Lady Elinor's Wicked Adventures (23 page)

“Why, right here.” Freeborn's smile grew broader, as he leaned back in his desk chair and gestured around his office. “As the British consul, I am authorized to perform marriages for British subjects.”

“That's it? That's all there is to it?”

“There are various forms we'll need to fill out, and I expect Lady Elinor will want to dress up a bit, and you too. Then there are flowers and such like. The ceremony has to be here at the consulate, so the ladies may want to decorate the little room next door to this one. It can be made to look less like an office.”

Harry looked around quickly. A broad desk, slightly battered-looking, shelves holding boxes of papers, walls an indeterminate shade of green or perhaps gray, heavy curtains at the windows. Yes, it looked like an office. Did that matter?

“But at the end of the day, you will be every bit as married as if the Archbishop of Canterbury himself had performed the ceremony,” Freeborn concluded.

That
was what mattered. Harry leaped to his feet and began pumping the consul's hand. “Thank you, sir, thank you. Tomorrow? Can we do it tomorrow? And then we must leave for England quickly. The next day? Can that be done? Thank you.”

Freeborn shook his head in amusement.

* * *

Things did not proceed quite as rapidly as Harry had hoped. His suggestion that the wedding be held the next day was met with a flat refusal from Lady Penworth. Even Lord Penworth had frowned on the idea.

“Absolutely not,” said Lady Penworth, standing straight and stiff as a grenadier. “Bad enough my daughter is going to be married in a foreign country, far from family and friends. It is not going to be a hole-in-the-corner ceremony as if she were a housemaid sneaking off.”

Elinor tried to protest, arguing that they could have a religious ceremony once they were back in England, at the chapel at Penworth Castle or in the village church near Bradenham Abbey or even in Westminster Abbey, if that was what her mother wanted.

Lady Penworth sniffed. Of course they would have a religious ceremony once they returned to England. That was irrelevant. “I will confer with Mrs. Freeborn and Marchesa Crescenzi,” she said. “Together we will decide how things will best be done. And Doncaster…”

Harry jerked around to face the door, half expecting to see his father there.

Lady Penworth sighed. “You will have to get used to the name, Harry. You cannot jump a foot in the air every time someone addresses you.” Then she smiled at him fondly. “I know this is difficult for you, but I promise you, I am not trying to make it more difficult. Formality and ceremony will make it easier in the long run.” Then she looked at the others. “Try to remember to call him Doncaster. The sooner he gets accustomed to it, the easier it will be for him to step into the role when he reaches London.”

She swept out of the room, leaving the others staring silently after her.

“She's right about the name, you know,” said Lord Penworth. “It took me the devil of a time to get used to being called Penworth. I had never expected to come into the title, and it was a bit embarrassing to be looking around every time someone spoke to me.”

Harry smiled a bit weakly. He had always known at some level that he was the heir to the title. But that knowledge hadn't seemed to be part of his life. It was nothing to do with him, with who he was or what he did. He looked at Pip, sitting beside his father and smiling sympathetically, and the realization crashed down on him that his whole life had just been changed and he had no idea what he was supposed to do.

Pip was prepared to take over someday as Marquess of Penworth because his father had prepared him for the role. All those vacations Harry had spent with Pip at Penworth, when the marquess had taken them riding over the estate, introducing them to the tenants, explaining why this crop was being grown in this field, why that field was lying fallow—all that had been training for Pip. And for him too in a way, he saw. At least he had some notion of the kinds of things he was supposed to notice.

But he had not spent any length of time at Bradenham Abbey since he was ten years old. He had known a few of the tenants then, played with some of their children when he could escape from nannies and tutors. But that was so long ago. He didn't know if they were still there, or even if they were still alive. Now he was going to have to take on responsibility for them, and he knew nothing about them. If someone sat him down in the middle of the estate, he would almost certainly be lost.

Some hint of the panic must have shown in his face, though he tried to hide it. Elinor slipped her hand into his and squeezed it. “We will manage,” she whispered. “You will be a good and fair and caring earl because that is the kind of man you are.”

