Trouble at the Wedding (8 page)

“Du-cane,” he supplied. “If you intend to embark upon the life of a peeress, you'd best become familiar with the pronunciation of English surnames. Or, to be accurate, French ones. Most of us are of Norman descent, and therefore, French. Your fiancé is an exception, of course. Rummy's stout Saxon stock through and through.”

She didn't quite like this nickname for Bernard. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir. You seem to be on very familiar terms with my fiancé and my uncle. But I can't recall ever making your acquaintance myself.”

“It is a puzzle,” he agreed.

He didn't elaborate, and she frowned, sensing that he was toying with her. “You don't seem very ducal.”

“I shall take that as a compliment. And your skepticism is quite understandable. I wasn't supposed to be the duke at all, you see, so it's not surprising that I don't quite suit the role. I was the second son, the spare, the insurance, useless to the family in any other capacity. I have been groomed all my life to gamble, drink, carouse, and taint our good name, and until three months ago, I had been fulfilling that role admirably. Then my brother had the deuced poor judgment to expire and leave me in charge of things.” He gave her a look of apology. “It shall be downhill for the Scarboroughs from now on, I daresay.”

Annabel didn't know how to reply. His words about his departed brother seemed cruel and his disregard for his rank strangely cavalier. Bernard was very nice to his sisters and took his role as an earl very seriously.

“Though I am a duke,” he resumed, “that won't be much use to you if you need any instruction on being a proper countess.”

“That's no never mind to me,” she countered at once, “since I don't intend to ask you for any instructions. Why should I?”

“In my opinion, you shouldn't. Proper countesses are very dull, and I should hate to see you become one, but it's inevitable, I fear. You see, I know Rummy, and his mother and sisters, too, and I can safely say they won't want you to stay the way you are. They'll want to change you, mold you into what they think you ought to be. They'll work to change the way you dress, the way you move, your voice—”

“What's wrong with my voice?” she demanded, but even as she asked the question, she could hear how she sounded, how
my
became
mah
and
voice
became
vo-iss
, and she stopped, biting her lip in frustration. A month's worth of diction lessons, yet she still couldn't stop drawing out her vowels, especially when she was upset.

“My dear girl, no need to scowl so fiercely,” he said in amusement, watching her face. “There is nothing at all wrong with your voice. It's a luscious voice, absolutely splendid.”

He was making fun of her. He had to be. Her accent was crude and uncivilized and came from eighteen years in a Mississippi backwater. There was nothing luscious or splendid about that.

“Unfortunately,” he went on, “diction lessons will soon be part of your daily schedule, I daresay.”

Annabel would have to be whipped within an inch of her life before she'd admit they already were, and at Bernard's request.

“Don't do it.” He leaned closer, all trace of amusement vanishing from his face. “I meant what I said. You have a gorgeous voice. It's like warm honey butter oozing down over hot toast. Don't let them change it. Don't let them change you.”

Annabel sucked in her breath, taken aback by the sudden fierceness of his voice. In the dim light of the corridor, his eyes seemed to glitter like silver, and they looked directly into hers, seeming to see right through all her attempts to be a lady, finding instead the awkward girl who'd never worn shoes in the summertime because she couldn't afford them. Looking at her as if he would have liked that girl.

A ridiculous notion. He didn't even know her. “I—” She stopped and licked her dry lips, feeling all muddled up. “I don't know what you're talkin' about.”

“I think you do,” he said. “And I think you want to be changed, which is the saddest part.”

“And I think,” she said, careful to enunciate her words, “that you are a very rude man.”

“Oh, I am,” he agreed amiably, “but I just can't resist talking to pretty women. And there's no question you fall into that category.”

“What do you hope to gain, giving me compliments this way? I am engaged to be married.”

“I know.” He looked her over, a slow, lingering glance of regret. “Deuced shame, that.”

The heat inside her deepened and spread. Lord, this man's eyes could melt a girl into a puddle. Billy John could take lessons from the likes of him.

