Lord of Secrets (9 page)

“I’ll never regret marrying you, David.” She gave him a trusting smile. “But I will remember.”

He fixed his eyes on the floor. “Please don’t look at me that way. It only makes the guilt worse.”

She came to him and set a hand on his sleeve. He couldn’t help flinching.

“Go home and get some rest, David. You’re wearing yourself out with worry. Whatever it is, it will turn out all right, I promise you.”

He shook his head. “No, it won’t.”

“Of course it will. I know how laughably naive this must sound, but as long as you truly care for me, we can get through anything.”

He couldn’t look at her, not when she had no idea what
anything
really meant. He could only swallow past the knot in his throat. “I hope you’re right.”

Defeated, he picked up his hat and started for the door without another word.

* * *

On the eve of Rosalie’s wedding, Charlie came to dine with her and the new Lord and Lady Whitwell at the family’s London town house. Sitting across the table from her cousin, regarding his cheerful face above the silver epergne, Rosalie was glad to be sharing her last meal as an unmarried girl with her whole family. Even young Nate was allowed to join the adults, at least for a few minutes. If only her father were still with them, her happiness would be complete.

The awareness this was her last dinner as plain Miss Whitwell gave her butterflies in her stomach—though her case of pre-wedding jitters couldn’t hold a candle to poor David’s. How uncharacteristically anxious he’d been the night before, pacing the floor of the drawing room, clearly racked with last-minute doubts about his eligibility. It might have worried her more if her father hadn’t liked to tell the story of how he’d done much the same thing on the night before marrying her mother, and that had certainly ended happily. Besides, learning that even David doubted himself had made her feel a bit better about her own suitability, after Mrs. Howard had called it into question.

Of course, she’d wondered for some time after he left exactly what kind of failings he’d meant to confess. In the end she’d decided it was probably a few youthful indiscretions or a torrid interlude with someone shockingly unsuitable, perhaps even a married woman. He was ten years older than she, after all, and he’d been in love before. Rosalie felt no need to pry into the details, especially when such past flirtations were now water under the bridge.

From the head of the table, her uncle winked at her. He’d kept to only two glasses of wine and was on his best behavior. “Only one more night to go, eh, Rosie girl?”

Uncle Roger would be giving her away in the wedding ceremony. She smiled back at him, but not without a nostalgic ache for her father. “Yes, sir.”

“Just one more night to get through without breaking out in spots or waking up with your nose red and running.” Her aunt turned to Rosalie’s uncle, her stiff, guinea-gold ringlets bobbing. “Remember our wedding day, Roger? Lawks! I was a nervous wreck, with my knees knocking—and you cast up your accounts just outside the church door. It’s a wonder either of us went through with it.” She reached over and patted Rosalie’s hand. “It’s only natural to feel in a bit of a twitter, dearie. Don’t you worry your head about it.”

“She looks calm enough to me,” Uncle Roger said. “Perhaps we’ll make her nervous if we fuss too much, eh?”

Across from her, Charlie was biting his nails again. His fair brows drew together in a frown. “Or perhaps she could do with a touch more caution.”

Aunt Whitwell gave one of her braying laughs. “Now that’s hardly comforting! What, are you worried she means to let the servants run roughshod over her once she’s married?”

Charlie glanced darkly at Rosalie. “Something like that.”

Aunt Whitwell dismissed the possibility with a flick of her wrist. “Goodness, every new bride goes through that. She’ll find her way soon enough.” She launched into a droll recounting of all the problems she’d experienced with the servants since moving into the family town house, lamenting the cost of living in London and the difficulty of finding good servants, until the meal drew to a close and it was time for the ladies to withdraw.

Rosalie’s aunt and uncle exchanged a significant look.

Aunt Whitwell rose. “Rosalie, dear, I wonder if I might have a look at your wedding dress?”

“Of course.” The request surprised her. Her aunt had already seen the gown when the modiste delivered it.

They went up to her room, where Rosalie took the dress from its place in the clothespress. She would be putting off mourning for the wedding, and the gown was a shimmering column of white lutestring, decorated with two rows of rouleaux at the hem and tiny white and silver flowers on the puffed sleeves—a dress from a fairy tale, to match the way her dreams of home and family were finally coming true. She and David were going to be so happy together. She’d make sure of it.

As Rosalie shook out the folds, Aunt Whitwell closed the door and took a seat on her bed. She patted the spot beside her. “Come and sit with me a moment, dearie.”

Rosalie draped the gown over the chair by the clothespress and joined her on the bed.

Her aunt smoothed her skirts with a matter-of-fact air. “So, tomorrow you’ll be a bride.”

Rosalie smiled. “Yes.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve already permitted Lord Deal...er, a taste of your charms?”