Was he that kind of man? He was not at all sure. Still, if Norrie could believe that, he would have to try to live up to it. With her by his side, perhaps he had a chance. He squeezed her hand back. As long as he had her by his side…

It took a full week. Elinor had very little say in the preparations. Even the choice of her dress was largely out of her hands. There had been no time for a new dress to be made, and her only dress even close to white was a quite simple one of cream muslin. The skirt was flounced, the sleeves long and full. In Millie's hands it had been transformed. The neckline had been lowered and covered with a wide lace bertha. The sleeves had been shortened into small puffs trimmed with satin bows. The flounces of the skirt were festooned with more lace and ribbons.

In three days it had become the wedding dress a girl dreams of. She had hugged Millie and then her mother and had been hugged back, and then all of them were hugging and laughing with tears running down their faces.

“You are a marvel, Millie,” Elinor said, hugging the little woman once again.

“Well, I could hardly let my lady's daughter be married in a dress not fit for company. I have my pride, you know.” Millie sniffed, but blushed and ventured a small smile. “It did come out nice, didn't it?”

“Indeed it did, and I do not know what we would have done without you,” said Lady Penworth. “I don't know what I would have done all these years without you, my dear Millie.”

Another orgy of hugs and tears and laughter followed before all traces of tears were washed away and Elinor tried on her wedding finery. Her hair was drawn softly back from its center parting and then crowned her head in a coronet of braids. As the final touch, her mother placed a veil of antique lace on her head. Elinor stared at it in the mirror and touched it with awed fingers. “Where did that come from?”

Lady Penworth smiled a tiny smug smile. “I found it in a shop here in Rome not long after we arrived and thought it would make a perfect wedding veil. Of course, I hadn't expected it to be needed quite this soon. No, no,” she protested as Elinor flung her arms about her mother. “No more tears. We just finished washing the last ones away.” But she hugged her daughter and wept a bit herself.

* * *

Harry was given nothing to say about the wedding preparations, though he was allowed to arrange a suite in the Hotel Europa for the wedding night. Mercifully, no one expected him to spend it next door to the room of the bride's parents. Unfortunately, he was left with nothing to do and plenty of time to brood.

He refused to spend that time brooding about his family and the probable mess surrounding the estate back in England. Concentrating on the situation here in Rome meant that he was thinking about Pietro. That young man was a blasted nuisance with his politics and his histrionics, and he was causing difficulties for the Tremaines. Perhaps he could remove that particular problem.

He managed to snatch Norrie away from talk of dresses and menus and pull her into one of the tiny rooms tucked into odd corners in the palazzo. He needed to talk to her, but before he could say anything, she had tangled her hands in his hair and pulled him down for a kiss.

Ah, how he loved her kisses, so eager, so welcoming. An invitation he could not refuse. There was a chair, one of the ridiculously carved and hideously uncomfortable chairs in which the palazzo abounded, but still a chair. He fell into it and she followed, tumbling into his lap.

He trailed kisses across her cheek and teased her with his tongue in the sensitive spot behind her ear. That made her wriggle against him in the most delightful way. Her bottom rubbed against his groin and he reacted in the inevitable fashion. She gave a little gasp when she realized what was happening, smiled one of those wicked little smiles of hers, and twisted around to rub her breasts against him, those lovely, luscious breasts.

He was only human, and a man, after all. What could anyone expect of him? He began pulling up those miles and miles of petticoats and skirts until he finally touched the silk of her stocking. After a momentary pause to enjoy the delicate feel of her, his fingers trailing up over her knee, he leaned back, pulling her on top of him.

The chair gave a horrendous creak, and the arm suddenly sagged beneath him. He froze in place and she sat up with a start. They stared at each other, and she cautiously lifted herself from his lap.

“Do you suppose we broke it?” she asked nervously.

He growled and gingerly removed himself from the ridiculous excuse for a chair. “I am in a fair way to smash every stick of furniture in this antiquated edifice from sheer frustration!”

She made a sound halfway between a snort and a giggle. A moment later they were leaning against each other in hopeless laughter.

“The day after tomorrow,” he said when he could finally speak.

“Mmm.” It wasn't much of a statement, but it sounded hopeful, so he kissed her again.

