A Dangerous Beauty (11 page)

“She never told me what happened to her behind closed doors. I’ll never know. I don’t know if he hurt her as he did us from time to time, or just used words to kill her spirit. He was remarkably effective with words alone, as you well know. But with each passing year, my mother lost a little bit of her inherent joy. For seventeen years, I watched her struggle a little harder with each passing season. I think I was the only one who really saw it because we were like two souls tied together. She loved me like no mother has ever loved a son.”

Luc took comfort in the silence Rosamunde offered and paused. Memories of his mother washed over him and he forced the tightness from his throat. “My sister was partly correct yesterday. My father arranged for a commission. But it was because he felt Henry needed
bolstering. And in a way, he was probably right. And of course I wanted to please my father. He had always made light of my scholarly pursuits.” He flexed his hands and added slowly, “Henry never really wanted the responsibilities of the dukedom. I had always been the more capable one, and he had always been the more lighthearted blade. But I was the younger and there could not be two dukes.”

“But why did you thwart your father’s plans to join Wellington’s divisions?”

“I disappeared not to thwart him, but rather my…mother.”

“What
?”

He rested his forehead on the cool windowpane. He wished it would rain to match his mood. “My mother begged me to take her away. Said she had held back for so long. Said she couldn’t pretend any longer. Said that ever since Father had sent Madeleine away as well as me and Henry, she had no reason to stay. That I was old enough to finally understand. Old enough for her to confide in me.”

“But where did she want to go?”

“It was madness. First she suggested Scotland, where she had sisters. Then when I said Father would find her, she suggested following me into the battlefield. And I knew she would do it. That was the hell of it. And I knew he would find her. And I knew…”

“Knew what?”

“What he would do to her. I knew he would make her life even more of a living hell for making him look like a weak fool. And so I left. I left her behind. I thought
of the only way she couldn’t follow me…on a ship.

“I left my mother, the person I loved most on this godforsaken earth, behind. I left her to die, in abject misery, alone with my father. The man who had tormented her for twenty years.”

“How did she die?”

“She apparently became ill, and perished before I could see her again. My father died soon after. He was on his way to London and his carriage’s wheel caught a rut and careened off the side of the road and rolled down a deep ravine. The driver jumped to safety, but my father was trapped inside and broke his neck.”

“But he didn’t hurt your mother.”

“I’ve always known there was something more to her death than Ata’s story.”

“And you’ve never spoken again to your grandmother about this?”

“It brought her such distress, two deaths in as many months, then Henry’s death so soon after. I won’t add to her pain, not when she has finally become happy again.”

“But you must ask her. You’ll never know peace until—”

“No,” he raked a hand through his hair, loosening the queue. “It won’t bring her back.”

“But your mother’s death isn’t your fault.”

“I should have taken her away.”

“You just said he would have found you, and it would have only made things worse.”

“You of all people can imagine her situation. I should have given her a chance at happiness.”

“You’re wrong. And this regret will only eat away at your spirit. That I can promise you from experience. Besides,” Rosamunde continued, “she wouldn’t have had any real happiness. She would have been sick with worry from anticipating your father’s arrival. Hiding is never the best choice. You did the right thing. The only thing you could do. You were but seventeen…”

“I left her to die with the man she feared while the person she loved was lost to her.” Funny, he felt so very cold telling her this. Like he was not in his own body, but a spectator watching from above. Or below, more like it.

“Luc,” she whispered.

The intimacy of hearing his given name on her lips for the first time made him shudder with repressed emotion.

She shook his shoulder. “Imagination is always worse than the truth. If she loved you as much as you say she did, and I have not one doubt of it, she probably took great comfort in the idea you were finally free of your father, even if she could not be. It was desperation that drove her to ask you to do the impossible. And if anything, she probably regretted it every day of her remaining life.”

He felt her head on the back of his shoulder.

She whispered, “I know of these things. I regret the selfishness I showed by not insisting Sylvia return to my father’s house. You want a better life for the ones you love. And a better life for yourself is the gift you gave your mother. I’m sure she took great pride in knowing of your heroism and rise through the ranks.”

He turned and found himself pulling her into his arms. He closed his eyes and breathed in the early morning dewy scent of the garden on her. “The hell of it,” he whispered, “is that I had finally planned to come back to her, to steal her away, once I was given the captaincy of a French ship we had captured. I had arranged for a cottage for her where he would never find her, far from any place he would look. And I would have visited her there when I could. Or I would have—”

A tap sounded at the door. His eyes burned from exhaustion. His emotions had been charred to cinders. He wrenched himself away from the comfort of her arms and brushed past her to his desk.

The door opened and his pretty sister’s excited face appeared. Ata’s voice sallied forth behind her, “Luc, the carriage is waiting. Ah, I’ve found you, too.” Ata’s face peered around Madeleine. The old lady’s expression was suffused with happiness, peaches blooming in her wrinkled cheeks as she held her granddaughter about the waist.