“Are you asking if I’ve allowed him to kiss me?”

Her aunt laughed. “Well, that, too. But no, I meant before he proposed—you didn’t give him a little sample of what he might look forward to in the marriage bed, did you?”

Rosalie tried not to look shocked. She didn’t want her aunt thinking her hopelessly naive. Especially not when Aunt Whitwell had been so unfailingly kind to her, even adopting a noticeably more subdued demeanor whenever David called—a bit of self-censorship for which Rosalie remained grateful. “No.”

“You’re sure? Because I wouldn’t think ill of you, you know, or breathe a word to anyone. Some gentlemen take more persuading than others.”

“No, it was nothing like that.”

Aunt Whitwell sighed. “I didn’t think so. It would have made talking to you now a good deal simpler, but...I didn’t think so.” She abandoned her Covent Garden theater manner, dropping her voice to a more intimate tone. “If your mother were alive, I’m sure she would have spoken with you tonight. But since she’s gone, it’s fallen to me to tell you what to expect on your wedding night. How much do you already know?”

Rosalie wasn’t sure how to answer. Crisscrossing the globe with her father, she’d come face-to-face with any number of eye-popping discoveries—revealing paintings and statues displayed publicly in the palaces of the Italies, Mahometans who proudly kept more than one wife, even
hijras
, the eunuch guards who accompanied harem girls in the marketplaces of India. In the enforced closeness of sailing vessels, she’d overheard the boisterous and often improper conversation of merchants and sailors. She hadn’t understood everything she’d seen and heard, but she’d grasped enough to know human beings didn’t always behave with the kind of staid propriety they exhibited in the drawing room. Unfortunately, in some ways her irregular upbringing had raised more questions than it had answered.

“I know a little. I know a husband and wife share a bed, of course, and I know that once two people are married, the husband may take whatever liberties he likes.” Feeling hopelessly backward, Rosalie gave her aunt an apologetic smile. “It’s the details of just what a husband does and how nervous I should be that I’m not entirely clear on.”

“Well, the good news is that there’s no need to be nervous. Far from it! Though I’m sure it’s more frightening with some men than with others. Someone as toplofty as Lord Deal, I confess, might well make me doubt myself. But then, I’m not the one who’s marrying him.” She turned a searching look on Rosalie. “You do have feelings for him?”

Rosalie pictured David’s face when he’d asked her to marry him. Despite his mercurial temperament, despite the things Mrs. Howard had said, she had only to picture those dark, worried eyes to know she belonged with him. “Yes, I do.”

“Good. Then what I have to tell you shan’t be at all troubling to you.”

Rosalie listened, nodding, as her aunt explained exactly what David would do.

Chapter Seven

What angel shall
Bless this unworthy husband? He cannot thrive,
Unless her prayers, whom heaven delights to hear
And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath
Of greatest justice.

—
William Shakespeare

David intended the wedding to be a small, quiet affair. Rosalie had lost her father less than a month before. They expected few guests, strictly close family and friends, and he possessed neither.

Yet, somehow their wedding had become one of the most talked-about events of the Season. David had no sooner returned to London than his valet informed him a ripple of astonishment had gone through the
ton
at the news of his impending marriage. Bets were being taken at Brooks’s and White’s about whether the ceremony would actually take place.

Though David managed to talk himself out of the worst of his misgivings, it was hard not to take the gossip as an ill omen. He told himself it was little wonder if society expressed surprise. He had a reputation for keeping to himself, didn’t he? He not only deserved it, he’d cultivated it. He was the most unsociable man in London, a man who crossed the street just to avoid having to speak with passing acquaintances. But the ton’s reaction only added to his unease.

On the morning of the wedding, several of the curious slipped into St. George’s to observe the ceremony firsthand. Standing in the church waiting for Rosalie to arrive, David was unnerved to discover so many faces in the pews. Spectators he barely recognized gawked at him as if he were a two-headed goat at the fair. He wished fleetingly that Rosalie hadn’t wanted a church wedding, since he would have preferred to marry in her uncle’s drawing room. He felt both conspicuous and hypocritical, standing before the altar.

But whatever his feelings, he strove to appear unconcerned. Had the onlookers come to see if Rosalie was actually marrying him of her own volition? Did they imagine she’d been forced into it somehow, a victim of family pressure, sent to the altar like a lamb to the slaughter? If they’d come hoping to find a scowling groom or a tearful, quaking bride, they were doomed to be disappointed. He was too preoccupied to scowl, and as for Rosalie, from the moment she arrived she fairly glowed. Making her way up the aisle toward him, she beamed as if it were impossible for her to stop smiling.

