Secrets of a Scandalous Bride (7 page)

Rowland shielded the dowager from view. The old woman had not the faintest idea how to go on in these matters.

“John, something has gone awry. Sarah wasn’t to leave Beaufort’s carriage. She was to wait for—” she squeaked.

“Hush,” Rowland interrupted in a harsh whisper.

Mr. Brown glared at him.

“John, do something,” she begged. “Something terrible is about to happen. I feel it.”

“Lord Wymith is with her,” Brown smoothed over. “Give it a moment, Ata. He’s taking her to one of the enclosed pews on the far side.”

Rowland looked across the aisle only to encounter the hard stares of Helston and Ellesmere, who stood quietly behind the celebrated groom. Their wives sat in the pew behind them as one of them was obviously with child.

All at once the organ music swelled in celebration, and the massive space reverberated with sound.

With the talent of a youth spent in the shadows, Rowland searched the church for possible escape venues. And then he saw
her
.

The damned black wig was slightly askew—very slightly, but God bless her, Elizabeth Ashburton’s chin was high and she negotiated the crowd as confidently as a duchess on her way to the well-padded family pew. Only his damned footman might give them away, what with those rounded eyes of his bouncing around in their sockets.

Rowland slowly dipped toward the dowager duchess. “Delighted to inform your worst fears are confirmed, madam,” he purred. “And your dream of a heroic rescue? Soon to be dashed too.”

“Coward,” Mr. Brown replied softly with a huge false smile for the benefit of anyone watching.

The dowager’s eyes blazed with vexation. She abruptly brought her cane down on Rowland’s foot. “Don’t disappoint me, young man.”

In the aftermath, Rowland would blame it all on his fool of a footman, who took one look at the only person he knew in the church, Rowland, and made the mistake of leading Elizabeth to stand beside him. Elizabeth stood as still as a statue, her face resolute.

And then the whole bloody affair unfolded like a tawdry black comedy in Drury Lane.

The auburn-haired bride, drenched to the dregs in lace, appeared at the great doors. Uniformly every last chit sighed in rapture as if a bloody miracle were in the making. Or perhaps they sighed over his sodding half brother Michael, who proffered his arm to the bride for support down the aisle.

As Miss Victoria Givan approached her ducal fiancé, the final notes of the music echoed from the high, arched ceiling. The archbishop, presiding over the regal wedding, began the ceremony, his booming voice casting a spell on the elegant crowd.

Moments later a royal entourage encompassing courtly blokes as well as a dozen soldiers and officers spewed through the rear of the church. They stopped short of advancing farther than the last pews.

Rowland dared to look at Elizabeth again, only to find her profile as beautiful and even as he remembered. Never had he seen a woman’s face so full of resignation and unwavering courage. Her expression eschewed pity; instead it embraced some sort of hopeless fortitude. She turned her face slightly to acknowledge him. For one brief instant, her glacial mask slipped out of place, and he unwillingly spied the deep recesses of her soul.

A searing blaze of pain burned through the frost encrusting his heart and he tasted bitter fear.

And yet, there was not a single supplication in her expression. Indeed, where there might have been expectation, there was naught but self-reliance. For some curious reason, it moved a tiny particle near his cold heart.

And then, just like a curious case of déjà vu, a murmur passed through the guests, and Rowland’s
attention was drawn back to the entrance, where General Pymm stood, just as he had a mere week ago, resplendent in his perpetual formal dress. The general, second only to the newly anointed Duke of Wellington, had a way of standing as if he were posing for a sculptor’s benefit. Wellington himself appeared moments later only to open wide the door for the bulky form of the Prince Regent to sally forth.

The archbishop was the only one unimpressed with the newest guests, and he continued on, oblivious to the condescension bestowed on the bridal couple and the fervor of royal servants attending to the imperial party.

Rowland glanced at Elizabeth and noticed a tiny vein near her temple beating erratically. His gut clenched. He had the nearly overwhelming albeit ridiculous desire to do something to ease her tension. He sighed, annoyed almost past the point of tolerance.

But really, what did he have to lose? It was not as if anyone would expect decorum from him. If distraction was called for, he could easily provide it with very little loss to himself. He refused to acknowledge that it could very well harm the tender shoots of the more cultivated image he had sought by coming to this damned wedding.

Christ,
what
had she done?

Well, then. When and if the soldiers attempted to close the gap toward her, he would do something so outrageous that all attention would be drawn to him. Surely a few blasphemes in church would not further mar his already eternally damned soul.

