Airborne - The Hanover Restoration (7 page)

Except, of course, Papa was not here. I would not break my fast with him ever again. The eggs suddenly formed a lump in my throat. I tried to wash them down with a gulp of hot coffee and ended up coughing until tears streaked down my face. A sorry sight I must be. Thank goodness there was no one else about.

“Miss?”

Surprised into another fit of coughing, I could only sit there, hands over my mouth, while my much-vaunted common sense remained stubbornly silent, offering not one word of encouragement.

“Are you all right, Miss?” The male voice belonged to a stranger. Well, thank God for that!

“Yes,” I choked out. “Just coffee gone down the wrong way.” I turned my head toward the voice and discovered the young footman who had served dinner last night.

“His lordship would like to see you in the bookroom, Miss. As soon as you’ve broken your fast.”

I had not thought his lordship would rise before noon, but of course I did not say so. “Thank you . . . what is your name?”

“Donald, Miss.” He forgot himself long enough to offer me a sympathetic smile. “Do you need help finding the bookroom, Miss?”

The bookroom was forever imprinted in
my mind. “No, thank you,
” I murmured, “I know the way.”
Oh!
“Donald,” I called as he started to turn away, “do I have time to change before I see Lord Rochefort?”

He frowned. “Nay, Miss, I wouldn’t. He seemed right anxious to see you. Said if you wasn’t at breakfast, I was to track you down.”

“Thank you, Donald.” When I could no longer hear his footsteps, I heaved a drawn-out sigh.
Devil a bit, but my goose was cooked.
I was about to appear before Rochefort in a badly dyed muslin, likely smelling of smoke from the fire, my hair mussed from the outside breezes, my eyes red, and my face streaked with tears.

I stared at my plate, unable to eat a bite. Perhaps Cook would provide a bit of cold meat for luncheon.
Cook . . . Mrs. H, sister to Mrs. E.

Not likely.

I pushed back my chair and headed for the bookroom. Somewhere in the maze of rooms between here and there, there had to be a pier glass where I could at least straighten my hair. In one of the reception rooms, I found it, but what the looking glass reflected was not promising. I fished a handkerchief out of a hidden pocket in my skirt and scrubbed at my cheeks, rubbing hard enough to provoke a bit of color. My hair, however, was hopeless. It had started the day in a night braid with wisps coming out in every direction. My foray outside had only made it worse. Nothing but starting from scratch would do, and at the moment that was not possible. Gritting my teeth, I strode toward the rear of the house, reminding myself I was a Galsworthy and I could deal with anything.

The lies we tell ourselves.

My knock on the half-open bookroom door produced a growl I took as an invitation to enter. My guardian sat slumped behind a large mahogany desk, elbows on the desk, his head resting on his bandaged hands. Good. At least he wasn’t going to pretend he did not suffer from the effects of his overindulgence last night.

He waved a hand toward a chair in front of his desk. I sat. “Good morning, my lord,” I said, but softly. Living with a houseful of men had offered many a lesson on the delicate and irascible mood of gentlemen on the “morning after.” Even Papa, on occasion.

Rochefort hauled himself upright in his chair and glared at me. His dark gray eyes—rimmed in scarlet, with a criss-cross of red veins nearly obscuring the whites—were as cold and hard as the steel in the machines he invented. I hid a tickling cough behind my hand, this one spawned by nerves. Only a very stupid person would not have been afraid.

“I seem to recall that you have decided to honor our engagement, is that correct?”

My inner voice screamed,
Run!

Stoopid!
countered my common sense.
You’ve been reading too many of your mama’s Minerva Press novels.

Rochefort’s manner could not have been more off-putting, but he’d asked me a question and most certainly deserved an answer. “I will honor my father’s agreement,” I stated with some care, attempting to make it clear I
had
played no part in the betrothal contract.

To my surprise, he slumped back in his chair and closed his eyes, as if overwhelmed by relief. Strange. Our betrothal could not possibly mean that much to him. I was a stranger, he a wealthy baron who could have any woman he wanted.