Regretfully he pulled away. “I pulled you in here for a reason.”

“I know.” There was that wicked smile again.

“No, I mean for a different reason. I have an idea about Pietro.”

“That boy.” She grimaced. “He really is tiresomely foolish.”

“And I want to make sure he doesn't become dangerously foolish. So long as he is here, he puts your family at risk.”

Norrie frowned. “There can't be any real danger for my family, can there?”

“Well, no one is going to throw the Marquess of Penworth into prison, but it could be awkward and embarrassing for him to be found with a fugitive revolutionary in his house. The problem is getting Pietro out of here, and preferably far away. So I had an idea.”

She looked at him with curiosity, but didn't say anything.

He grinned. “We could take him with us.”

“What?” Her eyes widened and she did not sound pleased. “Oh, no you don't. I am not going to share my honeymoon with that…that posturing popinjay!”

“I should hope not. But an earl and countess will be expected to travel with servants. You will have Martha with you, of course, but I don't actually have a valet. I've never felt the need for someone to help me pull on my trousers. So Pietro could come along with us as my servant.”

Her eyes widened again, but this time they were filled with laughter. “Oh, Harry, that would be perfect, absolutely perfect. You are clever!”

She spent the next half hour or so demonstrating her admiration for her fiancé.

Her father and brother were less enthusiastic about the proposal.

“I don't like it,” said Lord Penworth. “Bad enough we've gotten caught up in this idiotic mess. Nothing I like less that the prospect of getting involved in Italy's political swamp. If it weren't for your brother's involvement with Donna Lissandra… Couldn't we just roll him up in a carpet and ship him out of the country?”

But grumble as he might, he could not help seeing that the plan had certain advantages, not least of which was that in a few days Pietro would be gone.

Rycote didn't like it, either. “He's much too careless about other people's safety,” he grumbled to Doncaster. “Look how he puts his sister in danger. What makes you think he'll be any more careful with Elinor's safety?”

“She'll have me to look after her, just as Lissandra has you,” Harry said.

Rycote went over to the window to glare at the watchers, who didn't even bother to hide themselves these days. “It's his fault I can't step out the door without stumbling over them. Maybe once he's gone I can tell them they're wasting their time. The bird has flown.” That thought seemed to cheer him a bit.

The one who seized on the idea with enthusiasm was Pietro. Fortunately or unfortunately, it was the theatrical aspect of the plan that appealed to him. On the day of the wedding he appeared at the breakfast table wearing a black tailcoat that he had liberated from his father's valet and proceeded to wait on the gentlemen—the ladies were busy fussing over the bride—without putting a step wrong. Only the spark of mischief in his eye kept him from being the perfect servant.

Harry might have been impressed if he had been able to pay attention. Unfortunately, he could think only of the things that could go wrong. He checked to make sure the bags were all gathered together. He checked to make sure the travel documents were all in order. He checked to make sure the travel documents were still where he had left them. He checked to make sure Pip had the ring. Finally Pip led him off to dress.

Pietro came along, delighted to show his skill in his new role. He deplored the gray waistcoat Harry proposed to wear until Pip pointed out acerbically that although this was a wedding, Doncaster was in mourning.

“Ah, how could I have forgotten!” Pietro struck his head. “A thousand pardons, a million pardons, my lord. I had forgotten the shadow cast upon this happy occasion. This waistcoat is most proper under the circumstances. You have exercised the nicest of judgments in choosing the richness of fabric to suit the joyousness of the wedding combined with the somber color.”

Harry looked at Pip. “Crispin picked it out,” he muttered.

The marquess's valet observed Pietro's antics with a jaundiced look and removed the waistcoat from his hands. “If you will allow me, sir.” He then proceeded to shave Harry and snipped his hair lightly to subdue an errant lock. Under his skilled supervision, the bridegroom was dressed in sparkling white and freshly pressed linen, narrow trousers of dark gray, the offending silk waistcoat and a perfectly fitting morning coat. Pietro was allowed to tie the bow of Harry's tie, and Crispin acknowledged that it was well done.

Pip found himself enjoying Harry's discomfiture until his friend glared and reminded him that in a few months it would be his turn. “And don't think I won't enjoy seeing you sweat,” said Harry.