At her radiant expression, David’s mouth went dry—though whether from excitement or trepidation, he wasn’t sure. It should have been excitement. She looked young, eager, happy. Certainly he felt a measure of happiness, too, knowing her future was settled. Yet together with that happiness came such a crushing sense of responsibility, he rather suspected the feeling gripping him must be dread. If she was his to spend the rest of his life beside, she was also his to look after and protect.

Beside him, his groomsman, Sir Thomas Langley, leaned in confidentially. “I must say, I admire your taste, Deal.”

“Lovely girl, isn’t she?” The casualness of David’s tone belied the thudding of his heart. He’d asked Sir Thomas to stand as his groomsman only because they’d been at Oxford together and the baronet’s had been the first familiar face David spied upon returning to White’s. Sir Thomas had looked understandably surprised at the request. They were little better than strangers. In fact, David had been careful to avoid him after learning years before that his old schoolfellow had an unmarried sister languishing in the country. But the sister was married now, and Sir Thomas had agreed to act as his best man—in fact, he’d been treating David as if they were boon companions, speaking to him with bachelor camaraderie. Though Sir Thomas gave no sign he saw anything odd about this ready-made friendship, David found their exchanges unsettling.

But then, it had been a morning for unsettling exchanges. David knew it was something of a tradition for the father of the bride to have a heart-to-heart talk with the groom before the wedding, hinting at the unpleasant consequences to befall the new husband should he ever neglect his family responsibilities. David had expected Rosalie’s raffish uncle to step in and perform the duty. Instead, the task had somehow fallen to young Charlie Templeton. As David was dressing for the wedding, Templeton had arrived unannounced, blushing and hedging on the threshold of David’s dressing room for several long seconds before blurting out, “I say, you will treat her right, won’t you, Deal?”

David stiffened as his valet helped him into his coat. “My dear boy, of course I will.”

“Because she deserves it. Rosalie has a good heart—truly good. You’ll never find a sweeter or a kinder girl anywhere.”

“I’m convinced of it.”

“That’s good, because, well...” Templeton looked down with evident unease. “No offense, but I made inquiries, and I’ve heard a few things about you.”

A nagging sense of anxiety crept over David, but he inspected his appearance in the mirror with every appearance of composure. “Such as?”

“Well, talk, you know. I hate to bring it up, but there are quite a few rumors circulating about the kind of ladybirds you keep.”

David wished he were facing down the dissolute uncle instead of Rosalie’s earnest young cousin. “Are there?”

“Yes, and the number of them.” A flush stained Templeton’s cheeks. “I grant you most men take a mistress or two, but I hear you go through them like water. I would have warned Rosalie away from you, to be honest, if I’d known then what I know now.”

David struggled to keep his tone casual. “But you do know now.”

Templeton frowned. “Yes, but it’s not the kind of information one likes to share with an unmarried girl, and besides, even a blind man could see she has her heart set on marrying you. Then there’s the license and the dress and the way word of the engagement spread... By the time I learned about your reputation it just seemed too late, somehow, and I thought she was probably better off not knowing.”

The room felt suddenly airless and oppressive. It took all his self-control to wait out Rosalie’s cousin in noncommittal silence.

Templeton didn’t meet his eye, but neither did the young man retreat. “You will make her happy, won’t you, Deal? I mean, if you can’t give up the petticoat line completely, you’ll at least make sure Rosalie never hears about it?”

David hadn’t known whether to feign offended dignity or pretend to laugh off Templeton’s fears. Mostly he just wanted the young man to leave so he could sit down until the uneasiness gripping him subsided.

But Templeton meant well. David needed to remember that. He’d produced a wry smile. “Do give me a little credit for knowing how to go on. Never fear, I’ll look after your little cousin.”

And now, watching Rosalie fairly floating up the aisle toward him in her shimmering white gown, he had to live up to that promise. He had to look after her. It was more than a promise he’d made to young Charlie Templeton, it was a promise he’d made to himself. In a moment, he would make the same promise to God.

Not that he supposed God believed a word he said anymore.

Watching with outward aplomb, David waited for Rosalie until she took her place at his left and they both turned purposefully toward the rector.

* * *

For most men entering into matrimony, the actual ceremony was the most nerve-racking part of the day, a public recitation of soberingly permanent vows. For David, however, it was the least objectionable of the day’s events. He’d no sooner made it through the ceremony and signed the register with Rosalie than they were obliged to attend the wedding breakfast. Though the uninvited spectators from the church were not so bold as to try to bluster their way in, and though Rosalie’s recent loss necessitated a quiet celebration, he still had to mingle with the kind of distant connections and nodding acquaintances he usually took pains to avoid.

He’d met Rosalie’s uncle before, of course, but only in passing, when bringing Rosalie home after church or collecting her for a drive. David had kept their meetings as brief, cool and forbidding as he could, hoping to suggest by the sheer force of his standoffishness that if Whitwell were ever to lay a hand on Rosalie, David would cheerfully and unhesitatingly cut out his heart.

