Nothing But Scandal (20 page)

Anxious, Elizabeth peeked out. There was something unreal about all of this. She watched an usher discreetly escort a turbaned woman to one of the back pews, where she would not block the view of the other guests.

She, Elizabeth Medford, was marrying the Duke of Beaufort. Her family’s reputation was ruined. Her personal reputation was ruined. She was penniless. She had red hair.

Somehow, Alex loved her enough to marry her anyway.

Suddenly Elizabeth imagined she heard the voice of Miss Prissom, her childhood governess and a woman fond of pithy sayings, whispering in her ear, “If something seems too good to be true, it usually is.”

She shrank back into the waiting room and moved to an alcove near the window. She shook her head to clear it, and blew on her suddenly cold hands to warm them. How many of the hundreds of guests in the pews were whispering to the person next to them, wondering if, after all, there
had
been merit to the scandalous rumors about her and the duke?

She may have been accepted back into Society’s good graces, but would they actually accept her as a duchess? What if someone discovered that mere months ago, she’d been employed as a governess? They would laugh at her, or behind her back.

Worse, they would laugh at Alex.

He deserved someone so much better than she. How could she ever be the model of grace and decorum a duchess was supposed to be? Dear Lord, what if she was an embarrassment to her husband?

Her duties began tonight, at the reception following the wedding. Thank goodness the Grumsbys were the official hosts—she’d never been a hostess, or a guest of honor, for that matter, in her life.

Elizabeth took a deep breath and forced her knees to stop quivering. First she had to marry the man. Everything else came after.

From her position near the alcove’s window, she saw a carriage arrive bearing the Beaufort crest of arms and felt a momentary rush of relief. Alex was here. He was not going to strand her at the altar. After the constant wedding-related henpecking of her mother, Marian, Beatrice, Charity, and Alex’s estimable valet, she’d been half-afraid he might. Instead, he leapt from the carriage and hurried into the church, leaving the driver to maneuver through the hopelessly clogged streets. She peeked out of the room again.

In the pews nearest the altar she could see Marian and Brian Grumsby smiling. Alongside them was an elderly woman who shared Alex’s firm jawline. His mother, Elizabeth realized, come away from her sanctuary in Bath for their wedding. And across from the dowager duchess sat Elizabeth’s own mother, looking nervous and proud at the same time.

Now, if she could only make it down the aisle without tripping, she’d count the day a success—though the yards of pearl-encrusted silk trailing behind her wouldn’t make that easy.

Why, oh, why, hadn’t she mentioned to Madame Benoit that she was hopelessly clumsy, and had that lady design a more appropriate gown? Never in her life had she so wished she’d been born with at least a modicum of grace. And, drat it all, her knees had begun quivering again.

Her uncle George stood stiffly at her side. Elizabeth was hardly on speaking terms with him after what had happened with Harold, but she’d had no one else to escort her, and no desire to set tongues wagging yet again by insisting upon walking down the aisle alone.

Charity stood at her other side, looking stunning in an aqua silk gown, her golden tresses piled atop her head. She gave Elizabeth a smile full of hope and excitement, and Elizabeth felt some of her sister’s good cheer seep through her own nerves.

The last of the guests were seated. From what seemed like an interminable distance, she saw the vicar nod.

Charity glided forward, a picture of grace and youthful beauty, and took her place near the altar, where she would stand during the ceremony to assist Elizabeth with her gown’s long train.

The music changed, signaling her entrance. Last chance.

Elizabeth placed her gloved hand lightly in the crook of her uncle’s arm, and moved forward.

Alex stood at the end of the aisle, his expression admiring and approving.

Dear Lord, her soon-to-be-husband was so
handsome
. His smoky dark-velvet jacket was cut to perfection, his formal breeches likewise.

Elizabeth focused on him, willing away the faces of the crowd, each etched with avid curiosity. She lifted her chin. Let them think what they would.

Amazingly, she didn’t trip, or faint, and she watched with unreal detachment as her uncle and Alex grimly clasped hands. Her uncle stepped away, and the ceremony began.

Alex took her hand in his. His grasp was warm and strong and oddly comforting as they stood before God and all of Society to take this irrevocable step.

