Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

A fortnight had passed, and Harry found himself once more alone in his chamber. Clad in his finest suit, with his top hat poised to be placed upon his head, he was prepared for what should have been the happiest day of his life—his wedding day. Yet, all that lay before him seemed shrouded in misery, for the truth was that Arabella had scarcely spoken a word to him these past two weeks. She had spent time with him only when forced by her father, and even then, she sat mostly in silence as they planned the wedding.

Even when they’d promenaded, she’d been distant, smiling only when receiving a greeting or congratulations.

A knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts, and Brandon, his valet, entered.

“Your Grace, you cut a most distinguished figure,” Brandon remarked with a smile. “Though I must say, you appear rather melancholy for a man about to make a lady his wife.”

Harry sighed. “I wish the lady desires to be my wife, but it is clear she does not. She has shown no interest in the wedding, that is why we are to have it at her family chapel, with only her close relatives and my uncle in attendance.”

“Only Sir Richard is coming?” Brandon inquired, though the unspoken question lingered between them.

“Indeed, he is to be my best man. A bitter irony, is it not?”

Harry shook his head at the thought that the man he disliked so profoundly would stand beside him at the altar. What did it say about him that he had no friends to stand for him? Nor any family? His mother’s relations lived in the north, and he’d never been close to them, nor had he seen much of them during his childhood.

“Only Sir Richard. I had wished to invite another guest, but upon reflection, I realized it would not be wise.”

“Sir Richard did not approve, I gather?” Brandon asked.

Having been Harry’s valet since he first required one, Brandon knew his master almost as well as Harry knew himself.

“He did not. Is he here yet?”

Brandon shook his head. “He sent word that he has been delayed.”

“Very well, I’d rather he’d gone directly to Hayward, but it cannot be helped.” Harry turned to him, eager to change the topic. “Are the chambers prepared for the Duchess?” he asked, the title feeling foreign on his tongue. Yet, in a matter of hours, Arabella would indeed be the Duchess.

“Yes, Your Grace. Your mother’s rooms have been readied,” Brandon replied.

“Good,” Harry said. “See to it that Mabel knows the Duchess is to have her every wish fulfilled. Whatever she requires, whatever she desires—Mabel is to discover her preferences, be it food, wardrobe, or anything else.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“And ensure that Mabel informs Her Grace that she has accounts at Miller’s and Madame Labelle’s. All she needs to do is call on them, and her wishes shall be granted.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Brandon affirmed. “Do you happen to know what the Duchess prefers for dinner? I could have Cook begin preparations.”

Harry frowned, his eyebrows knitting together. “I do not. Indeed, I know nothing. I am ignorant of her likes and dislikes, her habits, and whether she enjoys rising early or sleeping late. I know nothing about the woman who is to become my wife. Is that not a sad state of affairs?”

“Have you and Lady Arabella not conversed at all these past two weeks?” Brandon asked.

Harry shook his head. He had taken Arabella to the theatre once, and they had promenaded after church the last two Sundays, as she had requested. Yet, she had scarcely uttered two words to him. Despite his best efforts to engage her in conversation, he had been met with nothing but icy silence or monosyllabic responses.

In some ways, it might be for the best.

He could not allow himself to grow too close to her; it would be unwise for them both. Still, he had hoped to learn something about the woman who would share his life.

“The Duchess appears uninterested in conversation with me, but perhaps it is just as well,” he told Brandon. “I expect we shall see her sisters, Lady Emma and Lady Hanna, frequently. They must also be made comfortable.”

Brandon nodded, tilting his head slightly as he observed him. “I will see to it.”

Harry watched his valet for a moment longer before clearing his throat. “Brandon, Lady Arabella may be curious about her new home. She is to have the freedom to explore as she wishes, but if she begins to inquire about certain matters, do inform me. And ensure that the staff knows to discuss only what is necessary. Especially Mabel, Mr. Baxter, and Mrs. Blomquist,” he added, naming Arabella’s lady’s maid, his butler, and the housekeeper.

“Of course. They are aware, but I will remind them.”

After a pause, Brandon tentatively asked, “Do you think it wise to keep secrets from your new wife?”

Harry looked at his valet and chuckled softly. “Brandon, your confidence in me and our relationship emboldens you to ask such a question. If it were anyone else, I would have had them dismissed from my service immediately.”

Brandon smirked. “It is good to know that you hold me in such high esteem. Besides, some questions demand to be asked.”

“And some questions cannot be answered,” Harry replied with a shrug. “I do not wish to keep secrets from my wife, even if our marriage is one of convenience. But there are matters that cannot be avoided.”

“Of course. I believe I hear the carriage,” Brandon said.

Harry followed him outside. It was time to drive to Hayward Manor to get married. Given Arabella’s disinterest in the wedding, they had decided on a small ceremony in the chapel on the grounds. At Lord Worcester’s insistence, a grand wedding breakfast would be held at home, with all of the town in attendance. Harry already dreaded it, but it was what it was—one of the compromises he had reached with the Earl.

He stepped into the carriage.

“You look presentable,” his uncle said, settling in beside him. “Fit for St. George’s Hanover Square, I daresay. I still think you ought to have been married at St. George’s. It is more befitting of a duke.”