At the last moment, he came to his senses. The Duke of Beaufort leaned forward at the conclusion
of the vows and swept his new bride into a romantic embrace. But none of the Helston clan watched the couple as they were all staring at him. Expecting him to…What on earth?

He wanted no part of this disaster-in-the-making. He didn’t even belong here. And he certainly didn’t have one bloody reason to save a lying wench with a face capable of slaying thousands. He had problems of his own to solve. Why, he should bundle her under his arm, deliver her to the retinue of officers himself, and demand a reward.

The bridal couple turned to face the congregation. Upon seeing their royal entourage in the rear, the duke and his new duchess bowed and curtsied deeply.

Rowland registered the expression on Pymm’s face. The blond general’s smile was tight, and his eyes a washed-out blue. The face of London’s favorite hero glowed with an ill-concealed, odd excitement.

And then three things happened all at once.

The Duke and new Duchess of Beaufort advanced one step down the aisle. General Pymm advanced one step forward. And finally…Elizabeth yanked Rowland’s arm so abruptly he involuntarily stumbled into the center of the aisle between the bridal couple and the royal guests.

What the devil?
When he stared into her glittering eyes, for the merest half moment, he had the most absurd notion that she was about to jump into his arms.

He was to learn that he had entirely underestimated her.

T
his woman, the one who had invaded his dreams from the first day he had found her in his carriage, grasped his neck with both her hands and brazenly, wantonly, and very scandalously pulled him down to meet the softest, sweetest lips he had ever known.

His arms responded despite an orchestra of bells jangling a discordant alarm. Ignoring all, he wrapped himself about her, clasping her tightly to his chest, and kissed her back in the most outrageous, ostentatious fashion imaginable.

If he was going to be involuntarily engaged in this farce, he might as well do it properly. He was nothing if not thorough—and there was something within him that refused to appear the slightest bit unwilling. After all, this was for show, and very easy to enact for there was not an inch of emotions at play—other than the obvious fear her lips betrayed as they trembled against his own.

It was a curious sensation. Long ago he’d made it a rule to avoid kissing. Rutting was altogether another matter when he chose it. As the years had rolled by, it became something he did not choose unless he could
not help it. And it irritated the hell out of him. There were days, nay weeks, he felt apart from the rest of the world—almost soulless.

In some distant chamber of his mind, the scornful roar of shocked whispers finally registered.

She finally broke off the kiss, turning her face to his lapel. Yet she did not loosen her tight grip on his neck. It was as if she couldn’t yet face the magnitude of what she had done.

“Dare I mention that we are not alone?” he whispered with a tinge of dry humor. “Not that I’m complaining, you understand.”

Her hot breath fanned over his cheek.

“Manning? Oh, Mr. Manning, my dear fellow,” the amused voice of the Prince Regent called out. “Do take your, ahem, lady bird and yourself off now. You’ve made it abundantly clear you’re not yet well enough trained to be let loose on polite society. Wellington, do fetch my snuffbox. And Pymm, I need you.”

The Duke of Wellington, obviously annoyed at playing the lapdog, immediately acceded to the royal order, and Pymm’s obsequious bow played to Prinny’s vanity while his tight smile proved his fury.

Helston and Ellesmere advanced behind Rowland as the rest of the church guests held their breath, hoping and praying there would be more to this rich scene; the retelling of which would enliven their entertainments for years to come.

“Be a good fellow, Manning,” Helston insisted quietly, “and do as His Majesty commands. Here now, Ellesmere and I shall escort you.”

Rowland heard little for Elizabeth had finally raised
her stark eyes to meet his, and in a rush he gathered her arm and placed it on top of his forearm. “Make yourself scarce,” he muttered to Joshua Gordon, the most feckless footman in all of creation.

He escorted Elizabeth down the center aisle toward the exit, not waiting for the two blasted lords to help him. He could feel her desire to go the other direction as they neared the royal trio, but he would not allow it. They halted in front of the Prince Regent and made a courtly bow and curtsy before easing away.

The prince’s voice stopped them. “Oh, Manning? Do tell me, since you’re so conveniently here anyway, who shall win the Royal Ascot Gold Cup? I shall forgive you your vulgar display if you tell me true.”

“Eventide Vespers, Your Majesty.
My
horse, of course.”

“And who is your saucy minx?” the Prince Regent fixed his watery gaze on Elizabeth.

“You cannot possibly expect me to divulge the name of
both
my prized mares, can you, Your Majesty?”

Prinny laughed at the outrageously fatuous remark and then languidly waved a hand in the air. “Off with you, and your raven-haired baggage, too. But I would have a word with you next week.”

