Trouble at the Wedding (26 page)

“I know that,” he cut in. “My brains may be on holiday most of the time these days, but I can discern when a woman is not practiced in the art of lovemaking. God knows,” he added, sounding suddenly tired, his hands falling to his sides, “I've practiced enough to know.”

His words hurt her, not because of the other women he'd had, which didn't surprise her in the least, but because of the bitter tinge to his voice as he confessed the fact.

“Unfortunately,” he went on, interrupting this line of thought, “though I may be a rake of the first water, that isn't the way it will be regarded by others. You are an unmarried woman, and the servants know that. It's every bit as much my fault, and I won't be anyone's favorite dinner guest for a while, but the consequences for you are far more grave. You'll be—”

He stopped, but she finished his sentence for him. “I'll be ruined.”

He grasped her shoulders. “No, you won't. If we're engaged now, today, that cuts the juiciness of the gossip down considerably once it leaks out. Our engagement must be confirmed at once and banns posted. Our marriage must follow as quickly as possible, three weeks later at most. If we're lucky, the story won't spread far until after we're wed, and after that, no one will give a damn.”

She felt dazed, bewildered, and panicky. This was all part of a world she'd thought she wanted, but she was realizing just how unprepared she was to move in it. “But what about the next three weeks?”

“Sylvia and I shall do all we can to ensure that the scandal sheets are too full of stories about our joyful wedding news to print more sordid rumors. Stories will appear every day rhapsodizing about the lovely young heiress and the handsome duke who captured her heart, a duke so carried away by passion that he protested her marriage to another man. They'll talk about our obvious and undeniable love and our fairy-tale romance, a fiction we must do our best to make as convincing as possible.”

A fiction
. Of course.

It would be silly of her to think for a moment that love had anything to do with this. Her heart clenched with unexpected pain, and she fought back, reminding herself that she didn't want to fall in love anyway. She was fighting very hard not to. So why did it hurt so much to hear him speak of the possibility of love with such contempt?

“A story of scandal,” he went on, “isn't nearly as interesting or believable if it's told after the engagement is announced. It will be put down to rumors created by malicious men or envious women who resent the fact that you, a New Money nobody from Mississippi, who has barely entered good society, captured the heart of a duke and married him.”

A New Money nobody.

She knew that's how most people thought of her, of course. She'd been called that many times in the New York press. But somehow, it hurt to hear it on Christian's lips.

“Once we're engaged, I doubt the papers would grant any stories of scandal enough credence to print them. Especially since everyone knows I usually stay well away from unmarried women. Anyone who doesn't believe the story of true love will still applaud both of us for choosing each other. But I think most people will believe it's a love match, after the way I stood up at your wedding to Rumsford.”

“Then we are the perfect transatlantic marriage,” she said flatly.

“So it would seem.”

She nodded, feeling the inevitability of her future sinking in, and even though it was exactly the sort of future she used to believe she wanted, she didn't feel the least bit happy. Instead, she felt sick. “Christian, I'm sorry.”

A muscle worked in the corner of his jaw. “It takes two,” he said after a moment. “That's why they call it coupling.”

Abruptly, he looked away. “We'll be married at Scarborough, in the ducal chapel, three weeks from now. I hope that's acceptable to you.” He gave her no chance to express an opinion.

“I have to find your stepfather and your uncle,” he said and started back toward the house. “Tell your mother, and see Sylvia about wedding plans.”

He left her without another word or even a backward glance. Annabel stared after him, but even after he'd disappeared into the house, she stood in the garden for a long time, trying to take it all in.

She certainly was moving up in the world, she thought with a hint of cynicism. She was engaged again, to a duke this time, a fact the Knickerbockers would probably discuss with grudging admiration and plenty of envy, saying that she'd played her cards boldly but well, throwing over the earl to secure the duke. As Christian had told her the first time he'd proposed, they would probably tip their hats to her and say well done. And she'd be a duchess, accepted everywhere, by everyone.

She now had everything. A handsome, charming, titled husband, estates on two continents, wealth, position, power, and fame. Everything a white trash girl born in a tin-roof shack on a Mississippi backwater could want. Everything but love.

