Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

“… I pronounce that they be Man and Wife together, In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

So, that was it, Penelope reflected rather flatly, glancing briefly to the Duke of Walden beside her as the elderly priest intoned the fateful words that confirmed she was now the Duchess of Walden. It was done. They were married. Could they leave now? Or must they wait for Reverend Atherton to dismiss them?

“They don’t look very happy,” said the quavering elderly voice of her ancient and rather deaf great-aunt Beryl, Dowager Countess of Meldridge, her voice echoing in the silent church.

“Shhh. Reverend Atherton hasn’t finished, Aunt Beryl,” whispered Penelope’s mother, her voice carrying as much as their great aunt’s in the airy vaults of the church, despite her best efforts to speak quietly.

“It’s not much of a wedding at all if you ask me,” sniffed the old lady. “Where are all the bridesmaids? And why so rushed? People will ask questions, Sarah.”

“Please, Aunt Beryl. We must be quiet now,” Penelope’s mother tried again to reason with the old lady to no avail.

“I do think a duke might have put on a better show than this…”

“Would you like a toffee, Aunt Beryl?” Frederick’s whisper now intervened. “I brought your favorites.”

A moment later, after the rustle of a paper bag, there was silence once more from the church benches. Penelope turned her slightly hysterical giggle into a polite cough and an expectant smile to the priest, as though to prompt him. It was amusing that Frederick had come prepared for Aunt Beryl.

The old lady was right, Penelope supposed. The small and informal wedding ceremony had been rushed, both in preparation and delivery. Penelope felt like it had ended before it really ever began, moving as fast as every other moment since she set foot in Huntingdon Manor three weeks earlier.

It was all such a blur. Penelope expected that she would remember very little of her wedding day when she looked back, unlike other society ladies who seemed able to drone on for hours about churches, dresses, flowers, and bridesmaids, decades after the event. What would she even recall of her husband himself?

Maxwell had obviously spoken during the ceremony, but those formal vows had flowed past her as easily as her own. It didn’t seem quite real. She could call to mind only the two words he had said as they met outside the church door that morning. “Shall we?” he had asked as though merely offering a walk in the park rather than leading her to the nuptial altar.

No, it was not much of a wedding — Aunt Beryl was right on that point, too. Taking place in the Heartwick parish church, Penelope wore a floral silk already ordered for the coming Season, and her flowers came from the family garden. She had chosen not to have bridesmaids and to keep the wedding party small, partly to avoid the chance of Henry Atwood insinuating himself into the day.

Of those in the church, only Annabelle, Stephen, and the Duke of Huntingdon were not blood relatives of the bride or groom. There weren’t even any local strangers come to gawp since Penelope had also vetoed newspaper announcement of the ceremony, to the dismay of her mother and elderly relatives. Maxwell Crawford had negotiated the compromise of announcing the marriage after the fact in the Times .

To Penelope’s confusion, the priest continued talking, apparently reciting yet another psalm with no sign of coming to a close.

“…Thy wife shall be as the fruitful vine: upon the walls of thine house; Thy children like the olive-branches: round about thy table…”

What on earth was the man talking about? Surely it should be over, and they should be going back to Heartwick Hall for their small family wedding breakfast — home but for the final time. Penelope wanted to make the most of those last few hours with her mother before Maxwell took her away to Walden Towers, just outside Highgate.

But the priest seemed set to continue forever, and Penelope had to stifle a frustrated yawn. She had been to wedding ceremonies before, but perhaps she had never paid attention to the details after the couple were pronounced man and wife. Now, she only wanted everything to be over so the dust could settle. What was wrong with her that she felt like this?

As if suddenly sensing her internal conflict and discomfort, Maxwell Crawford squeezed Penelope’s hand gently, bringing her a sense of anchoring and support. Whatever was happening, she knew instantly that she was safe beside him, despite the wild thrill that passed through her with the simple touch of his hand on her fingers, now bearing an elegant white gold and diamond ring.

After what seemed like an eternity, it was really over, and they turned around to face the church, the small congregation hurrying out ahead of them to throw rice and rose petals from the church porch.