* * *

The small room off the consul's office had been transformed, with chairs set out for the family and guests and all other pieces of furniture reduced to stands for the masses of flowers lining the walls. The heavy velvet draperies at the windows had been replaced with thin silk in a pale yellow that made the room seem filled with sunlight.

In a vague sort of way, Harry did notice that the room seemed bright as he walked down the aisle created by the chairs. “The ring!” He halted halfway to the front of the room and patted frantically at his pockets. “I don't have the ring!”

“That's because you aren't supposed to have the ring.” Pip grasped his arm and spoke in the tone adults use to calm a fractious child. “I have the ring. I will hand it to you when the time comes.”

Harry allowed Pip to lead him to his place. Freeborn was standing there, his benign smile in place, holding a small book open. Harry barely noticed him but turned to watch the door. A young man, a friend of the Freeborns, began playing a melody, more dance than march, on the flute, and then Norrie appeared.

She was holding her father's arm, but her eyes fastened immediately on Harry's, and a smile tilted the corners of her mouth. She looked—beautiful was far too weak a word. There were no words to describe someone who was all his hopes and dreams, everything he had ever wanted and thought hopelessly beyond his reach. She was Norrie.

She came toward him, and her father took her hand from his arm and placed it in Harry's hand. He seemed to be smiling—Harry wasn't entirely certain. He was looking only at Norrie.

The ceremony proceeded, following closely the traditional words. “I, Harcourt Collingswood de Vaux, take thee, Elinor Augusta Tremaine, to be my lawful wedded wife…” He spoke the words clearly, with no tremble in his voice.

She spoke clearly as well, and he listened to the words “…so long as we both may live.”

And then Mr. Freeborn pronounced them man and wife.

Harry held her hands, rubbing his finger along the ring he had placed there, and felt such unspeakable happiness.

Freeborn cleared his throat and repeated, “You may kiss the bride.”

It was no polite brushing of the lips then. Harry crushed her in his arms while she had her arms about his neck and clung fiercely. When they finally broke apart, laughing joyously, Freeborn was clearing his throat again. “A few formalities, my lord, my lady. Some papers to sign.”

Harry went back to kissing her as soon as the formalities were over and the carriage door closed on them for the ride back to the palazzo. The too-short ride. But even Harry acknowledged that ceremony was necessary to mark the occasion. At least there was nothing now to take his bride from his side.

* * *

The grand dining room at the palazzo was also bedecked with flowers. Since it had been decided that the Crescenzi daughter would be married in London, the marchese had insisted that the Crescenzi family would, if not provide, at least participate in the wedding breakfast for the Penworth daughter.

Deprived of the opportunity to supervise the celebrations for her own daughter's wedding, the marchesa had thrown herself into the preparations for Lady Elinor's wedding. The Crescenzi gilt and silver dishes had been polished to a mirror finish, the banquet cloth to cover a table that could seat sixty was blindingly white and showed not a wrinkle, and the plates edged with gold and painted with the Crescenzi crest set the table.

The Crescenzi staff of cooks and assistants had been quite as determined to show the English visitors what a wedding feast should be. There were dishes of risotto and of macaroni, there were croquettes and vol-au-vents, there were roasted capons and roasted lamb. Pastries abounded in curious shapes with fillings both savory and sweet. Bowls of strawberries and cherries glistened with drops of water. The wine was of the finest vintages from the Crescenzi vineyards.

Then there was the cake. Eduardo and Amelia had insisted on being allowed to prepare this as their wedding gift to the couple who were rescuing Pietro. Heavy with fruit, the cake was covered in a thick white icing that, in turn, was almost completely covered with swags and flowers and even butterflies made of sugar, a triumph of the pastry chef's art.

Still, what made it such a triumphantly joyous occasion was the almost palpable happiness of the newly married pair. She held his arm, he kept a hand clasped over hers, and they kept turning to smile into each other's eyes. They accepted good wishes and greeted all the guests, who were more numerous than one would have thought. The marchese, holding himself erect in his throne-like chair, smiled benignly at the couple for close to an hour before he withdrew, dignity intact.