Secrets of a Scandalous Bride (21 page)

Elizabeth nodded, unable to speak.

“I’m afraid we’ve all been cowards in broaching the subject,” Ata said quietly. “Indeed, I’ve never seen
Luc so on edge. You know it’s not too late to cry off. It is never too late—even if General Pymm’s attachment to you exceeds Lord Wymith’s to Sarah.”

She looked down to examine the hem of her green walking gown. She did not want to discuss it. It was going to be difficult enough to go through with it. And Ata had such piercing dark eyes.

She was so tired of lying to everyone. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Of course, I’m going to marry him. I would not have allowed this insanity”—she indicated the elegant gowns now decorating the backs of every chair and chaise in Ata’s chamber—“to continue unchecked if I had not decided.”

Oh, she would make an attempt to recover the letters, but that was simply a gambit to try and remove the thing Pymm would hold over her head for the rest of her life. But her chance of success was next to nil. And she had taken her decision to marry Pymm the day Lefroy had told her the truth.

This was the only way to eliminate Pymm’s threats to her and to ensure the financial security of Manning’s stable. It was obvious she was the root cause of Pymm’s animosity toward Rowland. And the race at Ascot had caused more harm than good, in the end.

Ata said something and Elizabeth was lifted from her reverie.

“Elizabeth?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I asked about Mr. Manning.”

“Yes?”

“You will not speak of him, then?” Ata was unable to keep the curiosity from her voice. “Well, I’m sorry for it, but I must ask you to help me choose a gift
for the audacious man—for recovering my Pip. Will you not help me? What would he most delight in, I wonder?”

It was her inherent unhappiness that led to black humor. “Food. Delicacies of any kind. Especially gingerbread.”

“Really?”

“Yes. That or
a lot of money
.” She arched a brow.

Ata chortled. “Do you think if I give him enough, he might let me try one of his horses?”

Elizabeth’s smile faded as she caught sight of the heavy, honey-colored gown the modiste had left on the chaise. “Ata, Luc would worry so if you…And Mr. Brown…”

“Oh, pish. Who cares about Mr. Brown? He wouldn’t even take notice if I broke my neck now.” All the good humor on the petite elderly lady’s face fled.

Elizabeth felt a tug of guilt on her heartstrings. With her future in such a precarious state, she had not been the confidante to the dowager that she should have been. “Has the countess’s house party broken up yet?”

Ata appeared miserable. “He’s returned to Scotland. He did not even bother to take his leave of Luc. I’ve…I’ve even driven him away from all of our mutual friends.”

“Oh, Ata…but surely he’ll—”

“He even refused Quinn,” Ata interrupted. “He actually declined Quinn’s request to oversee affairs at Ellesmere House for just a week or so until Georgiana is safely delivered.” Ata paused, and it became evident she desired to put an end to all discussion about Mr.
Brown. “None of us had wanted to tell you, Elizabeth, for you’ve so much to worry you, but Quinn is distraught. He’s terrified Georgiana’s accident of long ago will hamper the birth.”

They had all of them been anxious since the day Georgiana had announced that she was with child. “I must go to her. Today,” Elizabeth said firmly.

“No, you will not. You’ve far too much to contend with. Rosamunde and Grace are with her, distracting her every day. They try to keep Quinn from hovering.”

Elizabeth studied the dowager duchess for a long moment. “Does it not feel like all of us are hanging on a precipice? Is this how life goes, then, Ata? Are there never moments of profound peace?”

“Rarely, my dear. There are peaks and valleys. But you’ve had a particularly difficult time—as has Georgiana. But you’ve managed so well despite the pressure of so many people following your every movement, and repeating your every word. And then there is that other distraction…”

Elizabeth darted a glance at her.

“Well, if last night is any indication…”

She could feel a blush mounting her cheeks. “Last night?”

“The head gardener informed me this morning that there is not a single bloom left on the climbing roses. The ones on the trellis outside your window.”

“Ata…”

“No, you do not have to say a word. I realize you do not want to unburden your heart to me. Or, really, to anyone. And I recently decided I would stop press
ing everyone to confide in me. In fact, I’ve decided to give up many things. ’Tis long past due.”

