A Season for Love Page 7

  As Miss Tompkins was every inch the governess, so Laurence Carlington was every inch the heir to a dukedom. People have only to look at him, the viscount thought. How can anyone deny he is exactly what Lady Caroline says he is?

  The boy made a series of highly creditable bows, acknowledging each introduction, adding just a hint of a grin as he took in Miss Susan Wharton’s struggle to get down from her oversized chair and make a proper curtsy. The viscount strode forward and shook the young man’s hand. He rather thought he was going to like Laurence Carlington. Gentlemen were not supposed to take any notice of the infantry, he well knew, but Susan was a charmer and young Laurence a true chip off the Longville ducal block. Never had that old expression, “Like father, like son,” seemed more apt.

  What had begun as a tense and uneasy meeting settled into as pleasant an afternoon tea as Tony could remember. Lady Caroline, quite rightly, poured, and he helped distribute the cups and pass the plates of delectable treats, which Cook had provided. The generous repast had obviously been planned for the gratification of all ages and included raspberry tarts, lemon biscuits, both chocolate and almond puffs, gingerbread with vanilla icing, and Portugal cakes with currents. The viscount thought he saw a blush stain Lady Caroline’s cheeks as his fingers touched hers when she handed him the tea cups. But perhaps he was mistaken. Perhaps she was merely recalling her unfortunate words with Lady Eugenia the first time they met.

  Not that it mattered, of course. He was about to become the chit’s uncle. Wasn’t there some problem about that, or was that ancient prohibition only for uncles related by blood?

  Idiot! The matter was moot. Sometime, possibly when he was approaching forty, he would have to consider a leg-shackle, but not now. Definitely not now. And certainly not with a young lady who scorned the world that comprised his life. Dammit, he liked the ton.

  Unfortunately, Viscount Frayne, suspected he might be in danger of liking Lady Caroline Carlington even more.

  And now there was no going back. Tony stood beside Marcus Carlington in St. George’s, Hanover Square, and listened to the words which would bind their families together forever. He saw his sister swallow convulsively before she plunged into repeating her vows. He saw the wave of pride sweep over the duke’s face as his son proudly stepped forward to give his father the ring that would be presented to his new mother. Smoke from the candles, the drift of incense . . . the magnificently dressed congregation, the arrogant groom, the white-faced bride. Lady Caroline looking delectable in a hastily concocted creation from one of London’s leading modistes.

  It was unreal. Not the fairytale ending of a great romance, but the shaky beginning of a marriage of convenience that might, or might not, be what the duke and his new wife wished. Although a gent didn’t care to dwell on such things concerning his sister, Tony allowed himself a fleeting moment of relief that his sister was not an innocent virgin. Longville would make an overwhelming, if not intimidating, lover.

  Outside, the mob waited. By the time the duke and his bride signed the register, Viscount Frayne had arranged for the both the Worley and Longville coaches to be at another, more obscure, exit. The two families, including the dowager duchess, made their escape in relative peace, with only those of the quickest wits or the fleetest feet witnessing their departure.

  The members of the mob, howling in frustration as they discovered they had missed their quarry, surged south toward Berkeley Square.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Seven

  Since the Prince of Wales was one of the distinguished guests attempting to make his way to the wedding breakfast at Worley House, the Guard was called out. The result, a goodly number of sore heads, bruised bodies, and an exacerbation of tempers already sullen and discontent over the Regent’s spendthrift ways and the general indifference of the nobility to the plight of the poor.

  Among the most disgruntled was Bert Tunney, who ran a carting business from a warehouse down near the docks. A burly man of rough temperament, he had little use for men who considered themselves his betters. The Frenchies had the right of it. The bleedin’ English aristos could have used a touch of the guillotine as well. And now that old Boney was on the loose again, they just might get a taste of it, after all.

  These anarchist sentiments, however, did not keep him from taking a good look at all that wealth and privilege now and again. “Sometimes a man kin downright enjoy grindin’ ’is teeth,” he’d told his friends and sometime cohorts, Alfie Grubbs and Flann McCollum, before setting out for Hanover Square. It was Bert Tunney who had so enjoyed proclaiming the bride “a great gawk.”