“Come, Duchess Penelope,” said the Duke of Walden, taking her hand and placing it on his arm. “Let us take our first walk as man and wife.”

Maxwell Crawford’s blue-eyed smile was bright, and his handsome, glowing face triumphant but also touched by desire. Penelope knew that he saw her as a prize he had carried off, but she took comfort from the notion that she was also a prize he would treat with care and consideration.

“Congratulations!” called out Frederick, standing beside Annabelle and Stephen Elkins and throwing a generous handful of rice and petals into the air above the couple’s head.

“Congratulations Duke Maxwell and Duchess Penelope!” added the Dowager Duchess of Heartwick in more muted tones but with a sincere smile on her careworn face as she regarded her newly married daughter.

“Good health to the happy couple!” laughed a tall and self-assured young woman with Maxwell’s blue eyes, who must presumably be his younger sister Victoria.

“Many happy years and many healthy children!” wished Aunt Beryl, throwing an unexpectedly forceful handful of rice that hit Penelope squarely in the chest.

After an initial wheeze of shock, Penelope burst out laughing and subtly tried to shake the grains out of her cleavage as they walked towards Maxwell’s carriage.

She would remember this day, after all, and not entirely in a negative light. She would remember Aunt Beryl’s inappropriate whispering, Frederick’s strategic toffees, and the quiet strength radiating from Maxwell Crawford beside her in the church.

But what would he remember? As yet, his face gave her no clue.

“We have roast veal and ham and poached salmon but no chicken,” said Sarah, Dowager Duchess of Heartwick, in answer to Aunt Beryl’s probing.

“No chicken at a wedding in June? Frederick, did you know that there was no chicken?”

“Oh, chicken is as chicken does, dear Aunt Beryl,” answered Frederick with such a charming smile on his boyish face that the old lady did not perceive his jesting. “I shall gather you a plate of the finest meats Heartwick can offer, and then you shall sit beside Lady Annabelle. She is shy and rarely speaks, but I’m sure you can bring her out of her shell.”

Annabelle went beet red at this ironic description of her character but bit her tongue and dutifully took a seat between the old lady and her brother, Stephen, at the round table in Heartwick House’s smaller reception room.

“So, you are the Duke of Walden, I hear?” Aunt Beryl said loudly, turning away from Annabelle in her chair and towards Maxwell Crawford, who was standing nearby. “But only due to an accident. Lord Emberly was just telling me that your grandfather was in trade.”

It was an awkward conversational opener, and Stephen had the good grace to flush red.

“I spoke only factually,” he said as stiffly as ever.

“Indeed, I am the Duke of Walden, Lady Meldridge,” agreed Maxwell with a perfectly pleasant expression. “And, indeed, my grandfather was a highly successful merchant and man of business. Lord Emberly spoke only factually, just as he says.”

“My husband always considered that noblemen who inherited out of the direct line were not really of the same rank as those who took titles from their fathers…” commented the old lady with the blithe unawareness of the aged that her words might be considered ill-mannered.

Penelope and her mother both gasped in horror, and the new bride looked for Frederick, hoping he still had some toffees in his coat, which might silence their great aunt. How would Maxwell Crawford react to such an insult?

“…of course, I never agreed with him on that. My husband had some distinctly peculiar ideas. New blood is what society needs in my view. Without it, you end up with Hapsburgs or worse — inbred and incapable. Now you look very healthy and possessed of natural vigor, Your Grace. Far better for our family than some of the blue-blooded milksops parading around Hyde Park on Sunday mornings.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Lady Meldridge,” said Maxwell gravely, and Penelope was relieved to see a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “I would far rather be considered a vigorous man than a milksop.”

“Here you are, Aunt Beryl. The best of everything,” said Frederick, returning hastily from the wedding buffet with a filled plate for the old lady. “Do eat while it is hot, and do not wait for everyone else.”

To Penelope’s mind, everyone seemed to have become the most extreme version of themselves since they arrived back at the house after the wedding, aside from Aunt Beryl, who was always so eccentric.

“I hope Madeline will be well without me today,” muttered Duke Charles with a pensive expression as he accepted a flute of champagne. “I have told Lonsley to send an express message here if there is the slightest change in her condition.”

