Colors of a Lady (19 page)

“Will you not miss the big wedding?” Thomas
asked of his bride-to-be. A bitter laugh erupted from her pretty
mouth.

“Not at all. I will be glad to be rid of it.
Besides, our travels to Dover should not take long at all and we
can return in time for the wedding breakfast. Mother would just die
if that had to be canceled.”

“As you wish.” Thomas went quiet again. Emma
staggered to her feet and grabbed both the autopsy report and the
will. “I will return tomorrow morning with the special license and
a clergyman. Unless you think my father’s home would suit better
considering the events of today?”

“Grand idea. We will arrive by ten o’clock
tomorrow.”

“How does that sound, Emmy?”

But she was too engrossed in legal jargon
and medical terminology to pay the plans any mind. Her dark brows
joined together in mutual confusion. Emma shook her head endlessly.
It made no sense and then all the sense in the world.

“Marriage….tomorrow...sounds smashing…” she
managed, tone displeased. Thomas blinked his eyes, watching her.
Her body was tightly wound, ready to snap at any second. Her
thoughts were a shrouded mystery to him. There was no way he could
ever begin to fathom what emotions she was undergoing these past
few weeks. The only sorrow of his own life was when his beloved
mother passed away. She had been ill, so it was expected. Emma’s
family tree twisted with deadly secrets. It could not be easy for
her.

When they, at last, left these shores, he
would coax her to sleep for a week at the very least. Purplish
bruises marred her face giving her the appearance of an invalid.
Most of her smiles were forced, too harsh around the edges to be
real.

“Allow me to escort you back to your room,
if Lord Sheridan will allow it?”

“Might as well. She’s likely to drop if she
walks anymore.”

Emma peeked up from the sheets to find a
Marquess and an earl staring her down. “Yes?”

“You should go back to sleep,” began Thomas.
“Tomorrow is our wedding day.”

The words triggered a buried emotion in her
that cause the most beautiful, sunshine-filled smile to bloom upon
her face. “Our wedding day,” she repeated, stressing the pronoun.
Most ladies awaited the day when, at last, they could speak with
the weight of “We” and “Us”. The magnificence of it was not lost
upon Emma. She liked the intimacy it conveyed. Tomorrow, by this
very hour, she would no longer be Lady Emma Wren. That girl was
dead and gone forever. From the ashes, Emma, Marchioness of
Hartwell would arise. Her meteoric ascent would surely be ruined by
the clumsiness that plagued Emma in her nervousness.

“Yes,” Thomas agreed with a smile that
rivaled her own. Lord Sheridan stared between the two, suddenly
very keen that tomorrow their lives would change. No longer would
Emma’s silly grin greet him across the dinner table. Her problems
would fall upon Thomas’ shoulders. Despite what blood may say, she
had always been his daughter. Anyone could see it in her quick wit
and the sparkle in her eyes.

Thomas helped Emma to her feet and
half-carried her to his side. “Papa, good night.” She kissed his
temple as she had done since he could remember. “I love you,” she
whispered. “Thank you for all that you have done for me.”

“Do not thank me, dear. You have always been
a treasure to me. My only regret is I could not stop Joseph’s
death. You were his world.”

Twin pairs of brown eyes burgeoned with
tears, lost in memories of what had been and what could have been
different if Fate was not cruel. Thomas cleared his throat.

“Good night, Sheridan. I will leave as soon
as I put Emma to bed.”

“We need to discuss her dowry before you go.
That is, if you have the time.”

“I have all the time in the world,” he
insisted.

“I, Thomas George Francis Blake, Marquess of
Hartwell, take thee, Lady Emma Wren, to my wedded Wife, to have and
to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for
poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till
death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I
plight thee my troth.”

Constance cried with inconsolable abandon
though Henry tried his best to wipe away her tears. Caroline, still
drowsy, but pretty indeed in a demure gown in a delightful shade of
blossom, stood beside her newest relative, the Duke of Kellaway.
Quiet tears rolled down his finely wrinkled cheeks. He did not lift
a hand to brush them away. At last, his son was married. His
solicitor was pleased that the title would surely stay in the
family. Henry himself found joy at the end of his son’s
loneliness.

