Chapter Seven

THE EARL OF LEVEN MARRIED Baron Kent's daughter on the Saturday following "The Incident" at Lady Cavendish' home. Being that the only witnesses to the trauma were interested parties or family, it was then not difficult to keep under wraps the exact and detailed reasoning behind the sudden switch in the earl's choice of bride. But it also caused not any person a great stretch of imagination to perceive why the younger sister was the intended bride, and not Sabrina—there were only so many reasonable explanations available, after all, for such an extraordinary last-minute swap.

So it was that Nicole Kent walked down the aisle of the Leven chapel at the Wentworth country estate, and took her place beside her groom, barely contained joy simmering within. She smiled at Trevor, shyly, but with great hope. She'd been allowed to see him not at all since their discovery in Lady Cavendish's salon. She'd been forced, however, to listen to a two hour lecture—at times not much more than a shouted diatribe—on proper decorum, and questions posed by the baron, such as ‘where did I go wrong?'

She'd been genuinely sorry for the pain she had knowingly caused Gregoire and had personally visited with him to tell him that she could not, after all, marry him. He had many questions, most of which Nicole had side-stepped with great embarrassment. At the end of their meeting, she was sorry that she had lost her friend, but had thought the marquess had been a proper gentleman in receipt of such sorrowful news.

It had all been worth it, she thought, standing now beside Trevor while the priest read passionately from the good book, preparing them to take their vows. True, it was likely not how she might have liked to obtain the hand of Trevor, but they could be together now, and lose all this nasty business that had been between them since the first moment he had kissed her. When she was not his, that had led to nothing but pain and trouble, but all that was over now, she thought wistfully. He hadn't looked at her, seemingly caught up in the cleric's heartfelt reading and message. If her hands weren't so nervous, gripping tightly her bouquet—or rather Sabrina's bouquet—she would have reached for his. His hands were folded together sedately at his waist, his head inclined ever so slightly.

That they hadn't spoken had bothered her somewhat. She'd have liked to express to him that she would make him happy, that she would love him endlessly, that he would never be sorry he'd been forced to marry her. But she mulled over this lack only briefly, sure as she was that Trevor must know all this already. She'd made it rather obvious—as he had—where her desires lay. Nicole wished suddenly for the priest to speed this ceremony along. She'd brooded all these weeks over Trevor, and had been without him for so long, and had been forced to see him not at all in the last three days, and she wanted only to get on with their life together, to get on with loving Trevor.

Yet all these pretty thoughts of a happy future flew out of her head the minute the priest declared them husband and wife, and gave Trevor leave to kiss his bride. Nicole turned to face him, her love bright and shining, an expectant flush to her features as she awaited his kiss. She blanched immediately as he pivoted and faced her. In his eyes, where once there had shone passion and a want of her, there was now only a cold and tortured anger. Nicole stiffened in front of him—indeed, she recoiled within at the sight of his distaste—and then barely felt it as his lips pressed so briefly against hers. She squeezed her bouquet between them, her hands suddenly sweaty. It was hard then to remain coherent while he'd shown no more affection than he might have had Sabrina been standing here. Confused, Nicole obediently turned, as he did, to face the small and cheering crowd in the chapel. She thought she might have smiled, or thought she might have tried, anyway, but could manage nothing, it seemed, but to recall the storminess in his eyes.

He was livid, she determined quickly, but could put no cause to it. He'd claimed he'd wanted her. He'd intimated that if there were any way for him to marry her, he would. He had nearly made love to her. He'd said—his exact words had been— "I am loving you, Nicki." My God! She thought. What had changed in three days?

"Let us lead the people abovestairs for the feast on such a blissful occasion," he said coolly, mockingly. And now he grabbed her hand but there was no warmth or fondness there.

The bride cried, but any onlookers thought this merely tears of joy. Leaving the chapel, Nicole caught sight of Sabrina, and nearly blanched at her sister's expression of haughty rebuke. Swallowing the despair in her throat, Nicole squared her shoulders and marched on alongside her new husband.