Elizabeth rushed to comfort the dowager. “Oh, Ata. Do not say that. You’ve been my savior these last eighteen months. Like the mother or grandmother I never had. In so many ways you are very like a guardian angel to me. I think that is why I do not want to burden you. You have done so much for me already. For all of us.”

“No, you misunderstand. This has nothing to do with you, dearest. You see, it has to do with me. The problem with old age is that one finally has no choice but to accept the sad truth.” Ata glanced away. “Dreams of youth are not always granted, you see. Indeed, they are rarely fulfilled. Not everyone can find happiness in the end. And I suspect that you, of all of us, know that very well.”

Elizabeth refused to pretend. “Perhaps. But one should never give up. To give up is to ensure defeat.”

“Says the daughter of an army captain.”

“No. Says the woman who lost that father,” she said softly. “But, you are right. I would dishonor him by thinking anything else.”

Ata closed the gap between them, hugging Elizabeth to her. “You know, all this time I was determined to impart my many years of wisdom and my considerable resources to teach and help all of you find the happiness you each deserved. And yet, you are the ones who taught me.” She leaned back to rearrange Elizabeth’s fichu. “And you, without a single doubt, have taught me the most of all.”

“That cannot be so.”

“No. Not one of us has your courage…your determination…indeed, your ability to persevere despite the discontent you hide so well from almost everyone. Oh, Elizabeth, promise me you will be happy. Promise me you’re not making a grave mistake by marrying this general who is so besotted with you.” Ata paused for a moment. “You know I will require a companion if all of you leave me. I cannot remain in my grandson’s household forever. And I refuse to become the doddering old biddy who mumbles while eating her porridge. Would you not like to retire to Cornwall with me? Without Luc to spy on us we could ride the cliffs of Perran Sands every day.”

Elizabeth smiled. “You do know how to tempt me. But you vastly overestimate my character, Ata. I’m not nearly as courageous—”

At the sound of the door opening, Ata and Elizabeth shifted their gazes to find Sarah, color high on her cheeks, rush through the door.

All three of them spoke at once. Sarah grasped their hands. “Oh. I—I’ve done something quite, quite impossible.”

Ata tried to speak but Elizabeth’s words resonated. “Lord Wymith offered for you?”

It was as if Sarah could not hear her. “He is so good. And I—I’ve caused him such pain. I never deserved his admiration, never—”

“You refused him?” Elizabeth whispered as she squeezed Sarah’s hand.

Sarah met her gaze—her gray eyes lost and dull with pain. “It was as if someone else, not I, were speaking to him—answering his heartfelt plea…hurting him.”

“But why, Sarah?” Ata’s face was filled with amazement. “Why would you refuse him?”

“I-I don’t know.” She dropped their hands and walked to the window and gazed outside. The light reflected off her delicate, ethereal face. “Oh, I do know. I’m a pathetic wretch. I just cannot forget Pierce. I will never forget him.”

“But no one is asking you to forget your husband,” Ata said, now behind her.

Elizabeth joined them at the window. “Sarah, this is my fault. I should have encouraged you more. I’ve been selfish, living on memories of long ago—and wishing they were still with us. But Pierce would be disappointed in me for not telling you to go on with your life. He would want you to be happy with the earl.”

Sarah turned around slowly. “No. It wouldn’t be fair to Lord Wymith. And he agreed when I explained it to him.”

“What did you say?” Ata handed her a handkerchief.

She buried her face in her hands. “When he pressed me, I finally admitted that I still dream of Pierce. He comes to me in my sleep, and he comforts me. Wraps me in his embrace, and there is such love and hope in his eyes. I would rather live the rest of my life with my memories—my dreams—than make another life with someone else. It would not be fair if I could not come to a man with my whole heart.”

“Why did you not tell me, Sarah?” Elizabeth’s eyes burned with emotion.

“Why have you not told me the real reason you’ve agreed to give yourself to a man who you dislike?”