The joy evident on Thomas’ face far
surpassed that of His Grace’s. If any members of the ton had seen
him they would have remarked how he never looked more handsome.
Indeed, a light seemed to shine from within those grey-blue eyes.
The coal-black curls sprung from his head in casual disarray. His
buckskin breeches strained against his powerful thighs leading his
bride’s mind to delicious places.

The bride herself had not slept a wink but
glowed as if she had slumbered for one hundred years. With the aid
of a hastily employed maid, Emma’s unmanageable hair was groomed
into a braided bun with curly tendrils tickling her shoulder
blades. A garland of pink and yellow wildflowers adorned her crown.
The Kellaway betrothal ring glimmered upon her left hand that held
a bouquet of the matching wildflowers. Early that morning, Emma
plucked a new gown from her wedding trousseau for the ceremony. A
new gown in Aetherial muslin woven with gilt threads suited her
fancy this morning.

The sight of her alighting from the carriage
stilled Lord Hartwell’s heart. It may not have been her descending
a grand flight of stairs but the effect was all the same.

“I, Lady Emma Wren, take thee, Thomas George
Francis Blake, Marquess of Hartwell, to my wedded Husband, to have
and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer
for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to
obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and
thereto I give thee my troth.”

Lady Sheridan’s watery wails grew louder.
But the couple noticed not. Their eyes locked together. Emma opened
her mouth, lips forming the silent words, “I love you.” Then she
held out her hand for the wedding band that would accompany the
Kellaway betrothal ring.

The best laid plans, of
mice and men, often go awry, the Marchioness of Hartwell reminded
herself in the face of another diversion preventing their travels
to Dover. First it was Lady Sheridan insisting they stay for her
dinner party. Thomas could refuse his new mother-in-law nothing. In
the mere days since two were joined as one, Thomas proved to be an
indulgent son-in-law. So it was that the newlyweds stayed on in
town for a few more days.

Then as Emma was standing in the main hall
of Kellaway House, a note arrived. It bore her new name. She opened
it and read it over. With a growl unbecoming to a new wife, she
yanked off her poke bonnet and tossed it on the floor.

Emma was the sort of person who thrived on
neatly laid out plans. To deal with thwarted ones twisted her world
in one of nonsense.

“Shall we depart?” Thomas asked, rushing
into the hallway. Emma turned on him and thrust the note beneath
his nose.

“We must meet with the coroner...the one who
performed the autopsy. His old assistant, at last, managed to get
in contact with him. He has news for us.” Her lips drew into a deep
frown. “I do not like this.”

“Nor do I.” Thomas shook his head. “I have
already spoken with the former coroner. We must depart to Dover as
planned.” He bent at the waist to retrieve her bonnet. He placed it
carefully upon her head. She waved away his hands to tie the
ribbons herself.

She could not stop thinking about their
ceremony. Her foolish heart betrayed her by admitting her love. She
hoped for a grand confession from him when they were alone later
that evening. Nothing followed.

Her despair over the snub fell away when he
kissed her. A heated kiss reminiscent of so many others they had
shared. This one, however, would at last lead to culmination. Their
bare limbs entwined upon the great bed covered with soft sheets
edged in lace. Emma moaned out his name until it no longer made any
sense.

He may not love her, but he worshipped her
body. Emma decided she would be content with that. She had to. If
he loved her too, he would have said so. He did not. He remained
affectionate and cordial with every embrace and lingering look.

Emma wanted more. She wanted his sensuous
mouth to speak of love for her. No matter how often she reminded
herself she was happy, her anger still overcame her. It flared at
such moments when he performed kind actions without a second
thought.

She strode out of the house with Thomas
following a step behind. He dismissed a footman who stood ready to
help Emma into the carriage. She looked back to him. He held out
his hand for her. She looked down to it.

A weary sigh escaped her lips. Emma gathered
her skirts in one hand and took his hand in the other.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Thomas climbed
in after her, settling on the bench across from her.

