Silver Splendor (32 page)

The dress was made of tissue thin silver gauze draped over an underskirt of magenta satin. Off theshoulder sleeves and a deepcut bodice framed her bosom in lacy splendor, and a wide silver sash wrapped her tiny waist. Tasseled loops of Venetian pearl beads caught up the silver gauze at the sides. The dress made Elizabeth feel radiant, although she had to breathe shallowly. Lady Beatrice had insisted on a corset, and for once Elizabeth had deemed it prudent not to argue.

Critically eyeing the gown, Beatrice tilted her regal head. “Miss Eversham, the hem drags a bit on this side.”

“Yes, my lady.” As the homely governess knelt to repin the hem, she darted Elizabeth a look of proud satisfaction. Elizabeth smiled warmly back. Clearly Miss Eversham delighted in seeing a woman her social equal snare a man of the earl’s stature.

Hugging her knees, Cicely sat on a velvet hassock. “I never imagined my brother could be such a romantic. He’s always been so starched and proper.”

Elizabeth swiveled for the governess. “I thought so, too,” she murmured, “until I came to know him better.”

“He must be madly in love,” Cicely said.

“We at least half agree, then,” Beatrice said dryly. “He must be mad.”

Ignoring her aunt, Cicely leaned forward. “Do tell us everything, Elizabeth. Has Nick written you any love poems? Taken you for walks in the moonlight? Why didn’t you even hint that you were falling in love with him?”

“Your head is in the clouds,” Beatrice said, taking her sharp eyes from Miss Eversham’s progress long enough to send the girl a severe look. “Run along now and see to your own toilette.”

“But —”

“No arguments, please. We’ve scarcely three hours before we leave for church. I’ve my hands full without your disobedience.”

“Yes, aunt.” Cicely trudged meekly away, then turned back, a mischievous sparkle in her lapis lazuli eyes. “Imagine, my art instructor a countess. Won’t that set society on its ears!”

As the girl vanished out the door, Beatrice’s fine features formed a scowl. Mingled amusement and trepidation trembled inside Elizabeth. Though she cared little for what people thought of her, she could understand Beatrice’s concern, because that concern rose out of love for Nicholas.

“Come, Miss Eversham,” said Beatrice, with a clap of her hands. “Time is wasting.”

“Yes, my lady.” Aided by a wide eyed maid, the governess deftly drew the skirts over Elizabeth’s head, then departed. Left alone in the dressing room with her ladyship, Elizabeth stood uncertainly in chemise and petticoats, and wished there were some way to make amends with Nicholas’s aunt. The fragile truce they’d woven during the past weeks lay in tatters today.

Pursing her rosebud mouth, Beatrice studied Elizabeth. “You’ll bathe now. I suppose I shall have to help you since the staff is engaged.”

“I can manage.”

“Nonsense. The earl asked me to oversee this wedding, and it is my duty to obey. Left to your own devices, you’d probably wear those dreadful trousers.”

“I won’t disgrace his lordship.”

“Humph.” Circling Elizabeth, Beatrice began to unlace the tight corset. “These relations of yours in Yorkshire. What sort of people are they?”

Not yet ready to tell anyone about the duke, Elizabeth chose her words carefully. “You needn’t worry about Nicholas humbling himself. My mother’s family is wellborn.”

“Oh?” Her ladyship tugged sharply on the lacing. “I spent hours educating you. Why did you never once mention them to me?”

“I’ve only just found out. When we return, I hope to tell you more.” On impulse Elizabeth turned and grasped the older woman’s smooth hand. “Please try to understand, your ladyship. I want Nicholas to be happy as much as you do.”

“Then call off this unsuitable match.”

“I can’t. I love him too much.”

“Love!” Beatrice drew her elegant fingers free. “No doubt you lured my nephew into compromising you and then took advantage of his sense of honor.”

If only she knew the irony of that statement! With quiet dignity, Elizabeth said, “Do you truly believe I would do that?”

Beatrice’s gaze wavered; then she narrowed her eyes. “Any woman can be compelled to sacrifice her principles for the chance to acquire a title and wealth, not to mention a handsome husband.”

