The Wedding of the Century & Other Stories (5 page)

“I wish that I could say that was so, but there is no denying that there are some women of our order who are a disgrace to their sex—low-bred creatures who revel in their animal nature like barmaids. I know that you
are not like that, but you will meet women who are.” Leaning forward, Augusta said earnestly, “I cannot emphasize enough that it is fatal to seem to take pleasure in a gentleman's embrace. If you do, he will instantly lose all respect for you. A woman who acts like a prostitute will be treated like one. Always strive to maintain your dignity, Sarah—ultimately it is all that a lady has.”

With horror, Sunny remembered that when Paul had taken liberties, she had responded eagerly. Was that why he had made his degrading suggestion that she marry Thorn borough, then have an affair with him? She still thought his behavior despicable—but perhaps she had brought it on by her wantonness. Paul had seen her acting like a slut, so he had treated her like one. It was exactly what her mother was warning her about.

Apparently a woman who gave in to her animal nature also risked unleashing a man's worst traits. That had been bad enough in the case of Paul Curzon, but Thornborough was going to be her husband; if he didn't respect her, the marriage would be hellish.

Feeling ill, Sunny said, “I shall remember all you have said and I will strive to behave in a manner that you would approve.”

“I'm sure you will not disgrace your upbringing.” Augusta bit her lip, her usual confidence gone. “Oh, Sarah, I'm going to miss you dreadfully. You'll be so far away.”

Sunny resisted the temptation to point out that her mother should have thought of that before accepting the proposal of a foreigner. “I'll miss you, too. You must visit us at Swindon soon.”

Augusta shook her head. “Eventually, but not right away. I know that I'm a strong-minded woman, and I don't want to cause trouble between you and your husband.
Marriage is a difficult business, and you and he must have time together with as little interference as possible.”

At moments like this, Sunny loved her mother with painful intensity. It was true that Augusta was often domineering—yet her love for her children was very real. She was a woman of formidable energy; if she had a railroad or a bank to run, she might have been less absorbed in her daughter's life.

“I'll be fine,” Sunny said with determined optimism. “Thornborough is a gentleman, and I am a lady. I'm sure that we can contrive a civilized marriage between us.”

She wished that she was certain that was true.

T
EARS FLOWING DOWN HER
face, Sunny stood patiently while her maid laced up her white brocade bridal corset. Then Antoinette dropped the wedding gown over her head. It was magnificent, with foaming layers of Brussels lace and billows of white satin spangled with seed pearls and silver thread. Augusta had been so confident of her daughter's future triumph that she had ordered the gown from Worth when they visited Paris in March, before Sunny had ever set foot in London.

When the gown was fastened, Antoinette lifted the tulle veil and carefully draped it over the intricate coils of Sunny's hair. As the gauzy fabric floated down to her knees, the bride bleakly wondered if it was dense enough to conceal her tears.

Antoinette secured the veil with a coronet of orange blossoms, saying soothingly, “Don't fret, mademoiselle. Every girl is nervous on her wedding day.
Monsieur le Duc
is a fine gentleman, and he will make you very happy.”

Sunny's shoulders began shaking with the force of her sobs. Antoinette frowned and gave her a handkerchief, muttering, “Madame Vangelder should not have gone ahead to the church. A girl needs her mother at a time like this.”

As Sunny wept into the crumpled muslin square, a knock sounded at the door. Antoinette answered
and returned with a large white flower box. “For you, mademoiselle.”

“You can open it if you like,” Sunny said drearily.

Less jaded than her mistress, Antoinette opened the package, disclosing an exquisite orchid bouquet nestled in layers of tissue paper. “There is a card for you, mademoiselle.”

Sunny's puffy eyes widened when she read,
These flowers are from the Swindon greenhouse. If they are suitable, perhaps you might wish to carry them. Fondly, Justin.

Oblivious to the fate of her five-yard-long train, Sunny dropped into a chair and wept even harder.

“Oh, mam'zelle,” Antoinette said helplessly. “What about the orchids makes you weep? They are very lovely.”

“Yes, they are.” Sunny made a desperate effort to collect herself. “I was…touched by Thornborough's thoughtfulness in having them sent all the way from England.”

Though it was not something she could say to her maid, she was even more moved by the fact that he was actually letting her choose whether or not to carry them. Every other detail of the wedding—the trousseau, the decorations, the extravagant reception—had been determined by her mother. Even the eight bridesmaids—including two Vangelder cousins, a Whitney, a Jay and an Astor—had been selected by Augusta for reasons of her own. Sunny had been swept along like a leaf in a torrent.

