Danger Wears White (22 page)

He wanted to reach out to her and hold her with all the possessiveness he had, and he wanted to do it badly, but she might push him away. He would become another problem for her and not the help he wanted to be. “You could be a Stuart. You have some of the characteristics. Your dark hair and eyes and your creamy skin. Maria Rubiero was an accredited beauty, and you are beautiful.”

She shook her head, her dark curls bouncing against her neck. Most of her hair was drawn up into a knot at the back, but a few curls were left to tease and hint. He wanted to wind the silky softness around his fingers, use them to pull her to him. He could not. A barrier had sprung up between them, one of his own making. But she was bound to discover it sometime, and he couldn’t let her marry him not knowing.

“So the documents Julius went to discover?” Her voice shook at the end.

“Your birth certificate, or the copy of it. And the letter, if it exists. We have only found one illegitimate daughter of the Old Pretender so far, and she had a different mother to yours. But the circumstances of her birth led us to this discovery. And the fact that the Dankworths want it as much as we do, but for different reasons.”

“What reasons?”

She’d completely cut herself off from him and it hurt worse than he’d imagined. And he’d imagined pain. Cutting off his arm would hurt less. “They want power. They want control over the children. They are important political pawns that we knew nothing about until very recently. The Dankworths stand less for the Cause than for themselves. If they could marry one of the daughters to a son, or discover a son who could challenge the succession, they would retain their importance. Or gain control over a Stuart woman who would marry young Prince George. And there are other factions. Rome, for instance, and France. And the Stuarts themselves. This could threaten the position of the Young Pretender and his brother. It could rock the foundations of the Stuart dynasty.”

“But they need one of these so-called pawns.”

“Yes, they do.”

“I see. And does Princess Amelia know this?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so. But the king surely does. He wants you safely married to someone who will not be a threat. So do his ministers.”

Alarm widened her eyes. “Do they know about me?”

“I don’t know. Some of them must have an inkling. But there is no proof, and while there is no proof it’s hard to do anything.”

“Let the marriage go forward. Ours.”

Oh now his heart broke. Now he wanted to go back to when she kissed him so sweetly, went into his arms because she wanted to, not because of duty. He had no doubt it was duty made her say that, duty that pushed her to it. “We can wait until Julius returns.”

“No. We must do this quickly. Especially with my—other—news.”

“Very well. I’ll make the arrangements.”

“I’ll talk to the princess and see if she will release me early, but we must marry anyway.”

He got to his feet when she did and met her gaze. “I’ll always do my best for you, Imogen. Please believe that.”

“I do.”

* * * *

Imogen didn’t cry. What would be the point? It wouldn’t change anything. She was a political pawn, someone who mattered more for
what
she was than
who
she was. Even the man she had imagined loved her was working for his family. He’d come to her house in search of the certificate, and he’d found her instead. Was it all a plan? Recalling the way he kissed her, made love to her, she didn’t know, couldn’t tell. But when he learned of her possible pregnancy, he’d wanted to even more.

He’d told her. That was an honorable thing to do. All that interminable afternoon while she sewed and listened to the others gossip she went over the events over and over again.

At the end of the afternoon, the princess formally dismissed her and gave her a present to thank her for her time. “If you wish to return, my chamberlain will be happy to speak to you,” she said.

But for fate and the decisions of a man who was now, astoundingly, her ancestor, the scene could have happened the other way about. Imogen was fervently thankful that it was not. She had no desire to become a woman argued over, who had to take her personal pleasures in secret, whose actions were discussed and watched all the time.

Princess Amelia was welcome to it. Imogen would take her modest estate and her life—and her handsome husband-to-be.

He didn’t appear at all when she left Richmond, but a carriage waited for her with an abundance of outriders in Julius’s livery colors of blue-and-silver. Her now generous wardrobe would be packed, supervised by her maid. She felt like a fraud when she sat on the soft leather upholstery and let them drive her to Julius’s house, where she’d be married. She’d move to Tony’s house.