“Not I.” On the single occasion she’d been in Beatrice’s bedroom, Elizabeth had seen on the bedside table the framed photograph of a kind eyed man, the husband who had died some three years earlier. “Your ladyship, do you know what it’s like to love a man so much you feel empty without him?”

Beatrice’s stony expression eased a fraction. “Of course. Mine was an arranged marriage, but Trevor and I grew to love each other.
That
is what I want for my nephew.”

“Love is what I wish for him, also.”

Beatrice stared at Elizabeth for a long, measuring moment. “I can’t approve of this haste.”

“I have reasons to visit my relations, and Nicholas wishes to go with me. Be happy for us, please,” Elizabeth added softly. “Nicholas thinks the world of you. He would want your blessing.”

She touched Beatrice’s hands again and this time her ladyship didn’t pull away. A succession of expressions flickered across her fine boned features: obstinance, indecision, acquiescence.

With a sigh she pressed her polished, fragrant cheek to Elizabeth’s. “My dear girl, you’re too charming to resist. Perhaps Nicholas has at last met his match.”

Standing before the altar in St. George’s Church, Hanover Square, Elizabeth hugged a spray of roses and marveled at her sense of unreality. How curious that she could be so vibrantly aware or her surroundings yet feel so cloaked in fantasy. This moment would be stamped on her memory forever: the jeweled light filtered by the stained glass windows, the chilly air sending goose bumps over her skin, the solid warmth of the man standing beside her. She felt dazzling and alive, beautiful for the man she loved.

Without conscious thought she slipped a hand into Nicholas’s. His fingers squeezed gently, reassuringly. She glanced up to see him smiling at her, his fiercely handsome face soft with affection, his silver eyes gleaming with love. His impeccable claret suit emphasized the wide breadth of his shoulders and the long length of his legs. In a moment he would be hers. The thought thrilled and frightened and confused her, all at once.

His voice rang rich and clear through the church.

She spoke her own vows breathlessly.

Then it was too late to change her mind; Nicholas was sliding a dainty, diamond studded band onto her finger. Their lips brushed in a brief, stirring kiss. The swelling notes of organ music echoed her soaring spirits. As they went to sign the register, along with Cicely and Lord Charles as witnesses, she clung tightly to her husband’s arm.

The galleries were empty, the few guests scattered in the front pews. Her throat squeezed as she saw Owen standing alone, dressed in his Sunday best. He looked satisfied and proud, yet sadness shadowed his hazel eyes. A palette of conflicting emotions colored her spirits. She could not simply walk past him. No matter that he had kept the truth from her all those years, she longed to share this moment with him. Eyes blurred, she hugged him, his familiar and comforting scent enveloping her as tightly as his arms.

“You’ll always be my little girl,” he said in a rough whisper. “Always.”

Her heart wrenched. Yes, a part of her would always belong to Owen. Yet somehow she could not work the words of reconciliation past the knot in her throat.

Drawing back, she leaned heavily on Nicholas’s arm as he guided her out of the church. Cicely joined the newlyweds at the columned portico. Eyes sparkling, she embraced first Elizabeth, then her brother.

“Thank heavens, Nick, that you finally came to your senses. For a while I was afraid you’d wed that prissy Marianne.”

Smiling, Nicholas slid an arm around his wife. “Sometimes you don’t acknowledge what’s right in front of your face. Let that be a lesson to you, Cicely.”

He glanced at Lord Charles, who stood a short distance away, addressing Lady Phoebe. Cicely’s cheeks colored. Jerking her eyes back to her brother, she elevated her pert chin.

“Oh, pooh,” she said with a wave of her kid gloved hand. “Love hasn’t anything to do with lessons. When I marry,
I
shall be swept off my feet by a dashing rake.”

As Cicely and Lord Charles accompanied them in the landau back home, Elizabeth wondered at the relationship between the two. His feelings shone clear in the way his brown eyes hungrily absorbed her every gesture. But what did Cicely reel? She chattered gaily, seemingly indifferent to the quiet man sitting beside her. Yet a sense of high strung awareness hovered about her, a rigidness to her posture, a veiled glance directed his way, a muffled gasp when a bump made their legs brush.