But Justin had given her a choice. Surely with such a considerate man, she could be happy. Unsteadily she said, “I must look like a fright. Please bring me some cold water and a facecloth.” She glanced at the enormous bouquet Augusta had ordered. “You can set that aside. I will carry the orchids.”

“But…” After the beginning of a protest, the maid nodded. “Yes, mademoiselle. An excellent choice.”

As Antoinette went for the cold water, Sunny found herself wondering if the maid had ever endured the grotesquely undignified process of mating that Augusta had described. The thought almost sent her off in tears again.

For the last two days, at the most awkward moments, she had wondered the same thing about others: her brother Charlie, who was very fond of female company; the wife of the Anglican bishop who was going to perform the ceremony; Thornborough himself. Her morbid imaginings were turning her into a nervous wreck.

Antoinette returned with a basin of water and a cloth, then flipped the veil back over Sunny's head so that her face was bare. “You must hurry, mademoiselle, or you will be late.”

As she sponged her stinging eyes with the cool, moist cloth, Sunny snapped, “They can all
wait.
”

 

T
HE DAY BECAME INCREASINGLY
unreal. Fifth Avenue was lined on both sides with policemen assigned to prevent the thousands of spectators from breaking through. The wedding was to be at St. Thomas's Anglican church. Though the Vangelders didn't usually worship there, it was the only fashionable church with enough space for the seventy-voice choir Augusta had chosen.

Inside the church, huge arches of orange blossoms spanned the aisle, and banks of palms and chrysanthemums seemed to cover every vertical surface. Twenty-five excruciating minutes behind schedule, Sunny waited for her entrance, one icy hand clenched around her orchid bouquet and the other locked on her brother Charlie's
arm. Though she could not see the guests clearly in the dim light, every pew seemed to be filled.

As the bridesmaids marched smartly down the aisle to the music of the sixty-piece orchestra, Charlie whispered, “Buck up, Sunny. Show them that an American girl is every bit the equal of any European princess.”

The wedding march began, and Sunny started the long walk to the altar. If it hadn't been for her brother's firm support, the “American princess” might have fallen flat on her face.

With hysterical precision, she calculated that in the months since she had met Thornborough, they had seen each other for ten days, and been alone together for less than an hour.
Why was she marrying a stranger?
If it hadn't been for the five-yard train, she might have turned and bolted.

The dark figure of her fiancé waited impassively at the altar. Next to him was his best man, a pleasant fellow called Lord Ambridge, an old school friend of Justin's who was currently serving in the British Embassy in Washington.

As Sunny drew closer to her future husband, she saw that his expression was grim. Then she looked into his eyes and realized that he was as nervous as she. Her lateness must have made him wonder if she had changed her mind.

Dear God, how humiliating those long minutes of waiting must have been for him. As Charlie handed her over, she gave Thornborough an unsteady smile of apology.

His expression eased. He took her hand, and the warmth of his clasp was the most real thing she had experienced all day.

They turned to face the bishop, and the ancient, familiar words transformed the stranger beside her into her husband.

 

T
HE WEDDING NIGHT WAS
a disaster. Later Justin realized that it had been foolish of him to think it could have been otherwise, yet he had had the naive hope that once he and his bride were alone together, they would be able to relax. To become friends.

Instead, the “wedding breakfast” had proved to be a huge reception that seemed as if it would never end. By the time they reached their hotel suite, Sunny's face was gray with fatigue.

He wanted to hold her but restrained himself, for she looked as if she would shatter at a touch. They had a lifetime ahead of them; it would be foolish to rush matters now.

She mutely followed his suggestion that she relax with a long bath. Much later, after Sunny's maid had finished her ministrations and left for the night, he joined his wife in the spacious bedchamber. He expected to find her in the canopied bed, perhaps already asleep. Instead, she stood by the window, gazing out on the lights of New York.

He found her a far more interesting sight than the city. The glossy, honey-gold hair that flowed over her shoulders was even lovelier than he had imagined, and he longed to bury his face among the silken strands. Her white negligee frothed with lace and delicate embroidery, and was so translucent that he could see the lithe shape of her body beneath. It must be another Worth creation; only a master could make a woman look simultaneously pure and provocative.

His wife. He was still awed by the miracle of it.

Justin had been introduced to the dark mysteries of passion when he was sixteen. Deciding it was time his young brother became a man, Gavin had taken Justin to a courtesan. With his usual careless kindness, Gavin had chosen the woman well. Lily was a warmhearted,
earthily sensual Frenchwoman who had known exactly how to initiate a shy youth half her age.

Justin's shamed embarrassment had been gone by the end of his first afternoon with Lily. With her he had discovered not only passion, but kindness and mutual affection. He had visited her many times over the ensuing years. When her looks faded and she could no longer support herself as a courtesan, he had quietly bought her a cottage in the south of France so that she could retire in comfort. They still corresponded occasionally.

