Edith Layton
Authors: To Wed a Stranger
T
O
W
ED
A S
TRANGER
For Adam and his beloved Jeanne,
the newlyweds,
who married wisely and well,
with love and, of course, with laughter.
Joy to you, and thanks
for making
my
dream come true.
“I do,” she said, and only then allowed herself to…
Annabelle sat back in the darkened carriage. She’d really gone…
Miles climbed into the bed beside his bride. She still…
Her head ached when she woke, and her limbs felt…
Miles carried his bride over the threshold, but there was…
Miles felt a touch on his arm and he woke…
Miles had just finished his hastily eaten dinner, and now…
“I’d like to sit in the sun, please,” Annabelle said.
The servants at the lodge stared at the elegant carriage…
Miles sat and listened to the fire crackling in the…
It began, at least by Annabelle’s reckoning, three hours and…
The carriage crossed the bridge over an ornamental pond, rounded…
“Not red,” Annabelle said, “but you know that.”
The guests danced. First country sets and squares, then minuets,…
“I didn’t mention it before because I don’t want to…
She couldn’t believe she could be so happy again. She…
“You think so? You really think so?” Annabelle asked.
Miles said good night to his sister and mother when…
Annabelle woke to sunlight. She stretched and smiled with pleasure.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” the butler said, “but he’s not…
Annabelle had been drilled in the social graces since her…
“No more lies,” Miles said firmly. He looked at his…
“Dueling is illegal,” Annabelle said again.
Annabelle stretched, reached out an arm—and found only empty space.
Miles and Annabelle lay in their wide bed that night…
“I
do,” she said, and only then allowed herself to wonder what she’d done.
But there wasn’t time to think once she’d said it. The vicar went on, then her fiancé’s voice, light and amused even now, said the words he had to say to her to make her his wife. There was still time to protest—to undo it! she thought in sheer panic, which passed as quickly as her new husband’s light kiss brushed across her lips.
“Courage,” he breathed for her ears only, but even that sounded to her as if it held a world of amusement. He wasn’t a fellow who took things seriously, not even his own marriage or the compromise he’d made to be married to her.
Nor was Lady Annabelle Wylde a woman who grieved for what couldn’t be, she reminded her
self as she straightened her spine and pinned a smile on her lips. Grief didn’t matter, nor could it change a thing. It was as useless as tears shed railing against her fate. Good for effect, but effecting no change. She’d learned that, at least.
Annabelle put her hand on her husband’s arm and let him lead her up the aisle to the back of the church, where they could greet those few well-wishers who had come—as well as the horde of gossips and curiosity-seekers who thronged the place this morning.
They stood in the gray stone vestry, bathed in color, the morning sunlight pouring down fractured and brilliant through stained glass windows high overhead. The bride wore a long-sleeved, high-waisted white gown with a sheer gold overskirt set with myriad brilliants that caught the light, casting icy sparks that glinted on her fair skin. A wreath of white orchids was wound into her soft sable curls. She was small but her figure was perfect, shapely in all its proportions, from her high breasts to her gently swelling hips. Her alabaster face, justly famous for its beauty, was serene; the long lashes that shaded her cerulean eyes hid their expression.
Her new husband took congratulations; she, at his side, accepted best wishes. She believed none of them. These people were there in the same spirit Londoners swarmed to hangings: to see something desperate, titillating, and decisive. To
day they gathered to see one of London’s most beautiful women finally wed. Beautiful, and doubtless damned, because she was seven-and-twenty and had never managed to marry a man she had wanted. Instead, today she had wed a relative stranger to them all—as well as to herself.
Nevertheless, the new Lady Pelham smiled as she accepted their good wishes, false or not, because if she knew nothing else, she knew the correct thing to do. She never lost that smile, not even when a gloriously handsome gentleman and his equally stunning blond wife, who was obviously with child, paused to wish her well. The line in back of the gorgeous pair grew hushed. Not a flicker in the bride’s celestial blue eyes hinted that she’d ever thought the gentleman would be the man at her side now, instead of merely offering his congratulations. Her smile didn’t slip even when she spoke with his wife, who was carrying the child she’d thought would be hers.
The bride greeted the next couple, a redheaded military man and his wife, with the same sangfroid, as though half of London didn’t know he’d been the next man she’d set her cap for. Nor did her smile slip as a tall, thin, elegant gentleman took her hand and his lady greeted her, though he’d been another that rumor said she’d aimed her heart at, a year ago.
