Pirate's Bride (Liberty's Ladies) (5 page)

 “I don’t know this man. I’ve never laid eyes upon him. Father expects me to marry him within minutes, to sail away to America. I … I can’t.”

Bethlyn’s voice sounded low and weak, causing Mavis to glance at her curiously. She seemed to be going to ask her a question when a loud impatient tap was heard on the door. Tessie answered and the Earl of Dunsmoor stood in the doorway, his dark eyes trained on his daughter as she leaned against the bedpost. He frowned and dismissed the two women.

With hands folded behind his back, Nathaniel Talbot entered his daughter’s room. At his appearance, Bethlyn stood on slightly unsteady feet. Her stomach turned over at the supreme look of annoyance he shot her. Through his displeasure she envisioned the handsome man he’d been years ago. However, a life of ease and indolence, coupled with much alcohol and rich food, now gave him a rather bloated appearance. His hair, which had once been raven black, gleamed brightly with silver strands.

Bethlyn recalled her last meeting with her father, which had taken place only two weeks ago in this very room. He’d surveyed her in much the same fashion then, too. In fact, she wondered if he donned a mask each time he saw her. His facade always contained a hint of scorn, of disapproval, of a dislike he didn’t bother to conceal. He’d inquired as to her health, and before she could even reply, he told her that a dressmaker had been engaged to outfit her in the most fashionable ladies’ attire. He hoped all was to her liking, and then he disappeared. This was the first time she’d seen him since that afternoon, and more than anything she wished to please him, to make up for the fact that she felt ill, to somehow believe that if she put a smile on her face, he’d forget he hated her.

Before Bethlyn could utter a word, her father said, “You look ungodly wretched!”

The smile withered and died before it even appeared. “I’m sorry, Father. This is the best that could be done for me.”

His eyes narrowed to slits. “Are you ill?”

He asked the question with such disdain that Bethlyn felt unable to admit to her own ill health. “No, sir. I am only nervous.” Somehow she managed to smile, though his comment had wounded her deeply.

“The nervousness will pass. I want this wedding to be over with soon. Your bridegroom is eager to set sail for America. His ship leaves London this evening.”

Bethlyn hadn’t known this, and for a moment the room whirled. “I … I … I…”

“What is it? Don’t stammer, girl. You remind me of your mother when you do.”

She swallowed. “I won’t, I mean, we won’t spend the night here at Woodsley?”

“No.”

Tears misted her eyes. She’d hoped to stay the night in this bed, to at least have some feeling of security when her bridegroom possessed her. In fact she didn’t have a clear idea of what “possessed” meant, but Tessie had told her that would happen on her wedding night and she must endure her husband’s possession. Bethlyn recalled that Mavis’s cheeks had flared at the term, and she’d asked her if she knew what Tessie meant. Mavis said she had only a vague idea and conveyed to Bethlyn in more concrete language what Tessie had tried to tell her. Bethlyn had been shocked, not able to believe a man would do that to a woman. To her. However, after much thought on the subject, Bethlyn decided that if that’s what it took to make a man love her, then she’d willingly allow her husband to possess her. However, now seeing the way her father’s eyes raked her in distaste, she was more nervous that Ian Briston might see her in the same way and wouldn’t wish to bed her at all.

“Is there a problem with the plan?” her father asked with a bit of challenge in his voice, almost as if he’d dangled a piece of bait at her and expected her to fight for it.

“That is fine, sir,” she mumbled.

Talbot sniffed the air. “Certainly you’d say that. You’re quite like your mother.” He breathed deeply. “Everyone is assembled in the drawing room, but I can’t allow you to marry with your face that pitiful shade of green. I swear you look ill, but there’s no delaying the ceremony now. Have that maid of yours cover your face with a veil, anything to dispel that tragic look. I’ll wait by the stairs for you, and do hurry.”

“Father!” she cried, wanting to cling to him though he hated her, to ask him to change his mind about the wedding, to do the impossible and love her.

“Yes.”

So curt, so cold he looked that she said instead, “I never did express my sympathy to you over your wife’s passing. I truly am sorry.”