  While not-so-subtly pushing the wedding crowd toward riot, Bert’s sharp eyes had not failed to note Alfie’s slight, but effective, form working the crowd, relieving ladies, gentlemen, and well-fed merchants of their valuables. And there was Flann, standin’ off by ’imself, arms crossed as casual, by God, as if he’d come to Hanover Square by mistake. As if the Irishman wuz above lookin’ at the Upper Crust, just ’appened by as the wedding party arrived, and not because he was plottin’ their downfall. For Flann McCollum—though long enough in London to have acquired some of its ways—hated the English nobility even more than Bert himself and was a solid man in fight. But what Irishman wasn’t? Flann was also on the dub-lay, an experienced housebreaker of no small skill. “Sure and a man must eat while waiting for the revolution,” Flann had once told him.

  So it’s not surprising that Bert Tunney led the surge toward Worley House, whipping the avid crowd into a mob with bellows of rebellion. Nor surprising that his was among the first heads bashed by an angry Guardsman before his sturdy form was shouldered to the ground by a horse, forcing the half-conscious carter to crawl away on his hands and knees. With each throbbing pain in his head, each twinge of his shoulder, each bloody streak left on the cobbles by his scraped knees, Bert Tunney vowed revenge.

  As Flann McCollum and Alfie Grubbs helped Bert back to his warehouse near the docks, Jenny Wharton Carlington, standing at the top of Worley House’s graceful staircase, was wondering how she could ever have agreed to become a duchess. If all this pomp and rigid display of etiquette were what she would have to endure for the next forty or fifty years, it might, perhaps, have been better to remain a widow.

  Horrors! She must have allowed a sigh to escape, for her husband leaned close and whispered in her ear: “Courage, my dear. I do believe I see the end of the line at the bottom of the stairs. Lady Higgenbotham and cane, supported by son.”

  Before Jen could reply, the duke straightened up, accepting the congratulations of yet another of the wedding guests. The new Duchess of Longville summoned a gracious smile, echoing her husband’s thanks. Three more couples . . . three more couples . . . then I may sit before I fall. How very odd. She had survived the Peninsular War and was exhausted by her own wedding.

  It was her mind that was exhausted, Jenny knew. Already, the strain of wedding a man to whom she was nothing more than a convenience was taking its toll. And yet . . . there he was, offering his arm, lending his support as they were, at last, free to partake of the their own wedding breakfast. The duke was not openly smiling, but Jenny thought she caught a gleam in the depths of his golden brown eyes. Relief? Amusement? A hint of companionship . . . a moment not only of duties endured, but of duties shared? If so, she would treasure it, for it held the first breath of hope for the years to come.

  They had moved only a few feet along the upper gallery when a blur of pink froth launched itself onto Jenny’s peach silk skirt. Small arms wrapped tightly about her legs.

  “Oh, my lady—beg pardon, Your Grace—I couldn’t keep her back any longer,” the frantic nursemaid apologized. “She’s been that determined to see you!”

  Jenny peered down at the soft blond curls of the petite, small-boned child who seemed to have taken all her physical attributes from her father’s family. The newly created duchess could not, however, see her daughter’s face, for it was buried in her skirt. Beside her, the duke had paused,
politely waiting.

  “Susan,” Jen said softly, “you know I explained to you that I would be gone for a few days, that you would be staying with your grandparents, right here in Worley House in your very own room.”

  “’S’not that,” the four-year-old sniffed.

  Jenny bent down, lifting her daughter’s chin until she could see the solemn blue eyes. “What is it then, Susan?”

  The little girl scowled, evidently carefully recalling the details of what was on her mind. “Mama,” she demanded, “what is a ‘great gawk’?”

  A sharp intake of breath from the Duke of Longville. Jenny frowned at the unexpectedness of the question. “Where did you hear those words, Susan?” she asked.

  “In front of the church. With Uncle Tony.”

  “Was it from someone in the crowd?” the duke interjected. Grimly.

