The Marriage Act (4 page)

Good Lord, she’d even picked his pocket that night.

He must have been mad to propose marriage to a girl he scarcely knew. Even when he’d asked her father’s permission to pay his addresses and he and Bishop Fleetwood had talked for more than an hour, the conversation had been about
him
—his qualifications, his sentiments, his hopes and plans for the future. He’d asked not a single question about Caroline’s character and temperament. Instead, he’d made the mistake of choosing a wife based on looks.

Except—except, it hadn’t just been her looks. Oh, her extraordinary beauty had been the first thing he’d noticed about her, the attribute that had made him admire her from afar for months and the temptation that had finally made him ask on Easter Sunday if he might walk her home from church. But in that first stroll together he thought he’d seen much more, good humor and sweetness and a warm, loving heart.

“You look like a breath of spring in that new bonnet, Miss Fleetwood,” he’d told her as they headed west from St. George’s. “Is it sacrilegious to say my favorite aspect of Easter may be the young ladies in new bonnets?”

“I hope not, since the bonnets are my favorite aspect of Easter, as well. Bonnets, and hot cross buns on Good Friday.”

“And you the daughter of a bishop...!” he said in mock horror. “I was sure it must be something more sacred—the Resurrection, perhaps, or the promise of eternal life.”

“Oh, dear.” Her forehead puckered, as if the prospect of having given the wrong answer genuinely troubled her. “Should I have said one of those?”

He laughed. “No, I was only teasing. It’s just that hot cross buns seem so very ordinary.”

At his assurance, she relaxed and glanced across at him. “You mustn’t speak ill of hot cross buns. They have magical properties, you know.”

“Ah, yes, it’s said they never turn moldy.”

“More than that.” Her smile was brilliant, sunny and full of cheer. “If two people share one together and repeat ‘Half for you and half for me, between us two goodwill shall be,’ they’ll be fast friends. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Wonderful indeed, if baked goods can guarantee true friendship.”

“I like to believe they can. And my old nurse told me that if a girl saves a hot cross bun from one Good Friday to the next, she’ll marry within the next year.”

“Do you mean to try it?”

She blushed, and the color in her cheeks only made her lovelier. “To be honest, I tried it when I was fifteen.”

“Then unless you’re rather young to be out, it appears the magic didn’t work.”

“No,” she admitted with a laugh. “Those old folk charms never work for me, though I can’t resist trying them, just in case. Papa likes to chide me for it, saying they’re more pagan than Christian—though if anyone spills the salt, he’s always the first to throw a pinch over his shoulder.”

And so they’d gone on, talking nonsense together. She spoke fondly of her new nephew, her oldest brother’s baby, and expressed interest when John mentioned his hopes for a diplomatic career. She shared his opinion that big families were more felicitous than small ones, and that intimate dinner parties were more enjoyable than crowded balls. She enjoyed gardening and adored hedgehogs.

All too soon, they reached her father’s house in Hertford Street.

At the close of the church service on the following Sunday, he practically leaped from his pew at the last words of the blessing, banging his shin in his haste to reach her side and offer his escort. She accepted, and all the way from St. George’s to her front door, he was dazzled by her unaffected manner and ready smile. The crowning moment came when they encountered her neighbor, Sir Francis Culverhouse, walking in their direction on Charles Street, holding his little girl’s hand.

“Poor Sir Francis,” Caroline whispered to John. “He lost his wife to childbed fever last month. And poor Miss Culverhouse! Only three years old and already motherless.”

She greeted Sir Francis with a kind word and stooped to speak to the little girl at her eye level. “How good to see you out with your papa, Miss Culverhouse!” Caroline said warmly, reaching out to press the child’s free hand. “You must ask your nurse to bring you to Bishop Fleetwood’s house one afternoon, for we always keep marzipan about at this time of year. I would so love to have you come to call.”

There was something so sweet and natural about the gesture, so
giving
, that John ended that second walk even more smitten than before. He was determined that the next time they met, he would ask Miss Fleetwood whether he might take her for a drive.

Then he’d received the news he’d obtained an appointment as First Attaché to His Majesty’s embassy in Austria, and the rest had been one rash decision after another.

