Sattler, Veronica (41 page)

"Of
course," nodded her brother in mock solemnity as he and the driver helped
them into the vehicle, "and bow low before her so much, she'll soon forget
what our faces look like and begin to recognize us by the tops of our heads."

"Well,
just see that you don't forget it!" said Ashleigh with all the
imperiousness she could muster, even as the corners of her mouth twitched with
humor.

The
brougham's door shut, muffling the sounds of mingled laughter from its
passengers, the driver took his seat at the reins, and, with a bark from
Finn—unaccompanied, for a change, by Lady Dimples, for Hettie Busby, much to
Patrick's relief, had heartily insisted Finn's porcine companion be left behind
on so momentous an occasion—the carriage departed for the village.

Despite
all the banter about the pomp and ceremony that would come with being wed to a
duke, the wedding was a simple one. Among other things, the Westmonts were in
mourning, and while a small, quiet wedding during this period might have raised
some of the staunchest eyebrows, a grander affair, to the
ton,
would
have been considered beyond the pale. Therefore, when the brougham arrived at
the small, early Norman church in the village, it was met there by only three
people: the vicar, his wife and the groom.

Brett
awaited them outside, beside a shiny black phaeton he'd driven himself. He
looked, to Ashleigh, as handsome as he ever had, clad in black coat and
breeches that contrasted with the snowy-white stock that he wore against his
tanned, masculine face and a white waistcoat decorated with gold thread; like
Patrick, he'd forgone the formality of silk hose and dress pumps, for the mud
left behind by the recent rain rendered such footwear impractical, but instead
of Hessians, he sported high black riding boots polished to a mirror shine.

Yet
there was something beyond simple attire and good looks that struck the bride
as she looked at the man she was about to marry. As he stood there with his
booted feet planted well apart, his arms folded across his broad chest, she had
the sense that something very male and primitive rested beneath that civilized
facade. Raw, barely leashed power emanated from his every pore, giving her the
feeling she was looking at something dangerous and invincible, and suddenly
Ashleigh was afraid.

She
was a fool to think Patrick hadn't underestimated the lengths to which he could
push Brett Westmont, a double fool to think she had only to acquiesce and all
might somehow be well, as Megan had implied. One look at those hard turquoise
eyes, the angular planes of his face formed by those cheekbones, that
implacable slash that was now his mouth, made her throat suddenly run dry, her
chest go tight with fear. What was she doing here? How had she forgotten the
dark, brooding side of this man who was still a stranger to her, and beyond
that, an enigma? And what's more, now that she did remember, how was she going
to escape?

But,
even as she thought of it, the avenues of escape quickly closed to Ashleigh. She
felt herself being handed down from the carriage, saw Mr. Smythe, the vicar,
come forward to greet her tiny party, felt her feet moving inexorably closer to
the man who gave her a last, unfathomable look before nodding to her, and
following the vicar and Mrs. Smythe into the church.

As
she walked with leaden feet toward the simple altar, she thought she heard
Megan whisper a phrase of encouragement, but couldn't be sure. She felt the
strength of Patrick's arm under her hand and clung to it as a solitary rock in
a sinking world. Finally she heard only the centuries-old words being read from
the Book of Common Prayer: "Dearly beloved..."

As
the vicar intoned the words originally penned by Sir Thomas Cranmer, Brett
gazed straight ahead at the altar, but in his mind's eye he saw Ashleigh. He
wondered if she would ever look more beautiful... or more frightened. He'd
watched her alight from the carriage with far more than the casual interest
he'd schooled his features to display. That first glimpse had been enough to
take his breath away as she seemed to float down to the ground, a vision in
creamy ivory and rich gold, her black hair contrasting vividly with the light,
translucent loveliness of her skin, softened only by the hint of a blush that
spread across her cheeks as she paused to raise those huge blue eyes to him.

