Trouble at the Wedding (28 page)

A duchess. In a marriage without love.

Annabel leaned forward in her chair, plunking one elbow on the table, resting her forehead on her hand. This was sort of becoming an obsession with her now, that word. Why?

She hadn't cared about love before. She'd been ready to marry Bernard and join up with him for the rest of her life, but she hadn't loved him. She winced, looking back on it, remembering the lack of love between them, and she couldn't help wondering what on earth she'd been thinking to agree to marry him when she hadn't loved him.

That was it, right there. She hadn't loved Bernard, and in her crazy, mixed-up way of looking at everything, she'd wanted it that way. No love was easier. Safer. Less painful.

Nothing hurts more than unmet expectations.

Christian's words that day on the ship came back to haunt her now. So true, those words. The best thing she could do was go back to being the girl she'd been two months ago, a girl who'd been happy to get married without love, and without any expectation of it. That girl couldn't get hurt.

But she wasn't that girl anymore. She loved Christian, and she was fooling herself to think that the fact that he didn't love her was all right. It wasn't all right. It would never be all right. It would hurt her all her days, bruise her heart every time she wanted him to say it and he didn't. Cut her every time he left her and went off to amuse himself without her.

And he would. That's how marriage was with a charmer. She knew that. Her daddy had been going off places all the time, and Mama used to cry for days. And then, one day, he'd gone off and never come back.

Bernard had told her, straight out, that they'd be expected to live rather separate lives, each having duties to perform that kept them apart for days or weeks at a time. Strange how that had been okay for her and Bernard, but it wasn't okay now.

With Christian, she didn't want separate beds, separate lives, and freedom. She wanted him, every day, every night. Right beside her, doing things together. His first wife had wanted that, too.

Annabel watched the maid in the mirror, and she thought back to a girl in Gooseneck Bend who'd scrubbed floors, who'd worn shoes too tight or no shoes at all because she couldn't afford new ones, and whose heart had shattered into a million pieces because she wasn't good enough for a Harding boy to marry. Through all the pain and hardship, the happiness and heartbreak of her life, never once had the thought of ending it even occurred to her. It probably never would. She wasn't made that way.

But you couldn't make a man love you. You could just accept the fact that he didn't and try to be content. Annabel knew she'd never been very good at being content. She probably never would. And she had no reason to think Christian would be any different in his second marriage than he'd been in his first.

Her life loomed before her, wearing a duchess's coronet and opening fetes and doing charity work and sleeping alone most of the time. Married women told you it was better that way. She used to agree with them. Now, she didn't.

Without love, none of it means a thing.

Christian was right about that, too. He seemed to know a lot more about life than she did because he had no expectations. She was full of 'em.

With a sigh, she stood up and left her room. She went downstairs for tea, and dinner, and cordials afterward in the drawing room, listening as Christian and Sylvia told her family stories of life at Scarborough, and she tried to cushion herself against expecting anything more than what was right in front of her.

She went to bed early. She didn't need to invent an excuse. After all, she was getting married tomorrow. Back in her room, she rang for Liza, and as the maid undressed her, she looked at the luxurious furnishings around her—furnishings another American heiress's money had paid for—and she felt the duchess's coronet getting heavy. Lord, the shine was off the tiara and she hadn't even put it on yet.

She donned her nightgown and slid between the sheets of her bed, but she didn't sleep. Instead, she lay in the dark and tried to console herself with the hope that he might not love her now, but maybe, someday, he would. That seemed a very small consolation and a very faint hope, but it was all she had.

Funny how she used to think love wasn't what she wanted. Now, it was what she wanted most, and it was the one thing money couldn't buy and position couldn't guarantee. Tomorrow was her wedding day, but without Christian's love, tomorrow was really just another day on the calendar.

Chapter Nineteen

I
t was almost time. Christian paused in front of the mirror, listening to the chapel bells ring in the distance for a moment, then he met his own eyes in the mirror, as Annabel's words from yesterday went through his mind.