Her hand was clawing his arm like a cat on a high perch above a howling dog.

As they passed Pymm, the general stepped away and spoke quietly in Elizabeth’s direction, “I shall wait on Mrs. Winters this afternoon,
wherever
she may be residing. I would be
delighted
if you make up our party.”

Elizabeth’s gaze swiveled toward her friend, who stood a mere two pews from them. Sarah’s face was resigned and held not a hint of fear. But then, Sarah had never fully believed Pymm capable of performing the cruelties Elizabeth suggested. Sarah had only insisted on standing by her, and following her when she was determined to run away and return to England.

Elizabeth indicated her assent to Pymm with the smallest bob of her head. And then they were outside, and Rowland Manning was pushing past the crowds on the steps of St. George’s, past the morass of carriages, until she could finally breathe again.

He stopped before the simple conveyance that had brought her here. Just two words crossed his lips as he opened the door. “Get in.”

Elizabeth Ashburton did as he bade, without comment. He closed the door, leaving her alone in the darkness of the curtained interior. The bark of an order met her ears.

“Give me the ribbons, Jonesy. I’m driving.”

The carriage glided forward without the usual jolt.

God
…Elizabeth felt the hot burn of tears threaten to spill over her lashes and used her father’s old trick. She pressed her tongue to the top of her palate as firmly as she could until she stopped trembling.

Her heart was pounding so furiously she was certain she would see it if she looked. She felt as wretched as the day she had learned her father was dead.

So was it all for naught? The long journey from Spain to England, the hiding for two years, the endless secrecy? She fell against the leather squabs of the
carriage and twisted the small handkerchief she’d found in her pocket. God, she hated the powerlessness of being a woman.

Elizabeth gave herself up to the cyclone of thoughts she had so assiduously held at bay for all these many months, and failed to take notice of the direction they took. It was not until the carriage halted as smoothly as it had started that she wondered where he had taken her.

The door opened and sunlight spilled into the darkness. Elizabeth stared at the hand waiting for hers.

She grasped it finally, and he helped her from the carriage before nodding to the driver. “Return in half an hour, Jonesy.”

“Sir.” The ginger-haired man nodded respectfully and snapped the ribbons above the twin bays, which instantly set off.

Elizabeth glanced about to find that they were at the edge of a large stand of trees near a river—the River Thames, it appeared. “Where are we?” she murmured.

“Who are you?” he spoke quietly, so unlike his usual harsh demands.

“You already know who I am.”

“No.
Who are you?
”

She held her gaze steady on his face. “Just a girl—like a thousand others.” She paused, but then felt compelled to continue when she realized he would not speak again. He was waiting and with such a look on his face that she did not doubt he would wait for all of eternity until she answered to his satisfaction. “Just a girl whose father loved her very much. A girl who was not worthy of his affection…Just an undeserving
girl who cannot make up her mind what to do.”

“You,” he said, shaking his head, “can’t make up your mind? Why, you are the single most obstinate, capable female I’ve ever had the displeasure to know. Now, we will start again. Who are you?”

She sighed. “Miss Elizabeth Ashburton.”

His eyebrows rose a notch. “And your parents?”

“My mother died giving birth to me,” she began.

“And who was your father?”

“George Richard Ashburton, captain of a company within a Light Division that served in the Peninsula.”

“I knew you were a spy.”

“Have you always had this odd fixation regarding spies?” She shook her head. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

He ignored her. “Well, what in bloody hell are you, then? Why is Pymm sniffing after you like a beggar before a bakery? And what did you mean to gain by that lunatic scene?”

She stiffened. But really, at this point, she had so little to lose by telling him a portion of her past. A small portion. “He insists we’re betrothed.” The words tasted bitter on her tongue. “And I want nothing of him. I’m sorry, but the temptation for a reprieve proved too great. I guessed Pymm’s pride would forbid him to say a word in my direction after I—I kissed you so publicly.”

For the first time in their short acquaintance, Rowland Manning was caught speechless. He finally recollected himself. “You stole the peacock’s bloody pocket watch, didn’t you?”

She looked away, incapable of playing along with any sort of humor. “Look, I realize how ridiculous it
must appear to you. Obviously I’ve no dowry, nothing in particular to recommend. And he’s so very rich, and soon to be a duke. But, well, there you have it.”

“Uh, I think you are forgetting the part about how he is a goddamn, bloody, sodding
national hero
.” His voice rose with each word. “Or did you not know he delivered Boney’s hat to the crown, along with a pair of golden French eagles?”

She said not a word.