But
then he'd seen her grow suddenly pale, her eyes become even larger in her face
as her gaze fused for an instant with his. A moment later he witnessed a blank
look replace the one of panic he knew he had not imagined in those eyes. It was
then he realized how frightened she was, and he felt a moment's urge to rush
forward and fold her into his arms, to murmur words of comfort and reassurance
in those delicate, shell-like ears and to tell her she needn't be afraid.

But
the moment had passed, and now he concentrated on not allowing it to repeat
itself. That way lurked weakness, and where weakness resided, disaster
followed. Besides, she had, rationally speaking, nothing to fear from him.
Apart from the appalling circumstances of their first meeting, hadn't he
treated her with utmost courtesy and respect? Hadn't he gone out of his way to
be kind to her, bending over backward to see she was cared for, even going so
far as to swear off intimate contact with her person? And this had by no means
been easy, for the bald truth was, he wanted her...
Oh, yes, he wanted
her....

And
tonight he would at last again be able to have her. In that instant Brett
glanced down at Ashleigh. As he heard her repeat the words "...for better
for worse, for richer for poorer..." he suddenly wondered if he'd hit upon
what had her quaking with fear. Was she frightened of the marriage bed?
Mentally, Brett ticked off the events of their disastrous first encounter. God
knew, he hadn't been gentle with her. Yes, that was quite likely the problem,
then.

Suddenly
Brett smiled inwardly to himself. This was a problem he could deal with! If he
had prowess in any arena, it was in pleasing a woman in bed—if he chose to do
so. All he need do, then, was to make sure he satisfied her tonight. Once she'd
learned the pleasures that awaited her between his sheets, she'd come to lose
her fears; then he could get his heir from her and all would be well. It was
what marriage was all about, wasn't it?

With
these last thoughts in mind, Brett allowed himself a small, victorious smile as
he joined Ashleigh in kneeling to receive the vicar's blessing.

* * * * *

Following
a wedding toast of champagne, which Brett had had sent ahead to the vicar, a
benumbed Ashleigh stood beside the brougham that was to take her and Brett back
to the dowager's cottage while Patrick drove Megan and himself to the Hall in
the duke's phaeton. As she readied herself to be handed up into the carriage,
Megan grasped her hands and bent down to give her a warm kiss on the cheek.

Ashleigh
smiled her thanks with grateful eyes, then turned toward Patrick. Her brother
gave her a long, tender look, then reached down to swoop her into his arms in a
familiar bear hug.

"Be
happy, my darling," he murmured with emotional fervor. "It's all I
wish for you."

Ashleigh
hugged him fiercely about the neck, much as she remembered doing as a child.
"Oh, Patrick!" she murmured in a quaking voice. "I love you
so!"

Then
Brett was shaking Patrick's hand with assurances of no bitter feelings passing
between them, and Ashleigh was clinging tightly to Jane Hastings's tea roses as
Brett helped her into the brougham and climbed in beside her. And then, amid a
murmur of good wishes, the driver signaled to his team and they were off.

After
they were deposited at the cottage, Brett remained below to give instructions
to the driver to have Old Henry send Raven and Irish Night to them the
following morning, while Ashleigh went on upstairs. Walking past the open door
to the drawing room, she saw someone had left ajar the French doors to the
little balcony outside. Without thinking, she entered and walked to the
balcony. It was growing dark and she could barely see the lake, which was
melting into the deep purple shadows of dusk. Late-summer evening sounds of
nightjars and crickets punctuated the silence, and these familiar noises should
have given her comfort, but for whatever reasons, tonight they did not. Staring
into the fading landscape, Ashleigh felt herself shiver, though the air was
still warm. Then the tread of booted feet sounded on the stairs, causing her to
whirl about and drop her bouquet of roses as Brett's voice broke the silence.

"Ashleigh?
Ah, there you are!" He stood by the open door to the drawing room. "Ashleigh?
Is something wrong?"