“Perhaps Lady Arabella felt more comfortable marrying at her family chapel,” Harry replied, though he was uncertain. Arabella had merely shrugged when he had inquired about it.

“Well, we must keep her happy. At least we have the wedding breakfast. We must make connections. Now that you are to be married, it will solidify your position. It is unfortunate that Worcester commands so little respect in Society and the House of Lords.”

“At least he has a seat in the House of Lords,” Harry countered, earning a glare from his uncle.

His uncle’s lack of a title had long been a source of irritation, and sometimes Harry found it difficult to resist reminding him of it.

“Do not forget that without me, you would not enjoy the esteem you command today,” his uncle retorted, bitterness lacing his words. “And do not forget what I told you. She may be your wife, but there are matters we must keep strictly within the family.”

“Indeed. I have not forgotten that my wife will never truly be part of our family. You have made that abundantly clear.”

Richard rolled his eyes. “Must you be so dramatic? You may have a family with her, produce an heir. I understand that some bonds are stronger than marriage, even a child. But do not forget the secrets we share and the importance of keeping them.”

Harry took a deep breath, feeling the weight on his chest. Richard’s secrets—they were more loathsome than he could ever express. “Very well. I shall keep our secrets, Uncle. But you must realize that it cannot continue this way forever.”

“Oh? I thought we had a most agreeable arrangement, you and I. Do you not think so?”

“Our arrangement is agreeable for you and you alone,” Harry replied coolly.

A frigid silence fell over them before his uncle cleared his throat. “Have you informed your beloved Helen that you are to be married?”

At the mention of Helen, Harry’s heart panged.

“I have. If you ever bothered to call on her, you might know, but that would be too much to expect, wouldn’t it?”

“Why should I call on her? She is nothing to me. I have no use for that woman. She has caused enough trouble. I do not understand why you care so much. She adds nothing to your life or anyone else’s. A burden is what she is, nothing more.” Richard sneered as he always did when Harry mentioned the young woman of whom he was so fond, but who his uncle considered a peasant at best.

“Helen is not a burden,” Harry fired back, his hands clenching into fists. “She is a lovely woman—witty, funny?—”

His uncle waved a dismissive hand. “If that is what you believe. She is fortunate indeed to have your favor, for no other gentleman would glance her way, not in her current state. She might have had a chance—indeed, you both might have been something once.”

“Do not speak so, Uncle,” Harry said sharply.

Richard raised his hands in mock surrender. “Well, there is little point in dwelling on it. The past is the past, and lamenting what might have been serves no purpose. Though I dare say it might have been beneficial for us all. But it is what it is. In any case, when we arrive at Hayward Manor, I shall oversee the preparations for the wedding breakfast. Since you refused to invite the ton to the ceremony, we must make a grand impression at the wedding breakfast. And let us pray that Worcester can restrain himself until the event is over, though I have no doubt he will be jug-bitten by the end.”

On this point, Harry found himself reluctantly agreeing with his uncle. Over the past few weeks, he had come to know Lord Worcester better, and he could now see why Arabella was so desperate to escape her home. The Earl was unpleasant, especially when drunk, which was most of the time. Harry had witnessed him berate his servants more than once. He suspected he did the same to his daughters.

Harry had noticed the way Arabella and her sisters regarded their father with a mix of dismay and trepidation. They seemed to bolt out of the room whenever their father appeared. What kind of life had they endured, Harry wondered.

Having grown up in his uncle’s household—a man of questionable character himself—he could well imagine what it was like. He knew what it was like to live with someone whose temper was as unpredictable as a summer storm, whose sharp tongue could slice through the most tender of souls. This was partly why he no longer felt he had been set up by Lord Worcester. He knew he had, but he also knew he could save Arabella from a lifetime of verbal abuse at her father’s hands.

Yet, it vexed him to know that Arabella was not truly grateful for his intervention. In fact, she seemed resentful. Did she dream of a prince on a white horse sweeping her away? Surely that must be it. In her mind, she had imagined a charming, handsome suitor who would shower her with roses and give her a life like a fairytale.

Instead, she had gotten him. Harry knew he was not romantic by nature. He was handsome, wealthy, and well-respected, but he was not the sort of man a young lady might dream of. He was not one to take a lady on moonlit walks, to lie on the grass on a summer day and speak of clouds and their shapes. He had never had time for such frivolities, nor any interest in them.

Well… that was not entirely true. He had once sat in the garden and described the shapes of the clouds to Helen, listening as she shared her own imaginings. But that was different. That was not romance, despite what his uncle might say.

Helen… He thought of her now, her heart-shaped face and sparkling blue eyes. How they had glimmered when he told her of his impending wedding, only to dim with sadness when he had to inform her that she would not be in attendance. He shot his uncle a glare.

Before he could decide whether to speak further, the carriage came to a halt. He glanced outside and saw that tables and chairs had been set up on the lawn in anticipation of the guests who would arrive after the ceremony.

“I see they have done it all wrong,” Richard declared. “The head table should be by the stairs so that you can look out over your guests. Do not fret, I shall rectify it.” He stormed out of the carriage, calling for Lord Worcester, while Harry leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes to savor these last few moments of bachelorhood before his life would be irrevocably altered.