It didn’t seem possible. But she was someone who mattered now, although in herself she felt like exactly the same person she’d been before. Even if she wasn’t. Even if she was royalty. This new knowledge wouldn’t turn her against the Hanovers. They had worked hard and helped to create stability and prosperity out of the turmoil and near bankruptcy of 1688.

Tony sent his apologies to the house, explaining he was busy drawing up an equitable contract and waiting for the license. But he asked her to be ready the next morning at ten.

Ten. That was it, then. Married for life to a man she didn’t really know, but a man who was the father of her unborn child—if there was an unborn child. She still wasn’t sure. She had none of the much-vaunted sickness that pregnant women were supposed to suffer. No other symptoms associated with pregnancy. Anxiety seemed a more reasonable cause of her missed courses. But Tony had seized on her stammered explanation and not allowed her to discuss it. Not that she’d have known how. Her experiences of intimacies with men were limited. Tony and—a few snatched experimental kisses with neighbors, glimpses of forbidden passion in meadows and copses. That was all. And the books in her library, which had formed the greater part of her education.

Claiming exhaustion, when she arrived at Julius’s she took to her room and refused to see anyone. She sent her maid to tell them she had a headache and she wanted to be fresh and fit in the morning for her wedding.

A maid brought dinner on a tray. She sent it back untouched. Her maid found a gown for her. She approved it without paying it too much attention. Tony didn’t come. Neither did her mother. The latter was more telling, because at least Tony had sent his excuses. She didn’t know if her mother was avoiding her or if she just didn’t care, but either way, the absence hurt her, and she’d never felt so alone. She would demand a reckoning after she’d attended to business tomorrow. Her mother would answer for her silence all these years. Determination added strength, and she no longer felt like weeping. She spent the rest of the day attending to business, reading the letters from her man of business. Everything was well.

She blinked awake when light filtered through the drapes at her window. She could have sworn she hadn’t slept all night, but the candle that had guttered its way down to a stump and extinguished itself stood as the lie to that.

Her maid knocked and entered, bearing a tray of food. She surprised Imogen by imploring her to eat. “You must have some sustenance, ma’am, otherwise you’ll faint dead away.”

That was the first sign that her maid was even human. So Imogen thanked her, sat up, and did her best while Digby supervised the filling of a bath tub in front of the fire. March was in its last half now, and the weather was considerably warmer than when she’d first arrived in London, but she still appreciated the fire.

Digby bathed her and dressed her. Imogen held out her arm for the sleeves, stood still while her maid arranged the skirts over her hoops, sat and tipped back her head for the more than usually elaborate hairstyle. But she refused the powder. “I don’t like hair powder unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

Her maid gave her a scandalized look, but said nothing.

Imogen was wearing an ivory-colored gown, and her hair would form an effective contrast. But more than that, she wanted to retain something of herself, to marry as Imogen Thane, not a princess. Her hair, being dark and lustrous, was one of her glories. The rest took care of itself. She permitted Digby to apply rice powder to her face and a little Spanish rouge to her cheeks.

After clasping her pearls around her neck and adding the matching bracelet to her wrists, she shook back the double lace at her elbows, picked up her fan and declared herself ready.

Her mother had still not asked to see her.

Imogen went downstairs to see her intended waiting for her in the drawing room. Not a muscle twitched as he bowed over her hand. He’d brought others to witness his wedding including his older brother, who he seemed in vastly more cordial terms with than before. They even smiled at each other. And she met his parents, who she had only met briefly at a ball before her service to the princess, and two of his cousins, one with his wife, a serenely lovely blonde lady who her husband, Alexander, Baron Ripley, treated with blatant adoration.

Imogen had once dreamed of such treatment, of a man who would gaze her with love and cherish her next to his heart. Childhood dreams all of them, but Alex and Connie made her glad that at least their dreams had come true.

First she must sign the marriage contract, which she read through twice, although it was a concise document compared to some of the labyrinthine property agreements she’d read before. But he’d done exactly as he’d promised. Her house was hers. He’d accomplished it by retaining her trustees and setting up a new trust, so that although the property passed to him when they married, it was placed immediately back into trust, for her and her heirs.

