Tallie's Knight (12 page)

All she truly wanted
was to be loved.

The other had been
mere play-acting, an attempt to distract herself, to get through the day with
some semblance of good spirits in order not to disappoint her friends. But
there hadn’t been much point. Dully, she felt her glove being tugged off.

“With this ring I
thee wed, with my body I thee worship…” His voice was deep, harsh.

The ring was cold as
it slid onto her finger.

She was married.

Tallie glanced up at
her husband. He was staring down at her small hand, still resting in his large
one. She followed his gaze and saw the faint brown stains on her fingers from
the dye she had used on her gloves and lace. And at the end of each grubby hand
was a chewed and ugly fingernail. That was what her new husband was staring at
—her dirty hands and horrible bitten nails.

He put back her veil
and kissed her, a hard, brief pressure on her mouth, then straightened, having
done his duty. A lump rose in her throat and she bit her lip to stop it
trembling. Such a cold, hollow sham of a wedding.

It was her own fault,
she knew. She had stupidly allowed herself to dream of how it would be, and so
of course she was disappointed. She invariably was. Life was always a
disappointment when compared with her dreams. So the dreaming would have to
stop. But, oh, she’d never felt so miserable or alone in her life. Tallie felt
a tear roll down her cheek, then another. She surreptitiously wiped them away.
She straightened, preparing herself for the walk back down the aisle. She looked
at the sparse, silent congregation and cast a quick glance up at the grim face
of her new husband.

A straggle of the
poorer villagers were watching from the very back of the church —come,
possibly, with the expectation of largesse from the rich and happy groom.
Tallie sighed. The villagers were, like everyone else, doomed to disappointment
in her wedding, for the veriest blind man could see that her groom was not
happy. There would be no largesse.

Magnus was indeed not
happy. He was furious. Had been from the moment his cousin Laetitia, swooning
artistically, had claimed she could not move another step that morning, that
her head was positively shattered and the pain simply too, too much for a lady
to bear. She had collapsed onto a Grecian sofa, reviving sufficiently to forbid
that the children be taken to the church, claiming they were sickening for something,
a mother always knew. It would be the basest cruelty to tear her beloved ones
away from their mama when she was in such agony.

A frail wisp of lace
had been delicately brandished and applied to dry eyes. A battalion of small
crystal bottles had been hastily arranged on a small table nearby —smelling
salts, a vinaigrette, cologne water, feathers to burn. Magnus had been helpless
in the face of this determined barrage of feminine sensibility. The children
had looked perfectly healthy to him. Nor had he missed their disappointed
little faces when they’d come downstairs dressed in their best and their mother’s
decision had been announced.

Then Laetitia had
insisted that she could not possibly spare Mrs. Wilmot —no one’s hands were as
gentle and healing when it came to the headache. And, of course, Brooks would
have to remain at the house —someone had to run the household while its
mistress was indisposed.

Magnus had seen that
Brooks and Mrs. Wilmot had also been crushed with disappointment. They too had
been dressed in their Sunday best —Mrs. Wilmot in a large flowered hat, with a
bunch of violets pinned to her bosom. For a moment he half expected her to
argue with Laetitia. But they were elderly servants, entirely dependent on
Laetitia’s good will and with an uncertain old age facing them. Like the
children, they had had no choice but to obey.

Magnus had fumed
impotently. He could not veto the orders of a woman in her own house,
particularly when those orders concerned her own children and servants.

But when Laetitia had
claimed, in a failing thread of a voice, that she could not do without the
comfort of her husband’s presence in this, her hour of infirmity, Magnus had
intervened. He had practically frog marched George into the carriage, turning a
deaf ear to Laetitia’s wailing and George’s blustering. The short trip to
church had been accomplished in a mood of grim silence.

Alighting from the
carriage, Magnus had looked around, frowning. There had been suspiciously few
carriages. He’d told Laetitia to arrange a small wedding —meaning he didn’t
want a huge noisy crowd. But this.

