Chapter Seven A Wedding Day

Chapter Seven

A Wedding Day

E lizabeth woke early the morning of her wedding and threw back the covers. She went to the window, hopeful of a clear, shining winter day, only to be met with disappointment. The sky was dark with rain clouds, the ground gray and slushy with half-melted snow. She resisted the urge to interpret the inclement weather as a negative omen.

She ducked behind the privacy screen to complete her morning toilette and make sure all lingering evidence of August’s switching had faded. She said a silent prayer of thanks that he knew what he was doing, for the last of the faint stripes had faded overnight. Her mama and sisters arrived soon after, along with her best friend Rosalind, then a bevy of maids bearing sweet buns and fruit, and all the fine trappings of a bride.

The more people arrived to dress her, the more Elizabeth felt jittery with excitement. Rosalind held her hand and urged her to eat something of the luxurious breakfast, but her stomach flip-flopped too violently with an anxious sort of joy.

Over the past few days, since Fortenbury’s row with her father, their courtship had seemed to turn a corner. She’d come to believe, as August said, that Fortenbury would eventually treasure her as a wife, as her fiancé made real efforts to get to know her. He’d revealed more of himself too, telling her about his family and his interests. He’d explained how he’d been raised in a rigid sort of home, with oppressive nannies, which made him more punctilious than he sometimes intended to be. He’d told her about his dogs, his library, and the flowering gardens at their future country home.

Any man who loved dogs, books, and gardens could not be all bad. She wished he’d revealed this side of himself before now, so she wouldn’t have worried so much. Now she would finally be married and, perhaps by next year, a mother. She watched in the mirror as the Welsh maids wove her hair into a striking crown of braids with delicate, pearl-studded ivory ribbons threaded through.

When that was done, her tearful mama gifted her a new, silken undershift specially made for the day. Her sisters took away her maiden’s nightgown and pulled the shift over her head, exclaiming how beautiful it was. It was beautiful, unbearably fine, all the way from Paris, and the pearls adorning her up-swept hair were real. She felt every inch the duke’s daughter, spoiled and shining.

Then the gown… Elizabeth had barely seen it, as they’d been embroidering it up to the last minute. It was pale pink with handworked flowers and tiny beads that sparkled by the bright winter’s light. The gown had surely cost a king’s ransom, and fit her like a second skin, down to the silk-covered buttons at her wrists.

“Are you ready?” asked Rosalind, taking her hands.

Elizabeth glanced toward the mirror, at the slender, velvet-clad princess standing there. “I suppose I must be ready. Do I look all right?”

“You look magnificent,” her friend said, “but that’s not what I mean. Are you ready to be a bride? What about tonight? Has your mother…instructed you?”

“Yes. A bit.” She glanced at her mama, busily consulting with the servants and fussing over Elizabeth’s winter-wedding bouquet. “I have a general idea what to expect, although it seems a bit outlandish.”

Rosalind grinned. “If your husband knows what he’s about, it will not seem outlandish at all. We’ll hope for the best.” A fleeting shadow of concern crossed her features, quickly dispelled. Ah, the mysterious wedding night. It did seem to send her lady friends into a flutter. Surely a man as respectable as the Marquess of Fortenbury would do everything right.

“If you’re ready, dear, we must make our way to the chapel,” said her mama. “Though I fear the rain will complicate matters. Oh, darling, what a vision you are.”

Her parents had had a special cloak made to complement her dress, an ivory, fur-lined showpiece of embroidery with more pearls. Elizabeth felt a momentary wash of tears in her eyes, at the way her mama and papa had outfitted her so royally for this ceremony. She might have endured three failed engagements, but they were determined this fourth opportunity should be her special day, with no question of her value and worth.

She felt royal indeed, as a bevy of footmen were tasked with holding umbrellas over her head for the procession. Maids scurried along beside her, elevating the hems of her dress and cloak so they would not be sullied in the slushy mud. Elizabeth lifted her chin as they hurried to the chapel through the worsening rain. She knew herself to be worthy of love. Lord August had drilled the lesson into her backside, and she’d come to believe it over the past couple days, since Lord Fortenbury had begun to treat her with greater attention and respect.