Annabel sat down on a garden bench and burst into tears.

Chapter Seventeen

“A
nnabel?”

Her mother's voice calling her name stopped her tears at once. She would not cry in front of Mama, not again, not like she had after Billy John, and she couldn't bear to see the same disappointment and pain in her mother's face that she'd seen last time she'd confessed a lapse of virtue. No, she'd have to lie. And from what Christian had said, she'd be doing a lot of that for the next few weeks.

She wiped her eyes, glad she hadn't cried long enough for them to be puffy. She pasted on the smile of a happy bride, and turned around to greet her mother, who had crossed the lawn and was now entering the garden.

“Oh, Mama,” she breathed, striving for just the right amount of modest astonishment and bridal happiness.

“So he did propose.” Her mother's voice sounded flat, not nearly pleased enough. “Was it real this time, or just another sham proposal to save your reputation?”

Her smile faltered just a bit.

Of course Mama noticed. “Yes, darlin',” Henrietta told her gently. “I know what's bein' said. I heard Liza defending you to one of Lady Sylvia's housemaids. Bless her heart. We need to raise that girl's wages.”

Lie, Annabel. Lie like hell.

“It's all just servants gossipin', Mama.”

“Of course it is.” Now it was there—disappointment. In her, not for what she'd done, but for lying.

A sob came out. She tried to choke it back, but when her mother opened her arms, Annabel went running into them just as she had eight years ago.

“He says we have to get married,” she said against her mother's shoulder. “He says I'll be ruined if we don't.”

“Hush,” Mama soothed, patting her back. “Hush now. Everything will be all right.”

“It won't. He doesn't love me.”

Her mother's arms held her a little tighter. “Are you sure about that?”

She thought of his face, so distant and unreadable, and his voice, so contemptuous when he'd talked about the charade they'd have to put on for everyone, how they'd have to pretend an undeniable love.

A fiction we must do our best to make as convincing as possible.

“Yes, Mama,” she answered miserably. “I'm sure.”

“But what about you? You love him, and that must count for somethin'.”

Annabel lifted her head. “What?”

“Don't look so surprised.” Henrietta gave her a sad smile, cupping her chin with one hand. “You never can fool me, Annabel Mae, even when you try to fool yourself.”

“I guess not,” she sighed, wretched at the admission she was about to make to her mother and to herself. “I do love him, Mama. And that's the worst part.”

U
pon leaving Annabel in the garden, Christian went in search of Annabel's male relations to acquaint them with the situation—a carefully edited version of it, at least. Mrs. Chumley's manner indicated she was already aware of what was being said belowstairs, but since neither of the men had a valet, Christian could only hope the gossip had not reached their ears.

He found Chumley in the library, and though Ransom was not with him, Christian decided not to wait. He sent a footman in search of Annabel's uncle and asked her stepfather for a few moments of his time.

Upon news of the engagement, Chumley seemed delighted and gave his consent quite happily. “I thought that might be the way the wind was blowing,” he said, smiling as he leaned back in his chair. “Even drunk, a man doesn't just stand up at a weddin' unless he's smitten.”

Smitten? That, Christian thought wryly, was a very apt description. He had to be smitten, for there was no other explanation for why he'd been acting like a prize ass of late.

“We'll get hold of Arthur,” Chumley went on, “and the three of us can draw up a prenuptial agreement.”

He nodded. He would have liked to refuse it, but he couldn't afford that luxury. Ransom was sure to think the worst about his motives no matter how much or how little the amount he received, but that couldn't be helped.

“My solicitors are Hutton, Bayhill, and Ross,” he said, scribbling down the address on the back of his own card. “I must go to Scarborough and make arrangements there, but—”

“You son of a bitch!”

At the sound of that voice, both men turned toward the doorway of the library to find Arthur standing there, Annabel and her mother right behind him.

“Now, Arthur,” Mrs. Chumley began, but Ransom shook off the restraining hand she put on his shoulder.

