Some Enchanted Waltz (9 page)

“Why is she wearing Althea’s gown?” Mother’s sharp voice sliced through his mind like a knife blade paring sinew from bone.

“Circumstances being as they are,” He stepped forward to put himself between Tara and his shrewish Mother.  “I doubt Althea would mind sharing her wardrobe.”

An ebony brow rose ominously at him. “What circumstances?”

Adrian realized his mother would not have the slightest interest in local gossip regarding the wreck on the Bay unless someone of wealth and consequence happened to be among the survivors. “Surely news of the shipwreck reached Seafield House. Tara’s belongings are on the bottom of Bantry Bay.”

The grey eyes softened, taking years off Lady Dillon’s dour features. “I heard.” She choked momentarily, apparently realizing too late her ill-mannered remark. “I had no idea your bride was among the survivors. Why didn’t you tell me she was coming?”

“I did, Mother.” Adrian replied. “Many times. You were distracted.”  In her inebriated condition in the past months, he could have told her Prince George of England was coming to Glengarra Castle and she wouldn’t recall it.

Adrian sat down on the bed again, deciding not to allow his mother to dominate the situation. This was his home and Tara would soon be his wife. He took Tara’s tiny wrist in his hand, tracing his finger on the inside of her forearm as he explained their story to his agitated parent. “Captain Gilamuir brought Tara to me near dawn several days ago. Mick found her unconscious on the shore. I have been consumed in the past days with Tara’s recovery and overseeing the retrieval of the poor wretches who did not survive, her father included. We have yet to recover his remains, and my dearest Tara is unable to remember anything before waking here.”

His mother’s features melted from granite indifference to horrified empathy.

If there was one thing his mother understood, it was grief. He noticed the slight weaving of her step as she crossed the room. She bent and proceeded to give his bride a soft peck on the cheek. The distinct odor of brandy wreathed in strong perfume confirmed his suspicions. If she could appear at the wedding ceremony without brandy on her breath and a foul demeanor, he would consider himself fortunate.

“There, there, my poor child. I am sorry for your loss. Adrian, pray excuse me, my nerves.”  His mother clutched her chest in an irritating effort at high drama. “I need to lie down. Send for Dr. Magnus. I need a dose of Laudanum, I feel a spell coming on.”

Adrian rolled his eyes to the ceiling before glancing at the fair Tara to see how she was taking this wrung out drama straight from the gutters of Drury Lane. Tara was the one suffering injury and supposed loss, yet his mother claimed the mere telling of his fiancée’s sorrows was sufficient to send her to her bed with the need for sedatives.

“Dr. Magnus left a bottle for Tara’s comfort.” He replied, instantly regretting his hasty words. Her brandy excesses he could overlook. Her more recently acquired thirst for opiates was another matter.

“Excellent. Have Cora bring me a dose, I shall be in my room.” The granite eyes moved from his face to that of his fiancée. “Poor child. Adrian, give her a dose as well.”

“I don’t need it.” Tara was quick to respond. The slightest flicker of disdain flashed in her green eyes, vanishing as quickly as it surfaced.

“My poor nerves benefit from its calming effects. Excuse me.”  Fiona Dillon sauntered out of their presence with the regal bearing of a Queen, belying her words regarding her fragile emotional state.

“Mother needs time to overcome her grief.” Adrian explained, more as a reminder to himself than for Tara’s enlightenment. “She was devoted to Althea.”

“
Althea
?”  Tenderness was reflected in those emerald pools, recognizing his pain.

“My younger sister. She died three months ago. She was seventeen.” A stinging began behind his eyes as he remembered his sister, once so full of life and now a distant memory of all that was good and true in his life. “Althea had weak lungs. The winter months always affected her. She died of pneumonia last October.”  

“I’m sorry. Did she and I ever meet?”

“No.”

“Where did we meet? You and I? If we are engaged we must have a history.”

“Italy.” Adrian lied quickly, experiencing panic as he realized for the first time that Tara was not playing a game: she did not remember her past. Did she even realize she was fey? “It was last year. You should rest.” He rose, feeling unequal to the task of answering the questions he saw clouding her eyes.  

