Saved by Scandal (6 page)

Lord Woodbridge himself arrived thirty minutes early, after having his coachman drive around the block a few times. He wanted to come back two hours early, to make sure Margot had not changed her mind. Devil take it, he should never have left the woman alone. Permitting a female time to think was like giving a toad a road map. He should have carried her off, married her in all his dirt and disarray, and worried about her trappings and tender feelings later, when the deed was done and she could not withdraw her consent. But a girl was entitled to some consideration on her wedding day. Since this was the only wedding Galen hoped Margot would ever have, he’d given her the extra few minutes. Of course, if she did not come down soon, he’d go scoop her out of her bath or whatever, and the footmen and frowning maids could go hang.

Luckily for what remained of his lordship’s fraying nerves, Margot shortly descended the narrow stairwell, nodding to the bows of the waiting servants and smiling
brightly at her betrothed. He was looking every inch the wealthy aristocrat, confident and commanding in his perfectly tailored blue superfine and the buff pantaloons that hugged his well-formed, well-exercised body. His hair was neatly arranged, still damp from his bath, and without the shadow of a beard, he was like a prince from a fairy tale, except for a very slightly crooked nose. Heavens, he ought to be wedding a princess, she thought, not a needy Nichol Road ragamuffin. Perhaps he was coming early to tell her he’d reconsidered. Perhaps his friends had made him see reason, or threatened to commit him to an asylum. Perhaps she was marrying a madman! Oh, dear. Margot forced herself to smile. She had never let the vast audience of Drury Lane know she was quaking in her slippers, and she would not show the viscount how terrified she was now. With her head held high, crowned with her hair twisted into a golden braid encircled by a wreath of silk roses, Margot held out her hand to Galen, praying he would not notice the trembling.

She hadn’t run off with one of his footmen, was all Galen could think, as he brought her gloved hand toward his mouth. She was going to go through with the marriage! Lud, his hand was shaking in relief. He hoped she wouldn’t notice, this golden goddess in her ivory gown. He’d double Ella’s salary, if she’d created such a masterpiece to complement his bride’s slim elegance. This must be one of the Magnificent Margot’s theater costumes, he realized, but the pearls around her neck looked real.

“My mother’s,” she whispered, touching the strand when she noticed his glance. Then she cleared her throat and spoke louder. “I sold everything else, but I was holding onto them for an emergency.”

He squeezed her hand and presented a bouquet of orange blossoms. “And now you shall never have to part with such a precious reminder of your parent. Are you ready, my dear?”

Margot was as ready as she would ever be. She let him lead her to his waiting carriage, to another life.

*

Galen Woodrow, Viscount Woodbridge, was celebrating his nuptials at St. George’s after all. This time, however, the ceremony was taking place in a narrow antechamber, more an office than a chapel. Skippy, the Reverend Mr. Skidmore, by George, had managed to waylay a floral tribute destined for the funeral being conducted later on in the actual church. The fact that the funeral was for one of the noble patrons of Epsom Downs, and the tribute was in the form of a horseshoe, had not fazed Skippy for an instant. He turned the horseshoe so the opening faced upward, to keep the luck in, he whispered to Galen. So what if such superstitions had no place in the church? So what if the flowers were now all wilting with their stems out of water? So what if Skippy was sneezing? He’d never been good out in the country, either. He’d done what he could to make his friend’s marriage less of a skimble-skamble affair, and that was what mattered. Galen was about to thank him, when Skippy ruined all of his good intentions by dropping to one knee and proposing to the bride.

“You don’t want to marry Woodbridge, you know. Just because he has money and a title and looks, he’s really not at all the thing. Why, he cares more about his paintings and his horses than you’ll like. His house is a veritable museum.”

“Get up, you nodcock,” Galen hissed, hauling on Skippy’s arm, “before I knock you down altogether. The lady is bespoken. And go fetch the bishop. I promised Miss Penrose’s maid.”

“Who is Miss Penrose? If you ain’t getting hitched to Miss Montclaire, then she is still available.” He started to drop to his knees once more, but Galen had not let go of his arm, which he now twisted behind the gudgeon’s back.

