Trouble at the Wedding (27 page)

“So, how daring are you, Miss Wheaton?” Vivienne asked her. “Are you willing to trust me and allow me to design for your figure, or do you simply want the current mode and none of my pert opinions?” Vivienne's eyes met hers in the mirror, and Annabel saw in them both a hint of amusement and a challenge.

“I'm already considered a fish out of water,” she answered ruefully. “Might as well be modern, too. Besides,” she added, smiling at her refection, feeling that exquisite thrill of knowing she'd found a beautiful gown, “I love it already.”

“Excellent! I so adore dressing women like you.” She turned to Sylvia. “Fitting a week from today, darling? Two o'clock?”

Sylvia pulled her appointment book and a pencil out of her handbag, flipped a few pages, and gave a nod. “Two o'clock.”

“Excellent. Claudette will take out all these pins and measure you, Miss Wheaton, and I will see you next Friday.” Vivienne gave Annabel's shoulders an encouraging squeeze. “Many brides come to me, and I can say from experience that you will feel quite overwhelmed during the coming weeks, but don't let that feeling ruin things for you. After all, this is one of the happiest times of a woman's life.”

With that, she turned away, waved farewell to Henrietta and Lady Sylvia, and with a swish of her greenish-bronze silk dress, she departed.

“Easy for her to say,” Annabel muttered, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Swathed and pinned into pristine bridal silk, she suddenly felt like a complete hypocrite.

“Don't worry, Annabel,” Sylvia said, putting an arm around her shoulders. “You're not doing this alone, you know, and though all this might seem overwhelming, I intend you to see that you enjoy yourself.”

Annabel appreciated the kindness that lay behind Sylvia's intentions, but enjoying herself wasn't easy. The newspapers were full of the engagement, and though, as Christian had told her, the stories were mostly positive, some were unbelievably vicious. But it was Christian's interview that was hardest of all. He spoke of being carried away by his feelings, and how fortunate he was that she'd at last accepted him. He agreed that to marry for love as well as duty was a splendid thing indeed, and he emphasized several times how ecstatic they both were. Reading that interview only made the knot of misery in her stomach even heavier, because even though she knew it was all just lies for the press, she wished it could be true. After that, she stopped reading the newspapers.

She went in to Vivienne to be fitted for her gown as scheduled, and the moment she put it on, she wanted to cry. It was beautiful, perfect, but what did it matter? It didn't make the wedding less of a farce.

She tried not to think. With Lady Sylvia's help, Mama's encouraging hugs, and Dinah's not always tactful opinions to make her laugh, she got through the choosing of invitations, the guest list, the flowers, the menu for the wedding tea that would follow the ceremony, and the dozens of other choices that had to be made. Having done it all before, she ought to have found it easier this time around. But it wasn't easier. It was much, much harder.

Nonetheless, the days rushed by. Journalists followed her everywhere, and her jaw ached from smiling, her heart hurt from acting happy, and sometimes, she just wanted to run away.

The wedding was set for May 26, and it was arranged that Sylvia would bring her and her family to Scarborough a week earlier, but so much was still undone that she, Henrietta, Dinah, and Sylvia were forced to stay in London longer than they'd expected. Arthur and George went on ahead to tour Scarborough Park, sign the marital agreements, and decide what needed to be done to the place. Arthur was only slightly mollified by Christian's flat refusal of an income, especially after Annabel made him slip in funds for Christian anyway. A duke, she insisted, had to have an income. She could afford it, and she could only hope Christian wouldn't read the thing before he signed it. He was trying to do right by her, and in the marital agreement, she intended to do right by him.

They arrived at Scarborough in the early afternoon with only two days to spare before the wedding. Christian, an entourage of journalists behind him, was waiting for them as they descended the platform of Harrowgate's tiny train station, and he bustled her, her mother, and sister to a waiting carriage at once while his valet dealt with their luggage and Sylvia deftly took charge of the journalists.

“Lord,” Henrietta said, falling back in her seat as the carriage jerked into motion. “These reporters! I've never seen the like.”

