Sally MacKenzie Bundle (31 page)

Robbie looked away quickly. He did not want Alton bleeding
him.

“Good evening, my lord.” Was there a note of humor in the man’s voice? “May I extend my sincere felicitations on your impending nuptials?”

“Yes. Of course. Thank you.” Robbie glanced back. Those damn eyes were watching him still. The man couldn’t know, could he? Surely he couldn’t tell Robbie was…?

Ridiculous. Alton might be preternaturally perceptive, but he was not a mind reader.

He bit his lip. Lizzie would have no need to read minds—she could read the limp evidence of his failing clearly if he visited her bed tonight. How was he going to keep his secret from her? God. His head throbbed from trying to find an answer to that question. He’d thought of nothing else in the last two days.

“If you’ll step into the drawing room, my lord? You will find Miss Peterson there with the parson.”

Robbie nodded and tried not to appear as if he were fleeing the entry hall.

Hell, Alton should look to his own secrets. There’d been rumors about him and Lady Beatrice for years, reportedly even back to when he was a young footman in Knightsdale’s service and Lady Beatrice was not yet out. People said he was the reason she’d never married. And when Knightsdale had finally given up on her and let her set up her own household, she’d chosen an elderly, deaf, and very nearsighted cousin as her companion, and Alton as her butler. That had been before Robbie was born. The companion had long since departed for the hereafter, but Alton was still in residence.

Why hadn’t Charles insisted his aunt use the Knightsdale town house to launch his sister-in-law? It had a better location and a much more appropriate butler.

Robbie repressed a snort. Most likely Lady Beatrice flat out refused. And Knightsdale House
was
an incredibly dark and depressing place. Charles’s father had been rather dark and depressing himself.

Robbie stepped into the drawing room and was assaulted by a battalion of roses.

“Oof!”

Meg’s face appeared on the other side of the flowers. She grinned. “Sorry. I was just rearranging things. Lizzie should be down at any minute.” She lowered her voice and leaned closer. “Lady Beatrice sent me downstairs so she could have
the talk
with Lizzie.”

“Ah, yes.” He hoped his face wasn’t as red as the blossoms Meg was transporting. “And Reverend Axley?”

Meg gestured with her head. “By the peonies.”

“Parks?”

“I don’t—ah!” She looked over his shoulder, and her face lit up like a thousand candles. “He just arrived.”

Robbie felt Parks’s hand on his shoulder. “Good evening, Miss Peterson. Ready to step into parson’s mousetrap, Westbrooke?”

“As ready as I will ever be.” He would be more than ready if only he didn’t have his mortifying secret. There was no other woman he would rather marry.

“Good. The bridegroom is here.” Lady Beatrice appeared in the doorway. “Come along, Lizzie. It is time to get married.”

Lady Beatrice moved and Lizzie stepped into view.

God.

She was beautiful. No, that word was inadequate. She was ethereal. Heavenly. He would certainly feel he’d reached heaven if he could truly make her his wife. As it was, he feared he was facing hell. To have her in his home, in the countess’s bedroom next to his, to know everyone including Lizzie expected him to come to her bed—hell could not be worse.

Her white ball gown clung to her sweet curves like water. He wanted to run his hands over the silk, and then strip away the fabric to touch the silk of her skin. The image of her naked before her glass in Tynweith’s guest room flashed into his memory in tantalizing detail and his recalcitrant organ surged to life. Damn. If only…

Reverend Axley cleared his throat. “Shall we begin?”

The words of the wedding service washed over Robbie. He had heard them many times before. At James’s wedding—also a hurried affair held in a drawing room—and at Charles’s. He had never thought to hear them spoken for him. He had given up all hope of marriage years ago.

What was he going to do tonight?

He glanced down at Lizzie. She was unusually pale. He took her hand in his. Her fingers felt like ice. He rubbed their backs with his thumb, and she angled a fleeting smile up at him before turning back to the minister.

If only…But there was no point in wishing he were a normal man. No amount of wishing had made his shy little member brave before. It was cowering in his breeches now, like the tail of a frightened dog, limp and droopy, at the thought of bedding Lizzie—or rather, failing Lizzie. Damn it.

The minister was frowning at him. God, what had he missed? The man would expect him to pay attention at his own wedding.

“Your vows, my lord? You need to reply…?”