“The express messaging system is a most wonderful invention, is it not?” put in Lord Emberly stiffly, seeking to join the conversation with his two social equals but gaining little reaction, the minds of the two dukes clearly on other matters entirely. “A message posted after dinner can now reach a town more than one hundred miles distant by the next morning.”

“I would have understood if you had stayed at Huntingdon Manor, Charles,” Maxwell said. “The birth of a first child is even more important than a wedding.”

“I wish Duchess Madeline a safe delivery and an heir to Huntingdon. How proud you must be, Duke Charles.”

The Duke of Huntingdon glanced at Stephen Elkins, acknowledging his words only with a barely perceptible nod, perhaps thinking that no unmarried man could imagine how he was feeling.

“Madeline said, I should not miss your wedding, Maxwell, and must represent both of us. I think she was trying to get me out of the way. I only hope she doesn’t over-exert herself,” Charles stated, his expression brooding.

Annabelle had told Penelope and Frederick at least three fresh items of gossip while the champagne was being served and scandalized Reverend Atherton, who was standing behind them when she related the elopement of the rakish Major Johnson with Miss Araminta Villiers, the northern coal heiress.

Penelope’s mother, meanwhile, fluttered hither and thither, trying to make sure that everyone was comfortable and well-attended while ignoring her daughter’s injunctions to sit down and rest. From the way her mother’s eyes darted frequently to Frederick, Penelope knew the source of some of her nervous tension.

Her brother was technically the man of the house, but he was so very rarely there that they did not know how to behave around one another. Frederick countered his own feelings by turning on his charm and stepping up his teasing behavior.

Were Penelope and Maxwell acting as extremely as everyone else? She didn’t know. Or maybe she didn’t know her husband well enough to say. While he had written since the house party, the notes were short and formal, assuring her only of his continued commitment to their marriage. What had she expected from him? Romantic missives and declarations of undying love?! No, how ridiculous that would have been…

Now, Penelope looked across the room to where her new husband was in a deep and apparently happy discussion with his younger sister, Victoria, both of them laughing and smiling. They seemed so relaxed and easy together, with Maxwell’s intensity and drive in temporary abeyance.

As if conscious that she was being watched, Victoria’s eyes shifted to catch Penelope’s, and the young woman smiled happily at her while murmuring something to her brother.

“Penelope, you must meet Victoria properly,” Maxwell said, bringing his sister across the room to her.

The tall, young lady dropped a small curtsey to the new duchess, who now took precedence among women in the family. Then she raised her chestnut head with an infectious smile.

“At last,” she said and unexpectedly shook Penelope’s hand as though they were two gentlemen meeting for the first time. “I’ve wanted to know you since the first time Maxwell wrote to me of you. But he said I had to wait until the deed was done. Oh dear, I hope you don’t mind me speaking about your marriage like that, do you?”

Penelope shook her head with a laugh, instinctively liking this idiosyncratic woman with her free speaking and gestures.

“Not at all. It was a deed, and now, it is done,” she answered. “I found myself thinking something similar in the church. I am glad that I was not the only one.”

“My sister has always been an unconventional woman,” Maxwell said laconically, still giving few clues about how he was feeling on his wedding day.

Penelope supposed it was just the closing of another business deal to him. One challenge had been met, and now, he would be looking for another. Or would the wedding night be such a challenge for him?

That particular thought made her breathless, especially when she recalled their stolen embraces at Huntingdon Manor. But, as yet, Maxwell had said or done nothing that indicated his expectations in that direction. Maybe, now that they were married and his conjugal rights secured, he felt no great urgency on the point of consummation.

“You say that so proudly Maxwell, and yet it seems to me that you are always telling me what to do,” said Victoria, poking her brother in the ribs with good humor. “What books to read, what lectures to attend, who best to talk to.”

“With a sister so brilliant and capable, how could I not want her to have every opportunity in life?” Maxwell countered with equal affection. “I want the best of everything for you, Victoria, and you shall have it.”

“Whether I want it or not, it sometimes seems,” Victoria grumbled but kissed her brother on the cheek.