Her heirs.

Pushing her mind away from that unwelcome thought, at least unwelcome this morning, she declared herself content and signed.

At one point in her life she’d dreamed of marrying in the local church, which had been endowed by one of her ancestors with magnificent brasses and marble statuary, some of which had survived the Civil War more or less intact. She knew every chip, every dent, because she’d taken her turn polishing the place and adorning it with flowers for festivals. Today the flowers in the drawing room were gone in deference to the season. Lent did not allow for celebration.

The gravity of the ceremony reflected her mood. As she repeated the words after the vicar engaged for the purpose, she tried to think about the promises she was making, but the language escaped her, apart from the “with my body I thee worship” part, which seemed embarrassingly personal to repeat in a room full of guests. About twenty people had gathered to watch this momentous occasion. For her, at any rate. For Tony, his life need not change to any significant extent if he did not wish it. But after what he’d done with the contract, neither need hers. She could go home, have her child, and recommence her life. Except that perhaps she’d add a few more stout footmen and gardeners, in case her secret became known.

If Julius found that certificate, she’d burn it. Nobody need know.

Tony touched her when asked to, slid a plain gold band onto her finger when requested, and repeated the words as expressionlessly as she had.

However, they said the words and they were married.

A patter of gloved hands followed the vicar’s announcement that they were man and wife, but when the official frowned, the sound desisted.

Her mother did not applaud.

Tony treated her with punctilious care, but no fondness. He helped her to sit, but as soon as he’d done so, he didn’t touch her again. He ensured she had what she needed to eat, which was next to nothing. Since it was Lent, they kept the modest celebration to the family, for which she could only be grateful. She smiled by rote, tried to appear happy, and that satisfied most people.

Life was running away from her, taking her in directions she’d never imagined, much less ever wanted. Why couldn’t she go back and start again? Where had it gone wrong?

When she’d discovered a wounded man in a run-down hut on her estate. She should have demolished that ruin years ago, boundary dispute or not.

He might have died, left out in the open in February, bleeding. She shuddered at the thought.

“Are you well?” he murmured. “Would you like to retire?”

Yes, more than anything else, but she refused to allow people to see her weakness. Or seeing her leave early with her husband, coming to what would be a false conclusion.

So she sat, and talked, and laughed, as if this were the happiest day in her life. She even managed to eat something and moved her food around her plate to make it appear that she’d eaten more.

Tony’s father, Thaddeus Beaumont, was a tall, imposing figure, his natural gray hair tied back in a simple queue, but he was possessed of the kind of presence that drew attention wherever he went. His resemblance to his sons—son—was remarkable. If Tony looked like that when he was sixty, Imogen wouldn’t be complaining. If she and Tony were still together at that age. Although divorce was difficult, separation was not so hard, and while the couple couldn’t marry again, other possibilities existed.

God, if he took a lover she’d die. Or want to.

Imogen’s helplessness infuriated her. She had no seductive wiles; no techniques she could use to ensure Tony wouldn’t stray, or would even want her, something she was beginning to consider. He would remain separate, and they would drift apart, never to see each other except when they were compelled to be together. Even in her small part of the world, that happened. The couple—existed.

He had agreed with Julius to take one of the dangerous political pawns out of play. That was Imogen. His demeanor toward her proved it. He barely touched her, treated her with punctilious politeness. He had achieved his mission and need not seduce her or show her anything but courtesy.

After a gathering in the drawing room, the guests began to drift away. They took kind leave, wished the newlyweds well, and left. Sand through a sieve. Even her mother, after kissing her on both cheeks, left, pleading exhaustion. She left before the last few people so Imogen couldn’t ask her to stay. She had so much to ask her, maybe she should save her questions for another time, when she could gather her thoughts and think of the right things to ask. Not the ones her heart demanded, such as why her mother had never told her, but the ones she needed to know about the circumstances of her birth. And those damned certificates.