For just a brief moment, the guarded and disdainful expression melted. She detected a softness, almost as if he might give in to the human emotion of grief. He didn’t. Nathaniel lifted his shoulders high and inclined his head.

“Thank you for your sympathies. Have your maid cover your face and come downstairs. I want the ceremony finished.”

Bethlyn nodded dumbly as his broad shoulders filled the doorway and then he was gone. A sob rose in her throat and she forced it down, knowing that crying would grant her little relief from the burden of her father’s disregard for her. Her dream of ever possessing her father’s love truly died at that moment. She realized he’d never care for her, coming slowly to the knowledge that it wasn’t she he disliked but the memory of her mother whenever he gazed upon her face.

A slight streak of rebellion rose within her. She glanced into the mirror and noticed that her eyes were a blazing amber. “I can’t help that I’m my mother’s child!” she shrieked and hurled a hairbrush at her own reflection.

The mirror cracked with the force. Bethlyn stood there, heaving her shoulders in outrage when Tessie and Mavis entered the room again. The two exchanged a wary glance as Bethlyn gestured to a lacework veil, resting on a delicately embroidered ottoman.

“Place the veil over my face! “ she snapped at Mavis. “I want to get this ceremony over as quickly as possible. And when it is, I’ll be glad never to return to this hateful house.”

~ ~ ~

Tessie handed Bethlyn a small violet bouquet on her way out of the door. Bethlyn took a whiff of the lavender blossoms and felt her stomach turn over. I won’t be ill, she resolved. Nothing will keep me from marrying Ian Briston and leaving here. Nothing.

Bethlyn had been long away from Woodsley and forgotten the largeness of the house. With her hand fastened on her father’s arm, each step along the north corridor to the Painted Hallway and the open colonnade of the entrance hall caused her head to swim. Portraits of her ancestors blurred before her eyes, and the paintings of seventeenth-century masters like Rottenhamer and Berchem which her father had so carefully chosen were gazed at by unappreciative eyes. At one point as she descended the marble staircase, enclosed by gilted ironwork balustrades, she faltered and felt her father’s fingers dig into her flesh, pulling her onward.

From the Painted Hall, they entered the Grotto, a small room with only one window to accentuate the splendor of the Diana Fountain in the center. The huntress’s stone image was covered with swags of garland and her long, thin arms positioned a bow and arrow in place, an arrow which was pointed straight at Bethlyn’s heart. Or so it seemed to her. But Bethlyn felt that the legendary huntress would do far less damage to her heart than the man who now dragged her into the chapel itself.

Once inside, she heard her father breathe a long sigh. Had he thought she’d balk at the last minute? she wondered. For a second she was tempted to do just that, to cause him untold annoyance for the years he’d ignored her. She didn’t. Suddenly the urge to be free of him washed over her with new forcefulness. Her stomach and her head hurt, but she ignored the rolling nausea, the ungodly beating at the temples, and glanced around the room.

Of all the rooms in the house, the chapel had changed not at all. Lady Jessica’s stamp was on the new furnishings, the draperies. Nothing of Bethlyn’s mother’s taste remained. However, in the chapel, Bethlyn could still look at the ceiling, painted with scenes from the Life of Christ, the picture by Verrio of Doubting Thomas which hung over the alabaster altar. A tall black marble column stood sentinel at each end of the room. Bethlyn smelled the strong odor of cedar which emanated from the wainscotted walls, elaborately carved in rows of grape motifs.

Seated on tall chairs of needlework seats were Thomas Eversley and some of the staff, Tessie among them, with Mavis sitting nearer the back. When Bethlyn and her father moved toward the altar, Thomas rose and managed a tight smile at her. It was when she moved past him that she saw her bridegroom.

He waited in front of a painting which represented the Marriage in Cana. As a child, this had been Bethlyn’s favorite painting. She had sat for hours in the chapel to stare at the figure of Christ as he blessed the wine and the happy young couple, newly married, in the background. The painting had represented all her dreams of marrying and being loved.