“I do. Yes. Of course I do.”

He had no choice. He could not condemn Lizzie to wed that bastard, Lord Andrew. Even a marriage to him was better than that. Nor could he expose her to the
ton’s
vitriol. No, their marriage was the only solution—which was the only reason he was standing here.

He heard her murmur her vows.

At least now he would have the right to protect her if Lord Andrew or any other man made improper advances. Not that he expected anyone would. He might not be the Duke of Alvord, but he was not insignificant. He had some power. And more than one rake might take note of Lord Andrew’s rearranged countenance.

He snorted. Reverend Axley and Lizzie both gave him a startled look. He smiled back at them.

The cowardly bastard had probably gone to ground somewhere until the evidence of his beating faded.

He shook his head. He had never felt such anger as he had when he’d seen that blackguard assaulting Lizzie. He hadn’t known himself.

“You do not have the ring, my lord?” Reverend Axley frowned at Robbie.

He frowned back. “Of course I have the ring. Why would you think I didn’t?”

“I’m sorry, my lord, but you shook your head when I asked you. I understood—”

“No, I’m sorry. I was woolgathering.”

“Woolgathering, my lord?” The reverend’s eyebrows jumped halfway up his forehead. “At your wedding?”

“Well, yes. Not precisely woolgathering, I suppose. Daydreaming, more like.”

“Ah.” Reverend Axley gave him a knowing look and a wink. “I see. Not much longer to wait, my lord, for those activities.”

“No, uh, that is….” The man thought…? But the minister was frowning again. Best not to argue the matter.

He took Lizzie’s hand. Her fingers trembled slightly. Her lovely eyes were huge. He felt another stab of guilt. They should be sparkling with happiness, not shadowed by sadness and worry.

He felt like a beast. She should have a wedding dress and veil, hundreds of guests filling St. George’s, James giving her away, her Aunt Gladys crying in the congregation—not this hurried little ceremony. He didn’t care for such stuff, of course. If he were capable of consummating this marriage, he’d say his vows naked on a dung heap, but Lizzie should have better.

Well, it was not really his fault. Circumstances in the person of Lord Andrew had put them in this situation. They must make the best of it.

He slid his ring slowly onto her finger and looked up into her eyes. They held a question he had not the courage to answer. Impulsively, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.

She smiled, and it was as if the sun had come out from behind the clouds.

Lizzie climbed into Robbie’s carriage. Her stomach shivered with nerves. She glanced at her new husband.

He was sitting as far from her as possible, staring straight ahead, his mouth in a thin line, his jaw clenched, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He might as well hang a sign on his neck:
WARNING
—
DO NOT APPROACH
.

If she didn’t say something, they would ride to his town house in silence.

What did one say to a new husband who was clearly not happy to be wed? Thank you?

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He frowned in the dim light. “Of course I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be all right?”

“I don’t know. You seem”—sad? He wouldn’t care to hear that—“quiet.”

“I’m tired.” He shifted position slightly. “Yes, tired. It’s been a long day—a long few days. I think I shall go to bed—” He coughed. “That is, I shall go to
sleep
early. If you don’t mind.”

Was he trying to tell her he would not be visiting her room tonight? She felt a mix of relief and disappointment.

“No, of course I don’t mind. I am tired, too. It
has
been a very exhausting few days.”

“Yes indeed.” Robbie nodded. “Very exhausting. Early to bed—uh, sleep—would do wonders for us both, I’m certain.”

“Yes.”

Silence again. She heard the clop of the horses’ hooves; the creak of the carriage. The Watch shouted the hour and some drunken men shouted back at him.

Robbie cleared his throat. “I am sorry about the wedding.”

Lizzie felt her stomach drop to her slippers. Not that she was surprised—she knew he hadn’t wanted to marry her.

“I’m sorry, too. You do know I never meant to trap you?”

He frowned at her. “What are you talking about? You didn’t trap me—Lord Andrew did.”

She drew in a sharp breath. So he
did
feel trapped.

He ran his hand through his hair. “That didn’t come out quite right. What I meant was, I’m sorry you had such a rushed, disappointing ceremony. You must have wished for more.”

“No. It was fine. I didn’t wish for more.”
I just wish you loved me.
She bit her lip. She hadn’t said those words, had she? No. She must not have. Robbie had not recoiled in horror.

