Emerald Desire (Emerald Trilogy) (8 page)

'''Tis a pity you can't keep the jewels here," Lydia remarked. "But I suppose they'll be safer at the manor."

"Yes, I suppose," Dera agreed absently, as she noticed Mrs. Randall, the dressmaker, unrolling a bolt of silver satin.

"Let's measure you for your wedding gown," the dressmaker said. She held the material up to Dera. "The color will do nicely on you. I'll add something lavender to bring out the color of your eyes." She smiled. "Lord Fairfax is indeed a lucky man."

Dera stood erect while the woman measured, clipped, and turned her about to get a proper fit. She felt there should be no elaborate preparations, that she should be marrying Quint in her good dress and standing before a priest. Quint's face, handsome and cruel, filled her mind. The memory of his hands upon her brought fire to her blood, causing her to blush. "Can we continue another time, Mrs. Randall? I need some air," she said.

"I've finished. Tomorrow, I'll start on the gown so it will be completed in plenty of time. His lordship is allowing us a room in the manor to complete your trousseau. He seems a kind and thoughtful man."

Dera said nothing in reply. Lord Fairfax was kind when he wanted something. He wanted her and this made her shiver. She left the house and wandered aimlessly in the meadow.

The countryside was still lovely so late in the year, but it brought her no pleasure. Her mind was crowded with memories of Quint.

"Ah, 'tis the future Lady Fairfax." She turned and saw that Jem McConnell had stealthily come up behind her. She stared into his long face; his chin was thick with stubble, his bright eyes leered at her. Yet he moved uneasily from one foot to the other, as if he were unsure of himself.

"Hello, Jem. I hope you are well."

"I am."

"Then good day," she said quickly, walking on, anxious to take leave of him. Jem unnerved and frightened her. To her dismay, he fell into step beside her.

“‘
T’was a surprise to hear of your betrothal to his lordship. Only a few weeks ago, you told me Quint was to be the happy bridegroom."

She quickened her step, aware of his amused smirk. "Quint didn't have time for you. You wasted yourself on him while I was waiting for you." He stopped walking and halted her with a firm grip on her wrist. "I still want you whether you're marrying or not. My loins ache for you."

"Stop it!" She pulled away, and to her surprise, he released her without a struggle.

"This time. I'll let you run away from me," Jem said. "But one day, you'll willingly give me your body for I know your weakness." He laughed at her look of reproach. "Don't worry about Quint. My sister is mending his broken heart."

With Jem’s taunting laughter ringing in her ears, she turned and ran back home. As she neared Timothy’s cottage, she saw Lord Fairfax's carriage in front of the house and she managed to stifle a groan of dismay. He sat at the table sipping a cup of tea, and when she entered, he stood up and kissed her hand.

"Your face is flushed, my dear," he noted. "Have you a fever?"

"No, no, sir, I'm fine. The wind was brisk."

Lydia filled another cup and motioned for Dera to sit beside his lordship while she took her place next to Timothy. "We've been telling his lordship how appreciative we are of his kindness to us," she told Dera.

"Aye, we are grateful. His lordship is giving us a larger farmhouse and more money for my duties," Timothy said. He glanced at Avery, tears sparkling in his eyes. "Now my son can be born to prosperous and proud parents."

"You are an asset to my estate, Timothy. Those I value are treated well." Avery turned his attention to Dera. "Are you well pleased with your purchases, Dera?"

"Yes, thank you, my lord. I've never seen such finery." Her long lashes fluttered downward in embarrassment. In exchange for a few presents, she was selling herself into a legal bondage to a man whom she didn't love.

Timothy smiled warmly at her. "No other girl has done so much for her family."

Lord Fairfax rose from his chair. He helped Dera up and towered over her. "Soon we shall be legally wed, my dear. May I have a kiss to sustain me until then?”

Timothy and Lydia watched Dera, their silence intense. Dera longed to deny him, but couldn't refuse without insulting him. He had purchased her affection. She concluded this was to be the first of many such transactions. On tip-toe, she timidly kissed his cheek which was dry as parchment.