She noticed August sitting at the harpsichord in his fine coat and starched cravat as soon as they went inside, felt his strengthening presence and the presence of all the friends and family who wished her well. The marquess’s side of the chapel was rather sparse, perhaps due to the weather, but the air was fragrant with the smell of greenery, and white candles lit the altar where the parson stood.

“Wait here with Rosalind,” said her mama, peering into the church. She took her father aside and spoke in a tight whisper Elizabeth wasn’t meant to overhear. “Where is Fortenbury? Why don’t I see him?”

“They’ve sent a footman,” said her papa. “I’m told he went afield last night to find a pub and drink whiskey with some friends.”

“Poor behavior, knowing the wedding was at ten o’clock this morning.”

Elizabeth tried to picture her straitlaced fiancé out drinking with friends. Gentlemen did such things before they married, did they not? Elizabeth turned to Rosalind. “I feel hot. Is it hot in here?”

“Let’s take off your cloak.” Rosalind undid the looped button and handed the cloak to a footman. Over Rosalind’s shoulder, Elizabeth saw her brother leave out a side door. Where was Wescott going? Why did he grimace so? Weddings were supposed to be happy occasions.

Where was her groom?

“I’m sure he’s only overslept,” said her mama, returning to her side. “He’s got to wash and shave and put on all his finery if he’s to stand beside a beautiful girl like you.”

She was trying to sound light, but Elizabeth knew her mama’s voice, and she didn’t sound light. She sounded furious.

Some of the wedding guests turned to look back at them, wondering at the delay. Lord August waited at the gold-embossed harpsichord to play the chosen processional piece. The candles burned, flickering in the stillness. Cairwyn’s pastor stood unmoving, bald and stalwart and Welsh as her grandpapa. He had kind eyes. She was glad of that.

How much time had passed? Five minutes? Ten? There was nowhere in the rear of the church to sit down and wait.

Her brother returned after what felt like an eternity, and spoke with her papa near the side door. She couldn’t hear their conversation, only see the animation in her brother’s words and the red that crept up about her papa’s ears.

Her grandpapa appeared and joined the conversation. Her mama grabbed the nearest, largest footman and issued curt orders.

“You must prevent Lord Lisburne from going after the marquess. If he finds him, he’ll shoot him where he stands.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the footman murmured, gesturing to another to help him.

Her grandpapa started to yell. It might not have been a yell, it only sounded so loud in the echoing chapel. “The bloody bastard. I’ll kill him. I’ll kill the man.”

Many heads turned now, all the heads in the church. Elizabeth stared at them, half in shock, her vision going blurry until they seemed one accusing mass. She realized now that the marquess’s side was thin because most of his friends were gone, and he was gone, not to a pub, but away.

He was not coming to their wedding.

He would not treasure her after all.

She opened her mouth and closed it, going hot and cold and sick. This was worse than a fourth broken engagement. This was her total ruin, her social demise. She was put back in her cloak, gentle hands patting and guiding her. Mama took her to the door of the church, then out. Elizabeth was glad now for the umbrellas shielding her. Her magnificent, bespoke velvet wedding dress rustled in the cold. The frigid rain mocked her. She looked to the east, as if she might see her betrothed leaving, abandoning her, but the road was empty. He was surely long gone.

She didn’t recall much of anything after that, until she roused from her stupor before the mirror, as the gentle maids took down her hair. They were so careful, so light undoing each braid so as not to tug and hurt. They placed the pearl-studded ribbon back into its lined box. They were so tender and sympathetic she could have cried for it, if she was able to cry at all.

*

August stood from the harpsichord as Lord Lisburne shouted across the breadth of the church, cursing Fortenbury, his ancestors, and “every blamed coward with Hampshire blood.” He glimpsed Elizabeth’s pale, stricken face just a moment before they bundled her away.