Determined
to override the fears that had been plaguing her, Ashleigh forced a smile and
crossed the room to meet him, saying, "No, not at all. I was merely
enjoying the view."

"Ah,
yes." He smiled. "Lovely, isn't it? But I fear I must persuade you to
ignore it for now and join me in the sitting room." He gave her a small,
enigmatic smile. "I've been given, ah, orders."

"Oh?"
questioned Ashleigh as she allowed him to escort her down the short hallway.
"What kind of orders?"

"I'm
afraid your brother was being terribly mysterious. He merely told me that once
we arrived here, we were to go directly to the sitting room without delay. Ah,
here we are."

In
the sitting room they came upon a small table set for two, with yet another bottle
of champagne chilling beside a tea table laden with various silver-covered
dishes and platters. A single red rose in a narrow vase sat in the middle of
the small dinner table and, leaning against it, a folded piece of white vellum,
which Brett quickly took and read aloud:

"'My
luve is like a red, red rose....'

—May
the two of you hear the words

—and
come to hear the music!

Love,

Megan
and Patrick"

"Why,
those two silly romantics!" exclaimed Ashleigh, at a loss for what else to
say. But she and Brett had endured a near-silent ride in the brougham,
punctuated only by a few strained remarks about the improved weather and the
excellent job the staff had done in restoring the cottage, and she felt she had
to say something to bring about a thaw between them.

Brett
regarded her with a small half smile. "Is that how you view things
romantic, then?" he asked as he came forward to help her off with her
cape. "Are they merely silly?"

"Oh,
why... no!" exclaimed Ashleigh as she raised her eyes to his with a start.
And her protest was genuine. For as far back as she could remember, she'd
always been a romantic, from the time she was a little girl in her parents'
house, when she would look for the first star in the sky at night and dream of
the man she'd one day marry—and imbue him with Patrick's strengths and
admirable qualities—right up through the long years at Hampton House, when
she'd believed in her heart that someday, somehow, someone would come to rescue
her from those sordid surroundings, whisking her off into the night with
wonderful words of love.

Only,
now, as she stood uncertainly before this man she would actually be sharing her
life with, it seemed none of that was to be. Now it seemed that dreams were
only ashes, and romance was nothing more than a distant star for fools to wish
upon....

Suddenly,
and to her complete mortification, Ashleigh's eyes welled up with tears as she
looked at him, and she had to fight a constriction in her throat. Embarrassed,
she looked away, saying, "It... it's just that... I mean I—" But the
dam broke, and she heard herself choke on a sob as twin tears traced their way
down her face.

"Ashleigh...
little one, what is it?" asked Brett as he turned her back toward him and
drew her into his arms.

"Oh,
Brett! This isn't at all the way I—the way it's supposed to be....
It just
isn't!"

"Oh?"
he questioned, an amused but tender smile on his face. "And just how is
it... supposed to be?"

Very
conscious of his strong arms about her, his broad, muscular chest against her
cheek, Ashleigh pulled her head away as she made an effort to check the flow of
her tears. "R-romantic," she managed as she gazed up into his gently
inquiring eyes.

"Ah,"
said Brett, keeping one arm about her as he reached to wipe a tear from her
cheek. The sight of her face wet with tears, its blue eyes huge and bright as
they gazed at him, was almost more than he could bear. He wanted very much
right now to pull her even closer to him, tight against his body, which had
begun to throb with awareness of hers. God, she was lovely... beautiful beyond
telling, and sweet and fresh... and
all his.

But
he sensed her need to talk more than anything else right now, and so he smiled,
saying, "So my new wife is a romantic, is she? Well, Your Grace—" he
turned her gently toward the table set for two with candles flickering in the
darkening room "—I don't see how one can get more romantic than this. And
I'll tell you a secret theory of mine," he added as he led her to her
chair. "Romance is all well and good, but I doubt anyone ever really reaps
the benefit of it on an empty stomach." This last was spoken with a brief
tap of his finger on her straight little nose.