The Valentine Legacy (20 page)

 

Neither of them succumbed to a cold. When they went into the kitchen, the tribunal was waiting for them, armed for any disaster.

“Here you are,” Badger said. “We hoped you'd come into the kitchen. Now, we have dressing gowns for both of you. Jessie, you go first into the pantry and take off those wet things. Then you, James. Then you'll have hot tea and some delicious apples a` la Portugaise, a recipe I just received in the post from a Frog chef who lives in Rouen.”

“Then we'll discuss your wedding,” Spears said. “His lordship will speak with Mr. Bagley, our curate. Oh dear, we must post bans, and that will take three weeks. None of us wishes to wait that long.”

“James, with his lordship's assistance, a special license can be procured,” Badger said.

“I've already spoken to the Duchess about your wedding dress, Jessie,” Maggie said.

Sampson poked his head into the kitchen. “I've alerted his lordship and the Duchess that you're both here.”

The earl peered over Sampson's shoulder. “Well? Are we to fetch Mr. Bagley?”

“Yes,” James said.

“Yes,” Jessie said.

“Perhaps,” Marcus said to James, “you'd care to tell me how you won the day? Did you do something romantic and dashing? Did you perhaps pin her in the wet grass and teach her how to breathe? Or did you protect her from the rain and caress her until she was panting for you?”

“My dear husband,” the Duchess said, slipping around him and Sampson, “I believe Jessie is a bit flushed—no wonder, since you never seem to curb your thoughts before they become words.”

“She loves it,” the earl said. “Just look at her. Her eyes are nearly crossed. She's staring at James. We'd best get them married as quickly as possible before she flings him to the kitchen floor and has her way with him.”

“A special license,” James said. “Just tell me what to do, Marcus, and I'll see to it.”

Spears said, “While you and Jessie are changing into dry dressing gowns we will discuss what is to be done. Then we will tell you.”

James threw a towel at Spears, who looked eloquently pained.

The earl laughed. “I'm hungry, Badger. Do you have any of those currant dumplings left over from luncheon?”

A thoroughbred and a husband: both must have uncommon endurance, boundless nerve and heart.

—COMMON WISDOM

“I
WILL
,” J
AMES
said, and looked expectantly down at Jessie, who was remarkably pale even with the rich emerald green wedding gown that made her shoulders look more creamy than he would have believed possible. Emerald green. An excellent color on her. It made her hair seem even brighter. He realized that during the past five days things like this had been sticking in his mind.

He'd bought her a pair of white slippers to replace the ones ruined during her escapes from him in the rain. He remembered her reaction when he'd handed her the new slippers wrapped in silver paper. She'd looked down at the lovely white shoes and become completely still. “They'll fit you, Jessie,” the Duchess had said. “Maggie and I traced out your own shoes for Mr. Dobbs, the cobbler.” Still, Jessie had just looked down at those white slippers. Then she'd looked up at him, and he would have sworn that she was afraid of something, which was surely unlike Jessie. Afraid of what? “Thank you, James,” she'd said, then she'd turned around and walked off.

The Duchess said with a sigh, “She's off to see Charles
again. He doesn't make her feel frightened or unsure, you know,” to which James had said nothing himself, turned around, and walked off himself.

He looked down at her now while the Bishop of York, that exalted personage who'd agreed to conduct the ceremony as a favor to the powerful Earl of Chase, exhorted her to obey her husband. James would have preferred Mr. Bagley, but Marcus had decided they needed to have the ceremony presided over by one of the highest in the land. Two whimsical streamers curled lazily down over Jessie's ears. White, delicate ears. He'd never imagined that Jessie Warfield could have white, delicate ears.

So much had changed since that day and yet so little. She'd become a Jessie even the new Jessie didn't resemble. She was restrained, that was it; she didn't say a word unless directly spoken to, and surely that wasn't either the old or the new Jessie. Perhaps she was trying to be like the Duchess. She wasn't succeeding, if that was her aim. She avoided James after he gave her the new slippers, spending most of her time with Charles and Anthony. James wasn't troubled. So busy was he with his horses at Candlethorpe, he was frankly relieved Jessie didn't look hurt or reproachful when he finally did come to Chase Park on those days when the Duchess sent him invitations to dine. He couldn't imagine himself playing the smitten suitor, not with a girl he'd wanted to beat into the ground in every race where they'd been competitors. He figured Jessie couldn't imagine him that way either. She couldn't possibly expect him to ride all the way to Chase Park every day to coo poetry in her ear. James had played the romantic only once before—in wooing Alicia—and he had no intention of playing the role again. He'd been another man back then, so head over heels in love that he'd scarcely been able to construct a coherent sentence in her presence. And he'd wanted her. He'd hurt with want. It was all he could think about when he was near
her. It was all he could think about when he wasn't near her. He'd embarrassed himself many times, become as hard as a stone by merely touching her hand. All he could think about was having her naked beneath him, moaning for him because, surely, she'd want him as much as he wanted her.