Chapter Five

It is more from carelessness about truth than from intentionally lying that there is so much falsehood in the world
.

—Samuel Johnson

By the end of the day they’d reached their goal, The George in the village of Little Brickhill. Caro would have preferred a bedchamber to herself, but there was no chance of that. Not only did The George have only a single suitable room left—Ronnie and Welford’s valet were forced to take more modest accommodation at a neighboring establishment, The White Lion—but Welford refused to consider allowing her to sleep alone and unprotected in a public inn, without so much as a maid in attendance. No, they would be sharing a room.

She and Welford dined in the inn’s sole private dining parlor. Not that it was really all that private, or even much of a dining parlor. It was a mere alcove off the taproom, with a wooden screen drawn across the open end to shield them from prying eyes—and that also left something to be desired, for there was a gap of several feet on one side where the serving boy passed in and out. As Caro sat picking at her food, she had to ignore the gaze of a blond gentleman in the taproom who sat ogling her through the gap.

Though the food was tasty enough, she was more tired than hungry. Even so, she was in no hurry to retire. If sharing a carriage with Welford had been unpleasant, it would be nothing to the tension of sharing a room with him all night. So far they’d done little except quarrel, and at times he’d been downright insulting.

The serving boy bustled in, bearing wine and a tray of cheese. He had brown curls and ruddy cheeks, and looked several years younger than Ronnie. “Here we are, my lord, my lady. Good Gloucester cheese.”

“Oh, excellent,” Caro said. “There’s no cheese like Gloucester cheese.”

“Do you come from Gloucestershire, my lady?” the boy asked with interest. “I was born in Lechlade myself.”

“Were you? Yes, I’m from Ch—Cheltenham.”

“I went to Cheltenham once, to see a horse race. I do swear, half the world must have been there.” He swept an invisible crumb from the tablecloth. “Is there anything else you wish for, then?”

“I’m tempted to say ‘justice and peace in the world,’” Welford answered, “but I take it you mean from the kitchen, so the answer is no, thank you.”

Caro beamed at the boy, and he withdrew.

Welford studied her as she sipped her wine. “Why did you tell him you were from Cheltenham? You grew up in Chelmsford.”

“Yes, I know, but it was easier to agree, and now he thinks we have something in common. It obviously gave him pleasure to think we were from the same corner of the world. Setting him straight would only erase that small sense of connection, so why take the trouble?”

“Because you’re not from Cheltenham. And while his thinking he’s met a neighbor may earn us a better breakfast in the morning or even keep us from being cheated in the reckoning, you know perfectly well it isn’t true.”

Did he have to find fault with everything she did? The boy had been happier for her little fib, and it wasn’t as if she’d robbed him of his life’s savings. “I didn’t say it to avoid being cheated in the reckoning. I was only being friendly.”

“And dishonest.”

She was tired of trying to justify herself when they might both be eating their dinner in peace. “What difference does it make? After tonight, I doubt I’ll ever see that boy again.”

Welford gave her a skeptical look.

Nothing she did ever seemed to please him, and no amount of time or good behavior was ever going to erase her mistakes. What she meant as friendliness and amiability, he saw only as deceitfulness. If by some miracle she could walk on water as the Gospels said Jesus had done, Welford would only point out she was sure to ruin her slippers.

Picking at her food, she stole a glance at him—handsome, cold and always maddeningly superior. He might find little to approve in her, but other gentlemen weren’t half so critical. The blond gentleman in the taproom, for instance, was still ogling her openly through the gap in the screen.

A perverse impulse seized her. She waited until she was sure Welford was glancing in her direction, then looked out into the taproom and caught the blond gentleman’s eye. Caro smiled, and the gentleman grinned back wolfishly before she looked away.

There. Flush with a mingled sense of victory and defiance, Caro went back to eating her dinner, pretending she had no notion Welford had witnessed the exchange. Perhaps now he would realize she wasn’t a mere encumbrance to be slighted and criticized, but a lady worthy of other men’s admiration.

They finished their meal in silence. Caro stood. “I believe I’ve had enough. If you’ll excuse me...”