This was then, without doubt, the longest day in Nicole Kent's—Wentworth, she corrected piteously—young life. She sat stoically through the wedding breakfast, being completely ignored by her groom, who chose to speak to absolutely anyone else save his wife. She wanted to beg him to tell her what or how things had changed but knew this was not the venue to do so. She accepted the well-wishes of almost one hundred people and wanted to scream at them that she saw nothing to be happy or hopeful about. Her father was still quite annoyed—even worse, she imagined, he was disappointed in her—and he, too, seemed to be of a mind to have no relations with her today.

So she pushed food around on her plate, the very idea of sending it down to her already churning stomach nearly enough to send her running for the chamber pot. She cast forlorn glances at her husband but was presented with not much more than his profile or back on most occasions. And she thought with a certain and definite dread that she still had to endure several hours ensconced in the coach with only him as they traveled to his estate in Sussex.

God help me, she prayed.

TREVOR SAT INSIDE THE comfortable traveling coach, directly across from his wife, with his legs stretched negligently before him, his arms crossed with seeming nonchalance over his chest. He pretended to sleep, his eyes being mostly closed, but in reality, he watched her through the carefully held slits of his lids.

Admittedly, she was lovelier today than he had ever seen her. Dressed in what he assumed had been intended to be Sabrina's gown, likely it had been hurriedly fitted for Nicki. It was a frothy confection of silk and lace, being neither too heavily adorned nor lacking any sort of decoration. Her dark and beautiful hair had been left to hang loose down her back, coming to her waist, but covered in a bridal veil of exquisite white lace stitched with small pearls. Her smile, as she'd come to him this morning, had been resplendent. Undoubtedly, not a person present questioned her want of this union, being written so clearly on her face. She'd been shy, he recalled, having not the nerve to look into his eyes straight away, but when she finally did, he let her see the complete disregard in which he held her. Instantly, then, her face had fallen. Why, she had literally been drained of all that lovely color. If he'd experienced a moment's pang at her discomfiture at that very instant, it was quickly, ruthlessly, pushed away.

She'd manipulated this scheme. She was the one who set this unfortunate event into motion. Funny, he'd not have known of it, if not for Sabrina's parting words as they'd left the salon that fateful evening. He knew that Sabrina had yearned for him to hear it, but he still didn't believe that Nicki had wanted him to know that she'd set him up, that she had agreed to betray him, and cuckold him, all to save Sabrina from having to marry him. She'd allowed him to touch her, to love her—she had prostituted herself—to save her sister. How far might she have gone? Would Nicki have allowed him to make love to her? Would she have stripped bare right there in the salon just to keep a promise to her sister?

Any benevolent emotion he might have previously attached to Nicki had been wiped out at that moment. Gone, just like that. And to look at her now, as she fidgeted anxiously with her hands, now aware of his revulsion, he suffered with no bouts of sympathy for her. Let her squirm and stew and suppose whatever she wanted. She would pay and pay dearly for her crimes against him.

And the greatest, most tragic irony of all? In that parlor at the home of Lady Cavendish, he'd known he couldn't marry Sabrina, that he must call it off. He wasn't sure then, still hadn't determined, if this revelation had come when first he saw Nicole that night after all those weeks apart. His heart had thundered in his chest, to some degree of painfulness as he'd realized that all the weeks she'd been gone dissolved instantly with only one glance. The affirmation might have come later, when he'd spied her dancing with Cheseldon and felt only the need to rip her away from the man's arms and shout to any who might hear that she was his. But he knew for certain that by the time he'd started kissing her that evening, that he could deny it no more— he couldn't not know Nicole, couldn't not be with her, couldn't possibly wed Sabrina, not even to save Leven.

And when he'd started kissing her, as soon as his lips had touched her, and he'd felt the most unnatural urge to weep from such enormous emotions at having her again in his arms, he'd known that he loved her.