She had expected a harsh remark at the quickness of the kiss, but he only thanked Timothy and Lydia for their hospitality. She escorted him to his carriage, and after he was settled inside, he peered at her from out of the window.

"I'm grateful for your kiss, Dera. At least you didn't flinch when you touched me. It is a fortuitous beginning."

She shivered in the cold air, watching the carriage disappear into the distance, wondering if he could be right.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A small Protestant church in Athlone was the setting for Dera's wedding. She barely recalled anything about the ceremony except for hearing the steady beat of cold rain upon the roof and wondering if the rain was a sign of unpleasant times ahead.

The dreary day held no apprehensions for her husband. Avery squeezed her hand before the exchange of vows in a futile attempt at reassurance. He smiled at her, but her lips seemed stuck together, and she was unable to force even a tiny smile in return.

Mrs. Randall's expertise as a seamstress was evident in Dera's wedding gown of silver satin. The collar was high and encircled with a ribbon of violet velvet. The sleeves fit snugly around her upper arm. They were slashed at the elbows and fell below her tiny waist into a point. Small lavender bows daintily pulled back the gown's overskirt to reveal the silver brocaded fabric beneath. Dera's lustrous hair was piled upon her head. A laurel of silver leaves wrapped around the crown. Her slippers and fur-trimmed cloak were cut from the same silver fabric as the overgown.

Avery's attire complemented hers. His suit was a flurry of golden ruffles at his neck and wrists. The bright color enlivened his pale features, and Dera found herself thinking that in his younger years, Avery must have been a handsome man.

Except for Timothy and Lydia, no village people attended the wedding. Lady Cecelia Wiggington, Avery's widowed sister, was the only relation present on his side of the family. Cecelia sat in the first pew, directly opposite the Brennans. A fashionable black hat, decorated with matching plumes, was perched upon her gray hair. Her widow's weeds were embroidered with black pearls at the wrists and hemline. The dark color attractively enhanced the beauty of her porcelain skin. Like Avery, Cecelia was tall and keenly intelligent, but unlike him, she had the ability to see people as they really were and to discern their true motives.

After the ceremony, Avery sat close to Dera in the carriage for the return trip to the estate. He smiled again at the young girl, sitting so primly. He didn't reach for her hand or press his mouth against hers as he longed to do. "Except for the rain, the day isn't too cold. Very damp, however, soon we'll be home and you can warm yourself."

Dera nodded, unable to think of anything to say. She was fearful that if she spoke, she would break into tears. The countryside, misty and beautiful, held her attention. Avery retreated into silence, for which she was grateful.

Timothy and Lydia rode with Lady Cecilia in a second carriage. Timothy was uncomfortable in his best clothes and yearned for the comfort of his own hearth. "Pity, 'tis such an ugly day," he commented to no one in particular and tugged at his stiff collar.

Lydia agreed that it was a nasty day and nervously wiped away an imaginary spot from her new blue cloak.

Lady Cecilia sat immobile, her long white hands folded in her lap. She felt no compunction to converse with her brother's overseer and pregnant wife, nor did she see any reason to apologize to them for her rudeness. They were Irish peasants, and to her, no better than common mongrels. But the girl was different.

Cecilia was intimidated by her new sister-in-law, though as yet, they hadn't exchanged a word. Dera possessed a quiet dignity that even Elvina Fairfax had lacked. From the gleam in Avery's eyes, she sensed he was more than just smitten with a pretty face. No, there was more to it and this bothered her.

What if Avery impregnated her? With a Fairfax heir, the Irish properties would revert to Dera and her child upon Avery's death. Of course, Cecilia was extremely wealthy, but she had always coveted Fairfax Manor. From the first moment she saw it years ago, she knew she had to own it. She wouldn't allow a peasant girl, no matter how beautiful, to stand in her way.

Cecilia glanced at the Brennans sitting so uncomfortably across from her. Common sense warned her that they had profited from Dera's marriage and would no doubt profit from the birth of a Fairfax heir. Suddenly a sly smile appeared on her thin lips and she cursed herself for worrying. She knew Avery's secret.