“All right. I see I shall have to take your word that old sober sides offered for you. Now you will tell me why, God bless it, you haven’t seized the opportunity of a lifetime. You’d be a bloody duchess in less than a month’s time. Set up forever like a queen. Rings on your fingers, bells on your toes, dining with kings, embroidering cushions for fat fannies or doing whatever the hell ladies do at court—”

“If you see all the advantages, then why don’t you marry him?” The last she nearly hissed.

He laughed heartily. “I would if I bloody could. Come now, what is this really about? Because if you think to suggest you’d prefer peeling rotted vegetables in my bloody kitchen to sorting jewels as Pymm’s duchess, well—”

“Has anyone ever told you that you blaspheme far too much? It ruins the effect. You might try to limit your oaths to one every other phrase instead of
every
phrase, Mr. Manning.”

He stared hard at her. “Why the devil won’t you marry him?”

She should have known that trying to converse with him about this would be next to impossible.
“Perhaps I do not think he could make me happy or I, him.”

He rocked on his heels and made an exasperated sound as he removed his hat and dragged his hand through his hair—and for a moment she was reminded of his half brother.

“And what does
happiness
have to do with it?” He spoke the word with exaggerated disdain. “Dear God, don’t tell me you’re a romantic? I would think life following the militia would have cured you of such nonsense.”

“I’ve never been a romantic.”

“Well, since you’ve no one to explain it to you, allow me to enlighten you on how marriage works. You must think of it like breeding horses. The mares are kept strictly away from the stallions during courtship. The owners, or parents if you will, carefully consider the bloodlines, the value of the potential mates, the robustness and likelihood of offspring. Only then is it decided if it will be a good coupling. Unless of course, as in your case, you have a winner of a horse who is full of himself and has broken down his stall to get to a mare’s scent that’s driving him mad. But what is not part of the consideration is
goddamned, bloody happiness
. For those who desire such fleeting illusions, my dear, that is sought in a completely different paddock.” He paused. “After the heir is got.”

“You appear to know all about it,” Elizabeth replied.

“Of course I do. Into whose paddocks do you think those titled, well-used mares jump?”

While it was obvious he tried to give an appearance
of wickedness in his smile, Elizabeth saw something darker—harder.

He exhaled with annoyance. “You’re missing the point. For Pymm’s astounding fortune, surely you can overlook a few tiny irritations such as his grandiose ideas of his own importance, his boorish, lecturing tendencies, and his, uh, less than polished wit. But, really, you should endure him even if he whinnies through his nose.”

“I cannot.” She closed her eyes briefly and then stared past him toward the fast-moving river.

“Why?”

And with that gently spoken word, she wavered, and prayed she would not actually be foolish enough to place her trust in him. But she could not stop herself from telling him, for she had a long history of misjudging others. In her indecision, she produced a nonsensical phrase she barely knew she spoke aloud. “I have no proof…”

“Of what?”

“You won’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

“No.”

He grasped her arms and forced her to encounter his hard gaze. “Enough. Tell me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re a hard-hearted blackguard, without a single shred of trust or compassion in your bullying hide.”

He arched a brow. “And that matters why?”

“I don’t know,” she said brokenly. She knew she was babbling now, forming not a word of sense.

“Where is the girl with the fire in her belly? The one who has men eating out of her hand? The one who makes
me
eat out of her hand?” he asked slyly.

“She’s tired.” She sank to the ground, the earthy scent of the summer grasses almost comforting. Elizabeth gave in to the enigmatic look on his rigid face above her. “My father refused the general’s offer because I asked him to. You see, at first I thought Leland Pymm everything noble and courageous, yet as time passed I thought I saw glimpses of an odd and sometimes cruel man behind the façade. I believe I misjudged him initially.” She inhaled sharply, and said disjointedly, “Less than a week after the refusal, my father and Sarah’s husband were killed at the siege of Badajoz. I believe Pymm had a hand in it.”

He grasped her arms and forced her to stand. “Really?”

“I knew you wouldn’t believe it,” she said, unable to keep the peevish tone from her voice.

“No. It’s just I had no idea old Pymm had it in him—never thought he’d like someone as much as he likes himself. A bit gothic, isn’t it?”

“I told you it’s something I can never prove.”

“I’m sorry, but I fear I’ve missed something,” he said. “Why haven’t you just told the sodding goat to go to hell? Tell him you don’t want the piles of money he would lavish on you, or his bloody title. This is the nineteenth century, not the Middle Ages, is it not? I’m beginning to think you’re the one who is…Christ, he didn’t ravish you, did he? Ruin you for…”