Elizabeth held her gaze. “I thought you had changed your mind about the general. I thought you approved of him.”

“I did not say that. I said that perhaps you were wrong to think he might be a murderer. I said it to suggest we stop running.”

Ata touched her hand. “Are you hiding something from all of us, Elizabeth? Surely you can tell us if something is wrong.”

Elizabeth shook her head. There was absolutely nothing they could do. And if she told them, they would only suffer from the knowledge. And so she took a breath and continued the lie. “You’ve misread everything. You must see that I’ve willingly chosen my future. You were right, Sarah. I was wrong before. And I’ve embraced my decision with my whole heart. I hope you will do me the honor of wishing me happy.”

Sarah and Ata exchanged glances and then uttered the meaningless words. As soon as she could, she disengaged herself from her friends.

She had a letter to write. And a visit to make to the Pulteney Hotel.

After their brief meeting, Rowland escorted the Duke of Helston to the grand entryway of his enterprise. Gratitude reared its uncomfortable head. He had not had to deal with it very often. “I must thank you, Helston. I’d not expected…”

The duke waved his hand in that way all aristocrats knew instinctively from birth. “The mare was worth twice the price.”

Rowland could not form a reply for they both
knew the duke was lying, and so he cleared his throat instead.

“I would ask that you come to Helston House on occasion to ride Vespers when my wife and I are at our seat in Cornwall,” the duke said gruffly.

Something cold and hard knotted in his gut. This first step toward dismantling his kingdom was bound to be the worst. He thought about Elizabeth’s beautiful face the last time he’d been with her and forced a smile to his lips. This money would help both of them begin new lives.

“As I said,” Helston continued. “I’m determined to see the mare race at Ascot again next summer. You will oversee her training the four months prior. Agreed?”

Rowland looked down to see Helston’s hand extended toward him. It was the first time any member of the peerage had ever offered the gesture.

He clasped the duke’s hand. “Agreed. Vespers will be delivered to your mews within the week.”

The duke did not release his hand. “Manning…what in hell is going on?”

Rowland tried to disengage his fingers, without success. “What do you mean?” he said offhandedly.

The duke stared at him, a myriad of thoughts coursing his expression. “I think you know very well what I’m asking.”

“Uh. You may let go of my hand now.”

The barest hint of a smile appeared at the corners of Helston’s mouth. “Of course. Once you tell me what you’re planning.”

“I’m not telling you a bloody thing—even if you want to hold hands all night.”

The duke raised his brows. It was to be a standoff.

“Bloody hell.” For the first time in two decades, Rowland chose to trust someone other than himself. “If I’d known you felt this way, I’d have signed your dance card long ago. Well, since you’re so determined to waltz, I have a favor to ask.”

The duke released his hand. “Another favor?” Helston’s eyelids lowered to half mast. “It’s not going to cost as much as the mare, is it?”

Rowland bit back a smile. “No—but if you would like to buy another—”

“What do you want?” The duke’s words were as guarded as his own.

“Immediately after Prinny bestows the duchy on Pymm at Carlton House, I would ask you to watch Elizabeth closely. She might be foolish enough to try and make an announcement—despite her promises to the contrary.”

“Exactly what would be the nature of this possible announcement?”

He ignored the duke’s question. “She would need at least one gentleman of good ton to stand by her if she speaks out. A
bastard
will not suffice. While she is not aware of it, I intend to be nearby—in the Music Room. But, I will not show myself. It would only compound speculation
later
.” He could not fully explain to Helston without causing a thousand more infuriating questions. He could not risk an appearance, as further gossip would only tie him to Elizabeth when he meant to secrete her away in France.

Helston smiled, and scratched his jaw. “Well, I suppose I should be grateful you have enough sense not to try and stir up a royal fray again after that spec
tacle in St. George’s. Very good. There is only this left then.” The duke extracted a letter from his coat.

“What is it?”

“A letter from Elizabeth Ashburton, soon to be Elizabeth Pymm, the Duchess of Darlington
in case you have not been paying attention
. I promised that I would put this in your hands today.”