Cecilia leaned deeper into the cushioned seat and smiled contentedly into the Brennan's mongrel faces. "Such a lovely day," she said.

Tenant farmers lined the road leading to the manor, but their faces were a blur to Dera. "Must everyone wait outside in this drizzle? After all, it's Christmas," she reminded Avery.

"I requested that they do so, my dear, out of respect. The first thing you must learn is never to feel compassion for these people. If mercy is shown to them they will take advantage. Vigilance is important. Burnings are becoming the norm here, and I cannot let them think I am a weak man." Avery's voice shook with controlled emotion. Unlike so many of his English countrymen who owned property in Ireland, he congratulated himself that he took an interest in his estate and was not an absentee landlord.

Dera nodded, but her gaze searched for Quint. She longed to catch a glimpse of him, but he didn’t wait with the others on the road side. She decided this was just as well--his hatred would unnerve her.

The cold rain stopped as Dera alighted from the coach with Avery's help. He led her up to the manor just as the door swung open by servants alert to their coming. She entered Quint's ancestral home as Lady Fairfax. Her old life lay behind her like a discarded gown.

Tales of the manor's grandeur hadn't adequately prepared her for her first view of the interior. The vestibule floor was inlaid with black Italian marble, as were the twin staircases leading to the second floor. Two marble pilasters graced the center landing and the balustrades were of white wrought iron. A huge chandelier hung from the dome in the high ceiling; flickering candles illuminated the colorful Roman frescoes painted upon the walls. Grecian urns and Roman statuary, dating from the first century, were ensconced in wall niches, looking important and impressive.

"The entire house underwent extensive renovations before I took up residence," Avery explained to Dera, noting the gleam of appreciation in her eyes as he escorted her into the drawing room.

"How lovely," Dera breathed. The room was painted a bright shade of blue, matching the Persian carpets that covered the marble floor. The ceiling was white and trimmed in a golden scroll work design. Portraits of dead Fairfaxes gazed proudly but sternly upon Dera.

She felt like a beggar, unprepared for such breathtaking luxury. Although as a child, she and her mother had resided in fashionable quarters, moving in with Timothy had taught her the ways of simple folk. She found that she didn't quite feel qualified to be married to Avery Fairfax, to suddenly become a lady simply by pronouncing a marriage vow. For the first time, the reality of her situation struck her.

Cecilia sat down upon a Georgian sofa, totally ignoring the others. A servant appeared and offered everyone champagne. Timothy and Lydia took a glass, but Cecilia waved it away.

"I want to toast my bride, Cecilia," Avery said, insisting.

"You know I detest spirits."

"Take it. You don't have to drink it."

There was a finality in Avery's tone. Cecilia knew disobeying him wasn't wise, so she grudgingly took the proffered glass.

"Come here, my dear," Avery said, drawing Dera near to him. His gaze was soft, as misty and unfathomable as the mountains. He held the fluted glass high. "To my bride, may God smile upon our union."

"To Lord and Lady Fairfax," Timothy said. Cecilia repeated the toast, then placed her full glass upon the table.

"Oh, Timothy, it tickles," Lydia laughed delightedly and Timothy agreed. Avery refilled his glass and then poured one for Dera.

"My darling wife, there is one toast I wish to add."

"Yes, my lord?"

He whispered into her ear, "To both of us, that our nights together be filled with passion and that I fill you with the seed of my body. To our future, my love." In one gulp, he drank the contents of his glass and grinned wickedly, his look promising the intimacy that Dera feared.

Dera took a small sip, her face burned a bright red, and her hands shook. Truly, she was not prepared for her life as Avery Fairfax's wife.

CHAPTER TWELVE

One of Avery’s servants, a middle-aged woman whom Dera recognized as Katie from a neighboring farm, helped her change into a sleeping gown of pale pink silk. The peasant-style gown was trimmed with red rosettes along the scooped neckline; the flowing sleeves trailed the floor.