A Baron for Becky (19 page)

He leant
towards her, his eyes warm but his smile a little uncertain.

“It not being
consistent with a lord’s dignity to feed pastries to dolls on the
carpet, we had better dispense with all this ‘my lord’ business, do
you not think? Will you call me Hugh, Mrs Winstanley?”

She studied her
hands, fiddling with a ribbon on her gown. “If you will call me
Becky, Hugh.”

Later, when she
and Sarah had seen Hugh out the door, Sarah said, “May I ask you a
question, Mama?”

“Of course,
darling.”

“Is Lord
Overton going to be my new uncle? Doesn’t Uncle Lord Aldridge love
us anymore?”

This was a
conversation for the parlour. Becky held out her hand and led Sarah
into the room, closing the door firmly behind them.

“Come and sit
with me, darling.”

How to explain?
With Sarah cuddled against her side on the couch, she started with
Sarah’s question about Aldridge.

“Sarah, Lord
Aldridge hasn’t stopped loving us.” Did Aldridge love her? It
didn’t matter. Aldridge did love Sarah, she was sure of that,
lavishing on the little girl the affection he could not give his
own lost children. “You will always be special to him. But we
cannot stay with him forever. I told you we would be moving to the
country one day.”

“Then why do we
need another uncle?” Sarah asked. “I thought it was going to be
just you and me.”

“Lord Overton
would not be your uncle, my darling. But would you not like him for
a papa?”

Sarah frowned,
but did not reply.

“You like Lord
Overton, do you not? Would you mind very much if our house in the
country were his house? If I married Lord Overton?”

Sarah pulled
away far enough to look up. Tears drowned her eyes and dripped down
her cheeks. “Married, Mama? Forever?”

Not if Sarah
were against it. Becky swallowed against a huge lump in her throat.
Until she faced giving him up, she had not realised her growing
desire for Lord Overton and this marriage.

She started to
shake her head, but Sarah threw herself against Becky’s shoulder,
speaking around great hiccupping sobs. “Oh, Mama, that would be
wonderful. He will never, never leave us, will he, Mama? If he
marries us, he will stay forever? No more uncles?”

“No more
uncles, my dearest. Forever.” Becky was crying too. “No more
uncles.”

That evening
was one week to the day since Aldridge first suggested the marriage
to Becky. She was waiting in the parlour when Hugh arrived for
dinner. “I think we can make a bargain,” she told him. “If you
still wish it, Hugh.”

Chapter Fourteen

Aldridge was delighted.
He suggested a special licence, and an encounter as soon as
possible with the woman from Astley’s.

“Have you
spoken with your cousin and your other relatives about supporting
Becky while we run the charade?” Hugh asked.

“Your mother
might,” Becky offered.

“The Duchess of
Haverford?” Hugh asked, cautiously, as if Aldridge had a choice of
mothers.

“She said she
would support me to a new life when my contract with Aldridge was
over.”

Aldridge’s
eyebrows shot up. “Mama said that?”

“She...” Becky
blushed. “She might not approve of me marrying a baron. She
certainly warned me not to attempt to marry you. But she did say
she would help me and Sarah when we were ready.”

“If she accepts
you as Baroness Overton, the rest of Society will follow her lead.”
Aldridge had shaken off the surprise and was considering the
agreement between his mother and his mistress with his usual
equanimity. Hugh was still wondering how the two had met.

“I think we
should call on her,” Aldridge continued. “And Rede is in town, too.
We can ask Anne. She liked you, Becky. I’m sure she’ll help. And my
half-brother’s wife, Prue. Rede’s cousin, Susan. My own cousins.
Yes, we’ll do very nicely.”

Hugh shook his
head. “That’s a lot of people to share our secret.”

“I don’t intend
to tell them our secret, Overton. Mama knows, and Anne. And Prue,
probably, because it’s the sort of thing she knows. But they can
all be trusted. All I need to tell the others is that my friend
Hugh is marrying a widow who has not been much in society, and I’d
appreciate their support.”