Helston’s eyes scrutinized him and Rowland returned the favor before sliding his thumb under the seal of the letter.

T
he day played out exactly as Elizabeth had known it would. A sense of calm invaded her as she dismissed the two maids Ata had sent to attend to her. She had been sewn into the gown, just as securely as a Tudor bride. Only her husband would wield the scissors to extract her from this prison of jeweled silks tonight. But for some spectacularly odd reason, she did not fear it now.

She had so much for which to be grateful. She would avoid Newgate or worse, secure the future of the man she loved, release her friends from the worry and cost of supporting her for the rest of her life, gain a house and living for Sarah, and would, with any luck, have a child to love. A family, of sorts, again.

The cost was exorbitant, true.

She would have to spend the rest of her life with a pompous, awful man she neither liked nor trusted. And he might very well be far worse. But she tried desperately to remember that there were so many women who had experienced more gruesome fates.

She tried very hard to not think of Rowland and how he would react upon learning what she had done. She prayed he would understand in time. Her spirits
depressed, she could not bear to have even Sarah or Ata with her these last moments.

Her efforts had failed—as she had known they would.

Pymm’s servants at the Pulteney had been surprised by her appearance, but had granted her access to the apartments that would be hers. She had made use of the connecting door, and searched his apartments, her heart in her throat.

There had not been a single letter or locked chest in evidence, anywhere. And so she had had her maid hastily arrange a few personal effects in what was soon to become her temporary chambers at the famous hotel, and finally decamped to Helston House to be quickly sewn into her gown.

Of course there was still some small hope. She would have a lifetime to find the letters. It gave her something for which to strive.

Everyone needed something on which to pin one’s hopes. She stared at the small looking glass, and almost did not recognize herself. She looked far older than her years—like a queen—in the overly ornate golden gown. A seductive queen, with a bodice cut far too provocatively. Pymm’s gift of heavy emeralds—given to her last evening—nearly choked her neck.

She heard a commotion beyond her door and knew her time was up. The Prince Regent had insisted on sending two royal carriages to convey all of the Portman Square guests to Carlton House.

The short journey passed in a blur. For the life of her she would never remember what was said to her or what she replied. The only thing she would remember was the anxiety on her friends’ faces.

All too soon they arrived at the Prince Regent’s vast residence on the south side of Pall Mall. She glanced longingly toward St. James Park, now shadowy in the gloaming hour. As she entered the hexastyle portico of Corinthian columns, liveried royal footmen bowed in her wake as did the awed guests in attendance. It was ironic. For so long she had hoped to make her father proud by being accepted by the aristocracy, who had always ostracized her for her hoydenish ways. Now she would have given just about anything to be anywhere but here.

She entered the octagonal room flanked with Ionic columns of yellow marble; the elegant, courtly crowd parted. She turned slightly, only to find the Duke of Helston standing shoulder to shoulder with the Marquis of Ellesmere and the Earl of Wallace. None of their wives was present. Georgiana was still confined, and Rosamunde and Grace had agreed to Elizabeth’s request that they not leave Georgiana’s side. Only Ata and Sarah were to attend tonight.

The three great men behind her, the husbands of her dearest friends, all wore serious, purposeful expressions. There was not a hint of their usual relaxed demeanor. They looked like officers on a mission. And suddenly, she did not doubt for a moment that someone had drafted them. Or rather that someone—Rowland—had
impressed
them. It was actually quite convenient, for she had a task they would help her carry out—one that she dared not reveal until there was no further time for argument.

A tremor raced up her spine. Had he read her letter? Had he believed her?

She was escorted up the left branch of the grand
curving staircases. The second-story paintings of Atlas struggling to carry the world and one of the archangel Michael seemed to mock her ascent.

Her future beckoned beyond the open door in front of her. More hushed voices greeted her as she entered the royal chamber. She glanced past the court crowd only to see the man who would be her husband, standing before the empty throne on the slightly raised dais.

He smirked in that odd fashion of his and she made her way ever onward. A thousand eyes peered at her as she accepted the hand he offered. He nodded a silent greeting after her curtsy.