Because of Lily, he was now able to give his wife the gift of passion. Praying that desire would not make him clumsy, he went to join her by the window. Her delicate violet scent bewitched him, and his hands clenched with the effort of not touching her. Needing a safe, neutral topic, he said, “New York is lovely in a way quite distinct from London or Paris.”

“I shall miss it,” she whispered.

He glanced over and saw tears trembling in her eyes. “It must be hard to leave one's home,” he said quietly, “but you can come back whenever you wish.”

“Yes.” She drew an unsteady breath. “Still, it hurts knowing that I am no longer an American. Though I understood that marrying a foreigner meant that I would lose my citizenship, I didn't expect to feel it so much.”

“The law might say that you are now an English-woman, but it can't change what you are in your heart. America made you, and nothing can take that away.”

After a long pause, she said in a low voice, “Thank you. I needed to be reminded of that.”

Thinking the time was finally right, he put an arm around her waist. For the barest instant, she was pliantly yielding. Then she went rigid, like a small woodland creature holding still in the desperate hope that it would escape a predator's notice.

He turned her toward him and pulled her close, stroking her back in the hope that she would relax, but he was unsuccessful. Though she submitted without protest, her body remained as stiff as a marble statue.

Shyness or nerves were to be expected, but her reaction seemed extreme. He put his hands on her shoulders and held her away from him. “Sunny, are you afraid of me?”

“Not…not of you, really,” she said, her eyes cast down.

It wasn't a heartening answer for an eager bridegroom. Patiently he said, “Then are you afraid of…marital intimacy?”

“It's more than that, Justin. I don't know quite how to explain.” She pressed her hands to her temples for a moment, then looked into his eyes for the first time in days. “I was raised to be a wife. In the whole of my life, there was never any thought that I would ever be anything else.” She swallowed hard. “Only now, when it's too late, does it occur to me that I don't really want to be married to anyone.”

Though she claimed that he was not the problem, it was hard not to take her comments personally. Feeling a chill deep inside, he lowered his hands and said carefully, “What do you want me to do—set you up in a separate establishment so that you never have to see me? File for an annulment on the grounds that your mother coerced you into marriage against your will?”

She looked shocked. “Oh, no, of course not. I pledged my word today, and that can't be undone. I will do my best to be a good wife to you—but I don't know if I will succeed.”

Some of the pain in his chest eased. As long as they were together, there was hope for building a loving marriage.

Though he had been counting the hours until they could be together, he said, “We needn't share a bed tonight, when you're so tired. It might be better to wait a few days until you're more at ease with me.”

She hesitated, clearly tempted, before she shook her head. “I think it will be best to get it over with. Waiting will only give me more time to worry.”

He wanted to make love to his wife, and she wanted to “get it over with,” like a tooth extraction. Dear God, this was not what he had dreamed of. Yet perhaps she was right. Once she learned that intercourse was not as bad as she feared, she could relax and find pleasure in physical intimacy.

Yet he could not quite suppress the fear that his wife might never come to welcome his touch. He had been concerned ever since Augusta had ordered him to try to control his beastly animal nature. Obviously Augusta had loathed her own marital duties, and there was a strong possibility that she had passed her distaste on to her daughter.

His mouth tightened. Brooding would solve nothing. If his wife wanted the marriage consummated tonight, he would oblige—partly because it might be the wisest course, but more because he wanted her with an intensity that was painful.

“Come then, my dear.” He untied the ribbons of her negligee and pushed it from her shoulders so that she was clad only in a sheer silk nightgown that revealed more of her tantalizing curves than it concealed. He drew a shaky breath. It was how he had dreamed of her—and at the same time, it was utterly wrong, for she looked at him with the despairing eyes of a wounded doe.

She colored under his hungry gaze and glanced away. “Could you…would you turn the lamps out?”

Though he yearned to see her unclothed, he said, “As you wish.”

As he put out the lights, she drew the curtains so that the windows were covered and the room became suffocatingly dark. Then she climbed into the bed with a faint creak of springs.

After removing his robe, he located the bed by touch and slid in beside her. He would have liked to take his nightshirt off, as well, but a man's naked body might upset her more, even in the dark and under blankets.

He drew her into his arms and kissed her with all the tenderness he had been yearning to lavish on her. Though she did not reject him, her mouth was locked shut and her whole frame was tense and unyielding. No amount of patient skill on his part could soften her; in fact, his feather kisses and gentle stroking seemed to make her more rigid. He felt as if he was trying to ravish a vestal virgin. Despairing, he pushed himself up with one arm and said hoarsely, “This isn't right.”