“Montclaire is the lady’s stage name. Her legal name, for as long as it takes you to fetch the bishop, is Margot Montclaire Penrose, daughter of the late Baron Penrose of Rossington, Sussex. I already entered it on the license.”

“She’s well-born, besides a raging beauty?” Skippy’s watery eyes grew wider. “You lucky dog.”

“No, the lucky dog is in the carriage with a steak bone. Now shut your mouth. You look like a carp the cat dragged out of the ornamental pool.”

Ella did not believe the bishop was anything but an actor, paid by the villainous viscount to hoodwink her poor mistress. Swells didn’t marry opera singers, not in this life. “My Eminence, my arse.”

“Hush, Ella, look at his ring. He really is the bishop. I saw him once in the queen’s box.”

The bishop was beginning the service despite the mutterings, since Lord Asplenall’s funeral was due to begin shortly. He had decided to conduct this ceremony himself, considering that such a shocking, sudden mismatch needed more heavenly intercession than his gambling-mad young assistant could provide. If Skidmore had more than a nodding acquaintance with the Almighty, he’d be astounded. For sure the clunch must have skipped every divinity course at university. Nevertheless, the bishop trotted out every blessing and every lesson on marital bliss he could recall in a hurry, before he had to send Lord Asplenall to the Great Racecourse in the Sky.

While the bishop droned on, Skippy, standing next to Galen as his best man, whispered, “How did you convince her? She never even let a fellow escort her home before.”

Galen was trying to appear attentive to whatever the old windbag was nattering about. Fidelity, obedience—Yes, yes, they had already covered those issues. He whispered back to Skippy, “Charm, that’s the ticket.” Charm and a fortune and influence, he added to himself, and swearing away his honor to defend a child who might prove indefensible. But he would not regret his choice.

Margot was listening to every word the bishop spoke. Well, maybe every other word, between stealing glances at
her handsome fiancé. She swallowed a nervous giggle. Theirs had to be the shortest engagement in history. Not even a day. Was it just this morning that he had come with his outrageous proposal, looking sad and pleading? Now he was looking every inch the bored gentleman of fashion, not even listening to his own marriage rites. What had she done?

She’d found a way to safeguard her brother, that’s what. And she would not regret it. Why would she, when she could never have picked a more perfect
parti
if she’d been shopping the marriage mart at Almack’s? And she vowed to be the best wife the viscount could ever have, despite disagreeing with some of the bishop’s pronouncements as to a wife’s duties. Not even Margot could be a worse wife than the fickle female who’d taken flight. That woman had cared so little for his lordship that she would trample on his pride, on her way to join another.

Of course, when it came time to make her actual vows, Margot found her mouth so dry and her tongue so numbed with nerves, she could barely pronounce the words.

“That’s all right,” Galen said. “She’s just saving her voice for her appearance at the theater tonight.”

At the end of the ceremony, when the bishop declared, “You may now kiss the bride,” his raised eyebrows seemed to imply that Galen already had, repeatedly. So the viscount placed a chaste kiss on Margot’s lips, as a mark of respect. His inclinations were screaming otherwise, but he would let no one treat his lady like a light-skirt, not even himself.

Then the bishop left and Skippy produced a bottle of wine for a toast that was almost as long as the bishop’s service. Blushing at all the praise he was heaping on her, Margot tried to thank the reverend.

“Oh, no. You have to call me Skippy, ma’am. Skip the formalities, don’t you know. Everyone does.”

“Thank you, ah, Skippy. And you may call me Margot, but not for a week or so, if you do not mind. For right now I think I need to get used to being addressed as Lady Woodbridge.”

Skippy tipped his glass back again. “Well spoken, my lady. Deuces, but you’ll make a grand duchess some day. Woodbridge couldn’t have found himself a better ’un, and I’ll challenge anyone who says otherwise! Couldn’t be happier, ma’am. Unless, of course, you’d married me instead.”

Then Skippy couldn’t be more eager to head to White’s to spread the news and collect his winnings. Of course no one there believed a word he said, not Skip-brain Skidmore.