It was then that she noticed the two portmanteaus behind Pymm.
The guineas.
Pymm saw her glance and his sour countenance affirmed her guess. Atlas would be astonished by the weight that had just dropped from her shoulders at that moment. She stepped back to Luc, Michael, and Quinn for a last word.

“After the Prince Regent confers the duchy, the archbishop will come forward. When he does, I would ask you to discreetly transport those portmanteaus to Manning’s. Under guard.”

“Elizabeth—” Quinn began.

“We’re pack mules? Not saviors, then?” The duke shook his head in disgust.

Under their probing eyes, she continued. “The wedding has been moved forward.”

Michael intervened. “What have you done?” He was the only one whose expression gave her pause. There was something in Michael’s face that would always remind her of Rowland.

She held his gaze. “It was my choice. Don’t ever doubt it.”

For once, luck was on her side. The entrance of His Royal Highness the Prince Regent saved her from continuing. She moved to join the general. With great royal pomp, the prince waddled forward, his jowls swaying.

It was as if a great invisible scythe parted the crowds before His Highness. As he passed, they all bowed and scraped. And finally Prinny was in front of Leland Pymm and Elizabeth, and they swept lower than anyone.

The prince smiled benevolently as he levered himself onto the magnificent throne and nodded his approval. The Duke of Wellington stood at the Prince Regent’s elbow, dour and silent.

Upon the prince’s command, a court speaker unfurled a scroll. His deep baritone informed the glittering crowd of Pymm’s numerous victories and heroic efforts through the last decade and a half. He recited the string of Portuguese and Spanish battlefields that would always represent the nightmares of Elizabeth’s past: Vimeiro, Corunna, Talavera, Busaco, Albuera, Ciudad Rodrigo. She nearly faltered at the mention of
Badajoz
.

These names were nothing more than faraway, romanticized battles to the people in front of her. Through sheer force of will she kept her tears in check. The recitation of the general’s accomplishments droned on like a deafening army of insects on a summer afternoon.

And then it was over. With the sweep of his hand, the Prince Regent placed the invisible mantle of a
duchy on Leland Pymm’s dubious shoulders. He was now the Duke of Darlington, seventeenth in line to be king. The patent letters of nobility were transferred to the newest duke of the realm, who accepted the documents with a tremulous simper and haughty bow.

Pymm turned to her and nodded toward the Archbishop of Canterbury, who stood a few feet behind the throne.

“I would ask the court’s indulgence,” Pymm addressed the crowd with exaltation mingling with reverence. “The Prince Regent and the archbishop have graciously agreed to overlook the late hour. The latter has come to execute a surprise event this evening.”

The words were fitting. Execute, indeed, thought Elizabeth unemotionally.

Murmurs of curiosity floated from the beau monde before them, and Elizabeth was forced to realize that everything she had planned was about to come to fruition. Her mouth was so dry she could barely swallow. The general’s eyes roamed her face, his expression triumphant.

She would never understand why Leland Pymm wanted her, a woman who wanted no part of him. Ah, but such was the nature of an obsession, of course. There was no rhyme or reason to his fixation.

The Prince Regent chuckled. “Never has there been such an eager bridegroom as you, Darlington.”

Pymm beamed at the prince’s use of his new title.

Prinny grinned. “I am all amazement. Do tell the rest of the gentlemen here what powers of persuasion you used to encourage your modest fiancée to forego the pleasure of a wedding tomorrow in St. George’s—every young lady’s dream?”

“Why, Elizabeth did not want to inconvenience Your Majesty by begging your presence again tomorrow morning.”

The prince chuckled and shook his head. “I see. She is impatient for her wedding night too.”

Elizabeth felt the heat of a blush rise to her cheeks.

“No fool is she,” the prince continued. “For she should secure you before another fair face steals away England’s favorite son.”

A few titters fluttered from the audience, but they were soon quieted by the archbishop, who had glided forward in his blue-and-silver vestments.

Out of the corner of her eye, Elizabeth spied the empty space where the two portmanteaus had rested in the shadows well beyond the throne. Her friends had accomplished her bidding. She could finally draw a breath, despite the long corset that constricted her.

