Chapter Five

It was the chit from the orchard.

Nicholas nearly laughed aloud at this twist of fate as he watched the Reverend and his daughter move up the stairs, wondering what she was thinking about this nuptial. He imagined she’d known of her fate before he had, but the woman before him bore no resemblance to the harridan who’d taken him to task the last time they met. This version looked as though she was about to faint. Her colour was that of someone at death’s door. The Duke frowned, wondering if Reverend Shackleford was trying to pull the wool over his eyes by wedding him to someone who was gravely ill. Although it had to be said, she was a little on the buxom side to be suffering from any serious malady. Despite her obvious discomfort however, her eyes did not leave his as she slowly climbed the steps, and Nicholas felt the first stirrings of an unwilling admiration.

She seemed taller than he remembered. Her dark hair was artfully curled with fresh spring flowers threaded through it. Her green dress clung to a voluptuous form he’d certainly not taken note of during their last meeting. Indeed, she was quite lovely. As she got closer, her eyes flared with barely concealed panic, and she appeared to be panting slightly, leaning heavily on her father who was smiling broadly, seemingly oblivious to his daughter’s discomfort

She was certainly pretty enough to turn a few heads, and providing her manners proved to be acceptable, she would do well enough.

And then she threw up all over his immaculately polished hessians.

∞∞∞

“I cannot apologise enough Your Grace. I have no idea what came over her. Grace is usually so … so, well, composed. I’m sure it’s simply a trifling attack of the vapours. Any young woman would indeed swoon at the prospect of being wed to such a fine specimen of a man.”

Nicholas raised his eyebrows but forbore to mention that swooning wasn’t usually accompanied by vomit.

“No matter,” he finally answered coolly, just as the Reverend looked as though he was going to throw himself on the nearest sword. "As soon as my wife-to-be makes an appearance, we will begin the ceremony.”

The Reverend breathed an audible sigh of relief.

Grace had been sent off with the housekeeper to freshen up while the Duke and her father waited in the drawing room. Both men kept glancing at the clock, and as the minutes ticked by, the Reverend began nervously blotting his forehead with a kerchief. After half an hour had passed, Nicholas decided she was either dead or possibly halfway to London by now.

He was about to call for Huntley when the door finally opened, and the butler announced his wife-to-be.

Reverend Shackleford hurried over to his daughter, and Nicholas was mildly gratified to observe that he did seem genuinely concerned about her. After a few seconds of whispered conversation, the Reverend mopped his shiny forehead one last time, and turned back towards the Duke who remained motionless.

“Your grace,” the Reverend said, relief colouring his voice. “This is my eldest, Grace.”

She dutifully executed a curtsy. “Your grace.”

Nicholas was glad to note her colour was much improved. However, her eyes were downcast, and her manner remained meek and submissive - nothing at all like the sharp-tongued woman he’d experienced in the orchard. He told himself this was entirely the right and proper conduct for a woman soon to be wed, and if a small part of him felt the slightest disappointment, he determinedly ignored it. He stared down at her, vaguely nonplussed. Women had not hitherto played a large part in his life, and he was sorely lacking in the art of polite conversation. He wondered what she thought about their arrangement. Not a lot, if her earlier faux pas gave any indication. Had her shock been the same when she’d learned the name of the man she was to marry?

“I must beg your forgiveness for my rudeness earlier,” she was saying in a low voice, her eyes firmly directed towards the floor.

Nicholas took a deep breath. “I trust the state of the flooring meets with your approval, Miss Shackleford. Welcome to Blackmore, your new home.”

She straightened, finally meeting his eye. “Is it?”

“Grace,” her father admonished nervously. “Apologise.”

Perhaps the chit in the orchard hadn’t entirely disappeared. He raised his eyebrows at her slip, and she quickly lowered her eyes back to the floor. However, he made sure to keep his voice polite but distant. “No apology is necessary. Come, Miss Shackleford. Let us retire to the chapel and get the ceremony underway. It is clear the flooring is not to your satisfaction, and the sooner we can make you the lady of this house, the sooner the polishing will no doubt be up to the required standard.” He wasn’t sure if he imagined the slight twitch at one corner of her mouth as she placed her hand on his arm.