James forced himself to listen a moment to the bishop's mellifluous voice, soaring richly now, as he praised this union, brought about by his illustrious lordship, the Earl of Chase. James wondered if Jessie realized the bishop was saying in so many words that they were a couple of savages, kindly brought to order by a peer of the realm. Marcus must be spitting at such nonsense, that or waiting until it was all over so he could laugh his head off. James stopped listening before he punched the bishop in his long, thin nose. He hoped the Duchess had a good hold on Marcus; he was probably quite tempted himself.

Actually, now that he thought about it, neither could he imagine Jessie playing the wistful maiden, sitting beneath the Duchess's rose arbor waiting for him to come recite some nauseating poetry to her, any more than he could imagine himself reciting it. He was startled when suddenly Jessie said, “I will,” in a voice as thin as the lovely stockings he'd glimpsed when she raised her skirt to allow him to tie the ribbon more securely around her left ankle.

He'd never before in his life considered what seeing a lady's stockings could do to a man. He'd become instantly harder than the heels on his boots.

The Bishop of York blessed the young couple, then said to the Earl of Chase, not to the groom, “It is done, my lord. They may wish to embrace as many young married persons do upon completion of the ceremony. God believes a modest tendering of affection following dedication to Him bodes well for a union and enhances the pleasure of those witnessing the event.”

James gently placed his index finger beneath Jessie's chin
and pushed up. He leaned down and lightly touched his mouth to hers. Her lips were as cold as the carrot soup Badger had forgotten to heat for dinner the previous night. No one had remarked upon the cold soup. Badger had insisted upon preparing all the wedding dishes and had thus been distracted for the past four days.

“It's going to be all right, Jessie,” he said, and lightly touched his mouth to hers again. “Trust me. It will be all right. Come, kiss me. Let's enhance everyone's pleasure.”

She said nothing, merely stared up at him, wondering how this could have come to pass. She was married to James, something she'd dreamed of since she'd met him six years before when she'd seen him at the Weymouth racecourse striding confidently beside a quarter horse, speaking to Oslow, speaking to the horse, telling both of them that no one could possibly beat them. She remembered he'd beaten her in the second race, just as he'd said he would to his horse and to Oslow.

The sky had been clear that day, but she'd been struck by lightning. One big strike and it was all over for her. She fancied that lightning strike would stay with her for as long as she lived.

She kissed him. Not enthusiastically as she would have liked, but there were many people here and it was a bit embarrassing, even if that bishop said they could do it. She kissed him just once more for good measure. He smiled down at her and patted her cheek. “Well done. Let's speak to our guests.”

Mr. Bagley and his wife were present. A very nice man, Jessie thought, having met him and his wife at the Duchess's first dinner party for her. The poor man shouldn't torture those poor strands of long blond hair, brushing them from one side of his head to the other, pomading them to his scalp. Jessie liked him, but to no avail. The Duchess had said since they needed a special license and no delays, Marcus had spoken to the bishop, more's the pity. Marcus's and
the Duchess's doctor, George Raven, and his young bride from York were there as well. Since George Raven, Marcus had said, had saved their respective hides more times than he cared to count, he didn't mind at all having him close since one never knew what could happen, even at a wedding. And besides, Marcus no longer minded Dr. Raven coming to tend the Duchess now that the good doctor was married and wouldn't lust after the Duchess the way he had in the past, or tried to.

The Bishop of York would have been gravely disappointed had he but realized that no one else at the wedding wondered how the devil Master Charles's nurse and Anthony's horse nanny could be marrying the American male Wyndham. Being a discreet bishop, however, he'd mentioned this distressing fact only once to the earl, who'd carefully begun pulling at the magnificently tied cravat that had taken a good ten minutes to get just right, just so he wouldn't pound the man into the Aubusson carpet.

Frances Hawksbury, the Countess of Rothermere, congratulated James, then turned to Jessie. “Now that you've got him in harness, my dear,” she said, lightly patting her shoulder, “give him his head when he's kicking at the traces, then rein him in gently but firmly.”

“James,” Marcus said, coming up to them, “I see you're being likened to a horse.”