She swallowed hard, trying to gather her wits. This was crazy. She'd never met this man in her life before, she knew nothing about him, and yet she knew what he was making her feel. Like she was seventeen again and gloriously unaware she was about to get dumped on her behind by Gooseneck Bend's biggest heartbreaker. This man was a heartbreaker, too, the sort who toyed with a girl like a cat toyed with a mouse and didn't care two bits that she belonged to somebody else. He might be a duke, but he was still trouble, the sort of trouble she never wanted to get tangled up in again.

She forced a smile to her lips, the charming, deceptively sweet smile her lawyers at Cooper, Bentley, and Frye knew very well. “And I suppose that if I weren't already engaged, you'd be interested in forming an acquaintance with me?”

“Love, any man with half a brain and one eye open would want to form an acquaintance with you. And my brain and my eyes function perfectly.”

Annabel's smile widened. It was always reassuring to be proved right about a man's bad character, though a bit galling to think she could still find a man like that attractive. “My eyes and my brain work, too, sugar,” she purred. “And they can see a man like you comin' from miles away.”

If her perceptiveness unnerved him, he didn't show it. Quite the contrary. “Excellent,” he said. “Then we both know where we are. A good beginning to our friendship, I think.”

She opened her mouth, but before she could assure him there was no beginning and they were not friends, he spoke again. “But we shall have to wait until you've been married a few years before we can renew our acquaintance. The shine'll be off the tiara by then, I expect.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it always happens.” His voice became serious, his flippancy vanished. “You American girls always have these romantic dreams in your heads about marrying a lord and living in a castle, but a year or two after the wedding, you realize just how dreary it is to be married to one of our lot, how painful chilblains are, and how deuced cold a castle can be in December.”

Though she might sometimes talk as if she was just off the farm, she wasn't. She might not know what the heck a chilblain was, but she did know a scoundrel when she met one. And she knew just what sort of friendship he had in mind.

“So when I'm married to Rumsford,” she drawled, not bothering to curb her Mississippi vowels anymore, not with this man, “and I'm all lonely and homesick, you'll be willing to step in and console my disillusioned little heart?”

“I'd like to.”

“Yes, I just bet you would.”

Her knowing reply didn't put him off. Instead, it made him grin, a flash of white in a dark, reckless face. “But as I said, we shall have to wait at least several years. Every peer expects his heir to be his, you see, not some other bloke's, so I'm afraid I must valiantly resist your charms until then.”

“How noble of you.”

“Being noble has nothing to do with it, love. Rummy is one of those hopelessly old-fashioned chaps that might actually call me out for fathering the next Earl Rumsford, and he happens to be a decent shot. I like living too much to take the chance.”

Without giving her any opportunity to reply, he spoke again. “Unfortunately for you, he's also as dull as a scullery maid's dishrag. So, when the heir and the spare are safely ensconced in the nursery, and Rumsford has become as boring to you as he is to everyone else, I hope you will call upon me, Miss Wheaton. You'll only have to say hullo in that gorgeous voice of yours,” he added with a bow, “and I shall fall at your feet, and into your bed. Rummy, I assure you, won't blink an eye. It's the English way. All part of the rules, you see.”

Annabel was torn between rebuking him for his presumptions and asking him what he meant about rules, but he turned away before she could decide which course of action tempted her more. He ducked out of sight around the corner, and a moment later, she could hear the tap of his footsteps as he ascended the stairs that led to the staterooms above.

Just as well, she supposed. Her virtue might be long gone because of a scoundrel just like him, but her reputation was intact, and she intended to keep it that way. Still, she did have to admit to a certain amount of curiosity about some of the things he'd said, and she decided to ask Bernard at the first opportunity. If there were some rules about British marriage she didn't know, it was best to find them out now. A girl like her couldn't afford to make any mistakes.

