Secrets of Surrender (11 page)

“Oh, he will be here,” Alexia said. “His aunt Henrietta was making sounds about not attending and he ordered her to accompany him. He will drag himself out of London now if only to discomfort her.”

Irene made a face. “
She
is coming?”

Rose stepped into the line of human pack horses. “I wonder if
she
has ever examined the contents of those attics.”

“I daresay Henrietta has inventoried Easterbrook’s possessions down to the last pillow since she took residence with him last spring,” Alexia said.

“Then I can see her at my wedding party. Her eyebrows will rise with every chair and table she passes until they merge with her hairline.”

Alexia and Irene scooted in beside her. They let the river of furniture carry them inside.

They left the men to set the furniture in the rooms according to drawings that Alexia had made. Rose brought her sister and cousin up to the sanctuary of her bedchamber.

The door to her own attic stood open. She peered in and saw some of the house’s old furniture stacked inside. The presence of a few items surprised her.

Instead of going to her room she entered the south bedchamber. It was the biggest one. All of its old furniture had been replaced by objects brought by Alexia. A large bed awaited its hangings, and the newly delivered wardrobe gleamed against one wall. A man’s dressing table stood ready for someone’s brushes and private objects.

She looked at Alexia, whose face reflected her stoic practicality.

“It is time, Rose. Ben has been gone for years now,” Alexia said. “This house will have a new master and a new life soon, and this chamber should be his.”

Rose gazed around the room, transformed now by foreign objects, soon to be owned by a foreign presence. Her heart clenched at the finality of Alexia’s action.

Irene bit her lower lip. “She is right, Rose. I do not think you will mind so much in a few days.”

Rose embraced Irene’s shoulders with one arm. “I do not mind now, darling. Alexia is correct. It is time to move on.”

She guided Irene from the chamber. Alexia caught her eye as they passed. They exchanged a look much as they had in Phaedra’s house.

Sometimes there really weren’t any choices. Sometimes there was only one thing to do and one decision to make if you wanted a chance at contentment.

CHAPTER
TEN

J
ordan insisted on dressing his master the morning of the wedding. He commandeered the staff of the Knight’s Lily in Watlington and issued orders like a field marshal. He called for breakfast and coffee, for a bath and more towels, for yet more hot water, and for an assistant while he wielded the razor.

Kyle submitted, and surmised that the inn’s servants did not mind the impositions. It allowed them to participate in the wedding that had the whole village excited.

All the while, Jordan gave reports on the progress he had made in preparing the house in London for the future Mrs. Bradwell.

Finally all was done. Jordan twitched a collar, smoothed a sleeve, and stood back to give an inspection.

“Finished, and an hour to spare. The waistcoat was a superb choice, sir. That faint touch of deep rose in the gray is perfect with the blue superfine of the frock coat.”

“Since the waistcoat was your choice, I am relieved that you approve. I still think the simpler gray would have been better.”

“It is your wedding, sir. A touch of sartorial festivity—an extremely minor touch, I might add—is not only appropriate but expected.” Jordan packed away the last of his battery of weapons. He bowed to take his leave. “If I may say, sir, you look as fine a gentleman as I have ever seen. It was a privilege to serve you on this most felicitous day.”

Kyle glanced in the looking glass at the fine image time and practice and Jordan had wrought. He certainly felt more pressed and clean and presentable than he had in years. It reminded him of the day his aunt had scrubbed him raw prior to sending him to Kirtonlow Hall for the first time, at the Earl of Cottington’s summons. He had been ready an hour too early that day too, and left alone to try not to ruin the effect while he sweated.

He looked out the window at the village lane below. Few people could be seen. They all prepared as he did, for a ceremony and party to surpass anything that they had enjoyed in years.

He had assumed that the earl intended to scold at best and whip at worst that day. Instead, Cottington had changed his life.

For the better, to be sure. Only a fool or ingrate would not admit it. Only now, as he gazed out the window at Watlington, he experienced unanticipated nostalgia for his own village of Teeslow.

It would have been nice to have some faces he knew at his wedding, only they were far away, in time as well as place. Cottington’s generosity had plucked him from that world, but there had been no other world in which to set him down.

He had cobbled together something resembling a circle out of his friends and associates, but it was not the same. He did not really belong anywhere anymore, and had not for some time. His life was like a vine rambling farther and farther from the roots that had given it birth.