As she made her way out to the necessary, she was still basking in the disproportionate pleasure she’d taken in provoking Welford, catching the blond gentleman’s eye. It had been a small act of rebellion, but she rarely had occasion to feel so daring or so admired. Not since before her wedding—probably not since she’d fallen in love with Lawrence. In fact, the way Lawrence could bring out that daring feeling in her had been a large part of his charm.

She’d met him after a performance at Astley’s Circus she’d attended as part of her young friend Lady Jane Mainsforth’s party. They’d seen a menagerie and a strong man and a clown and even a ropewalker who...oh, she couldn’t remember what the man had done exactly, but at the time it had all seemed quite thrilling.

Leaving the amphitheater afterward, laughing and excited, their party encountered Lieutenant Howe. Jane’s brother Lord Cliburne knew him, and he made the introductions.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Lawrence said with an exaggerated bow, smiling first at Jane and then at Caro, his gaze refusing to move on to Jane’s younger sister. He had honey-blond hair, and eyes of such a light blue they were almost silver.

While Caro waited beside Jane, Lieutenant Howe chatted briefly with Jane’s brother. He looked smart in his scarlet uniform. Caro supposed she’d have no chance to speak with him herself, but to her surprise he slipped up beside her as they continued to the Mainsforths’ waiting carriage.

“Did you enjoy the show, Miss Fleetwood?”

“Very much. Did you?”

“I certainly enjoyed the female equestrian act.” When Lieutenant Howe smiled, his eyes twinkled. “One doesn’t often see a girl in nothing but flesh-colored tights, especially one who can kick up her leg that high.”

The remark took her by surprise, for it sounded risqué. Gentlemen rarely made risqué remarks to clergymen’s daughters, and never to the daughter of a bishop. “The strong man didn’t seem much concerned with modesty either,” she answered with an arch glance in his direction.

He laughed. That was another thing gentlemen rarely did around her, as if her father’s position cloaked her in an aura of humorless respectability. Usually when she said something arch, people merely looked confused, as if they weren’t sure whether she’d meant to be saucy or not. She felt witty and sophisticated, making Lieutenant Howe laugh.

“Cliburne tells me you’re from Chelmsford,” he said.

“Yes, I divide my time between there and Town, as my father’s obligations require.”

“What a small world it is. I’m in Town on personal business, but I hail from Ingatestone, and my regiment is quartered in Chelmsford.” He lowered his voice. “Do you know, you smell wonderful.”

A flutter of excitement ran through her. She often wore the
eau d’ange
her father had given her for her birthday, but she’d never had a young man comment on it before. She was quite sure it was improper for him to make such a personal remark, especially when they’d only just met, but she liked it just the same. “Thank you.”

“When you’re in Chelmsford, do you ever attend the public assemblies at the Shire Hall?”

“Sometimes, when my friends make up a party.”

“I hope to see you there sometime—next month, perhaps. Will you save your waltzes for me?”

Caro hesitated. The waltz was a new and rather shocking dance, and though the number of soldiers in Chelmsford had declined since the days when Bonaparte seemed poised to invade, the militia still had a rakish reputation. They drilled only three days a week, leaving them often at leisure. Quite a few soldiers made a second home of the tavern near the barracks, where they indulged in gambling and drinking and—it was rumored—sometimes worse.

But Lieutenant Howe was an officer and a gentleman, and however forward he might be, it wasn’t every day that she met such a handsome young man, let alone one who shared her corner of the world. “If you wish.”

“Until then,” Lieutenant Howe said, giving her a sweeping bow before they parted. “I’ll be counting the days.”

Jane’s brother must have heard the exchange, for on the drive back to Mayfair he sat beside her in the carriage and said in a confidential undertone, his brow wrinkling, “I don’t mean to worry you, Miss Fleetwood, but I’m not sure it was wise to promise to save your dances for Lieutenant Howe.”

“Why, is he bad
ton
?”

“Oh, no, I would never have made the introduction if he were. But if you’ll excuse my telling tales out of school, he’s rather in the petticoat line, and I’m not sure your father would approve.”