Her feet leaden, she quickly glanced to where the trio had been, but could only find Quinn, supporting Ata, whose expression was deathly pale.

She swiveled her head toward Leland and encountered the same expression he had worn when he had informed her that her father was dead. The day he had insisted she must marry him. The day he had lied to her, insisting those were her beloved father’s last wishes.

His pristine white gloved hand stretched out to her. Beckoning her. A sudden coldness enveloped her and she stepped forward to meet her fate. She slipped her hand into his.

She had been to so many weddings of late that when the familiar words began to roll off the arch
bishop’s tongue, they meant nothing to her. She was chilled despite the heavy gown. Her feet were numb to the bone.

The archbishop asked if there was any man who knew of an impediment to the marriage. Her last hope was dashed when the chamber remained filled with the vast silence of ignorance.

“Leland Reginald Pymm, Duke of Darlington, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together in God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee unto her, so long as…” The Archbishop of Canterbury’s voice trailed off.

It began with the smallest tapping sound echoing from somewhere. Growing louder within seconds, the noise became more distinct. Footsteps running…

A few murmurs drifted from the courtly guests. The Prince Regent flicked a glance toward the royal footmen, who rapped their golden staffs against the marble floor to silence the crowd.

A pounding at the secured doors threatened to interrupt all.

Leland ignored it, plowing forward quickly. His voice was almost inaudible, the ever-louder whispers echoing from the stone walls of the Gothic chamber. “I, Leland Reginald Pymm, the Duke of Darlington, take thee, Elizabeth Ashburton, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for—”

“It appears someone is late,” the Prince Regent said, forcing Leland to stop his vows.

“Of course, we will ignore it. I
will
continue,” the
general, now duke, demanded, his fury barely concealed. “For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish…”

Like an ancient battering ram of centuries past, the pounding intensified.

“Guards,” the Prince Regent waved his hand, his good humor unwavering. “Yes, yes, open the doors. Let us see who the madman is who would dare to interrupt my dear Darlington’s wedding. And someone better have died, or soon will.”

“Your Majesty,” Leland whispered harshly, “I would prefer to continue. Elizabeth, your vows.”

The prince sighed. “Yes, but
I
prefer to see who this fellow is. Then I shall decide if he is to be put in shackles or taken to my jester to become his apprentice.”

The doors opened, and Elizabeth’s vision tunneled to the man standing in the gap.
Oh God. No.

The figure of the man she had not known if she would ever see again advanced.
Slovenly. Drunkenly.

She had never seen him like this—his gait uneven, his hair disheveled, his neck cloth undone, his visage wild. He appeared every inch a gin-house reveler. Absolute blind dread consumed her.

In the course of the next few hellish moments she registered three things. First, the Prince Regent displayed a mixture of four parts astonishment to three parts curiosity. Second, unchecked rage overflowed Leland Pymm’s face while he squeezed her hand, unrelentingly. And last, Rowland Manning appeared
ravenous
to eclipse every last scandal she had created this wedding season.
With a vengeance.

Elizabeth stared at the tableau of humanity before her and knew without a single solitary drop of doubt that this was exactly how souls felt upon facing judgment at the end of their mortal stay. And there was no one to help her. Even Luc, and Michael, who had suddenly reappeared—now haggard yet resolute, stood lurking just inside the doorway, apparently unwilling to stop him.

She felt dredged in guilt. They were all there because of her. And she was about to dishonor them due to their association with her. She was certain her past sins and all her actions were about to be argued and dissected in her presence. And she was mute to stop it.

Pymm cursed softly under his breath and looked at her darkly.

“I swear I know not why he is come,” she whispered. “I made a bargain with you and I intend to follow through with it. I—”

“Mr. Manning,” the Prince Regent called out, with another chuckle. “I’m all amazement. Oh, perhaps I should not be—not after the spectacle in St. George’s. Your manners shall ever and always be lacking, even if you are a damned fine horseman. Off with you, man. There’s no place for you here in your condition—even if you were invited.”