Christian stood up, turning toward the other man as he entered the room with Annabel and her mother hard on his heels. “You're not getting your hands on her money,” Ransom said as he came toward Christian, fists clenched, his usually benignant face red with fury.

“Uncle Arthur, you're getting this all wrong,” Annabel said, but Ransom gave her no chance to explain.

“You won't get a dime out of this,” he told Christian. “Not one dime, you mercenary, fortune-hunting son of a bitch.”

Christian, not being drunk, was more prepared this time for the fist that came toward his face. He managed to evade the blow, and before Ransom could try again, Chumley stepped between them.

“Whoa, gentlemen,” he said. “There's no need for a fight. I'm sure we can work everything out.”

“There's nothing to work out,” Ransom said with disgust. “He's nothing but a fortune hunter, and if you agree to this, George, I swear I'll—”

“Uncle Arthur,” Annabel cut in, stepping forward, “George doesn't have to agree. I agreed. I want to marry Christian.”

Annabel was a better actress, Christian realized, than he'd have given her credit for. Her voice was calm, her words uttered with assurance, and when she moved to stand beside him, she took his hand in hers in a manner that was thoroughly convincing. “I'm marrying Christian, Uncle Arthur, and that's all there is to it. I want this with all my heart.”

“Lord,” Ransom muttered, staring at her, “that any niece of mine could be such a fool.”

Her expression didn't falter, and only her hand, squeezing Christian's hand tight, indicated the strain she was under uttering such outright lies and being thought a fool by her uncle, whom she loved and respected, because of him.

Shame consumed him, causing a hot, tight pain that twisted his chest.

When she let go of his hand, he forced himself to speak. “I shall leave it to Annabel and you two gentlemen to draw up whatever agreement you desire, and I shall instruct my solicitors to accept on my behalf any terms you have laid down. All I ask is an annual sum for the maintenance of Scarborough because it shall be Annabel's home, and an amount to be set aside in trust upon the birth of each of our children. As for the rest, Annabel may do whatever she likes with her money. I don't want it. I know you don't believe that, Mr. Ransom, and you have every reason not to, but it is the truth. Now, if you will forgive me, I must go. There's a great deal I must do.”

He pressed a quick kiss to Annabel's hair and departed the room, but as he stepped through the doorway, he paused for one look back at his bride-to-be.

She was looking at him, and as their eyes met, he vowed to himself that she would never, ever, have cause to regret this day, or the night that had made it necessary. This was his second chance, and he was taking it.

C
hristian went upstairs and instructed McIntyre to pack his things for Scarborough Park, informed Sylvia everything was settled with Annabel and her family, and ordered his carriage brought around. He went into the City and met with his solicitors, outlining what he'd told Annabel's family and ignoring their well-meant advice that he should ask for much more.

He arranged for announcements to be sent to the press, and personally paid a call on Viscount Marlowe, who was not only an acquaintance of his, but also the owner of the
Social Gazette
, London's largest and most reputable society paper. Marlowe was in, and happy to accept his offer of an exclusive interview. When he explained he had to leave for Scarborough on the evening train, a journalist was called up to the viscount's offices at once, and Christian spoke with the fellow for more than an hour, playing his part with far more ease than a man ought, but as he discussed his devotion to duty, to Annabel, and to Scarborough, he found himself wanting it to be true and not just a necessary façade.

When he felt he'd said enough to be convincing, he ended the interview. After bidding good day to Marlowe and assuring the viscount that he and Lady Marlowe would be receiving an invitation to the wedding, he left Marlowe Publishing and met up with McIntyre, who was waiting for him with the luggage at Euston Station. The two men boarded the evening train for Yorkshire, and by late evening, they were at Scarborough Park.

He had only three weeks to make things ready, and given the condition of his ancestral home, that wasn't much time. The following morning, he made an announcement to the staff, and he was both surprised and pleased by how excited they were at the news that there would once again be a duchess at Scarborough. They'd never taken much to Min, Andrew's wife, who, after her husband's death, had stayed only long enough for the funeral before sailing back to the States. Christian couldn't blame her for escaping this place as soon as she'd been able. He'd spent most of his life wishing he could do the same.