I love you.

When she'd said that, he hadn't really believed her. He'd put her declaration down to desire and the need many women had to equate that with love. But this morning, he'd woken with those words ringing in his ears, and he decided, quite consciously, that he was going to believe those words were true every day from now on. He'd
make
them true, he vowed, even if it took his whole life to do it. This was his second chance, and hers, and he wanted it. He wanted Annabel. He wanted her beside him every day and every night for the rest of his life. He loved her. He'd probably loved her ever since that night in the Ford when she'd given him a tipsy grin and told him she bought the bank, when she'd pulled him, laughing, into a Turkish bath, even the next day when she'd dealt him a smashing right hook to the jaw.

He'd never thought in a thousand years he'd fall in love. He never had before. But he was in love now, and he knew it because he felt his heart pounding in his chest, because his nervous hands couldn't seem to perform the simple act of tying a cravat, and most of all, because the man looking back at him in the mirror had the sappiest grin on his face that Christian had ever seen. Men, he reflected, always looked ridiculous when they were in love.

They did ridiculous things, too. Like stand up, sodding drunk, and stop a wedding. If anybody stopped his today, he'd kill the bastard.

Behind him, McIntyre gave a cough. “Would you like me to do it, Your Grace?”

That brought him out of his reverie. “No,” he answered and wiped the grin off his face, returning his attention to the task of tying his white silk cravat. When he finished, he lowered his hands and studied it for a moment. Satisfied, he turned around.

McIntyre, not satisfied, tweaked it a bit before inserting the tie pin. The valet then reached for the knee-length wedding coat he'd laid out on the bed earlier, brushed away a speck of lint that had dared to rest on the lapel, and held the garment open for him. Once Christian had slid his arms into the sleeves and shrugged the garment on, he turned around so that McIntyre could button it. The valet pinned the spray of white rosebuds and lily of the valley to his lapel, and then handed him a pair of white gloves.

“Thank you, McIntyre,” he said, as he donned the gloves. “Have Carruthers bring the carriage. I'll be down shortly.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

The valet departed with a bow. Christian didn't follow, for he knew that there was one more thing he had to do before he departed for the chapel. He left his rooms and went down the stairs, but instead of going to the entrance hall, he turned to walk in the opposite direction, his steps taking him to the gallery.

He paused at the entrance, took a deep breath, and walked down the long length of the room, passing ancestors and relations until he came to one portrait in particular, the portrait of a pale, slim girl with golden-blond hair, an image he hadn't looked at for twelve years.

Evie's portrait was the only tangible trace of her life here that remained, and he'd avoided looking at it for long enough. He forced himself to look at it now. He forced himself to study that shy, timid smile, to meet straight on those blue eyes that had gazed at him adoringly so long ago, and made himself remember the events that had transpired. His father's death, Min's vanished income, and Andrew hammering away at him about family honor and duty to Scarborough. The London season with all its balls and parties and pretty heiresses from America, and Evie looking up at him as if he was king of the earth when he walked over to her chair against the wall and asked her to dance with him.

He forced himself to remember the summer they'd spent in Philadelphia when he'd asked her to marry him. To remember the reassurances that he'd given her parents and the cynicism of his own soul when he'd thought how extraordinary Americans were to hope love played the major part in the business arrangement called matrimony.

He looked at Evie and forced himself to remember the lies he'd told her, and the ones of omission, too. The lies that had been in his smile and in his eyes and in his voice during their courtship. The lies in the vows of love and honor and comfort he'd made to her on their wedding day.

He forced himself to remember the man he'd been when he made those vows, a young and callow man who, though never technically unfaithful in the three years of their marriage, had never been much of a husband, a man who'd continued to gamble and drink and fritter away his time on useless pursuits and shallow companions, neglecting the girl he'd promised to cherish as he'd lived his own life and spent his allotted share of her money. He'd never stopped to appreciate the depth of her loneliness, and he hadn't been with her in her darkest moment of despair.