  Solemnly, Susan nodded, looking up at her step-father with all the faith and adoration she had never had an opportunity to give to her own father. “‘Praise be, the little one’s not a great gawk like her ma and grandma!’” she repeated with meticulous care.

  Viscount Frayne, dispatched by his mama to find the bride and groom, arrived in time to hear his niece’s pronouncement. With an inward groan, Tony strode forward and scooped the little girl into his arms. “All that means, my little pink bon-bon,” he smiled, “is that you are not going to be as tall as your mama and grandmama. You are going to be sweet and petite, and all the young men will be throwing themselves at your feet. Is that not right, Longville? Your new daughter is going to be all the rage when she grows up.”

  As the duke calmly added his agreement to his brother-in-law’s words, Jenny was left to appreciate this demonstration of her brother’s superior social skills. Truthfully, with her usually agile mind numbed by her daughter’s words, she was infinitely grateful for his timely intervention.

  The duke and duchess went on to enjoy Lady Worley’s celebration of their nuptials as much as it was possible for a bride and groom to do so, escaping as soon as the Prince of Wales took his leave, for they had a journey of several hours ahead of them. Their original intention had been to stay in London and enjoy the Season while becoming better acquainted with each other. But when faced with the prospect of having the early days of their marriage overseen by three children, one more than a little hostile, the duke had hastily rearranged their plans. They were to spend a week at one of his estates in Surrey, a small holding left to him by a distant relative. The duke, with his customary disregard for how his actions might affect the lesser mortals around him, sent a messenger to Totten Court, informing them of his arrival—with bride—on Saturday eve, a scant thirty-six hours in the future. The housekeeper at the Court required burnt feathers under her nose and Cook went into strong hysterics, drumming her heels on the kitchen tiles.

  In the first twenty minutes after their arrival, the Duke of Longville sacked the estate manager, apologized profusely to his bride, and suggested, somewhat sheepishly, that they repair to the nearest inn. His bride merely laughed and informed him Totten Court would have looked like a palace on the Peninsula. But now, alone in the sole inhabitable bedroom, Jenny was not so sure she had been wise. The whole day—no, the entire past fortnight—came rushing back in a highly disconcerting panorama of shock, fear, and a wavering heart. The duke would soon join her—and there was no place to hide. There was an adjoining suite, once occupied by the master of the house, but, as the housekeeper had pointed out with abject apologies, the draperies and bed hangings were in tatters, long past repair. If only they might have had more notice . . .

  The duke had been left with little choice. He would have to join his wife in the ancient oak tester bed hung with faded azure velvet.

  Jenny heaved a heartfelt sigh. She, the great gawk, was married to one of the most attractive and powerful men in the realm. What could she possibly offer him? How could she possibly please him?

  Great gawk. Out of the mouths of babes. Jenny sat, forlornly slumped, on the chair that matched the burled walnut dressing table. The great gawk staring at her from the mirror seemed woefully unattractive. At five feet-ten inches she looked down on many of the ton’s finest gentlemen. ’Tis a wonder she found a husband at all, let alone two. She’d heard that remark more than once. But great gawk hurt. And that the duke should have heard the tale was particularly mortifying.

  On their nearly silent journey from London Jen had told herself her husband would not come to her tonight. The Duke of Longville had an heir and was, perhaps, not anxious for a spare. All he wanted was a mother for the children he had. Therefore they were merely going to Surrey to have a little privacy in which to expand their rather formal acquaintance.

  Or so she had thought until that awkward moment when they discovered there was only one usable bedroom. Jenny had seen a look cross the duke’s face. Distaste? Yes, she was almost certain that was what it was. It did not occur to her that his disgust might have been for the state of the household or perhaps with himself for not keeping a closer eye on the details of his vast estates.