 “Wait.” She pleaded, before he could make a clean break. “There are so many things I can’t recall.”

“Perhaps it is for the best.”

“I can’t remember anything. It’s frightening. Please, help me.” The emerald jewels became liquid as she regarded him with a wounded expression that tore at his soul.

“Concentrate on the present. Tomorrow we will be married, just as your father would have wished, God rest his soul.”

“I don’t remember my father—or even my mother. I have nothing. I belong to no one.” The terror beneath her statement was unmistakable.

Adrian groaned inwardly and sat down on the bed once more. He leaned forward and drew her in his arms, offering her the silent comfort of his embrace when words failed him. He felt like a cad for leading her on in this bold charade that was becoming more complex by the hour. If she truly didn’t recall her past life and was ever questioned by Burke and his ilk, it was better for both their sakes if she believed the tale he was circulating about her. 

“No, dear one. That is not true. You have me. I’m your family now.”

*   *   *

Tara lay quietly on the mound of pillows. She was watching the raindrops spattering the windows, watching and trying to find a shred of identity behind them.

Crystal jewels of ice and sleet clung to the transparent panes. She could still feel those strong arms about her. She could still hear the tenderness in his voice when he attempted to calm her fears. Lord Dillon made her feel safe. She fell asleep nestled in his arms and his powerful presence lingered long after he had gone.

He wanted to marry her. Strangely, Tara wasn’t adverse to the idea. He promised her a home and the protection of his name. He’d given her his word that he would not expect her to be intimate with him until she wished it. Tara smiled at the antiquated notion. It was kind of sweet, really. Most guys couldn’t wait to get a girl in the sack. And as for marriage, most guys ran from that institution like rats fleeing a sinking ship.

Why not marry him
? He was attractive, kind, sexy, rich and this place he owned was awesome. A bit like a museum, with staff to attend her every need. A girl could do worse. If it didn’t work out, well, she’d just leave, simple as that. It was the way of the world. Marriage wasn’t forever, not anymore. Half of all marriages ended in divorce.

Tara sat up, startled by her thoughts.
The things she knew
!  Facts and statistics just came to her with ease. Facts and knowledge, about everything, except her own history.

Well, then.
Stick to the facts. Stick to what you do know
; 
there is a fifty-fifty chance of this working out. What the hell, the odds were better than winning the lottery, and that dude was too damn hot to refuse
.

Lord Dillon wanted to marry
her
?

Tara couldn’t comprehend why his gallant offer affected her so profoundly.

To be wanted; needed by someone. To have a sense of family, a sense of belonging to someone. Tara craved a family. She needed to belong somewhere, to
someone
!

Okay, maybe she was crazy for going through with it.

Maybe, just maybe, this was fate, as he said.

Maybe she really had been sent to him for a reason.

Too bad somebody hadn’t bothered to pin a note to her jacket when they sent her here. At least then she’d have some clue as to what, precisely, she’d been sent here to do.

Chapter Seven

It was raining.

Tara kept humming the refrain from that song about rain on your wedding day. She couldn’t stop humming it. She knew the name of the song;
Ironic
. She could picture the pretty brunette who sang it; Alanis Morrisette.

They were facts in her brain, knowledge she didn’t even have to think about. It just came unbidden. Why, oh why couldn’t she remember the important facts of her own life?

So many things came and went in her mind, leaving Tara confused as to their significance. She couldn’t put the fragmented images that did come into any logical sequence. She gazed out the lead glass window at the churning steel skies.

“It’s like rain on your wedding day, the free ride when you’ve already paid.” She sang the refrain aloud.

It was her wedding day, and it was raining as if the very heavens were protesting.

Cold feet?  Yes, and cold hands and the proverbial knots twisting her gut.

Whoa, girl, just breathe
.
It’s a good thing. The dude is rich, handsome, charming, like he stepped out of a fairytale
.
My own version of
McDreamy, in 18th century garb
. 