Nor would this marriage change matters. He would stand on the edge of Rose’s world, not in it. He had made his choice of wife fully aware of that. He knew what he gained and what he would never have in ways even Rose did not comprehend.

His gaze fell on his valise. Tucked inside it was a letter brought down from London by Jordan. The earl had been too ill to receive him when he was up north, but had rallied enough to write advice and congratulations on this marriage, and indicate that his solicitor had been instructed on arranging a gift.

The earl would not be here. Nor would Aunt Prudence and Uncle Harold, who had not been able to hide their shock at his choice of wife when he informed them during his Christmas visit. Harold was too ill to travel, but they would never have undertaken such a journey anyway in January. The other people of his youth would not celebrate with him, either, and only one person from his current, vague world was in Watlington.

Kyle went in search of him.

He entered Jean Pierre’s chamber to find him tying his cravat at the looking glass. After a few studied twists and turns of the linen, Jean Pierre’s fine profile nodded with contentment. He turned and examined Kyle’s face.

“
Mon dieu,
why do men always look like they go to the guillotine on their wedding day?” He grabbed a flask off the dressing table and threw it. “One swallow, no more. It would be rude to be drunk, although it might be more painless.”

Kyle laughed, but he took a swallow anyway.

Jean Pierre fussed with his cravat a bit more. “I am not impressed by this Easterbrook, but,
oui,
I am being a fool anyway. I tell myself my care with my dress is not for him and his great title. The servants say your bride is very lovely and I want to impress her, not him.”

“Why? She is
my
bride.”

A laugh. A sigh. “It is good that you marry. You have never enjoyed the game. Some of your views are…simple.”

“Very simple.” His voice sounded more dangerous than he intended. Stupidly so.

“I hope that you will not be one of those boring men who get angry if someone flatters your wife. A man does not pluck every flower that he sniffs.”

“Flatter all you want, but I know all about your way with those flowers. I am sure that you know better than to play in my garden.”

“Truly,
mon ami,
you must accept that among her circle there will be flirting and not be stupid—”

“I do not need lessons from you. I know all that. I am just mentioning to
you
that
you
will not be plucking, smelling, or even strolling by any hedgerows.”

“The day’s strain is already affecting your mind. It is good I am here to help you. Another sip of those spirits is needed, I think. Then we will play cards until the wedding so you find some calm and do not talk like an idiot.”

“I am very calm. Not a ripple. Hell, I’ve never been more placid.”

“Of course you are. Now, one more swallow. Ah,
bon.
”

“The coach from Aylesbury had passed.”

The information came from a footman who had been stationed as sentry down on the road. Alexia stood and smiled expectantly at Rose. “We can go now.”

Rose looked down on her ensemble. It was not truly new. This dress had been stored away a year ago, when Tim had been selling everything in sight. Angrily and selfishly, she had hidden some of her best garments in the hope she might have cause to wear them again. Alexia had helped her remake the dress so its history was not apparent.

Rose was glad that she wore her own clothes today. Very little else in the house now belonged to her. Even the food being cooked in the kitchen by Aylesbury’s servants was not hers, and Kyle had sent the ale and wine. She would have felt even more strange if she stood in one of Alexia’s gowns.

They all filed out to the waiting carriages. Lady Phaedra and Lord Elliot had come for this procession instead of joining Easterbrook’s. The full attendance of Lord Hayden’s family moved her. They announced their protection of her, motivated by their love for Alexia.

Alexia, Irene, and Lord Hayden rode with her in an open phaeton. No one was to be seen on the lanes when they arrived at the village. Instead, everyone waited at the church. Quite a few milled outside because the old medieval stones could not contain them all.

When Rose entered the church, the change in light and temperature affected her. She became light-headed. The scene turned unreal, like images from a dream.

Her blood pounded in her head and impressions flashed to its beat. Smiles and mumbles and women pointing to the ladies’ fine ensembles—faces from her whole life turning to watch—a walk, long and dark, toward the priest.

Kyle waited for her, looking so handsome in his way. His small smile of reassurance made the world right itself some, but not entirely. She spoke words that sounded very far away. Important words, vows and promises, that bound her irrevocably.

Exhilaration filled her unexpectedly when she realized it was over. She soared, amazed by her courage, but she also feared that unless angels appeared to hold her in flight, she might crash to the ground in the valley below.

She found herself in the phaeton again, with Kyle beside her this time. The village followed on foot or in carriages as they all made their way back to her house.