She should ask him now if he loved someone else.

She couldn’t. Her throat seized up at the thought.

He grunted and settled back into silence.

What else could they talk about?

“Do you think Lord Andrew is in Town?”

That was an inspired choice.

“Yes, I’m afraid he might be. You’d think he’d go home to lick his wounds, but as far as I can tell he hasn’t. I’ve inquired at all his father’s properties. There has been no sign of him.” He reached out as if to touch her, then let his hand fall back to his lap. “I know Felicity came back to Town. That girl has no shame.”

“Surely she will not bother you now? We are wed—there is nothing she can do.”

“I wouldn’t be so certain. She and Andrew are both harboring a goodly dose of anger. At a minimum I expect some nasty rumors to circulate.”

The coach slowed to a stop and a footman opened the door.

“My lord, we’ve arrived. Mr. Bentley has assembled the staff to welcome Lady Westbrooke.”

“Thank you, Thomas.”

Lady Westbrooke? Robbie’s mother had died years ago. Why would…

“Oh.”

Robbie smiled. “I’m sure you’ll get used to your new title quickly.”

“Yes. Of course.” Not if Lord Westbrooke remained the stiffly reserved man helping her down from the carriage. She did not feel like Lady Westbrooke at all.

She smiled and nodded at Mr. Bentley, the butler, and Mrs. Bentley, Robbie’s housekeeper, and the rest of the servants lined up to meet her.

“Mrs. Bentley, if you’ll show Lady Westbrooke to her room?”

“Certainly, my lord.”

She’d thought Robbie would take her upstairs, but he was talking to his butler. Perhaps it was just as well. She was feeling a little teary. He would not care to see her turn into a watering pot.

Mrs. Bentley had bright brown eyes and a wide, warm smile. “You must be exhausted, my lady.”

“Yes, I am rather tired.” And panicked. It hit her suddenly as she walked up these unfamiliar stairs. She was a wife now, no matter how unwanted. Her life had changed irreversibly.

She took a sustaining breath.

Mrs. Bentley touched her arm lightly. “Are you all right, my lady?”

“Yes, thank you. Just a little overwhelmed.”

“You poor thing.” Mrs. Bentley patted her hand. “You’ll settle in quickly. We are all delighted to welcome you.” She leaned a little closer. “If you’ll forgive me for saying so, the master has been a bit blue-deviled these last years. We—Mr. Bentley and I—think you are just what he needs.”

Lizzie flushed. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Bentley nodded and continued up the stairs.

“I had the countess’s rooms aired as soon as we got word of the wedding. I think you will find them quite comfortable. Your maid is there now, putting away your things.”

Lizzie felt a thread of relief. At least there would be one thing unchanged—Betty would still fuss at her and argue with her. She stumbled slightly. She would, wouldn’t she? The girl was now wed to Robbie’s valet. That would not change her too much, would it?

Apparently not. At least Lizzie didn’t notice any difference when she entered her bedchamber. Betty was hanging her favorite ball gown in the wardrobe. She closed the door when she saw Lizzie and grinned.

“Oh, my lady, isn’t this a lovely room?”

“Yes, Betty, very lovely.”

It
was
a beautiful room, decorated in blues and golds. She walked over to the window and pushed back the heavy curtains. The moon lit the back garden, bathing the fountain and trellises with pale light.

“Let me brush out yer hair, my lady. Ye want to be ready when Lord Westbrooke arrives.”

Lizzie sat down at the dressing table. “I don’t believe Lord Westbrooke will be coming tonight, Betty. He is very tired.”

Betty snorted. “Don’t ye believe that for a minute, my lady. Men are
never
too tired for bed play. He’ll be up shortly, ye’ll see.”

Would he? Betty seemed so certain—but Robbie had been clear, hadn’t he?

Lizzie’s stomach twisted. She really didn’t know what she wanted.

Collins was whistling, damn him.

“I thought you’d come up earlier, my lord.” He tilted his head at the door to the countess’s room and grinned.

Robbie turned away to put his cravat pin on his bureau. Lizzie was on the other side of that door.

He would not think about it.

“I had to speak to Bentley. I’ve had men looking for Lord Andrew, you know.”

Collins grunted. “Any luck finding the bastard?”