“It does seem to fit nicely,” Jessie said, smiling at the Countess of Rothermere.

“And I'll nip her neck to keep her obedient,” James said, “perhaps nudge her rump a bit to move her in the directions I choose.”

The Duchess laughed. “You're both abominable. It's over, finally, the bishop is already at the champagne bottle, and Badger has prepared a wedding breakfast that will have everyone begging to move in.”

“They will all move in or they will all try to kidnap Badger from us.”

“I do wonder how you remain so thin,” Jessie said.

“It's those damned traces,” Marcus said. “I kick and I kick to try to get to her, but she just smiles and tells me to keep moving, that occasional restraint is good for my manly parts.”

After a half dozen toasts with the very dry champagne from the earl's cellars, James looked at his bride and whistled. “You're tipsy, Jessie. Come to think of it, you never drink spirits, do you?”

She hiccupped and asked for another glass.

“Oh dear,” the Duchess said. “Do you still want to go to Candlethorpe for the night, James?”

“Yes. I want to go home.”

“Come along, Jessie,” the Duchess said in that serene voice no one ever resisted, and led her upstairs. Since they were riding to Candlethorpe, the Duchess and Maggie helped her change into a magnificent riding outfit that the Duchess had had made for her. It was a soft burnished gold with darker gold braiding on the shoulders. It was pinched in tightly at the waist, with three layers of thick braiding at the hem. It made her skin glow and her hair look like a fierce sunset.

When Jessie was dressed and Maggie had lovingly placed the last streamer to frame her face, the Duchess set the riding hat on her head and stood back. The dyed ostrich feather curled around her cheek.

“You're beautiful.”

“Will James say I look like a trollop?” The effects of her two glasses of champagne had long fled.

“If he does, he's an idiot. If he's an idiot,” Maggie added, “then you just bite him. Men love little love bites or little
correction bites
as I call them. Dear Sampson purrs
like his lordship's bloody cat when I nip his shoulder, and then he—”

The Duchess cleared her throat. “Maggie, would you please see if James is ready to leave?”

Maggie, no fool, winked at Jessie, then took herself off, saying over her shoulder, “You look a treat, Jessie. You surely do. I want you to look at every man when you come downstairs. You'll see that all of them will be undergoing bouts of lust when they lay eyes on you.”

“It's true,” the Duchess said once Maggie was out of the bedchamber, the door closed. “Now, Jessie, do you wish to ask me anything?”

“Ask you anything? Oh, you mean about sex?”

“Well, yes. Just think of me as your older sister.”

“I think I know everything, Duchess. I was raised with horses, after all. James will come up over my back and stick himself inside me. That's all there is to it.”

The Duchess gave her an engaging smile. “Well, perhaps you're in store for a bit of a surprise. But you can trust James to do everything properly.”

“Yes.” Jessie turned away and walked to the wide bank of windows. She stared onto the west lawn. She wondered where Fred and Clorinda were today, on her wedding day. She said quietly, “He was married before. He knows all about wives.”

“Jessie? Does that bother you?”

She waved her hand, as if to ward off unpleasant thoughts, turning away from the windows to face the Duchess again. “No, that would be foolish. I only just thought of it now. He's had a wife and thus knows all about everything. Was she beautiful, Duchess?”

“Alicia? Well, yes, she was, actually. She was very small, with hair as blond as those paintings you see of angels and the bluest eyes you could imagine. But enough about Alicia.
The poor girl died years ago. A tragedy, really, but she's nothing to do with you, Jessie.”

“Did she help James with Candlethorpe?”

“If you mean did she help him train horses and muck out stalls, no, she wouldn't have considered such a thing.”

“She just sat in the drawing room and served tea? She didn't race or ride?”

The Duchess smiled at the acrimony in Jessie's voice. “Forget her. Now, let's go see if your new husband is ready to leave.”

The Bishop of York eyed Jessie as if she were an exotic bird from another world in her glorious gold riding outfit. She wondered if after all the champagne he'd consumed he even recognized her as the bride. “I suppose,” he said, his voice even more resonant, “that a gold riding ensemble is very American. Did her ladyship approve of this unexpected spectacle?”

“I did,” the Duchess said, and quickly took Jessie's hand and pulled her away.

Jessie said her good-byes to all the guests, then turned and looked at the Duchess. “You've been very kind to me. I don't deserve it, but you were kind nonetheless. May I come to see Charles and Anthony?”

“You may visit anytime you wish,” the earl said, coming up to take Jessie in his arms. He hugged her, then said, “Those damned martinets are all waiting to wish you and James well.”