“They are relentless,” Christian agreed. “They've been prowling around, skirting the edges of Scarborough Park for days, hoping to catch me out. They've become so brazen that I should advise staying near the house as much as possible. I fear we shall have to save any grand tours of the estate until after the wedding.”

He turned toward her. “How are you, darling?” he asked, picking up her gloved hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Holding up all right?”

“Of course,” she lied. “I'm just fine.” After all, what else could she say?

Scarborough was a vast structure of gray stone accented with crenellated parapets, octagonal turrets, and climbing green ivy. It seemed to sprawl in all directions, wings sticking out and chimney stacks popping up without any consideration of architectural beauty, a fact that gave it a haphazard appearance.

Christian laughed, watching her face as the open landau pulled into the graveled drive. “A bit fantastical, isn't it? Sylvia's husband always said a restoration of Scarborough Park would be an architect's dream or nightmare, depending upon how much money was involved.”

She studied it for a moment. “I kind of like it,” she told him.

“Like it?”

“Yes. It looks . . . a little tipsy.”

That made him laugh again, an easy, relaxed-sounding laugh. He didn't seem to share any of the worry that niggled at her. That was a good thing, she reminded herself. Wasn't it?

The staff was gathered by the doors awaiting their arrival, and as the carriage came to a halt, a footman stepped forward to roll out the steps for them. Christian presented her and her mother to the staff, introduced Morgan, the butler, and Mrs. Houghton, the housekeeper, and escorted them inside. “We'll have tea, Morgan,” he said over his shoulder as he led her across a vast hall to a wide, sweeping staircase of limestone and wrought iron. “In the drawing room. And watch for Lady Sylvia's carriage. She'll be a bit behind us.”

He led them up to the drawing room, where George and Uncle Arthur were already partaking of scones and jam. Afternoon tea was one of things about England Arthur genuinely liked, a fact made clear by the dab of strawberry jam Annabel noticed on his chin. She tapped her own chin meaningfully with her finger, and he took the hint at once, scrubbing away jam with his handkerchief.

Henrietta poured tea, as Arthur and George told them all about the estate. Even Arthur sounded enthusiastic as he recounted tales of all the trout fishing they'd been doing. When he began to rhapsodize about the pheasant hunting they'd be able to do in the fall, she shot Christian a look of surprise across the tea table. He merely smiled back and gave her a wink.

Sylvia arrived a few minutes later, and Annabel had no chance to ask Christian anything about Arthur's change of heart until they were able to steal a few minutes alone together, and only then because Christian insisted upon taking her for a walk in the rose garden.

“How on earth did you manage it?” she asked him as they walked arm in arm amid rose beds edged by low boxwood hedges. “Did you cast some sort of spell on Uncle Arthur or something? He's talking as if he actually likes England!”

He stopped as if to admire the fountain, causing her to stop beside him. “Well, it is rather a nice place, you know,” he said, letting go of her arm and turning toward her as he reached into his pocket. “I have something for you.”

She was too amazed to be diverted by a present, especially now that she seemed to be the only one with apprehensions about the wedding. “Uncle Arthur was all prepared to hate it here. When Bernard and I called things off, he wanted us to go straight back home, and it was only because of my reputation that he went along with staying here and having you as a trustee. Now he's talking like he wants to stay awhile. I never thought I'd see—”

“Annabel,” Christian interrupted, and picked up her hand. She looked down, watching as he slipped a ring of diamonds and platinum onto her finger.

“It was my mother's,” he said. “Min—that was Andrew's wife—didn't like it. The main diamond's only two carats, and she thought it too small for a duchess, so it's been sitting in the vault for years. I know it's rather late in the day for an engagement ring, since our wedding is the day after tomorrow, but still, I thought you might like it all the same.”

“It's beautiful,” she said, and meant it. Seven years ago, she'd never thought in a thousand years she'd wear diamonds of any size, and though now she had a treasure trove of jewels, she never forgot where she came from. So to her, this ring, one that had been handed down in Christian's family for generations, seemed far more beautiful than any of the Tiffany or Cartier jewels she owned.

She turned her hand, watching the diamond wink at her in the sunlight. An engagement ring was a circle, a symbol of eternal love. But what did it mean when the love was one-sided? Suddenly, the diamond began to blur before her eyes.