Chapter Four

T
he grand dining room of the
Atlantic
, a Baroque fantasy of meringuelike plasterwork and faux-marble columns was not only well suited to the formal dinners available for those in first class. It was also, much to Annabel's relief, the perfect setting for her wedding. Three stories high and capped by a skylight dome of stained glass, the room would lend a suitably cathedrallike air to the ceremony.

As Bernard escorted her down the grand staircase for dinner, she couldn't help imagining how it would be when she made this same journey in a cloud of satin and tulle. As she paused with him and her family near the foot of the stairs, waiting for an usher to escort them to their table, she pictured the elaborate bouquets of pink magnolia blossoms as well as the path of rose petals that would pave her way across the royal-blue carpet. Instead of standing beside her as he was now, Bernard would be waiting for her on a dais at the other end of the long, elegant room.

The round tables would do just fine, she was glad to note. Being bolted down, they could not be moved, and Mama had worried that people would have to crane their necks to see, but Annabel didn't share her mother's concern. Knickerbockers would be happy to endure that sort of discomfort on the off chance the New Money bride would trip over her gown or commit some other ghastly faux pas, something they wouldn't want to miss.

Annabel had no intention of obliging them. This was her opportunity to cement a place in society for herself and her family, and she was not going to let anything spoil it.

That thought had barely crossed her mind before she spied the Duke of Scarborough standing about a dozen feet away, and at the sight of his tall, lean body and rakish face, she felt her stomach give a nervous little dip. She hadn't been mistaken about him, she realized. He was every bit as attractive as she'd thought earlier, and, she suspected, every bit as dangerous.

Beside him was a tall, striking brunette whose resemblance to him was so marked, it was clear she must be his sister, Lady Sylvia Shaw. She was talking with a group of acquaintances that included Virginia Vanderbilt and Maimie Paget, and as Annabel watched, she couldn't help admiring the easy familiarity and animation the other woman displayed. Annabel was always so worried about pronouncing her vowels correctly or saying the wrong thing, that it was easier to speak very little around the Knickerbocker dragon ladies and leave them to do most of the talking. The duke's sister no doubt had the same sort of voice as her brother and Bernard, the voice of an aristocrat, the sort of voice that instantly garnered respect, the sort of voice that was never subject to ridicule. If only she could learn to talk like that . . .

She returned her gaze to Scarborough, and as she did, his words of that afternoon flashed through her mind.

Don't let them change you.

The intensity of his gaze as he'd spoken those words still surprised her. Why should he care? He didn't even know her. And how on earth could he think she had a nice voice? It had a twang in it as wide as the Mississippi. But he thought it was like warm honey butter oozing down over hot toast.

Annabel felt a sudden rush of heat, the same sort of heat she'd felt with him a short while ago, and though she willed herself to stop it, the duke chose that moment to look up.

As if sensing her scrutiny, he glanced past his companions and saw her. Murmuring something to his sister and the others in his immediate circle, he started toward her, and Annabel felt a jolt of panic, not only because the look in those eyes was just too unsettling for a girl's peace of mind, but also because she and Scarborough had never been introduced. She'd pored over enough etiquette books during the past seven years to know it wasn't proper for a man to approach a woman before he'd been given a formal introduction, and she suspected this man was outrageous enough to defy propriety.

She tensed as he came closer, prepared to deny any claim he might make to having already met her, but she needn't have worried. Though he gave an acknowledging nod to Rumsford, he walked right past her without a glance, and held out his hand to her uncle Arthur.

Chagrined, she watched as Arthur greeted him with warm familiarity. “Let me introduce you,” Arthur said. “This is my sister, Henrietta, and her husband, George Chumley. And you already know Rumsford, of course. Have you met his fiancée, Miss Annabel Wheaton, my niece?”

Scarborough shook his head. “Alas, I have not yet had the pleasure. Miss Wheaton,” he added with a bow.

She didn't know if that lie stemmed from politeness or expedience, but either way, she was quite happy to share in it. “Your Grace,” she murmured with a polite curtsy, then turned to her uncle. “I didn't know you knew any dukes, Uncle Arthur.”

