The Wicked One (24 page)

So much for promises, then.  So much for Lucien's vow to find Perry, and this, after
his
manipulations were what had caused Perry's disappearance — if not his death.

And what use were her other brothers?  Charles had his army career, an estate to manage, a wife and daughter to love — he would not have the time to go chasing phantoms.  Gareth was busy with his duties as a Member of Parliament, his own holdings, and his family.  And Andrew was not exactly suited to matters of diplomacy and would be loath to leave his beloved Celsie, especially since she'd announced her own delicate condition.  Besides, he was totally obsessed with the new explosive he was trying to perfect.  Eyebrows aside, he'd be lucky if he had any hair, let alone a head, left, when all was said and done.

Which meant there was only one option.

She would have to go in search of Perry herself.

She pulled herself up on the window seat, the idea filling her with a resolve she hadn't felt in weeks. 
Go find Perry myself.
  And why not?  She was young, clever, determined and resourceful.  She was passionate in her commitment to find him.  And she was a de Montforte.

Nerissa rose, opened her wardrobe, and began to select the clothes she would take with her.  She put on her wool riding habit.  Her thick cloak, trimmed with ermine, that she had worn during her last day with Perry.  Her gloves, her riding boots, her heaviest, warmest petticoats . . .

By the time she had finished packing, it was nearly dark outside.  Clouds had moved in, and spots of rain dashed against the window.  She hated the wet, but counted her blessings — with no moon, her departure from Rosebriar would go unnoticed, and it would be morning before her brothers even noticed she had gone.

Her brothers.

Dear Charles, Gareth, Andrew —

A moment later, her thoughts were words on a sheet of vellum:

Dearest brothers,

I have gone to find my Perry.  God bless you all.

Love,

Nerissa

She folded the note, propped it against the candle holder, and blew out the single flame.  She picked up her small satchel.  Nobody saw her creep downstairs, slip outside, and hurry out to the stables.

As she led her mare out to the mounting block, it began to rain in earnest.