He’d entered the
church in a mood of black foreboding. His suspicions had been confirmed. The
only people seated had been the two or three people he’d invited himself —none
of them particularly close.

Not that he had many
close friends —he would have liked Freddie to stand up with him, but Freddie
had sent word that there was an outbreak of typhus in the village and he could
not leave his wife and children, nor his parish, at such a time. Nor would he
wish to risk conveying the disease to Magnus and his new bride.

So the only people
seated in the church had been a couple of chaps from his club, a fellow he’d
known at Oxford, who lived locally, and Magnus’s valet, his groom and his
tiger. A congregation of six —three of them servants and all male.

Magnus had cursed
long and silently. Better to have no one at all than to humiliate his little
bride with such a poor showing. For himself, he cared not a jot —marriage was a
business transaction, and required the bare minimum of fuss. He was acquiring a
wife who, with God’s blessing, would give him children, and she was acquiring
wealth, a title, and security for her lifetime.

But women set great
store in weddings.

The bigger the
better. With hordes of people. Expensive gowns and jewels. Flowers. Champagne.
Happy throngs of celebrating guests!

That was what women
liked —he was sure of it. And little Thalia Robinson would be no exception; he
was sure of that, too.

So where the hell was
everyone?

And what the hell was
he going to do?

What the devil had
Laetitia been up to? He’d told her to organise everything, damn it! And it wasn’t
as if she’d indicated it would be any sort of imposition —far from it.

Women liked organising these affairs —look at how Laetitia
had jumped at arranging that blasted house party with all those simpering debutantes.
She’d organised that at a moment’s notice. She’d had weeks to arrange his
wedding. Three whole weeks. And a day or two to spare. He’d given her carte
blanche with the arrangements. And the costs. And had sent her a stunning
emerald necklace.

So where were all the
happy blasted guests?

The organist had
played the opening chords and Magnus had turned to see Miss Thalia Robinson,
his bride, standing at the entrance of the church. Smiling blissfully.
Beatifically. For a moment he froze, staring, riveted by her smile —dazzling,
even from behind the lace veil she was wearing. Her smile had driven every
angry thought from his head. Every thought.

She had looked
radiant. Beautiful. And utterly happy.

Was this the same
girl he’d overheard sobbing? Alone and forlorn on a cold afternoon in her
cousin’s garden maze. Sobbing as if her heart would break —because Lord d’Arenville
had offered her marriage.

The girl who, with
reddened eyes and blotchy skin, had accepted his offer in a bleak little voice
laced with defeat?

The girl who’d cold-bloodedly
laid down her set of conditions only days before the wedding?

But today she was
smiling. Music had filled the church, soaring up amongst the blackened oak
rafters as she had stepped out onto the strip of red matting which ran down the
centre of the aisle. Her movement had jolted him out of his daze, and as he had
watched her walking slowly towards him, floating proudly to the music, he’d
gradually become aware of what she was wearing. And his frown had slowly returned.

Magnus was no great
follower of feminine fashions, but he knew when something looked right. Or, in
this case, when it looked wrong. Though exactly what it was he hadn’t quite
been able to put his finger on.

The pale shimmering
amber colour was not particularly fashionable, but it suited her. The fabric
seemed rather too stiff for the soft, gauzy look which was so a la mode today,
but that was not the problem. His eyes had been drawn to the neckline, and for
a moment he hadn’t believed his eyes. It was crooked. Distinctly crooked. And
so, now he had come to notice it, were her sleeves —or at least one of them was.
And the gown hung all wrong. She had a nice little figure, he had realised
suddenly, but this gown was utterly atrocious.

His temper had grown.
How the devil had Laetitia allowed Thalia Robinson to go to her wedding dressed
in a gown like that? Women always strove to look their best, but the most
important time of all, the day when every woman expected to look beautiful, was
on her wedding day. It was another thing Magnus understood about women. Which
was why he’d specifically told his cousin to spare no expense in fitting out
his bride. So why was she not wearing the finest gown a London modiste could
provide? Good God, she looked for all the world as if her gown had been made by
some half-wit in the village!