The image still lingered in his mind. Her delicate, porcelain-fine features, her dark crown of hair, her stunningly elegant gown. Her shock. Her misery.

He closed the instrument’s cover and exited the church with Townsend and Marlow. The three of them joined the group trying to prevent Lord Lisburne from going after Fortenbury, even as August fought the urge to do so himself. Fortenbury must have left in the night, the bloody criminal. His close friends and family were gone with him, while the rest of the Fortenbury contingent slunk away to pack their bags.

Wescott strode about, swearing that such villainy could not be borne, that he had to avenge the insult to his sister. The Duke of Arlington checked him, saying he must not contemplate murder. Even in the wilds of Wales, one would face the law.

“Torture, then,” Wescott had growled, and the duke’s eyes had narrowed a moment in agreement with his son before he walked back into the chapel to invite the lingering guests to breakfast.

August didn’t understand how Fortenbury had had the nerve to leave, but leave he had. It appeared that, for the fourth time, Elizabeth’s wedding was off. What a terrible blow, to be left at the altar in such a fashion… Just at the holidays…

With all of them gathered together to see her disgrace.

He worried for her, but she would not be grieving alone. Her mother and sisters would be with her, and her father and brothers too, when they were sufficiently calm. She was in capable hands, but he felt helpless. He went with his friends to the wedding breakfast, which was, of course, no longer a wedding breakfast or a celebratory thing. He noted how quickly the servants had removed any hint of marital decoration, leaving behind plain sideboards of sumptuous cakes and gourmet refreshments.

“My God,” said Marlow. “Good fucking God.”

“Your wife is with her?” asked August.

“Yes, Rosalind’s been with her all morning. Poor Lisbet. What a disaster.”

“I can’t believe he dared,” said Townsend. “The duke will have his head next time he sees him.”

“He’s made a powerful enemy today. A very powerful enemy,” said Marlow. “He’d better hide in Hampshire the next five or ten years. Hell, I’ll deck the man on sight. Won’t even wait to arrange a duel. Just…” Marlow mimed a violent fist to the face.

“I’d love to introduce him to the point of a sword, but he’ll doubtless flee to the Continent rather than face retribution for what he’s done.” August growled. He had a few more choice words to say on the matter but had to swallow them back as Townsend’s wife Jane appeared with their young son Charles in tow.

“What now?” she asked, her normally bright features dim with anguish. “Will we all just return to Oxfordshire?”

“I don’t know,” said Townsend, taking Charles in his arms. The toddler immediately set to tugging his papa’s dark hair. “I suppose we’ll wait to hear what the family says. Perhaps they’ll wish us to remain, to spend the holidays together.”

“Yes, to raise Lisbet’s spirits,” said Marlow. “Sad for her Christmas to be ruined, too.”

“At least this didn’t happen in London during the Season,” said August.

“Goodness, you’re right.” Jane brought her fingers to her mouth to hide an expression of horror. “I pray by the time the ton returns to London in the spring, the gossips will have moved on to some other topic.”

August doubted they’d be so lucky. Gossip had a way of following Elizabeth around. He watched the assembled guests at breakfast, his spirit as dark and heavy as the worsening storms outdoors. When the meal was done, they didn’t linger in their fine suits and formal gowns but retired to their rooms out of respect for the shell-shocked family. Even the cantankerous old baron was eventually subdued and sent off to his chambers with the bottle of whiskey he’d intended to gift to the bridegroom.

August parted from his friends and returned to the chapel, to his quiet monk’s room. To get there, he had to pass through the sanctuary, where a pair of somber footmen were taking down the swags of holly and pine they’d gathered from Cairwyn’s forest.

Such lovely decorations, all for naught. He hated this outcome for Elizabeth. She’d so wanted to get married, to start a family. He hated Fortenbury for being an unworthy, smug bag of horse shit. He continued to his room, where Marston waited.

“Terrible news,” said August, shrugging out of his deep blue coat, and unbuttoning his formal waistcoat. “The wedding is off.”

“The poor lady,” his servant murmured.