  Jen winced as she took another peek in the mirror. The soft glow of candlelight could not disguise the transparency of the fine silk dressing gown and the gossamer silk bedgown beneath. Even through two layers of material the small brown spot above her right breast was visible. Jenny hugged herself, blotting out the offending birthmark. She would have put on her old white cotton nightwear except she knew her maid would have been horrified . In fact, Tess had undoubtedly packed nothing but the newest and most attractive of her bride clothes, including the many shocking pieces of nightwear and undergarments her mama had insisted on buying for her. It was not every day, Lady Worley had declared, that one acquired a duke on the family tree.

  A soft tapping on the door. Jen willed herself to stay seated, presenting a compact and charming picture of a bride awaiting her husband, but as the door opened, she bobbed to her feet as if jerked upright by an invisible puppet master. There she stood, her legs threatening to turn to jelly, her heart pounding a torrent of cacophony into her ears.

  Marcus stared. She was glorious, simply glorious. Rich brown hair tumbled about his bride’s shoulders, over the fullness of her scarcely veiled breasts. Her brow was high, green eyes punctuated by a proud nose and underlined by lips as generous as her breasts. No, his new duchess was not beautiful as Amy had been beautiful. Lady Eugenia—Jenny, his Jenny—had the kind of handsomeness and inner beauty that would last a lifetime.

  He had done well for himself.

  The Duke of Longville took a second look, one not quite so dazzled by his first sight of his statuesque bride en déshabillé. “Good God! Are you frightened?” he demanded.

  “Oh, no!”

  “Come now, Jen,” he chided her obvious fib. “It cannot be the unknown,” he added thoughtfully, “so it must be myself.”

  “No . . . truly, I do not fear you,” she burbled.

  “You are so white you might as well be a ghost ejected from these walls by the first sign of life in years. And your eyes are so wide I wager I could drive my curricle through them.”

  At that, Jen managed a smile. “No . . . Marcus, you have given me no reason to fear you, I assure you. You have been everything that is kind.”

  “But not as communicative as you might wish?”

  “Perhaps so.” She nodded, hands clutched tightly together in front of her most intimate parts. “But that is of no matter. It is forgotten.”

  Scowling, Marcus turned and strode to a dark walnut clothespress, methodically stripping off his rings, his diamond tie pin, the white linen folds of his cravat. He paused, realizing he had sent his valet to bed in expectation of his wife’s aid in divesting himself of his form-fitting charcoal jacket of the finest wool.

  The words that came out of his mouth were not at all what he planned to say. “You are wearing the willow then?” he said quietly. “I apologize, my dear, I should have been more sensitive. Today has brought back thoughts of your first wedd
ing. How could it be else?”

  “Oh, no!” Jen cried once again. And it was quite true. “Gordon told me—he lived for two weeks after he was wounded, you see,” she explained. “He knew he was dying and urged me to remarry, to make a new life for the baby and myself. I would not heed him at the time, but, later, I was grateful. He freed me to do as I wish—as I felt proper.”

  Marcus tugged at the sleeve of his jacket. Jenny, belatedly realizing his problem, rushed forward to help. Together, they removed the garment, Jenny carefully hanging it in the clothespress, a piece of furniture considerably shorter than the tall wardrobes to which she was accustomed. The duke looked down, as if his whole attention were concentrated on undoing the buttons of his waistcoat. “Then you find me too old,” he murmured without looking up.

  Jenny’s “Oh, no!” slipped out before she could stop it. Idiot! He would think those were the only words she knew.

  The duke’s piercing amber eyes fixed on her face. “Eugenia,” he said softly, “there has to be some reason you look as if you wished to be absolutely anywhere but here.”

  Jenny Norville Wharton Carlington looked straight back. Her determined chin rose a notch. She had survived a great deal worse than a wedding night with one of the most handsome and intriguing men in the land. He was hers. Perhaps not in his heart, but who could change that except herself?

  “You are mistaken,” she told him. “I may have had a few moments of bridal qualms, Marcus, but I married you of my own free will. I wish to be here. I believe we are well suited.” She pursed her lips, conjured a wan smile. “If I was fearful, it was of failure to please. I remember Lady Longville’s ethereal beauty. And over the past three years I have seen you in company with none but the most lovely women in England. Why should I not wonder why you chose me? How could you possibly find me pleasing?”