Now, as her gaze settled through the lace of her veil on her bridegroom, she suppressed a shudder. The tall, well-formed man who took her hand from her father’s wasn’t the man of her dreams. No welcoming smile came from him. His face contained a coldness which not even her father’s could match. His eyes — were they green or black?

At the moment she couldn’t tell, because they showed no emotion. They were dull, as dull as the black clothes he wore, the nondescript white periwig on his head. He dressed as if he attended a funeral and not a wedding.

She hadn’t known what sort of a man to expect, but Miss Grosvernor’s words about “the boorish colonial” came back to her. The woman had been right, and she’d been too dense to admit the truth. Ian Briston was far from a prince on a white charger, come to rescue her from her father and bring her to the fairy-tale land of America across the sea. His hand felt cold, and she shivered, not missing the peculiar arch of his eyebrow as he settled her hand on his arm.

God! she found herself thinking. He’s my last hope for happiness and I repulse him, too.

The marriage vows dimmed in her memory. At one point, she heard Briston’s voice promising to cherish her, the next her own. Was she really trembling so? An awful chill seized her. In a daze she realized the ceremony had ended and she was being led to the back of the chapel by her new husband. A servant served everyone chilled wine in gold goblets. She watched Ian lift his cup to her in a toast and knew she was supposed to drink from her cup. But the smell of the wine, the taste of it, was too much for her stomach to bear. No sooner had she swallowed than it bolted on her.

Bethlyn made a choking sound and rushed on unsteady legs into the Grotto, clutching at her stomach. Perhaps she could make it to her room before she was sick. Maybe …

She fell to the floor, retching, and sobbing for the indignity.

“My God!” she heard her father’s voice, coated with disgust. “Someone clean up this mess!”

“Yes, my lord.” Mavis ran quickly past, followed by Tessie. Bethlyn knelt on the floor, her dress ruined, the floor spotted. No one made a move to help her. She was seemingly forgotten by all, watched like a freak at a village fair.

She realized that her veil hung limply across her head, having been thrown back by someone when she became ill. Had it been her father? She glanced up, mortification showing in her face. No, not him. He watched her in repulsion. She felt a comforting arm on hers and found Ian Briston beside her. She truly wanted to die.

She sobbed weakly. “I’m.. . I’m … sorry. For … give me.”

 The chastisement she expected didn’t come, not realizing that her father had been pushed aside and any other comments he’d have uttered had been sufficiently quelled by a sneer thrown his way from Briston. “Don’t apologize, my dear. Can you put your arms around my neck? I’ll carry you upstairs to your room. Would a servant lead the way?”

Before she knew it Briston lifted her in his arms and followed a maid to her room. In due time she was laid across the bed and the veil removed from her face by Briston.

He smiled down at her. “I’m certain one of your maids can help you undress. You must rest now and regain your strength.”

“I’m very seldom sick,” she mouthed, feeling she must reassure him of her good health. Maybe he wouldn’t want her if he thought she was sickly.

 Tessie appeared then and immediately came to Bethlyn. “Oh, my lady, I knew you were too sick to marry today. Your pretty dress is ruined, too.”

“Take extra special care of your charge,” Briston said to Tessie and patted Bethlyn’s hand. “I’ll check on you later,” he told Bethlyn.

“Thank you,” Bethlyn said, feeling ill again and trying to pretend she felt better. “I look forward to recovering quickly and leaving Woodsley.”

He didn’t reply to that, just stared at her and smiled benevolently at her like she was a small child.

When he was gone, she said to Tessie, “I think he is a kind man. I will make him a good wife.” Then she was sick again.

~ ~ ~

Ian leaned a black
-
satin
-
clad arm against the cool Italian marble mantelpiece in the Oak Drawing Room.

The rich brown carpet at his feet matched the heavy embroidered drapes on the windows, a direct contrast to the light-colored and unadorned furnishings in the room, the sort of no-nonsense furniture on which a man could stretch out, feel comfortable. With the orange-and-blue flames licking at the logs in the fireplace, the room exuded a warmth, an informality Ian found lacking in the museum-like Woodsley.