August changed into warm country clothes, a brown wool vest and buff trousers. He wished he could go out for an hours-long walk, but the weather kept him caged in his small room. He needed to work off his unsettled feelings, his wrath. He could just about walk all the way to London or Hampshire, wherever Fortenbury had flown, just to strangle him blue in the face.

As he contemplated continuing work on his half-carved hawk, his gaze fell on the prayer book at his bedside, the leather now imprinted with the faintest outline of Elizabeth’s teeth. The switch remained beneath the bed. He didn’t know why he kept it, except that the memories titillated him. He picked it up, turning it in his fingers.

Where was Elizabeth now? Was she sobbing still? Staring, bereft, into the distance? Would Fortenbury’s betrayal change her forever?

What would he say to her next time they met?

The other men had jilted her without personal affront, by behaving badly in the dark of night…or dying. This was done in full daylight, on her wedding day, in front of everyone she’d invited to be there. He could not stop thinking of her pale, shocked face. He threw the switch down beside the prayer book and went for his whittling tools but was interrupted by tapping at the parsonage door.

Elizabeth again, blaming herself for this outcome? Wanting another terrible, painful spanking ? No. It was his mother’s voice accompanying the series of taps.

“August, dear. Are you in?”

He grabbed the switch and tossed it back under the bed. He shoved the bite-marked book in a drawer, sliding it shut just as his mother cracked open the door.

“August?” She looked around his small room, his monk’s lair. “Darling, have you seen this charming corner where our son’s been sleeping?”

She’d turned and spoken those words to his father. Behind his parents, August glimpsed the Duke and Duchess of Arlington, all of them crowded into the corridor outside his chamber. His valet emerged from the adjoining room, any surprise quickly scrubbed from his neutral expression.

“I hope we haven’t disturbed you,” said his mother.

“Not at all,” said August. “Come in.”

Marston took coats and hats as the guests entered, then reappeared with extra chairs, arranging them deftly with the ease of an experienced servant. “I’ll go to the house for some tea,” he offered.

“You needn’t,” said Elizabeth’s father, seating his wife. “We’ve just finished breakfast.”

His parson’s room felt too small for this sudden influx of company. There were no more chairs to be had, so he was obliged to perch on the edge of his bed while his mother sat beside him.

“Sorry to crowd in here,” said his father. “But your mama and I, and Elizabeth’s parents…well, we wished to have a word.”

August thought, wildly, that someone must have reported seeing Elizabeth visiting his room a few days ago in the dark of night, or seen him returning her to the manor afterward, so close to dawn. But no, that couldn’t be, for their expressions were cordial, not angry.

“We hoped to speak to you on a sensitive matter,” his father continued.

“And a time-sensitive matter,” said his mother.

“What matter is that?”

The duke shifted in his chair, looking uncomfortable, for all his confident, regal bearing. “As you know, my daughter’s wedding did not proceed as planned.”

“Yes, sir. I’m very sorry for her.”

“She’s broken up about it,” said the duchess, her eyes swollen from tears.

Broken up. If Elizabeth’s mother was in such bad shape, how must his sweet friend feel?

“Lisbet wanted so much to be married,” August said after a moment. “I know how deeply she wished for a love match, and children. But I suppose…” He glanced down at his hands. “Fortenbury has proved undeserving of her.”

“His actions reveal a shocking lack of character,” agreed the duke. “His veneer of proper respectability is false.” He paused, staring for a moment into the fire. “I’ve searched high and low for a match for my youngest daughter. She deserves to have the love and happiness she wants, but I’ve been unsuccessful in finding her a worthy husband.”

August saw his father exchange glances with the duke and duchess. A tension seemed to resonate in the room.

“Your mother and I were speaking to the Arlingtons about Elizabeth and her marriage travails,” said his father, looking back at him.

“And it occurred to us, darling…” His mama leaned closer, taking his arm. “It occurred to us that you are unmarried and have known Elizabeth for a long time. Her entire life. I know the two of you are merely friends, but excellent matches have come of such friendships.”

