A Passionate Endeavor (24 page)

“We’ll begin then, in two weeks time, my
lord,” Mr. Gunter said with a broad smile. “The water from this
spring should produce one of the finest ales in all of
England.”

“Have you decided about the orchard?” Owen
asked, reminding Nicholas of the badly overgrown grove of apple
trees on the property.

“Yes. Have some of the men begin the clearing
away and improvements in the soil. We’ll look into purchasing a
large press next year once we see profits from the brewery. We
can’t afford to invest in it yet, but we can distribute what meager
produce the trees yield this fall,” Nicholas said.

Mr. Gunter left to check the levels in the
ponds, leaving Nicholas alone with Owen Roberts. A brief silence
ensued.

“What is on your mind, man?” Nicholas
asked.

“I was thinking I should be offering my
congratulations. The missus has a sister who’s a chambermaid at the
abbey. She says you’re to marry Miss Kittridge.”

Nicholas clapped a hand on Owen’s shoulder.
“News travels fast.”

“If you’ll pardon me for sayin’ so, you look
none too happy about the idea,” Owen said. “You havena’ mentioned
it once.”

“Outspoken as always, that you always
were.”

“Marriage isna’ so bad. The procreatin’
business is the best part,” he said with a wink. “Hmmmm. Blunt as
always, too.”

“From what Sally’s sister says, there’s a
French feller trying to do lots of procreatin’ at the abbey. Better
mind what’s your own and send the man on his way after the
weddin’.” Owen wheezed, and coughed at his own humor.

“All right, old man. You’ve had your
say.”

“No, I havena’. What’s this I hear about you
still plannin’ on leavin’ for Paris? What are you thinkin’? With a
missus, and your father so ill, you need to plant your roots
here.”

“Owen—” Nicholas breathed deeply and shook
his head. “It’s no good. I’ve only ever known the military life.
Don’t think I don’t want to stay here, even though life with the
duchess and Lord Edwin would be unpleasant at best. It is just that
I made my path long ago, and I am too old and tired to change it. I
know how to organize soldiers and execute skirmishes with
precision, how to shoot dead on, and I know how to work through the
channels of the military. I know nothing about overseeing five
large ducal properties.”

“You could learn.”

“Actually, I’m not sure I could or would want
to. Sometimes it is better to stay with what you know you can do
well.”

Owen indicated with a sweep of his arm the
brewery and kiln in front of them. “Isna’ this proof enough that
you can do other things just as well? Don’t be dense, man.”

Nicholas paused. “I’m afraid that is
precisely what I am, at least for the near future. And I am not
willing to gamble on the lives of the hundreds of families tied to
our lands.”

“Nah. You’ve just always fancied war. I was
hopin’ you’d outgrow it.”

“And you, my friend, delight in playing ‘what
if’ games. I’ve enjoyed this foray into industry and agriculture
and I will continue to be involved from afar—with your help. But I
will be leaving for Paris, mark my words.”

Little did the man know how close Nicholas
had come to choosing just the path Owen suggested. But Nicholas was
a man who rarely tempted fate. And while he was willing, due to
necessity, to break his promise by marrying Charlotte, he would not
change the original promise made so long ago to his father and
brother. He would not change the course that would prove most
beneficial to the dukedom.

Nicholas hated to use subterfuge on her, but
he had decided that the ends justified the means. He found
Charlotte just where her brother had said, at the graveyard, laying
flowers on the bare earth of her father’s grave. Kittridge had
agreed to meet Nicholas at the village church in one hour’s time,
along with Rosamunde. As Nicholas approached the stone arches of
the graveyard, he glanced down at the pocket watch he had removed
from his waistcoat. He had but a quarter of an hour to convince her
anew.

She looked so pale and reed-like in the black
gown she wore. Her bonnet had fallen down her back, the ribbons
tied at their ends around her slim neck. Brown wavy hair coursed
down her back. The wind played havoc with her curls. She was so
young and fragile.

She looked up when she heard his
approach.

Nicholas faced her sorrowful expression.
“Good day, Charlotte.”

“Good day, my lord,” she replied in her soft
voice. “Nicholas.”

“Nicholas,” she whispered. A lock of hair
blew into her eyes.

He brushed the hair from her face and grasped
one of her hands in his own. It was ice cold and very small in his
calloused palm. “Is it so very hard to accept your future fate with
me?”

She did not pretend to misunderstand him.
“Perhaps a little.”

“How much longer will it take for you to
accept me, Charlotte? We have not the luxury of time,
unfortunately.”

“I do not know.”

“You have already given your word.”

“Yes,” she said, looking at her father’s
grave.

He hated to force her. “Even my stepmother
has accepted the inevitable. I believe she is secretly looking
forward to the excuse to have a huge wedding breakfast. Her
invitation list covers no less than eleven pages, although I am
sure that few of the guests will descend from estates as far away
as Scotland.”

She continued to stare at her father’s
grave.

He sighed. “Your brother is anxious to be
gone. And I am worried my father won’t last another month,” he
said, lifting her chin to encounter her expression.

“I know,” she said. “Do you think—?”

“Yes?” he encouraged her.

“I am not sure I have the courage to face the
hordes of people Her Grace has condescended to suggest. And—”

“And—” he encouraged her.

