Barbara Metzger (16 page)

Claymore cleared his throat. His lordship also sent orders, he iterated, looking somewhere past her left shoulder, that she was to select an engagement ring and a wedding band from the vault, along with whatever jewelry she wished to wear.

“The Rockford collection, you know. A great deal of it belongs to the current countess.” When he finally noticed her blank stare, he added, “That is you, madam.”

Alissa had never heard of the Rockford collection; nor had she ever heard of a groom who did not select his bride’s ring. Even if there was a traditional engagement ring, handed down for centuries, he should have handed it to her himself.

Claymore went back to looking beyond her and her displeasure. “The last Lady Rockford had the sapphire set. His lordship’s first wife wore the Rothmore ruby. I daresay his lordship thought you might wish a different set, and he did not know your taste well enough to make the selection.”

“He was in too much of a hurry, you mean. The man does not have a romantic bone in his body.”

Loyal Claymore bowed, wisely refusing to comment on his employer’s bones, his business in London, or Mrs. Henning’s bridal nerves.

As she followed the butler to the vault, Alissa clutched at the one sign of hope she could find: Rockford had remembered she needed a ring.

Or Claymore had.

Chapter Twelve

He was drunk for his first wedding. Suffering the morning after for his second. Now Rockford was simply suffering. Another blasted wedding.

By pushing himself and his horses to their limits, he had obtained the special license, seen his solicitor about the settlements and guardianships, sent notices to the papers, and attended the fete in honor of Princess Helga and her brother. He’d thought it his duty to tell her highness about the coming nuptials before she read about it. He should have recalled that she could not speak English—or read it.

Luckily his excellent valet was able to cover up the bruise on his cheek from the wineglass she threw. Since they had been in a crowded ballroom, surrounded by the elite of the polite world, and the glass was full, there was no way to cover up the scene.

Now he stood in the Rock Hill chapel, surrounded by farmers and servants, villagers and landed gentry. He could not hide his exhaustion nor his impatience for the ghastly ritual to be over. His sons stood beside him, and whoever made that arrangement chose well. Rockford was marrying for their sakes, after all. They could suffer through the ceremony too. William was neatly washed and combed, in new clothes, but Rockford knew better.

“If you lay one grubby paw on me,” he whispered to the bright-eyed boy, “on my white satin knee smalls, my white brocade waistcoat, my white shirt, or my white neckcloth, I swear I will throw you in the dungeon.”

“We do not have a dungeon, Papa,” William said with a giggle, which earned both of them a frown from the vicar.

Then Miss Aminta Bourke was walking down the aisle. She wore a gown of green velvet, with gold ribbons nicely delineating her still-girlish figure. More gold ribbons were braided through her hair, along with a few pink rosebuds, likely from his own forcing houses. Sweet innocence personified, she would win the hearts of all the local swains, Rockford judged, and win their parents’ approval with the generous dowry he meant to provide. He smiled at her, and she blushed and missed her footing. He might have to be more generous.

Mrs. Henning came next, Alissa, his bride. Her sons walked at either side, but Rockford barely noticed them. She looked magnificent. Her gown was a milky watered silk, almost gray, he noted, and made note of her defiance. But it was touched with dark green whorls, as if she had dipped her paintbrush in a cloud. The classic styling was impressive, but not as impressive as the Rockford emerald. A large stone surrounded by pearls, it hung on a heavy gold chain between the widow’s breasts. Impressive, indeed, and the jewel was nice, too.

Her hair was not in its usual neat gathering of braids at the back of her neck, but was wound into a coronet on top of her head, held there by a circlet of pearls, with a few long, honey-colored tresses allowed to frame her high cheekbones and trail down her graceful neck.

She was paler than he would have liked, but Rockford doubted his own complexion could stand comparison with a sheet right now.

At least she would not shame him by stumbling or swooning. No one could fault her elegant bearing or doubt that Rockford’s wife was a true lady, despite her birth. As his countess she could take her place in London society, if not among the highest sticklers, then certainly in Prinny’s circle.

Lud, he could imagine the stir she would cause. The newspapers were already poking fun at Rockford’s country widow, but the rakes and reprobates of the regent’s crowd would be panting at her feet. They would chase after her because she was Rockford’s wife and she was pretty, but mostly because she appeared to be that rarest of creatures, a chaste woman, and thus a challenge to the hardened gamesters. The situation would not arise. The Carleton House set would not have a chance. The betting books would not be full of wagers on the identity of Lady R’s first lover. Not this time.

No, children belonged in the country, and their mother belonged with them.

The gossip columns would double their gibes when she did not appear, thinking he already regretted the misalliance. Rockford did not regret it one bit. He did not even care that Prinny and his advisers were upset at the loss of the Ziftsweig alliance, or that he had married without royal approval, out of court circles. He’d smooth things over when he returned to town, losing yet another high-stakes game to the prince on purpose. He’d made the right decision.

Had Mrs. Henning? With a new wardrobe and the proper backing, she could have reentered the marriage mart and chosen herself a likable chap. But she did not have either the clothes or the connections, so he stopped feeling guilty that she had no choice. He had not taken advantage of her need, Rockford assured himself as she approached the altar; he had rescued her.

So she would not have a grand passion. She had had it with Henning, it seemed. Now she would have money, protection, and security, a much better bargain in the earl’s eyes. What he would have, however, was another wife, the last thing he wanted.

Well, this one was not going to cause a scandal or the least ripple in his well ordered life. She was not going to run off and wound his pride, or die in childbed. She was certainly not going to wound his feelings. How could she, when he felt nothing for her beyond a vague sense of possession and a more definite warming of his blood? The unwarranted heat could be cooled at any other fountain of feminine charm without the least emotional involvement. He felt none now, even as he repeated the vicar’s words of love, honor, and fidelity, and he meant to keep it that way.