She gave him a speaking look. He stared at her, lost for words.

“Your father and I were much like you and Elizabeth in our day,” she went on. “I was his friend’s younger sister.”

“And a pest and chatterbox, Minette,” his father teased.

“When I was little, perhaps, but I grew up. The love that developed between us came as a…surprise. A wonderful surprise, which has brought many happy years of marriage and family.”

“Rosalind and Marlow made a match, too,” said the duchess. “From a longtime friendship, romantic feelings grew.”

The duke cleared his throat. “What we are saying, August, is that even though you have had a friendly, even brotherly, relationship with Elizabeth to this point, we would not be opposed to a union between the two of you, if such a thing might be contrived in the near future. It might not seem the obvious solution—”

“Well, it’s not a solution ,” the duchess broke in. “That sounds very un-romantic.”

“No, of course, Gwen. Not a solution. I’m only telling Lord Augustine that we esteem him as a gentleman and consider him worthy of her hand. He must mean to marry soon, and if he might be disposed to—”

“ Disposed to ?” The duchess tsked, then looked at August. “What we are saying is, would you consider asking Elizabeth to marry you? We want her to be happy, and she’s always seemed comfortable and content in your company. We know you would respect her and treat her kindly.”

He could hear her parents’ pain beneath their stilted request, hear it in each word they spoke, their inability to protect her from gossip, and the careless behavior of the lofty men who courted her.

August was not lofty. A mere earl. He had money, yes, but little political power. Were they asking him, truly, to marry her? He flushed hot, thinking of their private games together, their secret, illicit spanking encounters. The Duke and Duchess of Arlington wanted him to marry their daughter. It was a shock.

“I—I hardly know what to say.” Truly, he could not find words. “Have you consulted her about this idea?”

“Not yet,” said the duke. “I won’t, if you aren’t of a mind to marry her.”

All four pairs of eyes looked at him in consternation.

“Of course, I’d be honored…to… I…” Pull yourself together, August. “I would be happy to offer myself for Elizabeth’s consideration.” He thought back to their fireside conversation, about her worthiness. “I only worry she wouldn’t have me. As you pointed out, she only knows me as a friend.”

“She adores you as a friend,” said his mother, squeezing his arm. “She could be convinced.”

“Indeed,” said the duchess. “Especially now that her fourth engagement has ended. My poor child.” Again, she entreated him. “I don’t mean to speak of marriage in such a businesslike fashion, dear August, but you know how the world is. I’ve cried for hours over this. We should like to see her safe and married to someone we trust.”

“Above all, to someone we trust,” said the duke. “And to someone who accepts her as she is and does not mean to change her or save her from ‘devilry,’ or some other nonsense.” He ran a hand through his lengthy gold hair, looking aged for the first time August could remember. “I won’t have her heart broken again. I won’t have her become this thing of ridicule, living out a lonely life.”

“No, sir. Of course not. That cannot happen.”

August fell silent, his mind working. God, he needed to walk, to consider, to stride through the forests. He thought, this is something I can do. It would not be that difficult.

But they were not romantically inclined. How could they be? He was a decade older. Before he’d started giving her piano lessons, he’d rarely spent time with her. He’d been out in London, behaving as a perverse bachelor, preoccupied with women like his mistress and the girls at Pearl’s Emporium. If he’d thought of Elizabeth at all, it had been as his friend Wescott’s baby sister.

Since piano lessons, their relationship had changed, for he’d spanked her a dozen or more times, the last instance with the switch beneath his bed. But those activities had been brotherly too. He’d guarded against sexual titillation in the act, for how was he to reconcile carnal feelings with sweet, trusting Elizabeth?

Though some deeper part of him understood he guarded against sexual titillation because it had been there, buried too close to the surface.

“I admire Elizabeth, and I’m fascinated by her rare qualities,” he said to the duke. “I would be honored to become her husband, if you could convince her to have me.”

And I’m not sure she ought to have me. I’m a pervert and a rake.