“I didn't, not until last night,” Arthur told her. “The duke and I met over cards. His Grace is quite the poker player. Took Hiram for a bundle.”

“Merely a lucky flutter,” Scarborough countered smoothly.

“Still hard lines though, old chap,” Bernard put in. “They say a man lucky at cards is unlucky in love.”

Annabel frowned, wondering if there might have been a hint of malice in her fiance's comment, but if so, Scarborough didn't seem perturbed by it. “Ah,” he said with a smile. “That explains why my last amour ended with a vase of flowers being thrown at my head.”

Everyone laughed at that, even Bernard, and Annabel feared they were becoming far too friendly with him. Next thing you knew, he'd be joining them for dinner.

“Care to dine with us, Your Grace?” her uncle asked. “I'm sure we could make room for you and your charming sister.”

The duke glanced at her, and Annabel tensed, fearing the worst, but much to her relief, he refused the invitation. “Thank you, no. We have other companions to consider. Another time, perhaps. Now, if you will pardon me, I see the usher has come to seat our party.”

With that, he bowed and returned to his own group and they were guided to a table. A few moments later, the usher did the same for her family, and she was glad when he led them to a table that was not in close proximity to Scarborough and his companions. But when the usher indicated a seat that put her directly in the duke's line of vision, she hesitated, glancing around.

There was no way she could move to take a different seat without drawing attention to the act, so Annabel sank into her chair, accepting the inevitable, and when a menu card was placed in front of her, she was glad to have something that would shield her from that man's smoky blue eyes.

She certainly didn't need the menu for its intended purpose. Bernard would order for both of them, as he always did. She'd learned on her first evening after becoming engaged that it was customary in a restaurant for a man to order not only for himself, but also for his fiancée. She'd accepted that, thinking nothing of it at the time, not only because it was customary, but also because menus were always in French, and though she'd taken two years of French lessons, she still wasn't comfortable enough to navigate the sophisticated dishes of a menu with a waiter whose familiarity with that language was probably better than hers. She hated making mistakes, and she didn't want to risk embarrassing herself in front of Bernard.

Allowing him to order for her had been an easy decision, but suddenly, it occurred to her that he never consulted her preferences before he did it. She watched him, and as he selected various hors d'oeuvres, potages, poissons, entrées, and entremets, another voice seemed to intrude on the conversation, invading her thoughts, imposing itself over his discussion with the waiter like a shout of rebellion.

Don't let them change you.

“Wait,” she said as the waiter turned to go. “I would like the lamb rather than the beef.”

Bernard stirred uneasily beside her. “Annabel, choosing a saddle of lamb instead of an entrecote of beef changes everything else.” He gave a little laugh, glancing at the waiter, then back at her. “I selected the wine, the salad, even the sorbet, to be in harmony with beef. Lamb would require wholly different choices.”

“I know, darling, I know, and it just amazes me how well your choices harmonize, but I just feel in the mood for lamb tonight. Everyone else can have the beef if they like, but I would like the lamb. No mint sauce,” she added, glancing at the waiter. “Just a bit of rosemary glaze. And I would like the peas instead of the asparagus.”

She returned her gaze to Bernard, and saw that he was prepared to further debate the point, but Arthur spoke, interrupting any reply he might have made.

“You know, I believe I'll have the lamb and the peas, too,” her uncle said. “I appreciate your talent with the menu, my lord, and I'm sure Annabel does, too. But lamb sounds mighty good. You don't have to change everything else just for us,” he added. “Annabel and I don't mind being out of harmony every once in a while, do we, darlin'?”

When her uncle looked at her, he was smiling, and she winked back at him, feeling oddly pleased with herself. It was a little thing, she knew, but life was all sorts of little things added up. And as she went through the courses of the meal, she was unable to find the various dishes any less palatable just because they weren't supposed to be served with lamb. Who decided that only certain wines were appropriate for certain meats, anyway? she wondered. And on the same subject, who decided that Virginia Vanderbilt's money was more aristocratic than hers?