Today was his second wedding day, and as he looked up at his first wife's portrait, he endured the pain of saying to her what he'd only said in his mind, what needed to be said out loud, here, as he looked into her eyes. “I'm sorry, Evie.” His voice was a quiet hush in the empty gallery. “Please forgive me.”

He didn't deserve to be forgiven. He knew that. But standing here now, thinking of the man he'd been then, he knew he wasn't that man any longer. Somehow, in the intervening twelve years since her death, he'd grown up without even realizing it. The man he was now could appreciate what he had, take care of his responsibilities, and love one woman with his whole heart.

Today, the vows he made would not be a lie. He loved Annabel, he wanted to love and honor and cherish that woman forever, he wanted to spend his life with her and only her. He wanted her love in return, and he wanted, every day, to make her happy. He loved her in a way the shallow, immature youth he'd been all those years ago had never been able to love Evie.

The grandfather clock chimed the half hour, and Christian knew it was time to go. Slowly, with infinite regret that he knew would never quite leave him, he laid the past aside and reached up to touch his wife's pale, painted cheek. “Evie,” he said gently, “I have to say good-bye.”

T
he dress fit her like a glove. The flowers were beautiful, the chapel hushed and lovely as Annabel walked in on George's arm. As she came up the aisle, she was glad for the veil. It hid the doubts she felt railing inside and made her seem ethereally calm as she walked toward Christian.

He watched her as she came closer, his handsome face so serious. As she separated from George and moved to stand beside him, her doubts, instead of easing, grew louder.

“Dearly beloved . . .” the vicar began, while Annabel's mind raced.

Could she do it? she wondered. Could she spend her life loving him and not being loved in return? She began to fear that she couldn't. But she had to.

“If any man has just cause,” the vicar intoned, “why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony, let him speak now or forever hold his peace.”

This was it, the moment of truth. Now or never.

“Wait.” Annabel held up her white-gloved hand, palm toward the vicar. “I can't.”

Ignoring the gasps and groans of the guests, she yanked back her veil, thrust her bouquet into Sylvia's hands, giving the other woman a look of heartfelt apology, and turned to Christian. “I can't do this,” she said, forcing herself to look up into his astonished face. “I can't marry you because of what other people think, or because you want to do the right thing by me after what happened before. I can't do it.”

He was staring at her as if unable to believe what he was hearing, and she couldn't blame him. She hardly believed it herself. “I'm sorry, Christian. I know I'm the hardest-headed woman in the world, and it takes me forever to admit when I'm wrong, but I'm admitting it now. I was wrong, and you were right.”

“Right about what?” He shook his head in bafflement. “Annabel, what are you talking about?”

“You said no one should get married without love.” She paused, feeling her throat close up, and it took everything she had to force out the words that had to be said. “And you were right,” she choked, gesturing to the glittering opulence of the chapel, “that without love, none of this means a thing. I love you, but I know you don't love me, so I can't marry you, Christian. I'm sorry.”

Tears stung her eyes, tears of real heartbreak this time, and she turned away before he could see them, before he got any more silly ideas in his head about doing right by her.

Grasping handfuls of her silk skirt in her fists, she ran down the aisle, ignoring the astonished faces of the guests and Christian's voice calling her name. She ran for all she was worth, out of the chapel and across the weedy lawn. She didn't know where she was going, but all she wanted now was to get away before he tried to be noble again and do the right thing.

“Annabel, wait!”

She could hear him behind her, and she ran faster, but there was no way she could outrun him, especially not in her corseted gown. She tried, but within moments, she felt his arm wrap around her waist, pulling her against him, and he stopped, bringing her to a stop as well. “Did you mean it?” he asked, his voice a fierce whisper against her ear. “Do you love me?”

She struggled, but his arms wrapped around her to keep her there, his chest pressed to her back, his breathing hard and quick against her cheek.