Ten day passed since Tara had been brought to Glengarra Castle. She’d taken the bandages off her hands today in preparation for her wedding ceremony.  Her palms were still tender and pink, yet Tara had no intention of going to her wedding with her hands wrapped in bandages. Maggie made the suggestion that gloves were the thing for a lady. Tara tried to put on the pair Maggie provided for her from the dead girl’s wardrobe. The cloth was too irritating and confining against Tara’s tender flesh. It couldn’t be helped. She would just have to become Mrs. Adrian Dillon with bare hands.

Tara chose a light muslin gown of
Althea Dillon’s
--she really had to stop referring to her as the dead girl in her mind, lest she slip and use it in conversation. The dress was a thin, flouncy thing with short sleeves and a blue satin sash beneath her breasts and formed a very high waistline. It was an odd choice in the drafty castle for January, with short sleeves, a low neckline and very light material. It resembled a wedding gown and that was why Tara chose it.

Seeing the gooseflesh on her mistress, Maggie left dutifully and returned with one of Miss Althea’s silk shawls. It was a stunning choice with the rich red, orange and gold paisley swirls against the white dress. Tara gazed at herself in the mirror. She didn’t have any makeup to turn to. No mascara, not even lip gloss. Her long hair had been swept up into an elegant twist. Earlier this morning, Lady Dillon had presented her with a rope of pearls as a bridal gift.

“They’re ready for you, Miss.” Maggie insisted, reminding her of the time.

With a sharp intact of breath, a futile attempt to push back the roiling waves of uncertainty, Tara followed Maggie down the expansive corridor. She felt small and insignificant in the gothic arched passage. Paintings and rich tapestries were hung on the walls. Ancient weapons surrounded the tapestries. It was breath-taking. She loved this place, and now it was to be her home. Who wouldn’t want to reside in a castle, with a handsome lord who looked like he’d just stepped out of the cover of a romance novel?

It will work out
. She told herself yet again.
If it doesn’t, you can leave, he can’t keep you here against your will.

The main stairway was magnificent. She admired the winding banister of polished mahogany. The stone stairs were covered with red carpet. As the great hall came into view, more armor and weaponry sparkled in the light of two immense fireplaces at each end of the long room. A suit of armor stood as a silent sentry at the bottom of the stairs, and a large shield hung above the arched doorway. She had not had much chance to leave her room and go exploring, as she’d been in so much pain for days on end since her arrival here. During that time, Lord Dillon visited her room daily, as had his mother.

She paused at the foot of the stairs, awed by the primitive, majestic beauty of the expansive great hall. The high-back, blackened wood chairs had the barest of padding, the fur rugs before the fireplaces were made of real fur. The chandeliers were made of iron and hung from chains. The glass eyed hunting trophies watching Tara with eerie silence as she passed under them gave her the dizzying sensation of being transported to the Middle Ages.

“Awesome.”  Tara stopped and lifted the face shield of the suit of armor. It was hollow, empty inside. She’d hoped for a blue eyed knight to peek out at her.

“Aye, Miss. They’re waiting.  The minister’s here.” Maggie prodded.  

Tara pulled the shawl up closer about her neck. Those impressive hearths certainly didn’t give off sufficient heat. Maggie lead her down a narrow, portrait lined corridor, stopping at a pair of oak arched doors. The maid gave a sharp rat-a-tat-tat, and then opened the door for Tara to enter.

Tara took a step forward and paused to reorient herself. This room was more modern than the great hall and the corridors. It had vibrant red brocade wallpaper. Gold curtains framed the large mullioned windows and yellow upholstery covered the elegant Queen Anne period furniture. Gilt framed, rich hued oil paintings filled every inch of space on the walls. It was a vivid contrast to the stark, medieval great hall she’d passed through moments earlier. This was typical 18th century decor, more Baroque in tone than the current Directory style of the late century, she noted with the proficiency of a trained historian, but then, the Directory style was probably more popular in Paris where it originated, and in larger cities like London.