Trouble at the Wedding (15 page)

T
his was the moment every girl dreams of.

As Annabel stood with Bernard before the minister, all the panic and guilt she'd felt earlier eased away. This morning when she'd first woken up, she'd been a downright mess of a girl, and no denying it. But the headache powder and peppermints had done their work, and along with a light breakfast of toast and tea, they had conquered any physical aftereffects of last night. The mental battle had proved a more difficult one, but she'd conquered that, too, and now Annabel felt like herself again, sure, confident, and ready for the future, as she listened to Reverend Brownley begin the ceremony.

“Dearly beloved,” the minister intoned, “we are gathered here, in the sight of God and in the face of this company, to unite this man and this woman in the bonds of holy matrimony, which is an honorable estate, instituted by God . . .”

She glanced at the man beside her, and at the sight of his profile, she felt all her fondness and gratitude coming back, along with an enormous sense of relief. Everything seemed to shift back into place, including her common sense.

“ . . . and into this holy estate,” Reverend Brownley went on, “these two persons present come now to be joined. If any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.”

He had barely uttered that token phrase before another voice followed, the voice of the Duke of Scarborough, ricocheting through the room with the force of a gunshot.

“I have just cause.”

Shocked gasps from the wedding guests echoed in the wake of that pronouncement, and people stirred, looking toward the back of the room to the man who had spoken. Beside her, Bernard turned around, but Annabel suddenly couldn't seem to move. She felt paralyzed, stuck in place like a fly on flypaper.

“This wedding is a farce,” he went on, derision in every word. “A farce and a lie.”

That snapped Annabel out of her momentary paralysis. She turned around, flinging back the tulle that covered her face to stare at the man leaning against one of the columns at the foot of the grand staircase. He was still wearing the same clothes he'd had on the night before, but though he looked rode hard and put away wet, he still managed to be handsome as the devil. And just about as much trouble.

Against her will, she looked at his mouth, and as she remembered it pressed against her own, warmth radiated through her body beneath her pristine white gown. Her own reaction caused tears of frustration and fury to sting her eyes. This was supposed to be the most beautiful and memorable moment of her life, and he was ruining it. Why?

As if hearing her unspoken question, he looked into her eyes, but if she hoped to find any clue there as to his motives, she was disappointed, for his expression was unreadable.

“You have voiced what is merely an observation,” the reverend said, speaking to Scarborough. “Do you or do you not have just cause to object to these nuptials?”

His gaze raked over her. “I do.”

Oh God, he was going to tell everyone about last night
. Dread seeped into her, seeming to penetrate her very bones. When his gaze lowered to her lips, she pressed her fingers to them.
He couldn't. He wouldn't.

He took a step toward her, but then he halted, swaying a little on his feet. Frowning, he blinked several times and once again moved to lean back against the pillar before he spoke again. “These two people are about to pledge before God to honor, love, and respect each other? Love? Respect?” He made a sound of contempt. “It's the height of hypocrisy, at least in their case.”

“Oh!” Annabel breathed, “Why, you low-down, despicable cur of a man . . .”

Her voice trailed away, her dread giving way to rage, rage so great she couldn't say another word, rage that seared away every other emotion she'd felt today, rage that seemed to engulf every part of her—from the toes of her satin-slippered feet to the top of her tulle-veiled head, from her white-gloved fingertips to the ends of her perfectly coiffed hair. Rage that poured through her like lava and felt so hot it seemed to scorch the beautiful white satin of her wedding gown from the inside out.

“But that is merely an opinion,” Reverend Brownley told him. “What is the just cause that warrants your objection, sir? You must be specific.”

Still looking at her, Scarborough folded his arms across his wide chest, his lips curving in a faint, knowing smile. “Shall I tell him, Annabel?” he asked. “Or would you prefer to do it?”

It was that smile that galvanized her into action. Grasping handfuls of her long gown in her fists, she started toward him, ignoring the avid stares of the guests.

“Tell me what?” Bernard asked behind her as she stalked up the aisle. “Annabel, what does he mean?”

She didn't answer. At this moment all her attention was focused on the man in front of her, a man with mocking blue eyes and the morals of a snake, a man who had made it his business to put doubts about her marriage in her mind, who had made advances upon her person, and who was now managing to humiliate and disgrace her in front of all these people. Somehow, she had to stop him.