Their closeness touched Penelope but also gave her a pang of yearning. She knew that part of this was her habitual wish that she and Frederick could have had such a relationship. But now, there was something else, too, as she found herself longing for such understanding and warmth with her new husband.

That seemed an even more foolish and irrational dream than wishing he had sent her more personal letters.

What a day! Maxwell Crawford found it a blessed relief to finally enter the dim sanctum of the Walden coach with his new bride and set out towards Walden Towers. After three weeks of preparations, licenses, and legal wrangling over minor clauses in the marriage contract, the deed was indeed done as Victoria had quipped. Or almost done.

But before he could let his mind move ahead to such carnal distractions as finally bedding his wife, there were other matters to consider and plans to be made. Life never stopped, and Maxwell Crawford never let it outrun him, even when faced with such appealing distractions as Penelope’s physical allure and the scent of her perfume in such an enclosed space.

He took a deep meditative breath and began to set his thoughts in order.

“You sound tired, Your Grace.”

“Maxwell,” he corrected quickly, glancing at Penelope, sitting a little stiffly on the seat opposite him. “It will make for awkward and rather distant dinners at home if you neglect my name.”

“Maxwell,” she repeated rather mechanically.

He guessed that Penelope herself was the one who was tired. She had been perfection today, of course, in her summer dress with her modest flowers and ideal manners — as golden and otherworldly as ever. Her instincts around the size of the wedding and the public announcements had also been well-judged, despite Frederick’s doubts.

Without being told, Maxwell had understood her purpose and supported these proposals against her family. At least intellectually, there was already a good harmony between them, in his view. Now, he would let her rest on the journey while he pondered the best approach to conquering society this season.

Lady Meldridge had been amusing today, and useful. The Duke of Walden had taken no offense from the garrulous old woman simply repeating the prejudiced nonsense that he already knew others believed. Others like young Lord Emberly, overly proud of their own aristocratic bloodline and long family traditions… Yes, he had received some useful reminders about how others saw him.

But now, it was time to change these people’s minds. Before the season was over, he wanted full acceptance for himself and his sister. With his new duchess at his side, Maxwell was sure he could win it. Confidence, humor, and Duchess Penelope were all weapons in his considerable armory.

“Victoria will join us next week, I believe,” piped up Penelope unexpectedly.

“Yes, she is staying in London with our second cousins this week. She thought you would want the house to yourself at first.”

Having clarified this point, he returned to his earlier chain of thought. Maxwell would never deny or forget his grandfather, so he supposed he must find a way to own his heritage in a way acceptable to the ton. No one could shame a man with something he took pride in. Perhaps he would attend a costume ball in the guise of a weaver or merchant?

“I hope the weather is good tomorrow. I would like to explore the gardens of Walden Towers as soon as I can.”

Maxwell felt faint irritation now at this continued interruption. Aside from his wish for quiet thinking time, Penelope’s voice and presence were already stirring up embers of physical desire that he had assumed he could keep banked until the proper hour. He really had expected Penelope to want to close her eyes and rest.

As he looked up at her properly, he noticed the strain underlying her prim pose and stilted conversation. His new wife was intensely nervous, and her vulnerability only made her more attractive to him. Above the neckline of her dress, her bosom rose and fell a little too quickly. His eye lingered on a single grain of rice still caught there between her perfectly shaped breasts.

Maxwell forced himself to look away out of the window. He was not some ravening beast who would deflower a frightened and inexperienced young woman on the seats of a coach, was he?

“Maxwell?” Penelope asked tentatively, likely wanting to know what was wrong.

He could hardly tell her that he wanted to rip open her bodice, ravish her breasts with his lips, and then raise her skirts, could he?!

When he failed to respond, Penelope leaned forward and laid a hand on his thigh, likely intending to touch his arm but jogged aside by the movement of the coach.

“Penelope, do not…” he began, looking her straight in the eye and knowing that his burgeoning lust must now be visible on his face.

She seemed frozen, too shocked to move as she realized where her hand was lying and what she might have begun.

“Come and sit beside me, Penelope,” he said with a slight roughening to his voice. “Now.”