. As Kit alighted and assisted Louisa down, she was aware of all eyes being upon them. She was glad of her heavy veil, for she could hide behind it. She was glad, too, of Kit’s presence at her side. His black-gloved hand rested protectively over hers, and his fingers were firm and reassuring. She still barely knew him, he was a stranger, but she needed him now.

She glanced up at the church’s magnificent portico, which had six Corinthian columns, but then her attention was snatched away by the arrival of the hearse with its team of black-plumed horses. Tom’s coffin was draped with a velvet pall, and on top of it rested a large wreath of creamy white lilies. The flowers quivered as the bearers lifted the coffin and raised it to their shoulders.

For a moment Louisa’s resolve almost failed her. The sight of her brother’s coffin was just too much, and she felt suddenly weak. Her fingers closed convulsively beneath Kit’s, and her breath caught.

He steadied her. ‘Don’t proceed with this if you don’t feel able,’ he said.

‘I must go through with it. He is – was – my brother.’ Was. It had to be the past tense now.

‘I’ll be with you,’ he said gently.

She didn’t reply, but behind the veil her eyes were grateful. She took a deep breath and moved with him to take up their position behind the coffin, then they followed it up the steps beneath the portico and into the packed church. The sound of slow, sorrowful organ music drifted over them, and the perfume of lilies seemed to fill the air. She hardly knew it, but now her fingers had coiled tightly around Kit’s, her nails digging through her gloves.

A stir passed through the congregation as the coffin was carried down the aisle, followed by the chief mourners. Everyone watched as Kit assisted Louisa into a pew at the very front. Many noted how he held his future wife’s hand and how considerate he was toward her, and there wasn’t a person present who didn’t wish Louisa would turn back her veil and reveal her face.

She sat quietly, her hands clasped in her lap, her head bowed as she whispered a prayer for Tom. Then she raised her eyes to look at the church. It was one of Wren’s most beautiful, its interior giving the impression of simplicity and light. There were plain white walls and a ceiling picked out in gold, and behind the altar there was a painting of the Last Supper.

She found the funeral service harrowing. Time after time her unwilling gaze was drawn to the velvet-draped coffin. Her beloved Tom was in there. The solemn hymns washed over her, as did the clergyman’s voice, for all she could hear were the sounds of the past: childish laughter in the rose garden at Cherington Court.

She was only vaguely aware of the service coming to an end. Suppressed emotion almost overcame her, and unshed tears shone in her eyes as she watched the men taking up the coffin again, for its final journey to the burial ground near Tyburn.

Kit touched her arm, assisting her to her feet. His hand was steady and reassuring at her elbow as they followed the coffin out into the sunshine again. The rest of the congregation streamed out behind them, determined to see Tom Cherington being laid to rest, and determined, too, to gain an introduction to his sister if they possibly could.

The slow procession of carriages moved westward through Mayfair to Tyburn, and then along the northern boundary of Hyde Park to Uxbridge Road. Louisa remained tightly composed, giving no outward sign of the distress she felt as the bearers conveyed the coffin to the freshly dug grave. Incongruous thoughts entered her head. If she’d still been at Lawrence Park, she and Emma would have been taking their luncheon in the schoolroom now; and if life had gone on at Cherington Court, she and Tom would have been seated at the white-painted wrought-iron table on the terrace, where they’d always sat on such beautiful summer days.

She steeled herself to scatter a handful of earth over the coffin’s gleaming wood. She was aware of all eyes being upon her, and she sensed the continually raised quizzing glasses and gloved hands hiding whispering lips. She knew they were hoping to speak to her when this final part of the ceremony was over, and the thought filled her with dread. She found herself wondering how many of them took Lord Rowe’s side where the duel was concerned. Rowe. She’d hardly thought of him since first she’d heard of Tom’s death, but now she had to think of him, for as far as she was concerned, he’d murdered her brother. He’d known he was by far the superior shot, and yet he’d still called Tom out. It had been murder.