But that was before she had committed her sin. Now, his thoughts of her teemed only with rage and he readily expressed inwardly disgust at himself for not having seen her true colors, for having imagined that she was as innocent as she'd appeared, that her heart and soul were pure, untainted by wrongdoings or malice.

When finally they arrived at his grand, but admittedly neglected estate in East Sussex, called simply the Abbey—but officially known as Hyndman Abbey, after some long forgotten ancestor—he sensed that Nicki was at the end of her emotional rope. He'd made no conversation with her whatsoever, indeed he had discouraged the very idea with his purposeful and persistent brooding glares and pretense of sleep, that she seemed all but ready to cry again. Trevor was moved not at all by the occurrence or expectation of her tears.

He jumped nimbly from the coach no sooner had it stopped, allowing the coachman to see to his wife. He'd not bothered to send word ahead that they were indeed coming, as his plans were unformed, and he knew, produced solely by emotion and certainly not by necessity. What he was forming in his head would surely turn his dear little wife's.

The enormous door to the abbey slowly creaked open as he mounted the steps, his heart racing at what he was about to do, what he been setting up in his head while they'd driven here. Behind the door, there appeared a little round woman of indeterminate years, her beady eyes skinnied as he stopped before her.

"We ain't no hostel, guv," she informed him warily, closing the door as slowly as she'd opened it.

Trevor stuck his hand between the door and the jamb, pushing it open while the woman skittered backwards and shrieked. "Cease, woman," he called imperatively. "I am Leven." He glanced further into the home he was yet barred from, spying another servant creeping forward. This one, a manservant, shuffled his feet along to the door, but had yet to lift his eyes, as his shoulders were slumped to such a degree that it was impossible to hold his head up. When he was close enough, he turned just slightly sideways, that he might better view their visitor out of the corner of his eye. Trevor rolled his own eyes impatiently at this, believing that the recent lack of funds in the dried-up Wentworth well might have something to do with the despicable state of domestics here at the abbey.

"Tis Leven, ye are?" Asked the stooped man. "I'd be Franklin, my lord. And this here is yer housekeeper, Mrs. Abercorn, but we jus' call her Abby," said the man in a surprisingly strong voice. "We were not made aware of your coming, lord, or we'd have had the abbey readied for you...and your guest." His one eye searched behind Trevor.

Trevor sensed Nicki's presence behind him. "Yes, well, here we are," he said dismissively, wanting only to get on with this unpleasantness. "I bring my wife, Lady Leven, to you."

"Tis Lord and Lady Leven," the man then yelled in a horrifically loud voice, of which even Trevor was forced to take notice. "Did ye hear me, Abby?"

"I heard ye," said the old woman. "I'll ready the rooms." And she began a plodding and painstaking climbing of the stairs, which caused Trevor pain to watch.

"You only need to make accommodations for one room, Mrs. Abercorn," he called out after the woman. Of Franklin, he inquired, "Are there other servants housed here?"

Franklin pursed his lips, mentally considering for a moment. "Only Abby and I, lord, and two footmen. We haven't need for more—house hasn't been used in a dozen years."

Yes, that sounded about right to Trevor. He knew he, himself, hadn't been to the abbey since he was a child. "Perhaps a lady's maid can be procured from the village?" He asked hopefully.

"Perhaps," Franklin said with a shrug.

With that, Trevor turned to Nicki, emptying his pockets of what notes he did possess. He pressed them into her hand, their first contact since that cold and chaste kiss at the altar. She jumped at the suddenness of this action, or at the very touch of him, he did not know. Finally, he met her eyes. Her green orbs, once thought to be so beautiful, so beguiling, were filled with confusion, and a scant measure of terror at this untidy circumstance.

"I'll set up an account for you to manage the household and take on more staff, but this should see you through a couple of days, at least."

And finally, she understood, her eyes fixated upon him with her sudden and sure knowledge of what he intended. "You're leaving me here," she said, not as a question, but rather as a pained realization. She bit her bottom lip in consternation, apparently willing herself not to cry again.