Elizabeth repeated her vows, prayed she’d never have cause to break them. Alex repeated his, his voice low and confident, and again, oddly reassuring.

Together, they turned to face the vicar.

A shiver of excitement slid down Elizabeth’s spine. Alex Bainbridge was her husband. Never in a million years had she dared to believe this would happen.

At the vicar’s nod, Alex encircled her waist, his strong hands drawing her in for a warm kiss. Elizabeth closed her eyes, breathed in his scent, and kissed him back.

If the reception didn’t end soon, Alex was going to be driven certifiably mad.

He forced a grin as yet another well-wisher clapped him on the shoulder, all the while wondering what the hell had happened to his wife.

His mother had already departed the celebration, but not before making it known—thank God only to him—that she firmly expected him to get to work, immediately, on producing an heir. “It’s high time, Alex. Thank heaven you’ve finally chosen someone.”

Alex had merely ground his teeth. He
would
be working on an heir, if his wife didn’t keep getting whisked away from him before he could inform her of his desire to leave.

“I intend to make you proud of me,” she’d told him earnestly when the reception began.

“You already do,” he’d replied automatically, his mind on other, more intimate, matters.

The wedding, in his mind, served one particular purpose: no one could criticize him any longer for sleeping with Elizabeth. And, damn it, that was exactly what he wanted to do.

But it appeared his wife was bound and determined to fulfill the social role of a duchess. It dawned on him that this was important to her—it was what she’d meant about making him proud. He shook his head in disbelief. She was incredibly sweet, but, by God, didn’t she realize such trivialities could come later?

He’d spent the past month in a near-constant state of desire, yet had managed only an occasional stolen kiss. Even as a schoolboy he’d never been so smitten, and for so long, with one woman. Yet, for someone whose reputation had been ruined, Elizabeth’s family and friends had guarded her like hawks.

Alex tossed back the rest of his champagne, holding his frustration in check. Those same women had managed to resurrect Elizabeth into Society’s good graces, a fact for which he was thankful.

Or, rather, he
would
be thankful, after more important matters were addressed.

Finally he spotted Elizabeth surrounded by another throng of guests, many of whom were heavily bejeweled females of advanced years. He wisely decided to wait just a bit longer—there would be no extracting her from
that
group.

“Growing weary of the celebration yet?”

Alex glanced over to find Brian Grumsby giving him a sympathetic grin. “Bloody hell.”

Grumsby laughed. “No one would think twice if you and Elizabeth were to leave. In fact, I daresay most everyone’s wondering when you will.”

“We would,” Alex growled, “if my lovely wife would so much as glance my way.”

“Ah. Perhaps she’s nervous. It’s not at all uncommon, man, for a woman to be a bit jittery on her wedding night.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Alex said dryly. What had this night come to, that
Grumsby
was offering him advice on the opposite gender?

Elizabeth was a passionate woman. Even if her new role as duchess unnerved her a bit, he knew
that
aspect of it didn’t trouble her. Was it possible she was simply not as anxious as he? Or that she was truly so caught up in the gaiety she hadn’t realized the time had long passed for them to leave?

Grumsby looked as if he had more to say, but just then Elizabeth finally did look up and meet Alex’s eye, then nodded slightly and gazed toward the exit. Relief flooded him, and Alex left his brother-in-law in mid-sentence.

He strode quickly to her, clasped her hand in his, and without further ado, escorted her from the party amidst loud cheers from the many guests.

Ignoring them, Alex hurried her along the hall that led to the private family rooms.

“You are a vision,” he told her, meaning every word. Her gown was a work of art, her hair dressed exquisitely. “Have I told you that tonight?”

Of course, in about ten minutes, perhaps five, he intended to see that gown in a heap on the floor and her hairpins strewn next to it.

“Perhaps once, my lord,” she teased breathlessly, half-running to keep up with him.

He slowed his pace. Barely.

“It was a lovely party,” she told him.

“Yes. Lovely.”

“You seem in an awful hurry to leave it.”

He stopped, faced her. “God’s teeth, Elizabeth, can you not discern why?” He snatched her into his arms, kissing her in a manner designed to erase any possible doubt. Her hair and skin smelled of roses, and she tasted of fine champagne.