She nodded and tried to look grave, but if it had been Lord Cliburne’s aim to make her change her mind, he might have saved his breath. As much as she loved her father, she wasn’t interested in the kind of men likely to please a bishop.

Since the moment she’d made her come-out, friends and chaperones had been introducing her to single clergymen, from well-connected young rectors to lowly curates, and every one of those gentlemen seemed more interested in currying favor with her father than in getting to know her. They usually tried to impress her with their dedication to their calling, when she would much rather have talked about the gathering around them or the play they’d just seen. But since admitting she had no interest in church politics would have shocked them to the core, she had to pretend to be fascinated by their tales of power struggles with the vestry and clashes with the altar guild.

And when would-be matchmakers weren’t presenting an unmarried clergyman to her, they were presenting a grieving widower or a social reformer—all very good, very pious gentlemen, gentlemen Caro wished all the best, but gentlemen without a whiff of fun or audacity about them. All Caro’s friends seemed to think that just because her father was a bishop, she dreamed of marrying a saint.

No wonder, then, that when she arrived home that day, the marvels she’d seen at Astley’s quickly faded from her memory, while Lieutenant Howe’s twinkling blue eyes remained impossible to forget.

She kept their rendezvous at the Shire Hall the following month. They danced one and a half waltzes together—the half because midway through the set, he took her by the hand and spirited her from the dance floor.

“Where are we going?” she asked as he led her to the exit, tucking her hand under his arm.

“Outside,” he said with a careless grin. “To enjoy a few moments of privacy.”

She should have dug in her heels and refused to go with him, but her heart raced with anticipation. Once outside, he drew her around the Shire Hall to the back of the building, to where her father’s cathedral stood directly across from them, watching over their encounter like a slumbering chaperone. For the next quarter of an hour, Lieutenant Howe whispered endearments and pressed heated kisses on her. From that night on, she was head over heels for him, and she was sure he felt the same way about her.

It was supposed to be the beginning of a lifelong passion, that first evening with Lawrence, but she saw him only twice more after that. At their third meeting he not only kissed her behind the Shire Hall but also slipped his hand inside the neckline of her gown as he ground his lean hips against hers. She thought she would die from excitement and happiness. As soon as she arrived home, she dashed off a letter and sent it to him by linkboy, impulsively suggesting they elope to Gretna Green. It was a foolish letter, and monstrously indiscreet, but it was no more unsuitable than the things he’d whispered to her as he’d groped her in the darkness.

She received his frosty dismissal the next morning—the very day Welford proposed. The humiliation of Lawrence’s rejection had driven reason from her head. And now she was Welford’s wife, until death did them part, with no one to blame but herself.

It was pitch-black outside, and the rough voices of ostlers called back and forth from the inn yard. Returning from the necessary, Caro quickened her steps on the narrow path that ran between the stables and the door to the inn.

She was nearly to the entrance when a man appeared before her, directly in her way. It was the blond gentleman from the taproom, the one who’d made no secret of staring at her.

“Excuse me.” Nervous, she tried to brush past him.

He blocked her with an arm across her path. “What’s your hurry, sweeting? I’d like to talk with you.”

“I don’t know you, sir.” She tried his other side, intending to go around him, but he sidestepped along with her. “Let me pass.”

“I told you, I want to talk to you.” He moved in closer—improperly close. “You’re a fetching little thing.”

His breath reeked of ale and cheap tobacco. She lowered her eyes but stood her ground. “I’m expected back. Let me by.”

He seized hold of her arm—not roughly, but that he would dare to touch her at all alarmed her. “Why so hoity-toity, pretty lady? The looks you were giving me inside weren’t half so cold.”

Caro regretted the childish impulse that had made her want to provoke Welford. “I wasn’t giving you any looks.”

“Playing hard to get now, are we? You were eyeing me right enough, and when I smiled at you, you smiled back.”

“You’ve made a mistake. I’m married.”

He laughed and leaned in knowingly. “As if married women never smile when they see something they like.”

“I didn’t smile at you.” Her heart hammered. “Let me go.”

“Don’t tell me—”

He gave a strangled yelp. One moment he was leering down at her, his hand heavy on her arm, and the next he seemed to launch backward, his feet flying off the flagstones.