"You've made your bed, so to speak, now you may rest in it," was all he said, and he turned and left the house.

He had not expected her to follow, being as she proven so meek and distressed today. He'd hoped to leave without a scene, but she raced after him, catching up with him on the stone steps outside the house, just as the sun began to set before him.

She grabbed at his sleeve and held, despite his efforts to shake her off. "Trevor, you must listen to me," she begged through her tears. "I love you. I have for so long. I can make you happy."

He did finally stop, which made her release his arm. With hard eyes, he told her, "That will not be an option."

"Oh, Trevor, don't do this to us—"

He rounded angrily on her, pushing a finger in her face. "You did this, Nicki. You conspired with your sister to trap me into a marriage with you, knowing full well that my circumstances required her inheritance. You brought this sorry situation upon yourself."

"I conspired...? Trevor, whatever are you talking about?"

"Do you take me for a fool, Nicki? I specifically heard Sabrina say that your efforts to assist her went above and beyond what she'd expected of you!" He was into a full rage now, at long last emptying himself of his reasons for his hostility, as if she hadn't known. He moved again, toward the waiting coach, ignoring her stricken expression. As an afterthought, his fury making him edgy, he tossed over his shoulder, "You whored yourself for the sake of your sister, Nicki! And I fell for it."

"Trevor, wait!" She called hysterically, clinging to the door of the coach as he'd already settled himself inside. She wouldn't allow him to close the door. "It's true, Sabrina did ask me to help her. But only to talk to you—"

"I don't want to hear it," he said, pulling at the door, but unsuccessfully, unless he wished to harm her.

"You will listen, Trevor!" Nicki shouted at him. "Listen to me! I promised her I would at least ask you to consider—"

Trevor refused to listen to her hollow explanations. Through gritted teeth, he proclaimed, "I know only this. Every word, every utterance out of your mouth has been a lie. Your very person is likely a fa?ade. All those false protestations of guilt over how you could not possibly betray your sister were meant only to entice me to crave something I thought I could not have. And I was besotted and dimwitted enough to fall for it. We are done, Nicki. Leave off." He'd obviously caught her unawares with so vehement a statement for he was then able to yank the coach door out of her startled grasp and pull it closed. He rapped sharply on the roof and it began to move. He did not turn in his seat to watch her, to have one last glimpse of her.

He could hear her calling him, sobbing, "Trevor, no! Please, Trevor!" But he put this quickly from his mind. Absently, he rubbed at his temples, willing the pain to recede. But it did not. After almost twenty miles, in which time his head began to pound with a viciousness that only liquor might quell, he finally unclenched his teeth, and barred the vision of her tortured emerald eyes from his mind.

NICOLE FELL TO HER knees, still calling his name, watching as the coach moved far enough away to be out of sight. Nightmares had not ever been so agonizing as this, she vaguely thought. If he'd hit her upside the head with a club, he could not have shocked her more. Whatever am I to do? She wondered, sobs still racking her slim shoulders, her breath still unable to come evenly.

After a while, she was dimly aware of the door opening at the house, while she huddled still on the ground of the drive, where she had fallen to her knees. Pulling herself visibly together—mentally, she feared she might never recover from this blow—Nicole picked herself up and turned toward the house, where Franklin waited, one sad eye watching her from his bent head. There was no dignity she could project, having been the recipient of this travesty, and so she walked up the steps without bothering to hide her dejection and despair.

‘You'll come back to me, Trevor," she predicted silently, so very sure of this. "I know you will. You'll come back one day when you've forgiven me for what it is you think I've done.'

"Come on then, miss," Franklin said kindly, "we'll take good care of you anyhow."

Nicki tried to smile at the old man but failed miserably as he closed the door behind her when she was through. Wearily, she glanced around at her new home, her eyes too tired to truly appreciate the stark beauty of the abbey right at this moment.