“I had rather this not be a joyous occasion.”
She had a pleading expression. “I don’t know if you can understand.
I have little interest in pretending to be joyful when my father
has just died.”

He had to bend toward her to catch the last
few words. “Charlotte, I would not tax you further. I have never
expected you to feel delight on the occasion,” he said.

“If you would prefer, we could go straight
away to the church. I have the special license,” he said, patting
his breast. “And I have taken the liberty of asking your brother
and Rosamunde to join us. I had hoped…” he said, feeling like a
tongue-tied schoolboy.

She looked at him with huge gray eyes. For
some unfathomable reason it gave him courage. “I had hoped you
would do me the honor of marrying me this very morning.”

“With only James and your sister
present?”

“Yes. Well, and Charley too.”

“Yes,” she replied quickly.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

God help him, he felt like picking her up and
swinging her around in circles, no matter this was hallowed ground.
Instead, he raised her delicate hand to his lips and pressed a kiss
to the back of her glove, squeezing his eyes shut as he did so. He
wanted to turn her hand to brush a kiss on the sensitive underside
of her wrist, but did not want to fluster her. She reminded him of
a small wren, ready to fly away at the slightest provocation.

As they walked the short distance to face the
vicar’s domain, he kept a firm grip on her arm. A hard breeze
forced a few of the less hardy horse chestnut leaves to the ground.
They entered the sanctuary, and the sounds of their shoes against
the slate echoed within the walls. Mr. Llewellyn entered from a
hidden side door along with Charley, wearing his Sunday best.
Rosamunde and Charlotte’s brother had arrived well before the
appointed time and sat close together in the front pew. They were
conversing but broke apart with Nicholas and Charlotte’s appearance
in the nave.

Rosamunde handed Charlotte a small, beautiful
bouquet. Nicholas guessed his sister had chosen the blooms from her
private glass greenhouse for their significance: rosemary for
remembrance, a single white rosebud for simplicity and girlhood,
sweet william for gallantry, sweet violet for modesty, and a linden
flower for… Nicholas looked at his sister and touched the
heart-shaped leaves. With a knowing smile, he shook his head.
Linden represented conjugal love. Rosamunde was a true
optimist.

The short ceremony moved Nicholas in a way he
had not anticipated. He promised before God and the people he cared
for most in the world that he would honor and protect this woman
with his life. And she promised to honor and obey him.

In the middle of the ceremony, she looked at
him with the most trusting look he had ever encountered and he felt
overwhelmed with an emotion he could not name. Lord, but she was
beautiful. He was struck by her radiant air of goodness. She
lowered her eyes to their hands when he slipped the slim gold band
on her finger, his mother’s wedding ring. Her lips trembled with
unspoken feelings.

He lowered his mouth to hers to seal their
vows, and then they were embraced by everyone, with only a few
tears on feminine cheeks. After signing the church register,
Nicholas invited the vicar and Rosamunde and Kittridge to join them
in an impromptu late breakfast at the village inn. It was as
unfitting a place for a future duke to celebrate his marriage as
Nicholas could envision. It was perfect.

Charley was tapped to deliver an invitation
to Owen and Sally Roberts from Nicholas, who painstakingly wrote
the note in his primitive hand before leaving the church.

When the party entered The Quill & Dove,
they created quite a commotion. Mindful of his wife’s tender
sensibilities concerning crowds, Nicholas ensured with a few gold
sovereigns that the inn’s doors would be locked. But word of the
wedding spread as fast as the eager innkeeper’s wife’s lips could
move. Nicholas arranged for the fast-growing number of curious
villagers outside to partake in a bounteous feast under the shade
trees while the wedding party enjoyed theirs in the privacy of the
inn.

His little wife looked quite happy as she
consumed a glass of rare champagne from the inn’s deepest recesses.
It was the first time he had seen a smile return to her unusual
lips since that fateful morning three weeks before. Perhaps he
would be able to coax her charming dimples to make an appearance as
well, if he was lucky. He would endeavor to do so once they were in
the bedchamber.

It was all so very strange to Charlotte. She
knew she should be feeling shock and still sorrow, but looking at
his classically chiseled features, Charlotte could not bring
herself to feel anything but tentative excitement.

She had done it.
She had married
him
.

Oh, it was wrong of her to allow him to break
his vow to not marry, and of course he did not love her, but she
could not help but feel wonder and a girlish thrill that they were
tied together for life.

The innkeeper unlocked the door to allow Owen
and his wife entrance. They bustled forth with great smiles on
their faces.

“This calls for a toast,” called out James,
looking overjoyed. “To the blushing bride and chivalrous
groom!”

“Hear, hear,” seconded Owen.

Glasses clinked and the wine and champagne
were consumed with gusto.

“And to those who could not be here to share
in our happiness,” whispered Charlotte almost to herself. Nicholas
turned to her and she realized he had overheard her. He clinked her
glass. “I wish he were here too.”

He had such kind eyes; the sort where a smile
could be seen lurking in the crinkled corners without bothering to
appear on his lips. Charlotte wished her marriage would be the
happy ending found in all of those marvelous novels she had read by
the mysterious “Lady.” Would she find the happiness of Elizabeth
Bennett and Elinor Dashwood? She feared she was more like the
overly correct and timid Fanny Price of
Mansfield Park
, who
would have never survived the rigors of life as a duchess.