It's all part of the rules, you see.

“Bernard?” Impulsively, she turned in her chair to the man beside her. “What's a chilblain?”

“What?” He laughed, but he seemed astonished by the question rather than amused. Uneasy, he glanced at the others, but they were engaged in a separate conversation. “What on earth put that topic into your head?” he asked in a whisper.

“Oh, I just heard someone mention it earlier. What is it?”

“Nothing for you to worry about, Annabel.”

“They said it was painful,” she persisted, not really certain why she was pushing the point, except that she felt a hint of apprehension. If it was nothing to worry about, then why didn't he just tell her? “What is it?”

A slight frown marred his high forehead. “Something that is quite unsuitable for conversation, my dear. Especially at dinner.”

Which still wasn't an answer. She opened her mouth to point that out, but she saw his frown etching deeper, and she stopped. She knew Bernard well enough by now to know that the direct approach wasn't usually the most effective. Like most men, he had the tendency to pat her on the head a bit, but like most women, she knew there was always a way to go around a man when he was like that.

She'd find out what a chilblain was without asking him, she decided, and resumed eating dessert. The ship had a reading room with books and stationery supplies for use by the first-class passengers. There was probably a dictionary there as well. And though now was not the time, she'd find a way to ask Bernard when they were alone if there were any rules about British marriage she needed to know.

As for the Duke of Scarborough, she had the disquieting feeling he was not dealt with quite so easily.

Annabel took a peek at him past her uncle's shoulder and found to her dismay that he was looking right at her. When their eyes met, he smiled, and Annabel felt again that awful, nervous dip in her stomach and that rush of heat down to her toes. Lord, that man's smile was like moonshine.

She turned to Bernard again. “Darling? That man over there, the Duke of Scarborough, what do you know about him?”

Her fiancé made a face. “He's a bad lot, I'm afraid. A very bad lot. Always has been.”

She nodded, not the least bit surprised, although this confirmation of her ability to discern a man's bad character by her own instinctive attraction to him was a bit disheartening. “That's just what I thought,” she murmured. “He looks a bit of a wrong 'un.”

“Excellent that you are so perceptive, my dear. He married an American girl, by the way. A Miss Evelyn Tremont of Philadelphia.”

Annabel froze for a second, a spoonful of cream caramel halfway to her mouth. “Really?” she asked, a squeak of surprise that impelled her to set down her spoon and reach for her water glass. She took a sip, enabling her to ask her next question in an ordinary, disinterested sort of way. “Scarborough is married?”

“Was married,” Bernard corrected. “His wife died in a drowning accident, poor soul. Scarborough was in Europe at the time. Gambling, drinking, carousing, I've no doubt.”

“How awful. When was this?”

“It's been . . . oh, ten or twelve years ago now.”

“So long?” Annabel set down her glass, returned her attention to her dessert, and strove to keep her voice as indifferent as possible as she asked, “He's never remarried?”

“No. Rumor has always been that he hated being married so much that he'll never marry again, although I don't see how he can avoid the prospect now. He's the duke, and he has no direct heir and he has no income. He has to marry and marry well. It's his duty.”

“He might not care about his duty.”

“True. Very true. Scarborough is just the sort to ignore his ducal responsibilities.” Bernard smiled at her. “You and I seem to share the same opinions about so many things, my dear. He keeps well away from good society most of the time, but whenever he does choose to appear, there always seem to be women who find him attractive. Inexplicable to me, but there it is.”

“Some women,” she said with a sigh, “are attracted to bad men.”

“Quite.” There was a pause, then Bernard added, “I am glad you are not one of those women, Annabel.”

“So am I,” she agreed with emphasis, swirling her spoon idly in her cream caramel, peeking at the duke from beneath her lashes. “So am I.”