Rosamunde retrieved the flowers and handed them to his sister. “From your hothouse and gardens, as promised.”

“Why, this is the most beautiful bouquet I’ve ever beheld,” his sister breathed. “You said each flower would have significance. But not that it would be so breathtaking. Pray tell us about the bouquet.”

Rosamunde touched each bloom in turn. “Lemon blossoms for fidelity, lilies for your sweet disposition, white roses for love, heliotrope for devotion, blue hya
cinth for constancy, and ivy for friendship in your marriage.”

Luc shook his head. “You really should have something in there for foolishness, courage, and fortitude.”

She gave him a look.

“Or at least something to guard against boredom and rows.”

All three women now gave him a look.

“I see my opinion is the minority.” At least he had forced levity back into the room. His heart felt anything but light. He couldn’t bear to look at Rosamunde.

He had bared his soul to her and it was a god-awful sensation. He was not a man who ever allowed a morsel of vulnerability to show its cowardly face. Every fiber of his being revolted against it.

“I gather it’s time to go. Has everyone else left?”

“Of course. And if we don’t leave this minute, Peter will think I’ve had a change of heart,” Madeleine said.

“I say we leave him dangling. Wouldn’t do for him to think you’re too eager.”

“Luc!” Ata and Madeleine shrieked simultaneously.

“Oh, for the love of—” he stopped short at the sight of Ata’s mutinous glare. Oh, it felt good to be back into his comfortable, devilish skin again. Whoever said it was cleansing to open the soul was a pathetic, pussy-footed sentimentalist.

“For that you’ll carry the flowers.” Madeleine thrust the bouquet in his face and he sneezed violently.

Wedding,
n.
A ceremony at which two persons undertake to become one, one undertakes to become nothing, and nothing undertakes to become supportable.

—The Devil’s Dictionary, A. Bierce

T
hey set off in the elegant ducal coach and everyone played their roles becomingly. The bride was a vision of innocent happiness, her grandmother even more so.

When Rosamunde dared to peek at Luc St. Aubyn, she saw he had firmly put back into place the bored look he wore so well. Only an erratic tic in his jaw gave any indication something was wrong.

The breadth of his shoulders was such that Rosamunde couldn’t avoid feeling the heat emanating from him. And each jostle and sway of the padded carriage brought the length of his legs in contact with hers.

She was still reeling from the intimacy of what he had told her. It took every ounce of her acting abilities to pretend nothing had passed between them.

Oh, but what he had revealed to her
.

She ached with the knowledge. She wanted desperately to be alone with him. To comfort him, to wash away the years of guilt he had carried in his breast. Guilt his mother probably had felt tenfold.

She swallowed as she looked down at the solidly corded leg muscles outlined in his black breeches. Evidently Ata hadn’t been able to persuade him to discard his usual deathly garb. The dowager had compensated by dressing like the bluebird of happiness, in every shade of cerulean imaginable, including an ostrich feathered hat that was almost as tall as the lady herself.

Rosamunde noticed a tear in her own dull gown, probably from the rose thorns in the garden. Not that it mattered. She would not enter the church. No one would notice her while she discreetly waited outside the nave.

Her breathing quickened when she saw the old church come into view. She hadn’t seen it in eight years. Even if the former vicar was gone, the penance for her sins was not.

A sudden pressure on her hand forced her to look down. The side of his gloved hand was resting next to hers on the padded bench. It was no accident. She watched as he moved his last digit to cover hers, and a swirl of warmth surrounded her heart.

Ata and Madeleine were bubbling with laughter as the carriage drew to an abrupt halt and they fell
forward. The duke ignored the iron step and jumped down to aid the ladies within.

Rosamunde hung back, arranging the lace at the back of Madeleine’s soft blue-and-white lace gown. Every step toward the church felt like an extra stone had been added to her boots. They stopped beneath the moss-covered eaves, and Luc bent toward his sister and kissed her cheek, his face impenetrable and grave.

Rosamunde swallowed hard against the emotion rising in her throat. There were times when she missed her own brothers, especially Phinn, with an ache that threatened to overwhelm her defenses.

And her family was probably assembled inside. Ata had warned her they would likely be here. She wondered if Sylvia was sitting with the widows.

Beautiful organ and trumpet music wafted from behind the ancient oak door in front of them.

“Ata, you must go in with Mrs. Baird. We’ll proceed once I can get Madeleine to wipe that silly grin off her face,” Luc said dryly.

“Please”—Rosamunde looked at the dowager—“please go in without me.”

They all stared at her.

“But you can’t stay here,” Madeleine insisted.