Remember, this is one of the happiest times of your life.

Annabel blinked, bringing the ring back into focus. She swallowed hard, and tried to believe that was true. After all, a girl didn't need a man's love to be happy. She'd figured that out a long time ago.

Chapter Eighteen

T
he following morning, the men had already breakfasted and left the house by the time Annabel came downstairs. Christian, she was told, was going about estate business, while Arthur and George had, not surprisingly, gone fishing. Dinah, too, was gone. “Exploring,” Henrietta explained in answer to her question as she sat down at the table.

“Dinah seems a very adventurous sort of girl,” Sylvia commented.

“That's one way of putting it,” Henrietta said in her wry way. “I worry sometimes that she's too much of a tomboy.”

“She is a bit of a hoyden, certainly, but she is only eleven. And girls are much more independent and athletic nowadays. I've no doubt she's destined for all sorts of adventures.”

Annabel looked down at her hand, watching the result of her own “adventure” winking at her in the light.

Remember, this is one of the happiest times of your life.

She jerked to her feet. “Excuse me,” she said as the two other women stopped talking and looked at her in surprise. “I think I'll be adventurous and go exploring, too. I should like to look over the house.”

“Of course you want to see the house.” Sylvia started to rise. “I'll take you.”

“No,” she said, grimacing at the curtness of her voice. “Please, finish your breakfast. I just want to wander a bit, on . . . on my own, if that's all right.”

“Of course, my dear. This is your home, you know.”

Her home. As Annabel spent the day walking the long hallways, studying the watered-silk wall hangings, glittering crystal chandeliers, and gilt-framed portraits, she wanted to think of it that way, as her home, but she couldn't quite make her mind form the picture.

It wasn't the house. On the contrary, she loved the place, with its sprawling wings and endless corridors, its overcrowded gardens, enormous fireplaces, and creaky floors. It was a bit threadbare in places, showing wear and tear and a lack of upkeep from the previous duke, but she had more than enough money to change that.

The problem was that whenever she tried to see this as her home, she felt a strange heaviness descend on her, a sinking feeling of dismay that this would never be her home, not if Christian didn't love her enough to stay in it with her. Wasn't that what she was really afraid of? That he'd go off to Paris and she'd be like Evie, walking in the gardens and wandering the corridors alone?

She stared up at his portrait, one of many that hung along a long, wide corridor by the library. He looked so young—about twenty, perhaps, and the lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth hadn't yet made their appearance. Despite that, he seemed more handsome now than he had as a youth, but men always did seem to age well. Annabel, like most women, found that awfully unfair.

Flanking his portrait were portraits of two women. One was unmistakably Sylvia. The other was an angelic blond in pink silk so pale it seemed almost white. This, she knew at once, was Evie.

Footsteps echoed in the distance, a soft thudding on the carpets, and Annabel glanced up as a maid in striped gray dress, white apron, and cap passed the gallery. The girl happened to glance sideways, and backed up at the sight of her, stopping in the doorway. “May I help you, miss?” she asked.

“No, no.” Annabel smiled. “I'm just exploring.”

The girl glanced at the wall, then back at her. A fleeting expression of—uncertainty, perhaps?—crossed her face, but she gave a curtsy and went on, leaving Annabel to her contemplations of Christian's first wife.

Evie Du Quesne had been pretty, rather like a porcelain doll was pretty. Her chin was down, her eyes almost peeking at the artist, not in a coquettish way, but tiredly, as if the diamond tiara and earrings she wore were too heavy for her slender neck. Against a backdrop of white draperies, with her almost colorless dress and fair hair, she seemed to fade into complete insignificance.

Annabel's heart constricted with compassion and that hint of fear. She wasn't timid or shy like this girl, but without Christian's love, what would she be? Bitter, she thought at once. Angry. That seemed almost as bad.

This time, the sound of footsteps made her jump, and this time, it wasn't a maid who paused in the doorway. It was Christian, looking grave. He glanced—a quick, furtive glance—at the wall, then back at her. “I heard you were in here,” he said slowly. “Anna—she's the head housemaid—came and found me, asking me to come to you. She seemed concerned to see you wandering about alone.” He paused, looking at her. “Was she right to be concerned?”