As she halted in front of him, she worked to contain her rage and muster her dignity. She might have been born in a tin-roof shack on a stretch of Mississippi backwater, but she was about to become a countess, and a countess always behaved with decorum.

She lifted her chin to a haughty angle worthy of her future position and opened her mouth to tell him in a coldly polite manner to leave at once, but he spoke before she could.

“Don't you just love those Turkish baths?” he murmured under his breath, and any notions Annabel had of countesslike dignity went to the wall.

“You bastard.” Without conscious thought, she hauled back her arm, curled her fist, and in front of more than one hundred members of New York and English society, she punched the Duke of Scarborough right in the jaw.

Chapter Nine

“T
hat has to be the most humiliating spectacle I have ever witnessed in my life.”

Sylvia stopped pacing back and forth across the sitting room of their suite to look daggers at him. “God knows you've always been cavalier about the niceties of etiquette, Christian, but this is so beyond the pale, I don't know what to say.”

She proved that last statement a lie by continuing to talk as she resumed pacing. “Beyond the pale, unforgivable, and downright idiotic as well. What in heaven's name were you thinking?”

Christian pulled the poultice of ice chips from his bruised jaw and opened his mouth to reply that thinking really hadn't had much to do with it, but before he could say a word, Sylvia was off again.

“I know Rumsford is not one of your favorite people, but really! Stepping up and objecting at the man's wedding? Who ever heard of such a thing? That business about ‘if any man has just cause' isn't meant to be taken
literally
, for heaven's sake! And what cause could you possibly have? And that poor girl. Dear God, I can only imagine what she must be feeling.”

Sylvia stopped again, enabling him to at last get a word in. “Poor girl? She was about to marry Rumsford. Believe me, I did her a favor.” He touched his bruised jaw with his fingertips and grimaced. “I think I did him one, too.”

“A favor?” Sylvia shook her head, laughing in disbelief. “How is humiliating the bride, the groom, and all the guests a favor? How is embarrassing me and yourself and making the girl the subject of distasteful gossip by your insinuations a favor?”

Christian frowned. Had he made insinuations? He strove to remember, but the entire episode was already becoming quite vague in his mind. All he could recall was standing by the pillar thinking what a farce it was. And how someone should stop it. And Annabel's fist slamming into his face. That part he remembered with perfect clarity. Christian moved his jaw in an experimental fashion, and needles of pain shot through his entire face, making him appreciate that Annabel had a smashing right hook. In his inebriated state, the blow had actually sent him to the floor. He was lucky she hadn't broken his jaw.

She'd stepped over his prone body and walked out, her family chasing after her. Bernard, his sisters, and his best man had vanished by a side door for parts unknown. And Sylvia, with the help of ship's company, had dragged him off for this private set-to.

“How could you?” she demanded, still pacing and still fuming. “How could you do this to an innocent girl and a fellow peer?”

He found it hard to answer that question, for he didn't quite know what his motive had been. Still, he decided now was probably a good time to tell her about the half a million dollars, but she gave him no chance.

“You'll have to go at once and apologize to Miss Wheaton. And to Rumsford. You'll also have to explain yourself and find some way to make amends. God only knows how you'll manage that. What makes amends for something like this, I haven't a clue.”

Sylvia was right, of course. An apology would be rather hypocritical, since he wasn't the least bit sorry, but it was required. As for making amends, he knew he'd have to do that as well, though he wished he'd thought of how to accomplish that particular feat before he'd opened his mouth. “Certainly, but I can't do it now. I'm quite drunk at the moment, in case you hadn't noticed.”

“Who could help but notice?” she countered acidly. “And even if you hadn't been tilting three sheets to the wind, I would have known you were drunk, because you clearly didn't appreciate the implications of what you were saying.”

Christian didn't reply. Sylvia's pacing was making him quite dizzy, especially since there seemed to be two of her. Trying to appreciate the implications of anything was nigh impossible. “What . . .” He paused and swallowed hard. “What implications are you referring to?”