The chapel was located off the family dining room. Huntley and Mrs. Tenner were brought in as the required witnesses, and in a span of half an hour, Nicholas found himself stating his vows to a woman he didn’t even know before pressing a chaste kiss on her cheek as her father announced them man and wife. Stepping back, he looked at the unsmiling face of his new Duchess, words refusing to form on his lips. A woman should hear some sentiment on her wedding day, some measure of affection, yet there was none between them.

Only a measure of regret.

And then it was over. Reverend Shackleford closed his book of common prayer and glanced at each of them uncertainly.

“Well,” he stated with forced joviality, depositing the book back into the cavernous folds of his cassock. “Perhaps I should take my leave now. Let err, you err, give you some time to err, get to know each other?” He ended the sentence with a question mark which was directed to the Duke. Nicholas nodded curtly and bade Huntley lead the way back to the entrance hall.

Once there, he stood back to allow father and daughter to bid each other farewell. The Reverend took Grace in an awkward hug, then hurried out of the front door, leaving his daughter staring after him, her eyes glistening with tears.

To his relief however, she didn’t succumb to a flood as the door closed with frightening finality, leaving the two of them standing in the entrance hall, the silence deafening.

Nicholas couldn’t get past the events that had just happened. He was married.

There was a discreet cough behind him. “Shall I show her grace to her room?”

Nicholas turned to find Huntley still hovering nearby, the footman next to him. “Yes,” he stated, his voice rough in his own ears. “My wife will require a morning meal as well.”

Grace’s eyes flew to his. “Will we not breakfast together?”

“I have work to do,” he grated out. His wedding day was no different to countless others, just another task that he’d been forced to undertake for the Estate.

His words caught her completely off guard. “But I ... I thought it might give us an opportunity to … well, perhaps … become acquainted, mayhap get to know a little about each other?” Her hesitant voice was again completely different to the sharp-tongued woman he’d first met, and his heart contracted almost guiltily at the change.

“Then you thought wrong madam,” he replied sharply. “Huntley will see to your needs as will Mrs. Tenner. Good day.”

He turned and strode to his study before she could respond, feeling the tightness of his collar once more. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to be forced into marriage or to be working on the endless bloody correspondence.

All he’d known for so long was the feel of the salt air on his face, the sound of his orders being carried out by his sailors or the nervous tension in his body right before a battle.

He didn’t want this life, yet here he would stay until they carried him out in a box…

The morning stretched to afternoon, the lunch tray that Mrs. Tenner delivered still left untouched as the shadows grew in the room. Nicholas buried himself in the work, carefully poring over the ledgers left behind by his father’s steward and answering correspondence from London.

When the room finally darkened, he stood and stoked the fire, watching as the flames consumed the wood. Nicholas knew that any other man in his position would be eagerly making his way to his chamber and preparing himself to consummate his marriage, but his feet would not move from the spot. He was rooted before the flames, protected by the four walls of the study and the closed door to his right .

Stalking over to the crystal decanters, Nicholas selected a fine brandy and poured a glass, savouring the sweetness on his lips. Tonight was his wedding night, but he would be spending it in this study and not in the arms of his lovely bride. He couldn’t imagine subjecting anyone to the pain and horrors that lived on inside his mind, the images that took over as soon as he closed his eyes.

He was a broken man, one not fit to have any happiness in his life. Nicholas was to forever suffer for his failures, for Peter’s death, for the deaths of his men, for the death of his … of John.

He might have been given the medals and accolades of a man with a worthy career, but he felt even less like the celebrated hero than he did the Duke of Blackmore.

Sighing, Nicholas carried his drink over to the leather chair before the fire and settled in for the night. Tonight, was like every other. The ghosts of his past would infiltrate his mind and have him paralyzed with fear and anguish, just when he was most vulnerable.

That was not something for any young bride to see. Eventually, he would have to pay a visit to her bed if he wished to produce an heir, but right now, Nicholas couldn’t be soused enough to do so.

Besides, she’d just found herself sold and married to a man who had done nothing but sneer at her. Nicholas imagined the last thing she wished to see was him grunting above her, taking his liberties because he’d put a ring on her finger.

He downed his brandy, relishing the burning deep down inside his chest, then leaned back and closed his eyes.

If he was lucky, the nightmares wouldn’t wake the whole household.