To her relief Kit did not expect her to endure introductions just yet, and the moment everything was over, he escorted her back to the carriage. She leaned her head back as the vehicle drew away, but then something made her glance behind to the burial ground again. Beyond the gaggle of black-clad people she could see the grave. Some men with spades were filling it in, closing Tom Cherington off from the daylight forever.

Suddenly she felt her steely grip deserting her, slipping inexorably away and leaving her at the mercy of her grief. Behind the veil her eyes shimmered with tears again, and her lips trembled. With a supreme effort she managed to hold back the sobs, but the moment the carriage drew to a halt in Grosvenor Square, she alighted, her black skirts rustling as she hurried into the house ahead of Kit. She fled up the stairs, a choked sob catching in her throat, and the tears almost blinded her as she reached the sanctuary of her room and closed the door behind her, leaning weakly back against it, her whole body shaking as the sobs of misery had their way at last.

The anguish of bereavement surged over her, the hot tears coursing down her cheeks. She had no strength left, and she moved slowly toward the bed, where she collapsed, her face buried in the soft coverlet as she gave vent to the awful grief she’d bottled up over the past days.

Kit followed her into the room, standing by the doorway for a moment as he watched the sobbing, crumpled figure on the bed. Then he went to her, bending to take her hand and draw her into a sitting position. He raised her veil, pushing it back over her head, then he pulled her to her feet and into his arms, holding her very close as she continued to sob.

She was so engulfed in sorrow that she was only vaguely conscious of him.

He stroked the nape of her neck, dislodging a heavy lock of darkred hair so that it tumbled down from its pins beneath her little hat. The warm tress fell against his hand, its touch sensuous and oddly affecting. He was aware of how vulnerable and utterly feminine she was, and of how her body quivered in his arms. The fullness of her grief moved him, and he was conscious of being far more drawn to her than he’d expected.

‘It’s all right, Louisa,’ he murmured, instinctively using her first name, ‘It’s best that you cry it all out.’

She was aware of him now, for how could she not be? Part of her drew back from such intimate contact with a man she hardly knew, but the other half wanted to cling to him, needing so desperately to be comforted that all thought of impropriety was forgotten. Her arms moved timidly around him and she hid her face against the fine frills of his shirt. She could smell costmary on the soft lawn, a clean, sharp smell that seemed to envelop her; and she could feel the steady beat of his heart close to hers.

S
he’d recovered her composure a little later as she went down to the library, where Kit was waiting to speak to her. Pattie had combed and pinned her hair again, and she still wore the black mourning gown.

He was standing before the fireplace, looking up at his grandfather’s portrait, and he turned as she entered. ‘I trust you’re feeling better now,’ he said, coming to conduct her to one of the chairs.

‘Yes, much better. Thank you.’ Her black skirt rustled as she sat down.

He watched as she arranged the rich skirt. Clothes of such quality became her very well, bringing out her fine-boned daintiness and emphasizing her natural grace. He resumed his position by the fireplace. ‘I know that this isn’t really the time to discuss such things, but we should talk about the wedding.’

She nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Under the circumstances I hardly imagine you want it to be a grand affair, but if you do—’

‘No,’ she interrupted quickly, horrified at the thought. ‘No, I’d prefer it to be quiet.’

‘It can be completely private if you wish.’

‘What would you prefer?’ she asked.

‘I’ll go along with whatever you want, Louisa.’ He smiled then, conscious of having again used her first name. ‘Perhaps we should be less formal with each other. Please call me Kit; after all, we are shortly to be man and wife.’

Warm color blushed on her cheeks. ‘I – I’ll try to remember.’

‘Kit,’ he prompted.

‘Kit.’

‘To the wedding again, then. I think we can assume that it is to be a private occasion, can we not?’

‘Yes.’

‘The next point has to be where it’s to take place. I’ll obtain a special license, which means we can marry either in church or here in this house. Have you a preference?’

She hesitated. ‘I realize this may sound a little foolish,’ she said, ‘but I wouldn’t feel properly married unless it was in a church.’

‘Why should that sound foolish?’ he asked, vaguely amused.

‘Because we aren’t embarking on a love match; we’re marrying solely because of duty.’

‘It’s still a marriage,’ he pointed out.