Breeding
. Well, yes, there was that—a flush stained my cheeks—but I doubted that was enough to account for his reaction.

Rochefort sat up abruptly, ignoring his momentary weakness. He did not look at me but fixed his gaze on the near distance, as if ticking off plans in his head. “That is fortunate,” he declared, “for I have a Special License and I’d already alerted the vicar for this morning—”

“You’ve
what
?”

He deigned to look at me, raising a dark brow in taunting challenge. “I made arrangements some time ago for our marriage this morning. After all, it is scarcely proper for you to be staying here unchaperoned. After a six-year engagement, I did not think an immediate marriage would come as a shock.”

Perfectly logical. If I’d known about the engagement.

I coughed. “But circumstances have changed. The Special License will keep, will it not? And I’m certain the vicar will understand.”

“My mother arrives tomorrow.”

“There! The perfect chaperone.” I smiled broadly, confident I had the upper hand.

Rochefort’s expression snapped back to ice. “My mother is bringing a guest,” he said from between clenched teeth. “A young lady.”

Oh.
I had to think about that one. “Surely,” I ventured, “you’re not afraid of your mother.”

He tapped his fingers on the desktop. “Let us say, I prefer to avoid quarreling with my mother whenever possible.”

“You are marrying me for protection from your mama and her candidate for your hand?”

“Dammit, woman, I’m marrying you because we have been engaged any time this past six years, and it’s time for you to fulfill your side of the bargain. And that’s not all,” he added when words failed me, “more guests arrive next week. Another young lady, a connection of the Marquess of Carlyon and his lady.”

“Competition for your mama’s candidate?” I was beginning to see why my guardian appeared harassed.

“No, no,” he returned hastily. “This one, I believe, intends to marry higher than a baron. But you can see I am in sad need of a hostess.”

“As well as protection from your mama’s matchmaking.”

“That too,” he conceded.

I sat silent, knowing quite well what I was going to do, but unwilling to admit it. I’d spent most of my life handling Papa and the men who surrounded him, giving me far more experience with men than I had with women, particularly chits my own age. But I would be greeting the young ladies, their mamas, sisters, aunts, and/or cousins, as the Baroness Rochefort, mistress of Stonegrave Abbey. Not as Miss Araminta Christabel Galsworthy from the fringes of London society.

In the end, I simply said, “I trust I will have time to dress properly?”

“Yes, but you will need to hurry. The wedding must be accomplished before noon, or so the vicar tells me. And, Minta,” he added, “I’m quite certain your father would not mind if you wore something other than black.”

I nodded, and fled the room.

Eyes shining, hands as fast as the wind, Tillie was excited enough for both of us. We settled on a gown the color of a summer pond, with just the slightest tinge of green. A wide white lace ruffle graced the hem and sleeves. Under the gown, of course, my finest chemise and corset, my Sunday-best crinoline and my two laciest petticoats. Not that anyone but Tillie and I knew, of course. Outwardly, my appearance was simple and modest, suitable for the wedding of young lady in mourning. To all but the highest sticklers, I amended, who would decree I should not marry at all during my period of mourning.

Tillie unfastened my braid and forced my unruly curls into some semblance of fashionable ringlets. I added my pearl earbobs, then searched the drawer for the reticule that matched my gown. But what to put in it? I did not need coins for vails nor the vinaigrette I carried to succor less hardy ladies. A handkerchief perhaps.

Cry at my own wedding? A possibility, I conceded. I found a finely embroidered white handkerchief and tucked it inside. Vinaigrette for Mrs. E when we returned from church? I could only hope, but I feared she was made of sterner stuff. Coins to scatter in the village after the wedding? I had no idea if the custom existed in Tring, and I strongly suspected that if it did, only the bridegroom was expected to distribute largesse. Nonetheless, I added a few banknotes as well as coins. Who knows? If Elbert came lumbering by, I might feel the urge to jump aboard and banish Tring and Stonegrave Abbey to nothing more than a nightmare.