His mother took his hand. “She can at least be invited to consider a match. If her mother and father spoke to her, and assured her of your suitability, would you marry the dear girl?”

“We must give him some time to consider,” said his father.

“I don’t need time to consider.”

Now that the shock had worn off, his practical side took over. A marriage of convenience—between friends—would solve problems for both of them. And if it could make her feel better after the wrenching humiliation she’d endured today, he must do it. There was nothing else but to do it.

“I’m happy to propose marriage to Elizabeth,” he continued. “But before I do, Your Grace, may we have a private word?”

His parents rose to depart, looking exceedingly pleased. His mother stopped and hugged him. “I’ve long been anxious to see you wed, and now you will be, to such a lovely girl!”

“If she accepts me.”

“We shall hope for the best,” said the duchess, hugging him too.

The best? The best marriage for Elizabeth would have been a duke’s son, or a king’s son, perhaps even a foreign dignitary like Felicity’s Prince Carlo. If she were not such an unusual and untraditional prospect, she would have had that long before now, and he’d not be sitting in this monk’s room wondering if he was making the right choice.

Once the others were gone, the duke regarded him directly.

“What troubles you, August?” he asked.

“It’s only that…” He cleared his throat. “Sir, I don’t want to propose to your daughter without explaining myself… Without confessing…that is…”

“That you have lived your bachelor’s life to the fullest, and have the infamous reputation to show for it?”

“Well, I would not say infamous .”

The duke tilted his head. “I know what Wescott got up to, what you got up to, and Marlow and Townsend besides. But they turned out all right as husbands once they settled down, and I believe you will also. Of course…” He raised a brow. “I will expect you to leave off with the women at Pearl’s.”

So the man really did know what they’d done as unrestrained bachelors. “I would not expect to continue visiting that establishment,” he said, his cheeks flushing hot.

“In my opinion, there must be strict fidelity in marriage. Do you keep any mistresses?”

“No, sir.” He could say that honestly, having broken off his London arrangement before he left for Wales.

“What of Felicity?”

It was a softly spoken query, but it hit August like a box to the head. What of Felicity? She’d long been his fantasy of perfection, but Elizabeth was spirited and fascinating in her own way. He did not think spankable . This was a serious conversation and he must treat it as such.

He met the duke’s piercing blue gaze and chose his words carefully. “It’s been years now since I’ve imagined I had any chance with Felicity.”

“Even so, do you still love her? I won’t have you pining over another woman while you’re married to my daughter.”

“Felicity is happily married, sir.”

“Which doesn’t prevent you wanting her. Do you still love her?” he asked a second time.

“It was never real love,” August admitted, taking a harsh breath. “I understand now that it was more infatuation than true feeling. I love Felicity as I love all my friends and family, but I promise you, sir, my days of pining are over.” It felt good to say it, like a weight had been rolled from his chest. “How am I to pine for Felicity, anyway, with someone so marvelous as Elizabeth on my arm?”

“Marvelous. She is that, isn’t she? I think she’ll make you happy.”

“Of course. I know she will.”

“But for true happiness, partners must love one another. They must make one another happy. Elizabeth is my youngest, my sweet one, my baby.” He leaned forward, his expression harshly and unyieldingly stern. “It is very important to me that she is fulfilled in marriage, that she is a happy wife. You must promise me…”

August straightened his knotted cravat beneath the full weight of the Arlington stare. “I swear to you, sir—if she will accept me, my utmost goal in life will be to make her happy.”

The duke’s stern manner softened like a breath let out. “I believe you, son. I hope she’ll have you, for we’ve been through too much these last few years. She’s desperate to settle down into a pleasant, comfortable home life. If you could only provide that, I should be eternally grateful.”

“No gratitude is necessary. It would be my honor.”

I do have honor , he thought to himself. I can have honor. I will try to be good enough.

“How is Elizabeth?” he asked the duke. “After this morning…?”

“She is not well at the moment, but she will be better,” he said. “I’ll let you know when it’s best to approach her, and we shall have this thing done.”