Lord and Lady Woodbridge took the carriage back to Woburton House, Grosvenor Square. Since coming to London, Margot had barely glimpsed the stately homes of the upper classes. Now she was to live in one of them, and one of the grandest at that. Before she could begin to wonder how many times Mrs. McGuirk’s little house would fit into this imposing edifice, the front doors were thrown open, and a bewigged butler was bowing her inside with enough formality for visiting royalty.

“This is Fenning, my dear. You’ll get used to him,” was all Galen said.

In the massive hall, scores of menservants in their navy and gold livery and maids in their navy uniforms with crisp white caps and aprons were waiting to welcome Margot to her new home. She would have faltered on the doorstep, but for Galen at her side.

“Don’t worry, my dear, I understand they are all thrilled to have a new mistress.” He did not add that they were especially thrilled their new viscountess was not to be Lady Floria Cleary. He’d just learned from his valet, Clegg, this morning, over deliberations on the correct attire for an impromptu wedding, how much the staff had been dreading Florrie’s ascendancy. She was a demanding enough guest the few times they’d entertained her, a pretty enough gel with a grande dame’s hauteur. No one would have dared criticize her to their employer, of course, no more than they would show his new bride any disrespect. “They will adore you.” He was not sure about the dog, hearing shrieks from the kitchen regions.

Clutching her bouquet in one hand and Galen’s arm in her other, Margot made her way down the line of servants as Fenning intoned each name and position. She tried to match names to faces, but gave up midway. When the butler was done and bowing to her again—Heavens, the man would get a permanent crick in his neck if he kept this up—she thanked them all for their welcome and begged them to forgive her if she could not recall their identities at first. “My head is still too full of his lordship’s string of names.” Even Fenning smiled at her, which made her feel better than when she’d passed her first audition at Drury Lane.

“Tea is served in the Crimson Room, milady. We were not certain if you wished to dine before the theater or later.”

Fenning made it sound as though she were attending the playhouse as Lord Woodbridge’s guest. She would not let him pretend such a thing for the staff, even if the truth offended his sense of dignity. “Oh, after. I could never face an audience on a full stomach. Where would the butterflies go?”

She could not tell if she had lost the high-stickler’s regard as he bowed again and left them, his back as rigid as a lamp pole. Galen patted her arm as he led her down the hall. “Don’t worry. Old Fenning disapproves of me, too. But he’ll come around. I’ll send him to the theater one night so he can see what a gift you have, to be shared. I cannot help noticing, however, that you do not seem to enjoy performing in public. If your nerves are overset at facing the theater audience, you do not have to do it. I can pay off your contract, you know.”

“What, because I suffer foolish stage fright? No, a replacement is too hard to find at such short notice. Besides, how could we make that big splash in society’s fishpond if I do not perform?”

“I am thinking that you’d cause enough of a ripple if we drove in the park. No one could conceive that I’d be wearing the willow for Florrie, not when I have you on my arm. The newspaper announcements are enough, though, so you
do not have to put yourself on display.” Suddenly the idea of all the other men in London ogling his bride was not as attractive. “But the choice is yours, of course.”

“I sing.” Margot had left his side to examine the paintings that filled the niches between the crimson draperies of the vast drawing room. She’d seen the artwork of Italy, of course, and visited the Royal Academy in London once, where the pictures were so badly displayed that she could not see the half of them. But this was a veritable treasure trove of masterpieces—Italian, French, Flemish, like a huge illustrated book of great artworks. Skippy had been right, Galen’s house was like a museum, only better. Now she could admire the paintings whenever she wished, with her spectacles on. “My brother will be thrilled.”

He nodded, studying her as she walked around the room, delighted that she seemed to admire and appreciate his collection. “We’ll start with the solicitors tomorrow about changing his guardianship. I’d like to have the law on my side before I confront your uncle, but I will not leave the boy with him either way.”

“I have every confidence you will do what is best for Ansel.” She was too rapt in the artwork to notice that Galen had poured tea and filled a plate of elegant cakes and tarts for her. She nibbled at what he put in her hand as she moved around the parlor, asking about this artist, that school. He couldn’t wait to show her the portrait gallery and the paintings in the rest of the house. Unfortunately, she would not be viewing the Vermeer in his bedroom any time soon.