She’d give no one cause to gossip this day, even though these men
were
the reason she was a mar
ried woman now. Not one of them had chosen her; they’d gone to other women. Her birth, fortune, those famous good looks, conversation, and charm had done her no good. Each had rejected her—only because of fate or chance, or so her mother assured her. London gossips said more. None of it was true, but she no longer knew what was, except for the fact that she’d been rejected so often it was a joke to everyone but herself.
But no more. She’d married this morning. They’d have to find someone else to make sport of.
She watched the gentlemen as she accepted their murmured good wishes. They were bland, cool, and as charming as she was. She was grateful for it. She could bear speculation and gossip, but not pity. Which was the reason she’d passed this bright morning marrying a stranger…not quite a stranger, she corrected herself. They had, after all, known each other for two months.
Her father had come to her with the viscount’s offer two months ago. Then, she’d refused. Until her father sat and talked with her as never before, with solemn insistence.
“I’m a good judge of men,” he’d said. “And intelligent enough not to rely on just that. I’ve had him investigated too. Miles Croft, Viscount Pelham, is entirely eligible. He’s recently returned from abroad and newly settled into his honors. He’s handsome enough to please any female, only
five years your senior, and has a clean reputation. He needs a wife of good standing.”
“Why would a fellow of such looks, sterling reputation, and great prospects want to marry a female he’s never even met?”
“You didn’t always use that tone of voice with me,” her father said with a frown.
She’d been honestly confused.
“That note of venom,” he explained, “that sly spite.”
“But then we don’t talk together often, do we, Father?”
He’d looked down. “My fault entirely,” he’d murmured.
There’d been a silence. Earl Wylde spent as little time as possible under his own roof. At home in the country, he passed his time outdoors, riding, fishing, or visiting with his cronies. In London, he was busy with politics, his clubs, his mistresses.
The earl was still attractive at fifty-odd years. His dark hair was only touched with gray and he was perhaps a shade too portly, but he carried it well. In all, he was a good-looking man, with a commanding expression enlivened by intense blue eyes. His daughter, his only child, had those eyes from him, as well as most of her looks. Her mother was short, plump, and nondescript. Their marriage had been arranged, as was their par
ents’, and the only regret her mother had about it was that she’d produced just one child. One beautiful daughter she doted on, and lived vicariously through, although lately that daughter’s lack of a husband increasingly mortified and distressed her.
She scarcely seemed to notice her husband’s absence from her life, but his daughter always had. His regrets about his marriage must have been many, because now in most respects he lived as a single man. And because that had always hurt his daughter, and because she thought it was odd that he cared about her now, she told him so.
His shoulders went up, he looked down at his hands. “No, it’s only odd that I didn’t say anything before. But I thought you and young Damon Ryder would make a match of it. We all did.”
“So did I, Father,” she said, raising her head high.
He looked up at her directly. “So he married another. There was no formal agreement, and you never kept company with him once you were of age to do so. It was just that we were near neighbors, and you got along as children, so we parents thought you two would suit. He grew up and surprised us. It wasn’t the end of the world, Annabelle.”
It had seemed so to her. She looked away, swallowing hard. No one would see her cry about it. She hadn’t for years, and she would not now.
“As for his friends,” he father went on heavily, “that soldier Raphael Dalton, and the Earl of Drummond…Fine men to be sure, but I never believed either of them was right for you, whatever your mama said.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
He gave her a level glance. “Would that have done anything but anger you? I believed you wanted them because it was the only way you could continue to see Damon. And perhaps make him regret not choosing you?”
Now she turned her gaze from his.
“It wouldn’t have been good for you in the long run,” he went on. “But my telling you that would have been worse, I think. No parent with one wit in his head would tell his daughter he believed her and her love didn’t suit. If I had, and you had married one of them, I’d have been forever an enemy. If you had not, I would have been blamed for poisoning your mind. My dear Annabelle, had you said you were in love with a Gypsy I would have held my tongue. Though in that case, I could at least have tried to bribe him out of your sight. How could I discourage men of Drummond and Dalton’s stripe? They were—are—good, honorable men. But you were lucky, I think.”
“Though of course you couldn’t tell me so,” she said bitterly.
He shrugged. “I haven’t been an attentive father, perhaps, but neither have I been a domineer
ing one. I am a caring one, whatever you think. I never ordered you to marry, though I could have done. Your mother started nagging at me years ago because I did nothing when you were still unmarried. She hounds me now, telling me every lady your age in London is wed. She worries about what people are saying. I thought you’d remedy the situation in your own time. That time hasn’t come. Now I do worry about what your future will hold. I believe Pelham to be a good man who could make you happy if you gave him the chance. I’m here to tell you that he offers you his hand.”