She hesitated, then joined him by the door. Glancing around to be sure no one was within earshot, she asked, “Are we doing the right thing? What if . . .” She paused, but heartache, she feared, hovered over her whether she expressed her doubts aloud or kept them to herself. “What if we're making a mistake?”

“It isn't as if we have a choice, Annabel.”

That didn't help reassure her. It only made her want to know even more how he really felt. He didn't love her, but he did have some regard for her. She knew that. Not because he'd bedded her—she wasn't naive enough to think that—but because of what he was doing now. But was it enough? Did he respect her? Could love come later? Did he think that was possible? She turned away, staring down the long portrait gallery, to the pale girl on the wall. He came up behind her, put his hands on her shoulders, and turned her around.

“Maybe we haven't known each other long enough,” she said as he gently, slowly pulled her through the doorway and out of the room. Standing in the hallway outside the gallery, she searched his face, looking for anything that would give her a clue how he felt and what he thought. “Maybe you were right before to suggest a pretend engagement, then at least we might have gotten to know each other better before this happened.”

Unexpectedly, a smile curved his mouth. “I think we already got to know each other quite intimately, don't you? That's the reason for the rush, remember?”

She colored up at once. “I'm serious, Christian. What if we make each other unhappy? I don't . . . I don't want to ever make you unhappy.”

He studied her, still smiling a little. “Are you getting cold feet? And if so, do you do this with all your fiancés?”

“I've only had two. And my cold feet the first time around was your fault.”

“I'm starting to worry you'll abandon me at the altar.”

“Oh, Christian, don't tease. This isn't funny. I'm—” She broke off, wanting to tell him she loved him, and too afraid of hearing that her feelings weren't reciprocated. That galled her, that she was afraid, because though she had her faults, cowardice wasn't usually one of them. She sighed, giving up. “Never mind. It doesn't matter.”

He studied her for a moment, head to one side, then he took her hand. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“I want to show you something.”

He led her all the way to the other end of the house and up a dark, tucked-away staircase. At the top, he took her down a long, equally dark hallway, opening doors into small, plain, empty rooms as he went. Each had one window with a view of the stables, a carpet on the floor, and walnut paneling below faded floral wallpaper.

“Why did you bring me here? What is the purpose of these rooms?”

“This is the nursery.”

“What?” She stopped, looking around the dismal little room, a room that stood in absurdly stark contrast with the lavish guest chamber she'd been given. Her first impression was of
lack
. Windows not big enough or plentiful enough to let in light, carpets not thick enough for stumbling toddlers, not close enough proximity to the parents' rooms for the soothing away of bad dreams. She looked back at him, appalled. “This gloomy place, tucked back in a remote corner of the house? You're not serious?”

But he was. She could tell that by his face.

“You . . .” She paused and swallowed hard. “You were raised back here? You and your brother and sister?”

He nodded. “Once a day, if our parents were in residence, we'd be toddled down all the corridors and hallways to the drawing room, where we'd be dutifully kissed on the cheek by Papa, held and petted by Mama, and admired by any of their friends—until we cried or fussed or asked an awkward question, of course. Then Nanny would come to the rescue, and we'd all be whisked back here again. That was our lives until the age of ten. At that point, each of us was sent off to school. Sylvia to finishing school in France, Andrew and I to Eton, then Oxford.”

“For an education?” she asked, unable to keep the acid out of her voice. “Or to be got out of the way?”

He met her eyes. “Which do you think?”

“No.” She shook her head. “If you brought me here for my opinion, I shall give it gladly. I say no, to all of this. School, yes, I know that's important, but they don't go until they're twelve. And in the meantime, they are not going to be stuck back here in this dark place, unimportant and forgotten. We'll use these rooms for something else and find a new nursery closer to our rooms, one that has lots of windows to look out of, that has toys and games as well as books. And none of this being seen once a day and sent back to the nanny. No!”

“It's called a daily viewing.”

“I don't give a damn what it's called! No, Christian! Not our children.”