‘In name, maybe.’

He was silent for a moment. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘Well, I.…’ She couldn’t reply. The color heightened on her cheeks and she was suddenly covered in confusion.

His eyes were very blue as they held hers. ‘You’re going to be my wife in every way, Louisa. I thought you realized that.’

She felt very hot now, her hands clasping and unclasping in her lap. ‘F-forgive me, but I really hadn’t given it any thought, I just imagined …’

‘That it was to be a purely platonic arrangement? You imagined incorrectly.’ He paused, a little embarrassed himself then. ‘Louisa, if this makes a difference …’

‘No. No, it doesn’t make any difference. I’m still prepared to marry you.’ She met his eyes. ‘I accept that you’ll be my husband in every meaning of the word.

‘Intimate strangers?’ he murmured, raising a slightly wry eyebrow.

‘We can hardly be anything else, sir.’

‘Kit.’

‘Kit.’ She lowered her glance. ‘Do – do you think we’re doing the right thing?’

‘You have doubts?’

‘I’m filled with them.’

‘Do you want a completely honest answer?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then I have to admit that it is as much a leap in the dark for me as it is for you, but I also have to admit that although we don’t know each other very well, what we do know cannot be said to be disagreeable. I find you very pleasing, Louisa, and if I had reservations before we met, I don’t have them now. I’m content that you’re going to be my wife.’

‘Content?’ She searched his face. ‘How can you say that when your heart is given elsewhere?’

‘It
was
given elsewhere.’ But the reply lacked real conviction.

‘I think we both know that this other lady is still very much in the present for you.’

‘She still isn’t going to wear my ring, is she?’ he said softly. ‘She has no place in this discussion, for it’s of
our
wedding that we talk, yours and mine. Now then, where were we… ? Oh, yes, we’d agreed that it was to be a church ceremony. Tell me, did your family have a connection with a particular church in London?’

‘No. Please don’t suggest St George’s,’ she added quickly.

‘I wouldn’t dream of it. My family has always worshiped at the Grosvenor Chapel in South Audley Street, and I’m well acquainted with the present incumbent. Would that be acceptable to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Which brings me to the matter of a bridesmaid. Reggie is to be my groomsman, but I don’t know if you have anyone you particularly—’

‘There isn’t anyone. I’ve lost touch with those near Cherington Court, and when I was at Lawrence Park there wasn’t an opportunity to make friends.’

‘But a bride must have a bridesmaid.’ He hesitated. ‘I know that a maid is only a servant, but perhaps Pattie would suit?’

She smiled. ‘Pattie would do very well, sir.’

‘Kit,’ he insisted.

She colored. ‘I’m sorry, I just find it immensely hard to speak to you as if I’ve known you for a long time.’

‘Soon you will know me very well indeed,’ he said softly.

The confusion overtook her again, flaming on her pale cheeks.

He smiled a little. ‘And I trust you won’t forget that as far as society is concerned, we are in love. Nothing was expected of you today – it was hardly the occasion – but when we do sally forth in public for the first time after our marriage, we will be expected to behave as lovers do.’

‘We – we will?’

‘Of course.’

She drew a long breath. She really hadn’t considered any of this; she’d been too wrapped up in simply coping with all that had happened.

‘Louisa, if we don’t conduct ourselves like that, we’ll be exposing the marriage to very unwelcome comments, and I’m sure you don’t want that. I haven’t embarked lightly upon this. I’ve made a decision and I intend to stand by it. You’ll be my wife, you’ll receive every consideration from me and not be treated as a mere chattel.’ He. watched her for a moment. ‘Do you have any lingering doubts concerning the nature of what I’m offering?’

‘None at all.’

‘Then I’ll attend to the special license without delay and we’ll be married within days. Louisa, a moment ago I mentioned going out together in public for the first time. It’s something that should be got over and done with – the gossips and scandalmongers have to be faced.’

‘I understand that.’

‘I wondered if a visit to the Italian Opera House would be the very thing. I have a private box there, and Catalini’s singing in
Cosi Fan Tutte
at the moment. I think we should attend the day after the wedding.’