“Why didn’t he come to me? Why apply to you? We are not so old-fashioned.”
“Neither is he. But he cared for your feelings. He didn’t want to cause more gossip. He felt he might have stirred up more if he took up your time, only to find out your heart was otherwise engaged, or you were utterly uninterested in his offer.”
“Very kind of him I’m sure,” she said through clenched teeth. “But again, why should such a paragon offer for a woman he doesn’t know? A woman he’s surely heard gossip about? And not charming gossip at that.” Her mouth twisted as if she tasted those bitter words. “I know what they say. Doesn’t he care that he’s seeking a marriage with an incurable flirt, a selfish, vain female who can’t see beyond her own looking glass?”
“That could be merely jealous tattle said about any beautiful woman. There’s no talk about your reputation, which is unassailable. He doesn’t believe gossip anyway. He’s lived with it too long. After his father died, his mother married unwisely; she wed a dirty dish, a very bad man. He left scandal in his wake, bankrupted her, and ruined her name before he too died. Miles Croft made his own fortune and has just inherited another, along with a title that makes him Viscount Pelham. Now he wants a wife to add luster to his name and family. His sister is of marriageable age. He loves her, his brother, and his mother, and believes that if he marries well it would go a long way to clearing the way for their advancement in society, redeeming what his mother did to their name.”
“And he wants nothing for himself?” This time she couldn’t keep the scorn from her voice.
“Don’t speak foolishly. You’re beautiful, Annabelle. He’s seen you. He’s heard the gossip too, and likes the way you comport yourself in spite of it. ‘Like a deposed princess who knows her throne still exists,’ he said.”
Annabelle fell still. She did hold her head high. It was that, or hide it. She had no choice, she wore a smile and faced the world. And the world accepted her whatever they said about her in private. Gossip hurt, but she was sure that cowardice would kill her. She was her father’s daughter in
more than looks. When she’d been a child he had only to enter the house to make her drop whatever she was doing and race to him. They fished, they went riding…but as soon as her childhood was over, their friendship was too. What father passed his time with his adult daughter, after all?
He was admired by everyone who knew him; even her mother didn’t speak ill of him. Annabelle herself had always wanted his respect. Now a stranger that he recommended wanted to marry her for her name and her looks. All her life she’d used her appearance to win her way, yet now she was loath to do so. She’d hoped to marry for love. She remembered why she had not.
“And you will be seven-and-twenty in the spring,” her father added, “and Pelham does not mind.”
Her eyes flew wide. She went a trifle pale.
He winced, and turned his head so he couldn’t see her face. “I too thought you and Damon would make a match of it. When you didn’t, I thought you should be given time to find love, even though that’s a modern notion. I didn’t marry for love, nor did your mama, but these are different times and I believed you should at least be able to heal your heart, given time. You have not.
“And…” He rose, paced away, and said without looking at her, “There comes a time when a man wants to lead his own life. Your mother doesn’t mind my absences. You do. But how long
must a man live for his child?” He stopped and faced her. “You’re not a child anymore, Annabelle. I want…whatever I want is the least of it. If you stay on here, you’ll dwindle to being your mother’s companion. I think you deserve more.”
“And you think I can’t get a husband on my own?”
“I think you’d be hard put to find a better one than Pelham. If you can’t find love, Annabelle, I believe it is time to find accommodation. Before it’s too late.”
“Well, then,” she’d snapped, anger, hurt, and shame making her want to strike out, if only at herself, “why not?”
“Good!” he’d said before she could correct herself.
And then it was too late. Pride, guilt, and shame stayed her tongue. Viscount Pelham turned out to be as her father had described: charming, if lightweight in his conversation, humorous, harmless enough. He looked at her with admiration, looked well himself, and often made her laugh. He didn’t paw her or embarrass her. He seemed to have chosen her for the same reasons he did the expensive and fashionable clothing he always wore.
He was well read, well schooled, well mannered, and maybe best of all, not very well known. He’d been away from England for ten years, most of his adult life. No one knew ill of him, or much
of him either. He’d never been accepted or rejected by any other woman, and if he’d had mistresses they were unknown too. She’d begin her new life with a clean slate with a man who had no history her enemies could gossip about.
His family was no trouble either. In fact, their awe of her was flattering. His mother was shy, his sister obviously impressed by her brother’s beautiful fiancée, his younger brother openly admiring. Though Annabelle looked carefully, there was no impediment: except, of course, that her heart wasn’t involved.