Nerissa swung up in the saddle and never looked back.

~~~~

A day after Nerissa's three brothers discovered her absence and left Rosebriar in pursuit, hoping to catch her before she could leave England, the fifth Duke of Blackheath married Eva Noring de la Mouriére.

It was a wedding that should have counted royalty, statesmen, and the bluest of English blood among the honored guests — but instead was witnessed by only the vicar that presided over it, staff, servants, and villagers, and the few sparrows that managed to find their way into the ancient church, their wings fluttering silently as they wheeled, chirped, and flitted through the rafters high above.

It was growing dark.  Evening was rushing in like a racehorse tonight.  Outside, the wind whistled around the old stone walls, promising a storm off the sea; inside, the chill was enough to make the teeth of even the dead who slept in the surrounding tombs chatter.  Lucien, standing stoicly beside Eva, listened to the timeless words, repeated the age-old vows, with a sense of otherworldly detachment.  This was his wedding day.  It should have been the happiest one of his life, the triumph of his heritage, the celebration of the continuation of his line.  Instead, he felt only a curious absence of feeling, a sterility of emotion.  This was not a marriage, it was a business arrangement.  This was not a lifelong commitment, but a short-term affair whose tenure would be dictated by however long he had left on this earth.  This was not a love match, but a sort of life insurance for his unborn heir, an official guarantee that the child would carry its proper name, be raised with all the pomp and privilege its birthright deserved.

His gaze passed over the guests: villagers, tenants, the staff of Gingermere, a few servants from Blackheath.  Most were smiling, excited, their faces glowing in the candlelight.  How privileged they must feel, sole witnesses to the wedding of a duke of Blackheath.  But Lucien felt only a pang of loneliness.  Emptiness.  Someone was missing.  His brothers.  His little sister.  It was not the same without them.  But they were ignorant of the fact that he was finally getting married.  They were absent because he, Lucien, had refused to allow them the triumph of seeing him felled to their plan of getting him wedded at last.  But he had planned it this way, hadn't he?  He had planned it, and thus should have reveled in having the last word on the matter.  Instead, he felt only a sense of guilt for his underhanded, and self-depriving, method of revenge.

Guilt, and loss.

Finally, it was over; the ring was on her finger, the final vows were said, the deed was done.

He had a duchess.

A wife.

A partner till death did them part — which, surely, would come sooner rather than later.

He shook off the sudden prickle of dread and offered his arm to the woman who stood, white with cold, by his side.  In the soft glow of the candlelight, dressed in a polonese gown of green and gold Italian silk, she had never looked more beautiful.  He tore his mind from his own bleak regrets, his sadness about his missing siblings, by envisioning how he would make love to her when they got back to Gingermere.  How he would peel that shimmering gown from her body, make her moan and thrash with passion.

"Well, that wasn't so difficult, was it?" he quipped, for his own sake as much as hers, as he led the procession out of the church.  Outside, they were instantly buffeted by the wind off the darkening sea, which stretched into forever just beyond the cliffs.

She looked over the parade of incoming waves, the wind sending her voluminous skirts twisting and whipping against her long, lethal legs.  Lucien's throat went dry.  Ah, yes.  Definitely better to think of what awaited back at Gingermere . . .

"As my mother always said, getting married is the easy part.  The hard part is
staying
married."

"Ah, but with any luck, you shan't have to endure me for long, my dear."

"Really, Blackheath.  You make it sound as though I look forward to becoming your widow."

"Well, I daresay the idea seems to hold more appeal for you than that of being my duchess.  Shall I be on my guard tonight, lest you have aspirations of achieving that widowed state earlier than expected?"

"Oh, I think you are quite safe, Duke."  She flashed him a wicked look from beneath lowered lashes.  "For now."

The coach was brought around and servants and villagers hustled about, laughing, congratulating them, some already carrying torches to hold back the gathering darkness.  The smell of burning pitch mingled with the salty tang of the sea.  Leaping flames glowed orange against excited faces.  Lucien cast a glance at his bride, standing silently beside him.  Though she wore a smile, he could sense her nervousness, her doubts, her fears.  She reminded him of a porcelain figurine left out in the cold:  brittle, beautiful, and about to crack.

"Your cloak, m'lady."

Lucien took the heavy garment from Eva's maid, put it over his bride's shoulders, and, removing her hat, pulled the hood up over her vivid red hair, already loosened from the pins that were no match against the brisk wind off the sea.  She was trembling.

"Really, Blackheath, I am not a child —"

"Shh."

She made a noise of helpless impatience, but let him finish the task.  Her cheeks were flushed with cold; her eyes sparkled like jewels in a face of porcelain beauty, but whether it was regret or desire that fired them, Lucien could not tell.  As he tied the hood under her chin, his fingers brushed her jaw in a gentle caress.  Her eyes flashed up to his, briefly, and in them he saw guardedness, the desperate need for reassurance that they had done the right thing.  He smiled, trying to bolster her courage by his own example.