“No. I shall wait for you here. I—I want to lay flowers on my mother’s grave.” She brought forth a small nosegay. It had been so long since she had seen her mother’s grave. She would not miss the opportunity.

Luc stepped forward. “What is this nonsense?”

“Luc,” Ata said quietly.

They would never stop until they knew. Rosa took a deep breath and blurted out the reason. “The former vicar cast me out publicly before the entire parish and told them to shun me. I was never to force myself on his God-fearing congregation again.” She didn’t dare raise her eyes from the nosegay.

She heard the old door creak open and looked up to see the duke marching down the marble church floor, his boots clicking loudly. A great hush came over the church, filled to capacity. Rosamunde stepped further into the shadows, and felt Ata’s hand find one of hers, and Madeleine’s curled into her other.

Ata patted her hand, “’Tis nonsense, is what it is. Luc will put a stop to this. Wait and see.”

He was whispering something to Sir Rawleigh, who stood before the congregation in his clerical garb. Lord Landry had joined them from his position in front.

“But, I don’t want…” She stopped when she saw the three men leave the pulpit, walking toward…her.
Of course
. Oh, she shouldn’t have said a word. She should have left the bouquet in the care of Madeleine’s maid and gone on a long walk instead. She should have never gotten in the carriage.

“Mrs. Baird,” Sir Rawleigh said, offering her his arm, “please allow me to escort you to your seat.” His sky-blue eyes were so warm and kindly in his blatantly handsome face.

“No, really. It’s unnecessary. I’ll—”

“You’re holding up the show, Mrs. Baird,” the duke drawled.

“But really, I’m perfectly hap—”

“You’re ruining the bride’s moment,” he interrupted again.

“No, Luc,” Madeleine chimed in, “she’s not. But, Rosamunde, I suppose I should tell you now that I won’t go in if you don’t.”

“Well, I like that,” Lord Landry cut in. “Are you saying you won’t marry me?”

“Say yes, Madeleine. Here’s your last chance,” Luc St. Aubyn advised.

“Peter,” Madeleine sighed, “you have it all wrong. I’ll marry you once Mrs. Baird goes in the church. And besides, what are you doing out here? Don’t you know it’s bad luck to see me before the vows?”

“Oh for the love of Christ,” Luc St. Aubyn said, his hand on his brow, “Rawleigh, take Mrs. Baird’s arm and drag her to a seat. In front. Landry, take your paws off my sister and escort my grandmother. And Madeleine, if you insist on tying yourself to my former idiotic, lovesick lieutenant, then straighten your veil and keep those damn flowers out of my face.”

No one dared disobey him.

Out of the corner of her eye, Rosamunde saw the shocked stares of the entire congregation. There were the Miss Smithams, the original members of the community who had seen her on Perran Sands. The two old ladies shared looks of pure outrage in their every feature and began whispering to their neighbors. Rosamunde forced herself to confront the looks of disgust and worse as she walked down the aisle.

With each step she remembered. Remembered the horror of the first days of the old scandal when sev
enteen people had cut her acquaintance on a single journey to the village, including three shopkeeps. It had been the first time in her life that her courage had failed her.

Now they were doing it again, turning their faces away from her glance. And she realized that with each successive failure of her courage she had hid from the world by retreating into herself, her own world.

The vicar cleared his throat to gain her attention. His look of caring concern bolstered her and she focused her gaze on the faces of her newfound friends in the front pew of the church. All the members of the Widows Club—Grace, Georgiana, Elizabeth, and Sarah—were there, encouraging her with their expressions. Sir Rawleigh’s rock-steady arm was her anchor.

She was about to slip onto the front bench when her gaze faltered and she glanced at the pew behind hers, and looked straight into the mirrored eyes of her
father
.

Dear God.

Oh dear God.

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. There was a roaring in her ears. And suddenly Ata was at her other side.

“Thank you for coming to share in my granddaughter’s happiness today, my lord.” Ata’s voice rang in Rosamunde’s consciousness. “I look forward to seeing you and your family at the breakfast at Amberley after.”

Her father’s nod was almost imperceptible, his eyes only on her. Rosamunde blinked and found herself
ushered further down the pew. Her heart was in her throat, her mind churning a thousand thoughts.

Sir Rawleigh and Lord Landry reassumed their positions and the duke ushered in his sister to the bridal music. At the last moment, Luc St. Aubyn nodded to the vicar, who raised his one arm to the congregation.

“Before we begin, I would like to welcome everyone today. We are all God’s creatures, and as such we must remember the Lord’s Prayer. The part about trespasses and such is very…” he trailed off.

The duke leaned forward and whispered loudly, “Just tell them to forgive and forget, you nodcock.”

The congregation murmured and a few titters broke the silence.

“Quite right,” the vicar continued with a smile. “On this joyous occasion when God shall unite these two humble servants before us, let us forgive and forget one another’s trespasses.”