Becky insisted
they talk to the key players before the planned encounter on Rotten
Row between the Merry Marquis, the baron, and their respective
ladies. Hugh could see the point.

“It won’t take
long, will it?” he said.

His lands and
his daughters needed him. And he needed his new bride. Love was no
more part of this second marriage than in his first—but at least he
liked Becky, and she seemed to like him. And desire... he had
plenty of that! They would deal well together, and he was keen to
get started.

While Aldridge
visited his Mama to explain what they wanted, Hugh went cap, and
purse, in hand to Doctor’s Commons to arrange a special
licence.

It took longer
than he’d hoped, and a lucky encounter with a friend from
university, to be admitted to the Archbishop’s presence, but two
days later, he had his licence. It was in his pocket, and Becky at
his side, when they waited on Her Grace, summoned by a scented note
delivered by the hand of a liveried footman.

Hugh had been
in the heir’s wing many times, and at Haverford, the family seat,
when he was a boy. He had never entered Haverford House by the main
door. Designed to impress, the approach sat back from the road,
admittance through a gatekeeper. They were paraded through the
paved courtyard by another liveried servant to the stairs between
pillars that stretched three stories to the pediment above.

Inside, the
ducal glory continued; a marbled entrance chamber the height of the
house that would make a ballroom in any lesser mansion, with
majestic flights of stairs rising on either side and curving to
meet, only to split again in a symphony of wood and stone. Grenford
ancestors were everywhere, twice as large as life, painted on
canvas and moulded from stone, cold eyes examining petitioners and
finding them all unworthy.

Aldridge met
them in the entrance chamber, and led them up the first flight of
stairs and down a sumptuously carpeted hall that was elegantly
papered above richly carved panels. Four men could have walked
arm-in-arm down the middle, never touching the furniture and art
lining both walls, between highly-polished doors.

Busts on marble
pedestals alternated with delicate gilded tables and seats
upholstered in the Haverford green, scarlet and gold, many
embroidered with the unicorn and phoenix from the Haverford coat of
arms. The art in gilded frames that hung both walls showed more
Grenford ancestors, interspersed with favourite animals, scenes
from the Bible, and retellings of Greek legends. The ornately
painted ceiling boasted flowers, leaves, and decorative swirls, the
many colours highlighted in gilding.

Here and there,
an open door gave them a view into one large chamber after another,
each room richer than the last. At intervals, curtained arches led
to more halls, more stairs.

Hugh was openly
gawping, and Becky drew closer to him, as if for protection.

“A bit over the
top, don’t you think?” he whispered to her, and was rewarded with a
quick, nervous, smile.

The duchess
received them in a sitting room that, if rich and elegant, was at
least more human in scale.

She offered a
cheek to Aldridge for a kiss, and a hand to Hugh. Becky held
back.

“Come, my
dear,” she coaxed. “Mrs Winstanley, is it not? Soon to be Baroness
Overton. You shall kiss me, my dear, and I shall be godmother to
your child, since I cannot claim the closer title.”

Hugh relaxed,
then. Her Grace would champion them for her grandchild’s sake. He
took the offered chair, and Aldridge leant against the mantelpiece.
The duchess ignored them both to focus on Becky.

She insisted on
Becky sitting beside her.

“Are you
keeping well, my dear? Are you eating?”

“Yes, Your
Grace.” Becky’s voice was so quiet Hugh had to lean forward to
hear.

“You must eat
several times a day, dear. More as the baby takes up more room...”
she trailed off as Becky blushed scarlet. “And when do you expect
the little one to arrive?”

“At Yuletide,
Ma’am. Or perhaps early January.”

“What of sleep,
Mrs Winstanley? Are you able to rest in the afternoons?” She turned
to Hugh. “An afternoon rest is most efficacious for women who are
increasing, Lord Overton. I will expect you to keep her in bed in
the afternoon.”