He looked at her. Not a muscle of his face moved, but she saw a smile in his eyes, and she felt sweet, fierce tenderness welling up within her, a bubble of emotion that pressed against her heart until it ached.

Until it demanded her to say what she felt.

“I love you,” she blurted out before she could stop herself, reaching up to touch his face, brushing back a lock of his hair. “I love you.”

Her hand fell away. The silence in the room seemed deafening, and although Annabel didn't feel that sickening knot of fear she'd felt the first time she'd told a man that, she still wondered if she'd made a mistake. Christian was marrying her because of obligation, he wasn't marrying her for love. Given his choice, he'd never marry anyone ever again. So in blurting out what she felt, what in tarnation did she expect him to say?

The silence lengthened, and it seemed so long and felt so awful, she had to speak again, say something, anything to break it. “I just wanted you to know,” she mumbled. “In case you were troubling your mind about it.”

She tried to tell herself it didn't matter, but it did, and the fact that she was the only one talking confirmed they both knew it. She turned as if to go, but suddenly, he caught her arms, pressing her back against the walnut paneling behind her.

He kissed her, a hard kiss that stole away her ability to think, or even breathe. His weight pressed her to the wall, and she could feel him, hard against her abdomen. His hands moved between them, working her shirtwaist open. He slid one hand inside to cup her breast through her corset as the other frantically pulled up skirts and petticoats, jamming fabric between their bodies, slipping inside her drawers.

She broke the kiss with a gasp, for she needed air, but she had time to suck in only one breath before he captured her mouth again, almost as if he were afraid she would say something to stop him.

His mouth kissing hers, and one hand at her breast, his other hand slid between her legs to caress her in that special place. Again, she broke the kiss, a moan escaping her. Her head tilted back against the wall and she closed her eyes, feeling hot, sweet pleasure rising within her as the tip of his finger spread her moisture, preparing her, she knew now, making her ready.

“I want you, Annabel,” he said against her ear. “Right here, right now.”

She nodded, making a wordless sound of accord, powerless to refuse him. He left off caressing her breast, using both hands to untie her drawers and push them down her legs. He pressed kisses to her throat as he unbuttoned his trousers, his breathing harsh, his moves rough and frantic. And then, his hands were cupping her buttocks, lifting her as she instinctively spread her knees apart. He entered her, pushing deep, taking her in hard, purposeful thrusts, and she hit that peak almost at once. She cried out, clenching around him as the waves broke over her. Over him, too, for his body shuddered with the pleasure as he thrust deep several more times, and then was still, breathing hard against her neck.

He kept her there, pinned to the wall, for several more moments, and then slowly pulled back, slipping free of her and easing her back down until her feet hit the floor. He lifted his hand to touch her face, smiling as his fingertips glided along her check, his expression so tender, she almost believed he had said he loved her. But he hadn't said it, and the past few minutes, however passionate they were, didn't change that. He might never say it.

He raked his fingers through her hair to cup her face, and he kissed her one more time, a soft, tender kiss, a kiss so loving, it made her declaration of a few minutes ago even harder to bear.

“You'd best go back first,” he said as he stepped back, releasing her. “If any of the servants see you, you've gotten lost.”

“A believable lie. In this house, anyways.”

She retraced her steps, finding her way back to the drawing room. Everyone was there, her whole family, having tea with Lady Sylvia, and she knew she couldn't join them. Not now, not with her clothes all rumpled and her body in a state. She could feel the moisture still between her legs and the sweat on her skin. She probably smelled of sex, she thought with a grimace, and instead of joining the others for tea, she went to her room. She used the water in the pitcher on the washstand to take a spit bath, then she tipped the basin, drenching herself with the water just for an excuse to change her clothes. Servants, after all, noticed everything.

Dressed in fresh clothes, and feeling a bit fresher all around, she called for a maid to clean up the water she'd spilled, then pinned back the stray hairs that had come loose from her chignon and powdered her nose. In the mirror, she watched the maid mop the floor, remembering there'd been a time when she mopped floors herself. And scrubbed clothes on a washboard. Now, here she was, half a world away, about to be a duchess.