There was a long silence.

A lone person began to clap slowly. Rosamunde closed her eyes. Ata squeezed her hand and Rosamunde looked to find Luc St. Aubyn had turned and was staring at parishioners, daring them not to join him. One by one, the congregation began to clap with him.

Ata shifted her eyes to indicate the pew behind them, the one where Rosamunde’s family sat. She turned to see her brother, Phinn, clapping his hands, as were Fitz, Miles, and James. All except her father, who sat like a stone, his eyes focused forward, unseeing.

Rosamunde swiftly trained her eyes on the vicar.
Oh please, let him get on with it. She felt the white-hot discomfort of being the center of attention and loathed every moment the pricks of mortification trickled down her spine.

A light pressure rested on her shoulder and she glanced down to see a gloved masculine hand,
Phinn’s hand
. She leaned her head against the back of the pew and against his fingers, as much as she dared, and tried to swallow the great lump in her throat. It was a good thing weddings required handkerchiefs.

The marriage vows proceeded with Rosamunde unable to concentrate on the words. She was too overcome with being in church again, her brothers and father behind her, and a gentleman who made her feel more emotion than she had thought possible. If she had been prone to fainting, she would have lost her head many times over. Unfortunately, the hot blood running in her veins made for sturdy stock and she was incapable of fainting. Never had, never would.

Each time she glanced at the solid, tall physique of the duke, her heart, parched from long years of deprivation, seemed to swell within her chest.

There was another moment of drama during the ceremony when the vicar asked Madeleine to “love, honor, and obey,” her soon-to-be husband. Luc St. Aubyn cleared his throat, annoyed enough to interrupt the proceedings.

Madeleine turned to him and whispered quite loudly, “I shall love, honor, and
obey
, but only because he must promise to die for me, Luc, and I won’t do that.”

The people gathered in the front rows burst out
laughing and the duke finally nodded his acquiescence.

Luc St. Aubyn also growled loudly when the groom took it upon himself to seal the union with a kiss, a shockingly modern and outrageous display.

Guests flocked to the aisles and she turned to find her family. Phinn was closest to her and he reached out to grab her hand for a moment. It seemed no words were necessary. His expression said it all. She ruthlessly squeezed back tears behind clenched lids before the crowd pushed them apart. Rosamunde and Ata were the last to leave the church, along with Sir Rawleigh.

From the top of the stone steps, Rosamunde searched for her father. She saw him near her mother’s grave in the small cemetery. He stared back at her. She was gathering her nerve, swallowing her great ball of pride, and about to force her feet to move toward him when he turned his back on her and walked to the carriage emblazoned with the achingly familiar Twenlyne coat of arms.

He had given her the cut direct.

Just like so many years ago.

Her own father.

The one who had told her he loved her nearly every day. Had told her he loved her more than himself. More than anything on earth. That he would never let a cloud enter her bubble of happiness. Her friends had always been amazed by her father, the earl of Twenlyne, and the way he doted on her.

And then she knew she had the answer she had tried to avoid for so long.

He would never forgive her
. He would never allow her
back into his arms and into his life. She was dead to him as far as he was concerned. Hadn’t Alfred told her that? She was more alone than she had ever felt in her life.

The tiny spark of hope she had nursed with potent memories from childhood was snuffed out. And surprisingly, instead of anger at her father’s actions as she had always had in the past, she now felt strangely detached and numb. Her arms felt like lead pipes at her sides and she couldn’t move her feet. It was too bad the same could not be said for her eyes.

She noticed many of the people at the bottom of the church stairs looking at her, whispering to each other. Phinn, on the edge of the crowd, was arguing quietly with their three brothers. In the end, one by one, her brothers trooped past the ancient gravestones, the edges of the Celtic crosses worn away, toward the open door of her family’s carriage, where the shadowed profile of her father was silhouetted against the light entering the window from the other side.

“But I don’t care what the vicar said,” came a familiar feminine whisper from the crowd.

Rosamunde refused to search for Augustine Phelps’s face among the throngs of people.

“If her father won’t acknowledge her, why should we?” whispered another voice.

“She’s trying to worm her way into the good graces of the St. Aubyns. Residing at Amberley, indeed,” continued another.

Rosamunde stood as still as the statue of St. Peter in the courtyard.

A man snickered. “Probably trying to warm a St.
Aubyn’s bed like the last time, if you were to ask me.” A few masculine guffaws followed.

The air whooshed out of her and she could feel the blood draining from the back of her head where it tingled. She worried she might trip down the stairs if she tried to advance, so she stood there feeling very exposed. But really, what more could they say?

Oh, how she wished to run down the stairs and keep on running past the cemetery, past the fields, past everything she had ever known. It was the same exact feeling she had had when the vicar had refused her entrance here so long ago.