“Yes, Ma’am,”
Hugh replied, blushing in his turn.

The Duchess
silenced her sniggering son with a raised eyebrow. “I suppose you
have a plan, Aldridge, for convincing the
ton
that Mrs
Winstanley and Lady Overton are two different people?”

Aldridge
explained about the woman from Astley’s.

“Will she keep
her silence if the gossip rags guess she had a part in it? They
pay, I am told. And is she willing to continue playing the
part?”

“We intend a
tragic accident, Mama. The horse will bolt, The Rose of Frampton
will fall, and the Marquis of Aldridge will attend her funeral and
wear a black armband for a full year.”

Aldridge’s
mother pursed her lips. “Six months for a mistress, I think, my
love. One would not wish to be thought excessive. And promise the
girl a yearly payment if she is silent.”

“I beg your
pardon, Your Grace,” Hugh ventured, “but might that not encourage
her to seek an increase?”

“Blackmail, you
mean?” Her Grace raised an elegant eyebrow. “Aldridge, you will
make it clear that any attempt to seek an increase will be met
with... considerable ducal displeasure. My godchild’s mother is not
to be inconvenienced or embarrassed.”

She patted
Becky’s hand. “Now, my dear, what do you have to wear for your
wedding? And may I ask... would you allow me to stand witness, Mrs
Winstanley? I would be so delighted.”

After that,
things moved with blinding speed, although not as fast as the
Duchess first suggested. Becky demurred at marrying immediately,
without Sarah present, so Aldridge was dispatched to collect her.
Becky was swept off into the Duchess’s chambers, and Hugh was sent
to the heir’s wing, where Aldridge’s valet waited to dress him for
his wedding.

Two hours
later, Hugh joined a cleric and a resplendent Aldridge in the
Haverford House Chapel. Hugh had chosen formal court dress and had
been pleased with his coat of cream silk velvet, grey breeches and
a dark blue waistcoat, richly embroidered in powder blue and
silver. Until he stood next to Aldridge.

Aldridge had
also found time to change into formal attire. His coat and
breeches—of a midnight-blue silk velvet, with a deep band of
embroidery on each side and on the cuffs—fitted him as if sewn to
his broad shoulders and muscular thighs. Snow-white lace foamed at
his neck and cuffs, matching his pure white stockings with silver
clocking. His waistcoat put Hugh’s in the shade, near-painted in a
riotous multi-colour pattern on a salmon pink ground to match the
roses in the coat’s embroidery.

Hugh glared at
the roses, suspecting that particular sartorial choice was another
poke at him. He would ignore it. In a very short time, Becky would
be Lady Overton, and within a week, the whole of London would know
the Rose of Frampton was dead and gone.

A few minutes
of nervous waiting, and the Duchess arrived, hand in hand with
Sarah. Sarah’s stately glide showed her consciousness of her cream
dress flounced in lace, the sash exactly the shade of her eyes, her
dark curls confined by a ribbon the same colour.

“You look
beautiful, Sarah,” Hugh told her, and Aldridge crouched down to rub
his finger across her nose. “Beautiful,” he agreed. “And so grown
up, Princess.”

Sarah beamed,
but Hugh barely noticed. Becky was standing at the other end of the
short aisle. The Duchess had dressed her in silver lace over a pale
peach silk, and she was breath-taking. The dress was full from the
high waist, but hugged the lower curves of her breasts. Above, a
breath of silk trimmed the bodice in a narrow flounce that
continued across both shoulders, a frame for the sweet slope of her
creamy chest and throat.

He dragged his
eyes up the slope to her face. Through the lace veil that covered
her face, he met her eyes, pale and serious. “Soon be done,” he
whispered, smiling just for her. She placed her hands in his, and
managed a shaky smile in return.

With blinding
speed, the wedding was over. Becky was Baroness Overton, his wedded
wife in the eyes of God, his to have and to hold, from this day
forward, ‘till death us do part’.