I took one last look in the mirror, gratified to see a familiar face staring back at me. The vicissitudes of the last twenty-four hours were not apparent in my face. I would do. After a sincere thank-you to Tillie, I headed toward the stairs.

Another surprise awaited me below. A finely appointed closed carriage and four. Evidently, we were not traveling to our wedding in an open railway carriage behind a locomotive belching gray clouds of smoke over our finery. Thoughtful, I had to admit. As was Rochefort’s suggestion that I not wear black. Somewhere under his iron-clad façade there must be a human, after all.

Rochefort and Angus Drummond stood side by side next to the carriage door, each fine as a fivepence, as the saying goes. My betrothed strode forward, took in my blue gown with one swift glance and proffered a curt nod of approval. As we approached the carriage, a drably dressed stranger, holding a large bouquet of flowers, strode up to stand next to Drummond. Not a gardener, surely. Ah, was this Soames?
Weasel of a man.
Matt’s description was apt. Though not more than five and forty, Mr. Soames was slim, thin-faced, and dour. An unassuming man who nearly faded to invisible beside Drummond’s colorful garb.

But when Rochefort introduced him as Mr. Byram Soames, man of all work, he managed a gracious bow and a half-smile before handing me the flowers. My eyes misted. Almost . . . yes, almost I could think this was a real wedding.

Idiot! Of course it’s real. Just because you haven’t spent a year planning every little detail . . . Just because your husband’s man of business provided the flowers . . . Just because there was no grand announcement, no family dinners . . . Just because you have no veil . . .

Just because your papa isn’t here to give you away . . .

It was very real. The pocket-sized chapel just off the main body of the church. The ancient words. Soames producing a ring that was a perfect fit. How long had Rochefort had it? I wondered, as I watched him slip it on.

I now pronounce you . . .

And then we were signing the church registry. I was well and truly married, our names forever recorded in the long history of this church. Hundreds of years from now, someone could open this book and see that on this date Julian Lucian Stonegrave married Araminta Christabel Galsworthy. And, no matter my flood of qualms, the marriage would be forever.

To my astonishment, when we arrived back at the Abbey, the entire indoor staff was lined up on the drive below the broad front steps. I could only wonder what Drummond had said to Mrs. E before he left in order to produce such a classic formal welcome for the newlyweds. I was willing to wager that Mrs. E was hiding fury behind her starched black façade.

Rochefort and I began our greetings with the lowliest tweeny, moving past the
maids and footme
n—all with faces as blank as Roberta’s, except for Tillie who flashed me a glowing smile. I complimented Mrs. H on the exceptional quality of the meals I’d tasted so far. And came face to face with Mrs. E. For some undoubtedly wicked reason my noble ancestors chose that moment to descend on me en masse. In an instant I went from a newly minted baroness to duchess, possibly a royal duchess.

Although Mrs. E topped me by at least three inches, I looked down my nose at her. “Mrs. Biddle,” I said, “I shall expect to see you in the reception room at the east front at nine in the morning.”

Her face didn’t changed, but somehow she sneered. Yes, definitely, she sneered. “Do you mean the
morning room
, my lady?”

“I mean the charming room at the east front of the first floor, Mrs. Biddle. I trust you will be able to find it.”

“Yes, my lady.” Remarkable how a bobbed curtsey could exhibit so much venom.

Well, it wasn’t as if I’d expected taking over the reins of Stonegrave Abbey to be easy. And coming to terms with Mrs. E paled in comparison with learning to live with Julian Stonegrave. I’d met him in monster guise and as a scruffy workman. I’d seen his temper flare, and I’d dined with him when he chose to play the gentleman. I’d seen him in his cups, vulnerable with burns that marked him as a hero.

And I’d seen him steely cold—in spite of a disastrous head from overindulgence—when he’d informed me we were to be married today. Well . . . perhaps he’d asked me. Had he?