The Marquess eyed his new bride whose dark
brows were etched into a distinctive frown. It was a look he knew
all too well, having borne the brunt of her glares since he was
ten. She was angry and it was his fault. This time, at least, he
knew exactly what wrong he had done. But it was all part of his
plans. She may be angry now, but it would melt into ecstasy. For
now, he would simply pretend to not see the fire blazing in her
eyes.

Emma looked out the window. “How far away is
Dover?”

“Near eighty miles. We shall arrive by
nightfall and check into the inn.” A light glinted in his eyes at
the mention of an inn. Emma ignored his deep looks and yawned.

“I shall be happy to sleep.”

“We just woke up.”

“But we did not sleep until late,” she
reminded him. Emma scooted across the bench to lean against the
window. It was time for spring. With the snow, at last, melted,
only dead grass remained. The chill in the air was giving way to a
bit of warmth.

“Your birthday is soon.” Thomas noted,
admiring the passing landscape.

“Not soon. There is still a month at least.”
Seven weeks and four days to be specific. Not that Emma kept track
of such matters. It was just a birthday. Caro would have cackled
upon hearing her thoughts. Emma took all holidays seriously and
declared her birthday to be the most important of them all. After
all, it heralded her entrance into the world.

“We will be in Portugal by then, I
hope.”

She nodded her head. “I imagine so.”

“Is there something special you would like
to do for your birthday?”

“Not particularly.” Then she shut her eyes,
ending any conversation for the rest of the trip.

Oh yes, she was displeased. The level of her
annoyance was one he had never beheld. How often had he coaxed her
out of dour moods with distracting questions? But Emma was not a
girl any longer. He had grown to learn this truth very much over
the past few nights and even some afternoons.

The owner of the Seaside Arms watched the
storm rage from the fire lit dining room. Mrs. Lowell went to bed
once the rain began, leaving the newlyweds alone with Thea. The
owner was thankful for Mrs. Lowell’s absence. She never had a kind
word for anyone, even Lady Hedgeton who went out of her way to
serve the horrid woman. Lord and Lady Hedgeton crawled up to bed
once card games no longer interested them. The countess was grow
weary of their stay in Dover. She itched to board a packet and head
to the Continent. The girl was brave certainly. Thea enjoyed her
quiet life too much to embark upon a ship to a war-ravaged
land.

She pushed them from her mind. In her hands
she grasped a letter from her daughter, Juliet. As usual, her
daughter was doing well in London. She enjoyed her work. It gave
her a reason to wake up of a morning. Juliet needed that extra push
some days. If Thea’s life had worked out how she had expected it
to, neither of them would have to work to survive. But he had
disappointed Thea, abandoning them when they were most in need.

The front door of the inn banged open with
an angry boom of thunder. Lightning darted across the night sky,
illuminating two figures in the doorway. Both were heavily cloaked
though one rose high above the other.

Thea scrambled to her feet to greet the
visitors.

“Do you have any rooms?” A gruff male voice
asked. He lightly pushed his companion inside first. A fit of
coughing erupted from the shorter visitor.

“Plenty, sir! Do come inside. Please, the
fire is roaring. Let me help you out of your cloak, miss.” Thea
untied the knot at the girl’s throat as the girl shrugged out of
her hood. The innkeeper glanced up at her new guest. She gasped.
“Juliet? Why are you not in London?”

Juliet tilted her head to the side, forehead
wrinkling in confusion. She glanced back to her companion who was a
tall Englishman with drenched black curls.

“Juliet?” she repeated. “I do not know a
Juliet. My name is Lady Emma Wr---oh wait, that is not right
anymore. I am Emma, Marchioness of Hartwell. My husband and I have
traveled all day and require a place to stay.”

After a longer look, Thea realized she was
not Juliet at all. This was a gently-bred Englishwoman who oozed
refinement. Currently, dark curls drooped into her eyes and stuck
to her cheeks and her pretty traveling gown was stained with mud.
The shape of her wide eyes and the curve of her chin was distinctly
Juliet. She had not imagined that.

“Oh dear, I am quite ashamed. You bear a
resemblance to my daughter, Juliet.” Her brown eyes turned wistful
at the mention of her daughter. “I see now I was gravely mistaken.
My Juliet is just a lady’s maid not a grand lady.”