This was a business contract, as he had made clear. Mrs. Henning knew to expect nothing more than his considerable worldly possessions, so she could not be disappointed. She could have repeated her own vows with a shade more conviction, though, he thought. And she could have selected a fancier ring than the gold filigree band young Rothmore handed him. She was a countess, his wife, by thunder. She ought to look the part. He’d have to buy her another ring when he reached London. A matching emerald, perhaps, to the
stone
that nestled so damned invitingly in her cleavage that if he were not a master of control he might embarrass her, himself, and the entire congregation. No, he was not going to get involved.

So he gave her the merest brush of the lips that could still be called a kiss, then turned to accept the vicar’s congratulations, a quick peck on the cheek from his weeping sister-in-law, and grins from all the boys. There, it was done.

*

There, she had done it. Alissa Bourke Henning had just become Alissa Rothmore, Countess Rockford. Her knees were not knocking, her hands were not shaking as she accepted the best wishes of her neighbors. After all, they were her friends, and seemed genuinely happy for her.

She had not been the least bit anxious about the ceremony. She knew she had never looked better, knew her father would have been proud, and her former husband would have been relieved that she and his sons were so well provided for. William would have wanted her to be happy, so she tried to smile for her guests, and for his memory. Rockford wore his usual dark, detached visage, and he frowned when he placed his ring on her finger. If he had second thoughts, Alissa thought, it was too late now, and his own fault for rushing into this scrambled affair. Well, neither of them could worry over spilled milk, not with the wedding breakfast still to come.

The reception did not worry her either, although she had never attended so large an affair, much less managed one. Claymore had, and had everything in hand. The music was lively, the food was tasty and plentiful, the champagne was kept flowing, the servants were attentive to every need. The Misses MacElroy were treated as respectfully as Sir Humbers, the earl’s financial adviser and man of affairs who had come from London with the settlement papers.

The solicitor was in as much of a hurry as
Rockford
usually was, insisting the new Lady Rockford—Gracious, that was her name now, wasn’t it?—sign the documents so he could return to town and another client. Alissa had time only between the receiving line and the toasts to scan the pages, but the terms seemed far more generous than she had imagined. She’d have to thank Rockford later, when they were in private. One more thing to discuss meant one more delay of bedtime…and the marriage bed.

She had another dance with the squire’s son, rather than think about later. To put off the inevitable, she would have danced with the devil himself, and did.

“You did an excellent job with the wedding,” Rockford told her when they came together in the set. “Everyone seems to be enjoying himself. Or herself.” He scowled at a spotty-faced youth who was holding Amy too close in the figure of the dance. “I commend you.”

“Claymore deserves more credit than I, my lord, ah, Rockford.” She could not call her husband Rock, although it suited his strength and his solid essence. “But I am glad you approve.”

“What, were you worried that I’d be too high in the instep to rub shoulders with the local folk?”

She was. She’d been relieved to see him shaking hands with the apothecary and dancing once with the vicar’s wife. Of course, his perfect manners would permit nothing less, but she had placed a pair of stuffed chairs at the head of the room, so he might sit like a feudal lord, away from the commoners—like her. The Misses MacElroy were happily ensconced there now. They deserved the best seats, Alissa decided, after working so hard this past sennight. And Rockford seemed content to engage his tenants in conversation after his dance with her and one with Amy. He listened to the men’s concerns and flirted with their wives and daughters.

Yes, Alissa thought, her liege was holding court. He needed only an ermine-trimmed robe, a crown, and a jewel-studded goblet of wine in his hand. She thought she might try to paint his portrait like that, as a historical allegory with period dress. Her mind balked at the codpiece, though, or tight hose. He was commanding enough in his formal attire now, anyway, she quickly told herself, fanning her suddenly warm cheeks. And his white satin inexpressibles were tight enough that she could see—No, she would
not
think about Rockford’s clothes, or Rockford in or out of them. She had hours yet before she had to face that hurdle.

All too soon for her peace of mind, however, the guests started departing. The farmers had to be up at dawn; the villagers did not wish to travel in the dark. The boys, who had consumed enough cake and punch for an entire battalion, were being led off by Claymore and their footman. For once Alissa was glad their upset digestions and disturbed sleep would be someone else’s problem.

Although, if one of the children needed her… No, that would only delay the moment of reckoning. Alissa did not think she could survive another day of dread. Not that she was precisely dreading the coming intimacy with her elegant new husband, but he was a stranger, and a practiced lover. What if she did not please him? The license and the settlement papers were already signed, thank goodness.

But what if he was as cold and unyielding as he was now, refusing to grant the children another quarter hour of the party? She would have let them stay up all night, rather than face her doom—her groom.

Alissa sighed at her own cowardice. This was not like Fred Nivens’s assault, nor Sir George’s repulsive offer. Rockford was a gentleman, and he was her husband.

Nevertheless, she fled up the stairs when the last guest left, saying she had to hear the boys’ prayers before they went to bed. She would have woken them up if they were asleep. She could only stay so long, though, and the hour was still not very late. It was not yet time to retire, unless she wished to give her husband the wildly wrong impression that she was impatient for his attention, so she went back to the gold parlor.

He was there, staring into the fireplace. The flames cast a reddish glow onto his dark countenance, almost a demonic reflection, if one wanted to frighten oneself. Alissa was already doing a good enough job at it. She took a calming breath and said, “The boys wish to see you.”

He turned to look at her. “What for?”

“Why, for you to wish them good night, of course.”

There was no “of course.” Rockford’s father had never bidden him sleep well. He shrugged. It was an easy enough wish to grant. “I will meet you here, after.”