He was drowning. He’d never needed anyone like this before.

When he finally released her, her face was flushed, her eyes wide.

Grumsby’s words came back to him. “You’re not nervous, are you?” Alex asked curiously.

“Of course not.” But she hesitated. No more than a fraction of a second, but it was there.

“Dearest, there’s nothing to be nervous about. We—” He stopped just short of saying
we’ve done this before
. Somehow it didn’t seem right to remind her that their wedding night had been precipitated—though that didn’t bother him in the least. He’d assumed that would actually make their lovemaking easier to enjoy.

Elizabeth
was
nervous. Oh, she wanted Alex to make love to her. For weeks her body had craved his touch. But mixed with her desire was the fear she would never measure up as wife to the Duke of Beaufort. At the reception, she’d been shocked by the sudden and complete transformation in how Society treated her.

She’d known she was marrying a duke. She’d just never managed to see herself as a duchess.

But now, people who’d never before spoken to her bowed and scraped and begged her opinion on even the slightest of matters. She was starting to understand what Alex had experienced his entire life. Not having been born to it, she was unnerved.

This was not the time to think about her new position, however, since Alex was tugging her along the hall again, and she was quite certain he had no intention of calmly discussing their roles in Society. Perhaps if he kissed her again, she, too, would forget such matters. Her heart lighter with the anticipation of that kiss, she smiled.

Finally they reached the wide double doors that led to the master chamber.

Emma, her longtime maid, had happily agreed to serve in the Duke of Beaufort’s household, once she’d learned of Elizabeth’s engagement. Now she and Hanson, Alex’s valet, stood like sentinels waiting for them.

“Here, Your Grace.” The moment they passed through the doors, Hanson made a move to help Alex with his formal coat.

Elizabeth almost giggled as her husband let out an audible growl. Hanson took a nervous step backward.

“I believe we’ll be able to manage without assistance this evening,” Elizabeth said softly.

“All those hooks,” Emma murmured, eyeing her wedding dress.

Alex growled again, though this time Elizabeth was able to distinguish the words “leave us” at the end.

Taking the cue, Hanson and Emma disappeared, bowing and curtsying as they beat a hasty retreat, though Elizabeth saw Hanson cast one mournful glance back at his master’s finery. No doubt he didn’t trust Alex to care for it properly.

Probably for good reason.

Her lips quirked and she found herself, for the first time in this stressful day, grinning.

“What’s so funny?” Alex asked.

She shook her head. “Poor Hanson. He won’t be able to sleep tonight for worrying over your clothing.”

Alex grinned, too. “Come here, wife.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to change? Madame Benoit designed a nightrail especially for—” She bit her lip. “I mean, shouldn’t a duchess be more…”

Alex stared at his babbling wife. She was still nervous. He closed the distance between them and placed his lips on hers, cutting off further clothing-related protests.

He kissed her softly, brushing his lips back and forth, and felt the rigidity leave her body as she melted, leaned in for more.

God, it was going to kill him to take this slowly. But she deserved to be savored.

He continued kissing her, working at the many hooks on her gown. His fingers fumbled.

“There are a great many of them,” she apologized. “Should I—”

“Hush. The gown is perfect.
You
are perfect.”

“Oh, Alex.” She sighed. “I’m so very far from perfect. I don’t know if I can ever be a proper duchess.”

“I don’t want a proper duchess,” he told her, fighting the urge to smile now that he understood what troubled her. He cupped her chin, held her gaze. “I never have. And you, Elizabeth, are indeed perfect—for me.”

“In that case,” she managed, and he caught the glint of tears in her eyes as she dipped her head to kiss his palm.

His own throat felt oddly tight, choked with emotion. Alex returned his attention to the many hooks of her gown, moving around back of her where he could concentrate on the task.

One by one he undid the hooks, kissing each new place he uncovered. He kissed her neck, her shoulder blades. She arched her neck, leaned toward his touch. Inch by inch, the bodice loosened, until it came free entirely. The many layers of skirts were a much easier matter—a few ties to undo and they softly slid to the floor, leaving Elizabeth clad only in a thin silk chemise.