And yet now, as he toured the house with Mrs. Houghton, the housekeeper, as he ordered a thorough airing of the ducal apartments and discussed the condition of the nursery, he began to see Scarborough not as the depressing place he'd grown up, nor even as the place he'd brought his first bride fifteen years earlier. Perhaps it was the silent vow he'd made to Annabel, but he began to think of how Scarborough might become a home, if the effort were put into it.

As he surveyed the wine cellar and the silver with Morgan, the butler, as he walked the grounds with the gardeners and inspected the tenant cottages with his land agent, he began to feel a spark of hope for the future build inside him. The future was something he hadn't dared to believe in for a long time, and hope had always been just a word. Yet, now, in the work he did and the decisions he made, he felt it in himself, faint at first, but growing stronger each day as he took over management of the property left in his care, as he called on his neighbors and toured the village, walked in the gardens and rode through the woods, he felt as if he were climbing inch by inch out of a dark abyss.

He tried not to think of Evie. Whenever he was forced to traverse the gallery, he didn't look at her portrait, he never went to her rooms, and when he rode the grounds, he avoided going anywhere near the pond where she had taken her life. But there were times here at Scarborough when he'd see her face, fleeting and insubstantial, like a ghost. Perhaps he always would. He'd made her a part of Scarborough, and he had to live with that.

Marrying Annabel would never make up for the wrong he'd done Evie, but every day, in everything he did, he renewed his resolve that his second wife would have all the consideration and care he'd been too immature and selfish to give to his first. As the days passed and the day of his wedding approached, Christian worked hard every waking moment to not only accept the position he'd been given by fate, but also be worthy of it, for Annabel's sake. His sister had often told him to let go of the past and banish his guilt, but for the first time since Evie's death, Christian began to feel it was actually possible.

F
or Annabel, the days after Christian's departure went by in a blur.

Lady Sylvia took her to the dressmaker Vivienne for her wedding gown. “I know you adore Worth, my dear,” Sylvia said, “but we haven't time. They take forever nowadays. Vivienne is actually Vivian Marlowe, the sister of Viscount Marlowe, and a personal friend of mine. She will put you at the top of her list, and we'll have a splendid gown in a matter of days.”

When Annabel found herself in the showroom of London's most fashionable dressmaker, being assessed by the slim, willowy Vivienne herself, she felt as if the other woman's keen green eyes would find her full-figured shape a difficult one to work with. Fashionable dressmakers, she'd learned a long time ago, preferred slender figures without many curves. But she soon realized she'd underestimated this particular dressmaker.

“Not satin,” Vivienne said at once. “Silk chiffon for you, Miss Wheaton, no doubt about it.” She waved a hand. “The ivory silk, Claudette, the one with peachy undertones.”

Moments later, one of her assistants was bringing a bolt of that fabric, and Annabel was being swathed in it.

“I'm thinking a sort of Grecian, draping effect for the skirt and a bodice that wraps the bosom.” Vivienne spoke through a mouthful of pins, wrapping and pinning fabric to Annabel's underclothing as she spoke. “I hope you didn't have your heart set on satin. Most brides are still wearing it, but it's not right for you at all. It would cling to you in a most unforgiving way.”

Annabel bit her lip, remembering her first wedding gown had been exactly like that, and how she'd ignored the feeling of being encased like a sausage for the sake of fashion.

“This will flatter your figure much better. What do you think?” Vivienne inserted the last pin and stepped aside to allow her to see her reflection in the long mirror. “Before you answer, I must warn you, and your mother, too,” she added to Henrietta, who stood a few feet behind them, “this silhouette is not yet in vogue. Only the most daring girls wear the very latest fashions.”

Daring? It was more than just daring. It was unlike any dress design she'd ever seen, and yet, as she studied her reflection, she realized the dressmaker was right. Already, even when it was just yards of silk pinned in place, she knew the draping folds and soft fabric flattered her shape and skin tone far better than the bright white satin and swan bill shape of her previous gown.