‘Poor Madame Catalini, she’ll have her thunder stolen when we appear,’ she said a little wryly.

‘I’ve no doubt of it.’

‘Kit …’

‘Yes?’

‘About appearing in society for the first time. I know that I’m bound to come face to face sooner or later with Lord Rowe.’

He nodded. ‘That can’t be avoided.’

‘Must I meet him? I’d prefer not to.’

He drew a long breath. ‘It might be exceeding difficult to avoid it, Louisa.’

‘He murdered Tom.’

‘You and I may think that in private, but we can’t say it in public. Whatever the truth of it, one fact remains; Rowe obeyed all the unwritten rules as far as duels are concerned, and that places him beyond accusation.’

She looked away. ‘I can’t see it in that light, Kit, and if I’m faced with him, I don’t think I can be polite.’

‘Maybe it’s a bridge that is some way away from being crossed.’ He trusted so, for there was an edge to her voice that told of the strength of her feelings. He took out his fob watch then. ‘If I’m to obtain a special license, there are several gentlemen I have to run to ground as quickly as possible. Is there anything else you wish to ask me before I go?’

‘Just one thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘When will you next see … her?’

‘She’ll be at Cowes when we arrive.’

‘Are you ever going to tell me who she is?’

‘I don’t think there would be any point, do you? It’s over, Louisa, and you needn’t concern yourself about her.’

‘So, I could be talking to her, maybe even laughing with her, and not know that she’s the one you really wanted as your wife?’

He held her gaze. ‘I suppose that could happen – indeed, it probably will – but will it really matter? She isn’t the only woman I’ve ever kissed and made love to; there have been many others who’ve warmed my bed, for I cannot by any stretch of the imagination be called a monk. Will you then wonder if every woman you meet has meant something to me in the past?’

‘No, because I know that only one woman fully matters: this one woman you won’t name.’

‘How many men have kissed you, Louisa?’ he asked suddenly.

‘None!’

‘None at all? Are you going to tell me that Geoffrey Lawrence never kissed you?’

Her breath caught. ‘He took a liberty,’ she said, caught off guard. ‘How …’

‘Thin walls at the Green Dragon. He made his interest in you very clear indeed, much to Lady Lawrence’s chagrin. How am I to know that you didn’t really return that interest?’

‘You have my word.’

‘And you have mine. The woman I refuse to name no longer has any place in my life. I do not deny that I’m not entirely free of her, but each day makes it easier, and I shall certainly not succumb to any second thoughts.’ He smiled then. ‘So will it really matter that one day you might fall into conversation with her?’

‘No, I suppose not.’ But it did matter, it mattered very much. She knew she had no right to expect anything more from the match than he’d promised, but she couldn’t help herself. She hardly knew him, but what she was beginning to know she liked very much. She couldn’t believe that in the midst of the turmoil and grief that beset her she could have emotion enough left to be drawn to him, but it had begun to happen. If she’d colored at the mention of consummating their marriage, it hadn’t been because she was filled with virtuous alarm at the thought of such violation, it was because the prospect of surrendering to him filled her with an unexpectedly warm sense of anticipation.

Startled at how she felt, she said nothing more as he went quietly out, closing the door behind him. As his footsteps died away, she got up, going to the French window to watch the water playing from the stone dolphin’s mouth. A light breeze whispered through the willows, moving their fronds sensuously to and fro and casting dappled shadows over the stone flags.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed something white behind the curtain, close to her feet. It was a crumpled piece of paper.

She bent to pick it up, straightening it out. The opening words leapt out at her: ‘My dearest, most beloved Kit.…’ She knew she shouldn’t read any more, but the temptation was too much.

Each loving, tender word stabbed her with foolish pain, and as she finished, the letter slipped from her fingers. There was always going to be a side of Kit’s life in which there was no place for his wife, only a place for the mysterious lady who signed herself T. He might claim that he was almost over her, but how could he be over someone with whom he’d quite obviously shared such burning passion? He’d honor and respect his wife; he’d love the mistress who’d refused to leave her husband for him.