The closer his bride
had come, the more he had noticed. Stains on the gloves, inadequately removed.
A dam in the lace of her veil. A crooked hem. Uneven stitching. The list had
grown.

And through it all
Thalia Robinson had smiled, as if this truly was the happiest day of her life.
As if she was not dressed in a frightful travesty of a wedding dress. As if the
church was not virtually empty of well-wishers. As if Magnus was the man she
loved. He’d stared, angry, bemused, dazzled. And then she’d cracked him on the
nose so hard that tears had come into his eye and he’d been embarrassed, and growled
out something which had caused the smile to drop from her face and the joy to
seep out of her body. He’d watched it happen before his very eyes —one moment
she had been joyous and radiant, the next miserable.

So then Magnus had
really been furious. With himself.

He’d tried to keep
her from noticing how few people there were in the church. He was sure she hadn’t
yet seen who was or wasn’t there —her eyes hadn’t left his on her proud,
triumphal march down the aisle; she’d been smiling at him and only him.

But he hadn’t
succeeded. He knew to the second the moment she had realised there was no one
on her side of the church. That no one had come to see Thalia Robinson married.
The small gloved hand lying so limply in his had suddenly gripped him,
tightening convulsively around his fingers. She had made no other sign, had
stood straight and slender, looking ahead at the stained glass window above the
altar, but Magnus had felt her trembling. Beneath the darned veil he had seen
her biting her lip, struggling to maintain her composure. He had slid his arm
around her, and unknowingly she had clutched onto him, tighter than ever,
hanging onto his hand as if it was all she had to hold her up.

That pathetic,
wounded look she’d given him had pierced him to the core. He would never forget
it.

She had expected
well-wishers —the children, the housekeeper and the butler at least. And was
reeling under the cruel impact of the empty pews. And Magnus had been able to
do nothing about it. Except become even more furious.

Then he’d tugged off
her glove —her attention had been elsewhere at the time— and slipped his ring
on her finger. She’d repeated her vows in a wooden little voice, and as he’d
listened he had stared down at his ring, gleaming on the small, stained paw
with the childishly chewed nails. And had wondered what the hell he was doing,
marrying this little orphaned stranger, so very much out of her depth in his
cynical, sophisticated world.

And so very innocent
and vulnerable and alone.

The coach swayed and
bounded along the road at a breakneck pace.

Tallie had been
proudly informed by Lord d’Arenville’s coachman that the vehicle was the latest
design, built for speedy modern travel and sprung to ensure the smoothest ride.
She hung onto the travelling straps like grim death, wedged into the corner of
the coach as tightly as she could to prevent herself being thrown off the seat
again.

Tallie was feeling
rather queasy. She had travelled very little in her adult life —only from Miss
Fisher’s seminary to her cousin’s house. If this was what travelling entailed.
And this was England, where the roads were said to be the best in the world.
Her mother must have been stronger than she’d realised. Lord d’Arenville had
not exaggerated when he had said that travel was difficult for a lady to endure
—But of course! That was it! The realisation hit Tallie like a bolt of
lightning. That was the reason for this dreadful journey —undertaken in such a
rush and at the last minute! Departing in the late afternoon, when nobody ever
travelled in the dark unless they could help it! Pretending he had quarrelled
with Laetitia and would stay not a moment longer in her house. Bundling Tallie
into his coach on her wedding day, tossing her embarrassingly small bundle of belongings
after her and riding off on his own horse as if the hounds of hell were in
pursuit. What nonsense!

As if Lord d’Arenville
—The Icicle— ever dashed about the country in a rage. The man was a positive
by-word for cold self-control. He must be trying to frighten her, to get her to
change her mind about foreign travel. The day before, he’d made no secret of
his opposition to it.

Hah! Lord d’Arenville
would find his bride was not so simple —she was awake to his dastardly
machinations! She would have her Grand Tour.

He’d promised.