That question brought her to a blessed halt. “Christian, you stood up and declared you had cause to stop her wedding! The only cause you could possibly have is a prior claim on her affections, but since you had only arrived in New York the day before the ship sailed, having never met her before, that claim is barely creditable. And after this morning's events, your names are now linked and you'll be the subject of intense gossip. I've no doubt rumors that the pair of you have been meeting secretly aboard ship have already started circulating through that room. You'll have to deny those rumors, of course.”

Guilt slid through him. “Of course,” he murmured.

“That is,” she went on, staring at him, looking suddenly like a cat ready to pounce upon a hapless mouse, “if they are untrue.”

Uh-oh. The fat was in the fire now. He tried to look innocent of any wrongdoing, but that didn't work. It never did with Sylvia.

“Oh, Christian.” She groaned and sank into a chair. “You took advantage of an innocent girl? Oh my God.”

“I didn't. At least, not really. I mean . . .” He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to think how to explain. “I didn't take the girl's virtue, Sylvia,” he said after a moment. “And we have no romantic entanglement. She isn't tainted, for the love of God!”

“Then you'll have to go to Rumsford at once, explain that you were drunk, and that's all. That there's nothing between you and the girl, she's wholly innocent, and you acted out of . . . I don't know! Jealousy or something. Claim a crush on the girl, flatter his ego for having chosen such a pretty one, deny that she had anything to do with it—hell, I don't know what you'll say, but God knows you're glib enough to think of something and make it sound convincing. Somehow you've got to persuade him to go ahead with the wedding, which would halt any rumors in their tracks. You'll also have to apologize to him for your unspeakable conduct, too, of course.”

That idea made him more nauseated than he already was. “Apologize to Rumsford? Not a chance in hell.”

“Then what
are
you going to do? You have to do something! You compromised an innocent girl.”

“I told you, I didn't compromise her.” He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, fighting for control over his rebellious stomach long enough to explain. “Arthur Ransom hired me to try and talk her out of marrying Rumsford.”

“What?”

“He offered to pay me half a million dollars.”

“You stopped that girl's wedding and humiliated her for money?” She gave a disbelieving laugh. “You won't marry a girl for her dowry, but you'd allow yourself to be paid for ruining her? And her uncle hired you to do it?”

“No!” He opened his eyes. “All I was supposed to do was talk her out of it, and I was trying, but she wasn't listening. She doesn't love him, and damn it all, Sylvia, he doesn't love her, either. He is after her money, and he's not even bothering to pretend otherwise, since he went to a prostitute the night before the ship sailed, right under her uncle's nose!”

“Oh heavens,” she murmured, staring at him. “Does Miss Wheaton know any of this?”

“I don't know. I doubt it. Anyway, I was there, watching her, knowing she was about to throw her life away, and I was thinking what it would be like for her married to that pig—and Rumsford is a pig, Sylvia, you know it as well as I do—and all of a sudden, I was objecting without even realizing what I was doing. I wasn't even thinking about the money, although I'm sure no one in her family is going to believe that.”

“Probably not,” Sylvia murmured. “But I think I'm beginning to understand your motivations.” She frowned, still studying him thoughtfully, a scrutiny he was in no frame of mind to interpret, for the room was starting to spin before his eyes, his stomach was wrenching violently, and he began to fear all the alcohol he'd consumed was about to come back up.

“I've got to lie down,” he muttered, and suited the action to the words. The settee was too short for his long frame, but just now, his sleeping bunk seemed a long way away. He rested one foot on the arm of the settee and planted the other on the floor. Thankfully, the room stopped spinning.

“Lie down?” Sylvia cried. “You can't. You've got to do something.”

Whatever his next action might be, he wasn't going to implement it now. He'd sort this all out and find a solution later, when he was sober. “Leave off, Sylvia,” he muttered. “For God's sake, leave off. I'm in no condition to do anything at the moment. But I'll rectify the situation somehow.”

“I hope so. For the sake of that poor, devastated girl, I hope so.”

C
ontrary to what Lady Sylvia thought, Annabel was not devastated. She was mad, spitting mad, so mad that she hardly felt the pain in her hand. So mad that she was having difficulty expressing her anger, at least in words that did not describe the low moral character of the Duke of Scarborough.

“That vile man,” she muttered, turning at the fireplace and starting back across the carpet. Though she was still in her wedding gown, her steps were not hampered by her train, which had been removed by Liza and taken away. “That low, despicable, dishonorable cad. That bastard. That villain.”