“Let me go, Christian,” she cried with a sob, shoving at the arm he had around her waist, unable to free herself or stop the tears that began rolling down her cheeks.

“Did you mean what you said in there?” he asked again, holding her tight. “Do you love me?”

She couldn't say it. “Why does it matter?” she said instead, and she was glad he couldn't see the tears falling down her face. “We can't get married. Don't you see that? I can't be your second chance.”

“Is that what you think?” He let her go then, but only to turn her around, her fingers gripping tighter when she tried to turn away. “That by marrying you, I'm trying to make up for Evie?”

“Aren't you?”

“No. And I'm not marrying you to ‘do the right thing,' as you put it, although I don't blame you for thinking so. Even I thought that's what I was doing. But this morning, I finally realized the truth, and I'm afraid it's far more selfish than that. You see, I've never been very good at doing the right thing. I'm marrying you because I want to. I love you, Annabel. I realize it's a bit late in the day to say it, but it's true.”

She stared at him, terrified, not able to quite believe him. “You mean it?”

“Yes, I do.” He tightened his hold on her arms, giving her a little shake. “And I don't care where you came from. I don't care how you talk—I adore your voice, and always have. It's a smashing voice, and if you ever take diction lessons, I shall sue for divorce. And I'm not marrying you because of what people would say if I didn't. I'm not saving your reputation or being heroic. I love you. I've loved you almost from the beginning, but I just didn't realize it. Call me thick, but I believe it only started to sink in when I came home.”

“Home? You mean—”

“I mean here. At Scarborough. While I was here without you, making everything ready for today, it made me think about what all this really meant. Marriage, you know, and children, and how we'd be caretakers here, not owners, and how we'd be taking care of all this not for ourselves, but for them, the next generation. That's why I took you to the nursery yesterday, and I've never been happier in my life than I was at that moment when you said you didn't want our children to be stuck back in those dark, gloomy rooms, and how you just weren't going to let it happen.”

“I feel pretty strong about that. So—”

“I know, and that's why I love you. You're a fighter.” He paused, looking at her steadily. “I never thought you'd try to try to duck your responsibilities.”

She sucked in her breath. “That's not fair.”

“I never thought,” he continued, “that you'd run away, or take the easy way out.” He spread his arms wide, a sweeping gesture that encompassed the vast estate all around them. “I thought you'd fight for this, and for us. That's what I want to do.”

She caught back a sob, wanting with all her heart to believe him. “Christian—”

“I don't want to duck my responsibilities. For the first time, I feel as if there's a purpose to my life, and that purpose is to be your husband, live here with you and our children, and do what I can to take care of this place and the village and the farms. I'd never thought about things that way before. I'd regarded marrying Evie as a duty I was expected to perform, but I never saw any need to change my life because of it. I was only twenty-one when I married, far too immature to know what love or even duty really meant. But I know now. I love you and my duty is to you and us, and our children.”

“And I—”

“I'll be honest,” he cut in, “I'm glad you've got money, because we'll need it for Scarborough. I wish I could have made the grand gesture and said I won't take a penny from you, but I couldn't afford to do that. There really wasn't any other way, but I swear to you, Annabel, on my life, your money has nothing to do with why I want you to marry me. It's because I love you, and—”

“Cryin' all night,” she shouted, forced to raise her voice to get a word in, “when you decide to sweet-talk a girl, you just don't know when to stop! Can I say something, please?”

He straightened, letting her go, and gave a little cough. “Of course. Sorry.”

“I meant what I said. I do love you.” As she spoke, she began to laugh, the joy bubbling up inside her impossible to contain. “And I'm not trying to run away or duck out. Honest. But I knew I couldn't marry you without your love in return. I love you, Christian. And now that I know you love me, you'll never get rid of me. If you decided to give up your title, if you decide to go wandering off to Paris or America or even the Klondike, you better be prepared to take me with you, 'cause I'm not gonna sit at home alone and cry over you.”