The wedding breakfast marked his first extended look at the man, and the new Lord Whitwell was every bit as loose in the haft as David had been led to believe. Rosalie’s uncle was so unmistakably inebriated from such an early point in the day, it was clear he must have been drinking since his first waking moments. Lord Whitwell called David “my lad” in tones of drunken familiarity, lurched about the room on unsteady legs, and at one point seemed in danger of urinating into an ornamental vase in full view of all the wedding guests, at least until one of his footmen discreetly urged him from the room. His wife, the new Lady Whitwell, was blessedly sober, but she wore heavy paint and dressed more like a stage coquette than a respectable Mayfair hostess. At least he’d spared Rosalie from having to remain with her uncle, sinking into the same barely respectable circles in which he moved—or, worse yet, from becoming an actual victim of the man’s drunken recklessness.

The thought comforted him, and, he was surprised to find, so did the polite chatter of the guests. He’d been avoiding parties all his adult life, but now that he found himself at his own wedding breakfast, the reality was less disturbing to his peace of mind than he’d feared. In fact, aside from Lord Whitwell’s obvious inebriation, the gathering was rather tame, if not a trifle stodgy. But then, it was broad daylight, everyone present had come directly from church, and Rosalie’s family was still in mourning. There was little danger of either wild debauchery or pointed snubs among grieving wedding guests at one o’clock in the afternoon.

After the meal, his mind wandered as the guests took turns congratulating him on his marriage. Rosalie was moving among her small family, bestowing an impulsive hug on Charlie Templeton here, speaking with animated gestures to her aunt there.

At one point he spotted her stooping down, talking to a young boy. Ah, yes, the aunt had an illegitimate son—Nate, his name was. David watched Rosalie and the boy speak, absorbed in what looked like a heart-to-heart talk, both of them so caught up in the conversation they were mirroring each other’s gestures. He couldn’t remember anyone paying him that much attention when he was that age, with the possible exception of his aunt Celeste. Curious, he drew closer.

“I was most terribly homesick at first,” Rosalie was saying, “so you must expect that. But it fades with time.”

“How much time?”

“I suppose that depends on how quickly you make new friends and how busy they keep you. And it helps to receive letters—though of course, that means you must write letters, too.”

“Oh, I will. I’ll write every day.”

“Every week will do,” Rosalie said with a laugh. “But I’m sure your mama will be on pins and needles to hear from you, and so shall I.”

“You will? Really?”

“Of course. I’m going away, too, remember? I’ll quite depend upon receiving your letters. I want very much to know how you’re doing.”

The boy gulped. “Then why not stay here with me? I mean, at least until I go away to school?”

David felt a stir of disquiet. There was something familiar about the boy’s neediness, something that reminded him uncomfortably of his own lonely childhood.

But Rosalie’s response, however sympathetic it might be, was brisk and uplifting. “I’m not really leaving
you
, Nate. I’m a bride now, so I’m going to live with my husband. Even so, I’ll always be your cousin and you can always write me—and perhaps visit me, too, I hope. If I’m lucky, someday I’ll have a little boy of my own, and if you’re not too grand and important by then to befriend a smaller boy, you can play with him and teach him how to defeat me at dominoes.”

The two talked for a while longer, until Rosalie straightened, reaching out to ruffle the boy’s brown hair. David watched, a rush of tenderness overtaking him. She was going to make a fine mother someday. How could he help but feel easier about the future, perhaps even catch a small measure of her optimism?

Any man would count himself lucky, marrying her. Her face was glowing and wreathed in smiles, and the shimmering white of her wedding dress shone like moonlight against the dark clothing of those around her.

But it wouldn’t do to spend his wedding breakfast gawking, so he tried to busy himself in talking to his best man, who seemed happy enough to oblige him. Sir Thomas shared a story of some droll disaster or other at his sister’s wedding breakfast. David listened with only half his attention, stealing glances at Rosalie as he nodded along with the man’s congenial chatter.

Across the room, Charlie Templeton whispered something to Rosalie, and she blushed and glanced in David’s direction. Drawn as if by an irresistible spell, David extricated himself from the one-sided conversation and went to her. She turned to him as he approached, as if she’d been waiting for him all along.

He gazed down at her smiling face, and the tenderness he felt for her became an almost painful thing. “Have you been enjoying yourself?”

“Yes.” She sounded a trifle breathless. “Is it time now for us to leave?”

They were going to his country seat in Surrey. “I believe so. We have a considerable drive ahead of us.”

“I’ll go up and change into my traveling clothes.” She didn’t sound reluctant. If anything, she seemed eager to be on their way.