The Famous Heroine/The Plumed Bonnet (52 page)

And with a half smile she was gone.

Cousin Horace exclaimed over the transformation in her appearance and reminded her of her extreme good fortune in having netted a duke for a husband. His Grace had shown her the sort of condescension for which she must be grateful for the rest of her life. And she must not forget too that from this morning on—once the wedding ceremony was over and the register signed—she would be secure in her inheritance. She would be an independently wealthy woman.

She should, she was told, consider herself the happiest and most fortunate woman in the world.

She felt cold to the heart.

And colder still when they reached St. George’s on Hanover Square and walked through the path left clear by the curious gathered outside to watch a Society wedding. And even when they were inside and the organ began to play and she became aware of the pews filled with all the cream of the beau monde. Somewhere in the
crowd—she did not even try to find them with her eyes—were her own two friends, doubtless feeling awed and perhaps even intimidated by the company in which they found themselves. The only two friends of her own present. Yet since she had met them two weeks ago, she had not even tried to see them again.

And then she saw him. He was waiting for her at the altar rail. He was watching her walk down the aisle on Cousin Horace’s arm. Straight and tall and proud, he looked as cold as she felt. He was dressed all in white and silver. She had never seen a man dressed all in white before. He looked magnificent. And cold.

But his eyes, his silver eyes, when she was close enough to see them burned into hers with cold fire.

She stood beside him, quietly dignified as she had always been as a governess, proud of bearing as she had been taught to be by the duchess. She spoke the words she was told to say. She listened to him say what he was told to say. She felt his hand hold hers—warm and steady in contrast with his icy appearance. She watched as he slid the bright and unfamiliar gold wedding ring onto her finger; he had to coax it over her knuckle. She lifted her face for his kiss—warm, closed lips pressed firmly against her own while an almost soundless murmur passed through the congregation behind them.

She was his wife.

She was the Duchess of Bridgwater.

Her inheritance was safe.

She felt as cold as the marble floor of the church.

She realized why she had so dreaded her marriage for the past week and even longer than that. It was not just that she was losing her freedom to a man who did not want her, but was marrying her out of a sense of obligation. It was not just that she felt she was losing her identity in that of his duchess. It was not just that she felt bound and confined to the point of suffocation by the
rules that she must not on any account break. It was not just that she was being rushed at dizzying speed from a dull but familiar world into a frighteningly new one. It was not just any of those things.

It was that she loved him—and was unloved in return.

If she could have remained indifferent to him, she thought, merely grateful to him and under an obligation to him, she could have borne all the rest. What freedom had she known for the last six years, after all? And what happiness and self-respect?

But she had not remained indifferent.

And then the rest of the service was over and the register signed, and she was walking slowly back up the aisle again, her arm resting along the top of her husband’s. There were smiling faces wherever she looked. Cora, sitting almost at the front, was red-faced and openly sobbing and taking a large white handkerchief from Francis’s hand. Jennifer, beside her, was smiling and teary-eyed. Gabriel was winking. Miriam, almost at the back, was wet-faced and brightly smiling.

And then they were outside and being greeted by the rowdy cheers and the bawdy comments of the small crowd gathered there. Her husband led her through it to his waiting carriage, handed her inside, and climbed in beside her. The carriage lurched into well-sprung motion as the first guests began to leave the church. The wedding breakfast was to be at the duke’s town house—Stephanie had never yet been there, though her trunks and her maid had been taken there even before she had left for the church. The duke and his duchess must be there ahead of their guests in order to receive them as was proper.

As was proper
.

“My dear,” her husband said, taking her hand and setting it on his sleeve again—her bright new wedding ring shone up at them—“you look more beautiful today
than I thought it possible for any woman to look. I wish you to know how proud I am of you.”

Yes, she had learned her lessons well—with one or two rather nasty lapses. They would grow fewer and fewer as time went on, until they disappeared altogether.

“I have tried,” she said. “I will continue to try so that you may continue to be proud of me, Your Grace.”

His free hand covered hers. “Stephanie,” he said quietly, “my name is Alistair.”

“Yes.” She closed her eyes for a moment, beguiled by the intimacy of the carriage interior and by the softness of his voice, imagining that she heard tenderness in it. “Alistair.”

“There is nothing improper about a man and his wife sharing the intimacy of their given names,” he said.

“No.” She opened her eyes again. “If it is not improper, it may be allowed, then.” She hoped he had not heard the bitterness she tried to keep out of her voice.

Everything by the rules.

Very well, then. Everything by the rules
.

H
E HAD INTENDED
to remain in London with his bride until the end of the Season. It was the proper thing to do, after all. As the Duchess of Bridgwater she would need to be presented at court to the queen. His mother would act as her sponsor. And she would need to establish her new position as his duchess and his hostess. They would need to entertain—dinners and soirées and one grand ball. Besides, she had a position of her own to establish. She was now undisputed and independent owner of Sindon Park and the fortune left her by her grandfather.

The proper thing to do was stay. It was what he had planned. But London appeared to be suffocating her. It was suffocating him. Suddenly, he wanted to be away
from it, away from the social obligations. He wanted to take her into the country. He wanted to be alone with her, perhaps rashly. She hated him. She had not once smiled at him, though it was their wedding day, and she had smiled at everyone else. Even when she had come to stand beside him at the church rail she had not smiled.

Had he? He could not be sure he had. He had felt choked with a deep emotion he had been forced to keep under control. Half of the beau monde was looking at him—or at her. Probably at her. Everyone looked at a bride. Who was interested in a mere bridegroom? But he could not be sure anyway that he had smiled.