Kyle took her hand in his. His physical gesture snapped her out of her daze. The meaning of what had occurred pressed on her with a reality so absolute that she could barely accommodate it.

She looked at the profile of the man who was now her husband and master. Of the whole of him she knew only two parts, that of rescuer and suitor. The rest, almost everything, remained a stranger.

Kyle watched the gay party crowding Rose’s home. The most honored guests had sat to a wedding breakfast even while the villagers made free with the drawing room and library and spilled out into the garden and property. Now everyone mixed in the crush, and pressed good wishes on Rose who stood ten feet away.

Kyle did not look at her too often. He dared not. When he did he saw details that made his body tighten. The nape of her neck, elegantly bowed toward a conversation, was feathered by errant hairs that looked like silk. Her lips, like velvet to kiss, curved in a serene smile.

Her dress was of a soft ivory-hued material that fitted her closely enough for him to again feel in his mind the breasts he had caressed. He imagined that dress gone soon, and the rest, and her perfect skin all along his body.

She noticed his gaze. She must have known the general direction of his thoughts even though he doubted she could guess their erotic details. She blushed and returned to the guest who occupied her.

He forced his attention on the party in order to distract himself. He watched Easterbrook holding court in front of the mantel. Villagers approached him with deference and trepidation, and not only because he was a marquess.

The man’s manner did not encourage anything else. His eccentric appearance had been tamed somewhat. His garments were surprisingly conservative in fashion and his long hair had been gathered in a tail. But he watched from on high, content in the results of his capricious meddling.

A feminine giggle averted Kyle’s attention. In a nearby corner of the drawing room, Jean Pierre charmed Easterbrook’s young cousin Caroline. The pretty girl flushed under his attention.

Her mother, Lady Wallingford—Aunt Henrietta to her family—encouraged Jean Pierre to flirt some more. Pale like her daughter, and adorned by a hat extraordinary in its excessive plumage, Lady Wallingford communicated a somewhat dotty vacancy with her blank, ethereal expressions. According to Rose, that guileless face masked the sharp, calculating mind of a woman determined to remain forever in Easterbrook’s household after she finally gained entry last year. Rumor had it that the reclusive marquess met the continued intrusion of his aunt and cousin with increasingly strained forbearance.

Jean Pierre shortly excused himself from both ladies and wandered amidst bumping shoulders and rumps to where Kyle stood.

“Jean Pierre, about those flowers—Lord Hayden is guardian of the one you recently sniffed. Look at him. Do you want that man as an enemy?”

Jean Pierre’s gaze sought Lord Hayden. “I do not think he will care.”

“He will have no choice but to care. She is an innocent.”

“I do not sniff innocents.” He looked at Henrietta and Caroline. “The child does not interest me. Lady Wallingford cannot be more than middle thirties. You see a matron who wears ugly hats. I see a woman with a hidden, ethereal beauty who, my nose is happy to report, would not mind a little seduction.”

It was no use to try to dissuade Jean Pierre from such a pursuit. Kyle trusted that Lord Hayden would not consider his aunt’s virtue a matter for a duel.

The tone in the party suddenly changed. Quieted. Bodies shifted to create an aisle. The marquess strolled down it, vaguely smiling his condescension left and right as he went.

“Finally,” Jean Pierre muttered. “Now you must hide the ale and wine and everyone else will leave too.”

Yes, finally.

Rose curtsied as Easterbrook took his leave of her. Kyle bowed and hoped nothing would distract the man from his course. Until Easterbrook left, no one else would.

The marquess’s aunt felt obligated to follow him. In short order his brothers did too. The end of the festivities had begun.

Kyle mentally urged them out the door. The villagers and servants, all of them. It took effort to control his impatience.

Wanting Rose before was one thing. Wanting her now, today, when he knew he could have her, was proving to be torture.

It had been so long since Rose had a servant that she did not know what to do with the woman. Fortunately, the lady’s maid arranged by Alexia did not require any direction. With efficient movements and downcast eyes she prepared Rose for her wedding night.

The house was almost empty now. No one remained except husband and wife, maid and valet. Soon the latter would make themselves scarce, disappearing to whatever chambers above they had chosen.

The last few hours had been excruciating. This moment had affected every second and minute. Neither she nor Kyle had said anything, not even on the long walk they had taken while Aylesbury’s servants cleared the house of kegs and dishes. The coming night had just been an invisible cloak surrounding every instant and transforming every look and touch.