"Really, my dear — it won't be so bad.  Remember, you will have all the independence you require, both while I live and after I die.  The child will be provided for.  You will be provided for.  There is no need for worry."

She offered him a wan smile in return.  "Then I will be happy at Gingermere, I think."  She raised her chin and eyed him with her normal, haughty amusement.  "As long as you keep to your side of the bargain and never threaten my freedom, we might actually make a go of this . . . marriage."

Lucien handed her up into the waiting coach, his eyes dark with hunger as she adjusted her hoops and skirts and took her seat.

"And what about you, Blackheath?  Not once have you confided
your
feelings regarding this union.  Will it be a trial for you, having found yourself wedded at last?"

"I do not intend it to be, my dear."

She raised a brow and slipped her hands into her fur muff.  "I'm sure you don't.  After all, men always have the loftiest aspirations for marital bliss when the union is young, but those aspirations never hold up to reality, nor to time, nor to their own lust for variety.  Marriages spoil and go rotten the older they get, just like old meat, bad cheese."

He climbed up into the coach behind her.  "My dear Eva, I
do
wish I could do something to change such a wretched attitude."

"Pah, Blackheath.  How could you?  Besides, what do you know about marriage?  She jabbed a finger at her heart and raised her chin.  "Trust me, I know what I'm talking about.  After all, I've been down this road before.  You haven't."

"I am determined to ensure that our marriage will far exceed your dismal expectations of it."

She gave him a pitying look and shook her head.  She had taken her muff off and was now twisting the wedding band around and around her finger, as though it agitated her, as though she could not accustom herself to the feel of it.  "Oh, Blackheath.  For such a worldly man, you are sometimes so . . . naive.  But never mind.  I shan't spoil your illusions.  You'll learn soon enough."

"No, madam. 
You
will."

She merely arched a brow at him and gave him a faintly amused smile, obviously convinced of her own wretched predictions.

"I'm not joking, my dear.  I intend to prove that marriage to me will not be the penance you anticipate."

"Oh?  And how do you intend to do that, Blackheath?"

"I shall start by keeping you very satisfied in bed."

Even the gathering gloom could not hide the sudden blush, nor conceal the way she squirmed on her seat and began fidgeting.  "And I suppose you intend to start . . .
satisfying
me tonight?"

He eyed her from beneath hooded lids.  "I could start now, if you wish."

"After supper, I think."

"No, before.  A little bedsport will give cause us to . . . work up an appetite."

She glanced away, but not before he saw the desire reciprocated in her own veiled gaze.  She took a deep breath, faced him once more, and eyed him from down the short length of her nose.  "There's a man for you," she said, affecting an air of superior knowledge.  "Always thinking of one thing, and one thing only.  At least you're honest about it, Blackheath."

"It is not something I could lie about, even if I wished to."

"So you
are
thinking about it."

He smiled slowly.  "Do you think to convince me you're not?"

She was toying with the ring again.  "Of course I'm thinking about it.  But I can't help what I think.  Pregnancy does strange things to a woman.  I'm sure that my increased . . . appetite for that which I would normally find repulsive — that is, sharing a bed with you, Blackheath — is due only to the fact that my body is no longer my own."

"Hmm, yes.  But it was certainly your own when I planted that seed within you, was it not?"

She shot him a look of mock outrage.  "Really, must you bring that up?"

"My apologies," he murmured, but he was grinning.  "Shall we depart?"

"The sooner, the better."

The coach moved off, the wheels crunching through ice-rimmed puddles before picking up speed.  Lucien sat back, absorbing what warmth he could from his heavy woolen greatcoat as he glanced out the window.  He could see the downs marching away to the north, great, brooding sentinels against the darkening sky; to the south there was only the cliffs, and beyond them, the sea.  In the close confines of the coach, his breath frosted the air.

He glanced at his bride.  "Are you warm enough, my dear?"

"Tolerably so."

She would not look at him; instead, her pensive gaze was directed out the window toward the sea, where, in the deepening dusk, miles of charging whitecaps could be seen marching toward shore as though fleeing the oncoming storm.

"Feels like rain," she said.

"Snow, I'll wager."

"Snow and cold on our wedding night.  Hmph.  How fitting."

"Stop it, Eva," he said quietly.

She flashed him a defensive look.  "Stop what?"

"You are doing your best to sabotage this marriage and I won't have it."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me.  You are determined to fulfill this prophecy of misery to which you cling.  Determined to prove that marriage will be an insufferable penance.  Very well, but I tell you, should this marriage fail, it will be because
you
wish it to — not me."

Her eyes narrowed to angry slits.  "Are you accusing me of poisoning this union before it even starts?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, I am."  He smiled and draped an arm across the back of the seat.  "Tell me, madam, what do you intend to do about it?"

She stared at him, temporarily at a loss for words.  Again, he had trapped her, and they both knew it.  If she carried on with her waspish attitude, he was more than justified in his thoughts; if she capitulated and tried to make amends by honestly working on this marriage, she would be letting her guard down, laying her heart open to hurt and betrayal.