When he rose from his place at the wedding breakfast to speak to his guests, he announced that he would be taking his duchess to Wightwick Hall in Gloucestershire on the morrow. He did not look at either his wife or his mother to observe their reactions. He thanked his guests for attending both the wedding and the breakfast and for making the day a special one.

“I will send instructions without delay to your maid to leave your trunks as they are,” he said quietly to Stephanie after he had sat down again. “She will unpack only what you will need tonight and tomorrow.”

Tonight she would become fully his wife, he thought, watching the slight flush of color that stained her cheeks.

“Yes, Your Gr …” she said. “Yes. Thank you.”

He wondered if he had been very foolish. The summer alone at Wightwick would be a long one if they began it this early. They could invite guests to join them there, of course, or they could take themselves off to Brighton for a few weeks. But for a while at least they would be virtually alone together. Was there any chance at all of making a viable marriage out of what they had begun? He doubted it. Their relationship seemed to have deteriorated steadily through the month of their betrothal. For the past four days—ever since the day of that wretched
picnic—there had been nothing at all between them except cold formality.

It was his fault, he knew. There had been his dream, his longing for a marriage that would bring love and warmth and companionship and happiness into his life. But there had never really been the possibility of anything but the dream. All his education had been designed to make him into a dignified, controlled figure of authority. There had been love—certainly a fondness between him and his parents, between him and his brother and sisters. But love had always been a cool thing in his life, and for most of his life it had taken second place to dignity and duty.

He was capable of feeling love. He had always known that, and he knew it now with painful force. But he had never been taught a way of showing love—or of inspiring it.

He had inspired gratitude and respect and obedience in Stephanie, under largely false pretenses. But there was nothing more. She hated him, though he guessed that she must feel guilty at her feelings and would spend the rest of her life fighting them. He did not doubt that he had married a dutiful duchess.

He did not want duty. He wanted love.

Perhaps, he thought, at Wightwick …

But there was no further time for dreaming. There were guests to entertain for the rest of the afternoon and on even into the early evening. He scarcely saw his wife and had no chance to exchange even a single word with her. He glimpsed her talking with his relatives, his friends, her friends. She had acquired a great deal of the regal manner that had always characterized his mother, but to it she added her own brand of beauty and charm. He spoke with as many people as time permitted.

It was, of course, the correct thing for his wife and him to remain apart as they entertained guests. It was
the way things would have continued if he had not made the impulsive decision to leave for Wightwick in the morning. A rider had already been sent, he gathered, to gallop hell-for-leather to his country seat to warn the staff there of his imminent arrival. There would be panic there for a few days, he did not doubt.

The thought brought a smile to his face.

But finally he was alone with her. They dined alone together; both had changed from their wedding clothes into evening dress. They conversed as smoothly as any well-bred couple might. They continued the conversation in the drawing room both before and after she had played for him on the pianoforte and he had played for her. They drank tea together.

And then he escorted her upstairs to the door of her dressing room, bowed over her hand, and told her he would do himself the honor of visiting her half an hour later.

He went into his own dressing room and flung himself into the closest chair. He propped his arms on the rests and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. He closed his eyes.

And remembered her as she had been that night at the inn. Warm and beautiful and inviting and willing—or so it had appeared. He wondered what would have happened if she had been what she had seemed. She would have been his mistress for a month now. They would be comfortable together, contented together. Would he have tired of her yet? Would he have ever tired of her?

Foolish, pointless thoughts, of course. She had not been as she had seemed. And he could no longer think of her in terms of sexual gratification alone. She was his wife, his life’s partner.

He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. It was time to summon his valet. He must not keep her waiting beyond the appointed time. She was probably nervous.

*  *  *

S
HE WAS NOT
afraid. It would be foolish for a woman of six-and-twenty to fear a physical process that would probably become almost as familiar as breathing to her over the coming months and years. She reminded herself that she was fortunate it was to happen at all. For years she had not expected that it ever would. But she had always wanted it to happen. She had always wanted children of her own—quite passionately.

He was a man she found physically attractive. He was a man she loved. She was not afraid.

She just wished that he could have stayed simply as Mr. Munro. She had liked him. He had been so very kind. He would have been of her own world. She would not have had to change. She would not have had to consider her every word and action to be sure that everything that was proper was said and done. She would not have come almost to hate him because she lived constantly in fear of shaming and disappointing him.

She did almost hate him. She also loved him.

Tonight she would be the duchess he expected—calm, gracious, unimpassioned. She would not find it too difficult. She was not afraid, after all.

She looked up with cool welcome when he tapped on her door and came inside. She stood still and relaxed as his eyes moved down over her loosened hair and her white silk and lace nightgown to her bare feet.

“Come in, Alistair,” she said. “Let me pour you a glass of wine.” She had thought to have some sent up. She poured a glass for herself too and handed him his. She wanted him to see that her hand was steady, that she was no shrinking bride unworthy of her position.

“So that we may toast our health?” he said. “And our happiness, Stephanie? To our health, then, and our happiness.” He raised his glass.

She touched hers to it, and they drank. He held her eyes with his own as he did so. She wished he would smile at her. She longed to smile at him. But she would not risk appearing coquettish.

“Perhaps,” he said, “we will be happy. Will we?”

To hide her longing from him, she took his empty glass and set it down with her half-full one on the tray.

“I shall try,” she said, “to make you happy, Alistair. Always. Tell me how.”

He half smiled at her then. One side of his mouth lifted. It was an expression she had not seen on him before.

“Ah, yes,” he said. “You will too, will you not, Stephanie? We will make the best we can of it, then. And I will try to see to it that you never regret the events of this morning—and tonight. It will be my recipe for happiness. We will both try.”