Her mother and uncle were the recipients of this assessment of Scarborough's character. Since the awful events half an hour earlier, she had not seen Bernard or his sisters. She assumed they had gone to their staterooms. George, never good at handling difficult situations, had escaped to the smoking room. Dinah had been dispatched to her bedroom with orders to stay there, but though the door was closed, Annabel had no doubt her sister was peeking through the keyhole or pressing her ear to the door. She was too mad to care.

As for the source of her anger, she didn't know his whereabouts, and she didn't want to know, unless, of course, someone had thrown him overboard, in which case she'd have been delighted to hear the news.

“How could he?” she demanded, turning in a swirl of satin and tulle and starting back across the rug. As she asked that question, a fresh set of furious tears filled her eyes, but she blinked them back. “How could he do this?”

Arthur and Henrietta hadn't said a word since they'd all returned to the suite, allowing her to pour out this slew of perfectly justified outrage without interruption, but now, with Annabel's question hanging in the air, Henrietta was the first to respond.

“Well, he must have had a reason. What was it, Annabel?”

Annabel's steps faltered to a stop. That kiss flashed across her mind, more vivid each time she remembered it. She felt a blush of guilt and something more creeping into her face, and she hastily resumed pacing.

“Annabel?” Mama's voice was sharper now, sharp with suspicion. “What reason would the duke have to stop the wedding?”

Annabel was saved having to answer that inconvenient question by Uncle Arthur, of all people.

“Don't be raking Annabel over the coals, Henrietta. It's not her fault.” He gave a cough. “It's mine.”

“What?” The two women asked the question at the same time. Annabel stopped wearing out the rug, Henrietta turned to her brother, and they both stared at him in shock.

“I . . . um . . .” Arthur lifted his fist to his mouth and coughed again, wriggling in his chair as if he was a naughty schoolboy instead of a grown man. “I hired the duke to talk Annabel out of marrying Rumsford.”

“You did what?” Annabel cried.

“Oh Lord.” Henrietta fell back in her chair, eyes lifting heavenward. “Oh my Lord.”

Annabel wouldn't have thought she could get any angrier, but now, looking at her uncle's shamefaced expression, she knew she'd been wrong about that. She discovered she had plenty of anger to go around. “You paid that man to stop my wedding?”

“No!” Arthur leaned forward, rubbing a hand over his balding head. “I only wanted him to talk with you. Try to explain to you what you'd be getting into marryin' one of these British peers. Maybe get you to postpone the wedding, take more time, think things over. But that was all. I sure didn't hire him to do what he did!”

“Oh, Arthur.” Henrietta sighed. “How could you?”

Annabel stared at her uncle, but it was Scarborough she was thinking of. All their conversations made perfect, horrible sense. The way he'd tried to paint British marriage as some sort of awful trap, the way he'd disparaged Bernard, how he'd followed her down to the cargo bay. Even kissing her, she realized, must have been deliberate—to show her there were other fish in the sea, a calculated move with only a pretense of passion. He was good at acting, she realized. Very, very good. But then, bad boys always were. And it wasn't even as if he wanted to marry her himself. No, all he wanted was to stop her from marrying someone else so he could get paid.

That snake.

Her hands curled into fists. “How much?” she asked in a hard voice. Every man, she was beginning to appreciate, had his price. She wanted to know Scarborough's. “How much, Uncle Arthur?”

“Half a million dollars.”

Henrietta gasped, obviously shocked by the amount, but Annabel wasn't shocked at all. One thing she'd learned about having money was that most things could be bought, if one was willing to pay enough. “Well, now that my reputation's in shreds because of that man's insinuations,” she choked, fighting back tears of fury and pain, “I hope you're satisfied.”

“I'm sorry, Nan,” Arthur said heavily. “I'm sorrier than I can say. I thought I was acting for the best. But I swear, I just wanted him to talk you out of marrying Rumsford. I had no idea he'd stand up at the wedding! I love you, and I just want you to be happy, and I didn't think you knew what you were doing. I wanted you to take more time, sure if you did, you'd realize Rumsford wasn't good enough for you.”

A knock at the door interrupted any reply Annabel might have made. She glanced at her mother, who was looking at her in inquiry, and she shook her head in refusal. She didn't want to face anybody, not yet.