Elizabeth smiled. Perhaps there would soon be another wedding in the Ware household. She hoped so. She wanted the whole world to experience her joy.

“Happy, love?” Nicholas murmured.

“Very much.”

Mere words seemed inadequate to express her feelings, and she snuggled her cheek against his coat. When they arrived at Hawkesford House, he stayed by her side, touching her cheek, holding her hand, gazing at her. For once, she knew his thoughts. She knew, because she felt the same burning need inside.

At dinner her new status dictated that she sit at the opposite end of the table from Nicholas. Automatically she sipped her wine and ate what the footmen placed on her plate. Veal with truffles, tender fillet of beef, lobster in a creamy bechamel sauce… the courses seemed to last forever. From time to time, Nicholas caught her eye and his slow smoldering smile left her light headed and flushed. Somehow she managed to hold a rational conversation with Lady Phoebe to her left and the jovial lord to her right.

Afterward the ladies glided into the drawing room while the gentlemen lingered over port. Nicholas followed Elizabeth into the hall. His knuckles drifted down her arm, leaving her skin hot and her limbs weak.

“Go on upstairs, love,” he murmured.

“But our guests are still here.”

“Go on upstairs.”

The silver dark intensity of his eyes thrilled her. She found herself obeying willingly.

When she entered her bedroom, a white capped maid sprang up from the hearth chair. “Oh! Didn’t expect you so soon, mum.” A blush stained her pretty face as she bobbed a hasty curtsy. “Your ladyship, I mean.”

The title still caught Elizabeth by surprise. She was a lady now, after all. Smiling wryly, she asked, “Who are you?”

“Janet, my lady.” The girl dipped another curtsy. “His lordship said I was to attend you from now on.”

“Attend me?”

“As your lady’s maid.” Shyly she stepped forward, hands worrying her white apron. “Shall I help you undress?”

Undoing the row of tiny buttons down the back of the gown, Janet chattered freely, apparently forgetting her nervousness as she busied herself at familiar tasks. Elizabeth found an unexpected pleasure in letting someone else put away the clothing, in relaxing before the dressing table instead of tumbling into bed too tired to do more than wash her clay soiled hands.

“Such lovely hair, my lady,” Janet said, combing out he long tresses with a silver backed brush. “Pure black is a raven’s wing. His lordship will be most pleased.”

Elizabeth felt her cheeks burn. That was the purpose of all this fussing — not for her own gratification, but to prepare her for the earl’s enjoyment. And she was to humbly wait here like an offering on a platter.

Seized by a strange, restless panic, she stood. “Excuse me. I… I need a breath of fresh air.”

Janet looked startled. “But what will I tell his lordship?”

“That I’ll return when it pleases me.”

The fine linen robe swishing around her ankles, Elizabeth walked out the door. The instant the latch clicked shut, she stopped uncertainly in the gaslit hall. From the grand staircase drifted the tinkle of laughter and the rumble of voices. Her brief spurt of rebellion died. Where had she thought to go? To the conservatory?

Drawn by the unspoken command of her heart, she headed slowly toward Nicholas’s suite. She hesitated before the imposing walnut panel, then knocked decisively.

The door opened. The thin featured man named Quinn eyed her in surprise. “Miss… er, my lady. Might I be of assistance?”

“I’d like to see my husband.”

The valet opened his mouth as if to protest, but she angled past him and entered the bedroom. Nicholas stepped from the dressing room, his shirt unbuttoned to his bare chest, the white tails hanging out of his trousers. His attention was focused at his wrist. “Damned cuff link,” he muttered. “Quinn — !”

He glanced at her and stopped. The impatience slid from his face. Heat flared in his eyes, drying her throat.

On liquid legs, she moved toward him. “Let me help you,” she said, bending to unfasten the heavy gold link from his starched cuff.

Straightening, she saw the shadow of a smile on his lips. Then he aimed a haughty glare at the valet, and Quinn scurried out of the bedroom.

The exchange vaguely disturbed Elizabeth. With a look Nicholas could make servants obey; with a look he could make her melt. Had she been wrong to give herself into his power?