The Clarendon Rose (24 page)

Which was true enough.
 
As her wedding dress, Tina had donned her only mourning evening gown, and the bombazine fabric had no shine to it at all.
 
Still, the ruddy gleam of her hair and the healthy glow of her freckled skin did not look amiss against the fabric.
 
Tina had decided against a veil for the ceremony, feeling that it would just look too funereal.

We’re already going to be a dismal assembly.
 
Outside of the family, who would all be in the black of deep mourning, Miss Smye, Lord Sebastian and the Fieldings would be the only other guests at the wedding.
 
Miss Fielding had consented to be Tina’s attendant, and would precede her up the aisle in a subdued dress of dark gray.

A knock on the door interrupted Jane’s fussing.
 
One of the footmen entered, bearing a small bouquet of exquisite, deep red roses.
 

“This just arrived for you, Miss.”

Tina smiled with pleasure, momentarily distracted from her qualms.
 
It was with a twinge of disappointment that she opened the envelope to discover it was not from Clarendon after all.
 
The note read “The Clarendon Rose, for the newest and most charming of the Clarendon roses, on her wedding day.”

Though it was unsigned, Tina knew full well who had sent it.
 
This must be the surprise Mr. Fitzwilliam had spoken of.

“How lovely,” she murmured, breathing in the heady, sensual fragrance of the blossoms, before glancing back at the note.
 
She had almost missed the small post script that had been added: “You may want to tell your husband that asking questions is easy enough.
 
It is the answers that are often a little more difficult to obtain.”
 

“How odd,” she mused.
 

“Miss, your hair…”

Tina shook her head.
 
“Of course.
 
I’m sorry, Jane.
 
Please continue.”
 
Tina set aside the bouquet for the moment.

Jane resumed her fussing and the worries returned.
 

Soon, it will be over,
Tina told herself, conveniently choosing to avoid the fact that actually, it would have only just begun.
 

To calm herself, she closed her eyes and imagined getting away from the situation—riding Achilles to one of the many beautiful, quiet spots she had discovered over the years.
 
This one was a copse with mossy, fern-covered ground and the watchful, green silence of trees all around.
 
She would tether Achilles nearby and walk into the small grove, humming to herself and the forest as she moved smoothly to the center.
 
There, a circle of ancient trees with high, leafy boughs whispered with the movement of wind in their branches.

In the middle of the grove, she’d lie amid the cool, tickling ferns and stare up through the dappled, slanting light, at the shifting canopy of leaves above.
 
Everything tranquil, everything lovely and ponderously calm.
 

A voice broke into her reverie:
 
“Miss Tina?
 
It’s time.”

Her eyes flew open and her heartbeat accelerated once again.
 
Still, she made herself pause and scrutinize her reflection.
 
“You’ve done wonders, Jane.
 
Thank you,” she said, forcing her voice into steadiness.
 
Then, she stood, smoothing her skirt and drawing in a long breath.
 
She released it slowly, then picked up her bouquet and pushed a smile onto her face.

It was time.

The ceremony passed in a hazy blur, punctuated by moments of vividness.
 
The flash of a reassuring grin from Clarendon as she walked up the aisle towards him. Her acute awareness of the lines of his taut, muscled body, so near her own as she came to stand beside him, the current of attraction coursing between them.
 
Staring down at her bouquet without really seeing it, as she repeated the words of the ancient ceremony of marriage.
 
She could barely hear herself over the din of the blood rushing in her ears.

“I do.”
 
She wondered how she managed to sound so calm.
 
The small, dispassionate little voice sounded as if she had agreed to some triviality—an idle query about whether she liked reading sonnets, perhaps.
 
How was it possible that her voice could sound so normal, so quotidian, when she was consenting to one of the biggest commitments of her life, and when the haze of blood and fatigue pulsed in her head?

And then, it was over.

During the quiet but amiable luncheon that followed the ceremony, Tina hardly noticed anything she ate, as she sat at the head of the table opposite the duke.
 
His presence brought her senses to a state of edged awareness and it was only with immense effort that she was able to present even a façade of normality.
 
But the task was excruciating, for her body would not be distracted from its anticipation of the intimacies that lay ahead.

The fire that had kindled in her belly as she stood beside him in the church had spread through her body, suffusing her limbs and rousing the wild beast within her that always seemed to stir in his presence.
 
Now, it shifted restlessly, watching him across the table with hungry eyes.
 
Tina knew that if it could have had its way, she would be pressed against the length of Clarendon’s muscled body at that very moment, luncheon and civility discarded with nary a backward glance.

Instead, she lifted her fish fork and nodded at Sir Roland’s jovial comment about she honestly knew not what.

“My dear, what an exquisite bouquet you carried.
 
May I see it?”
 
Miss Smye’s query caught Tina’s attention.
 
Lord Sebastian, who was seated beside Miss Smye, turned to smile at the two of them.

“Indeed, the roses were striking, Your Grace,” he added, and for a moment Tina wondered why he was looking at her as he said it.
 
“Did you obtain them from the manor’s rose garden?”

Tina shook her head as she handed Miss Smye the bouquet.
 
“It’s from an old friend of Clarendon’s.
 
A Mr. Fitzwilliam.
 
He has called the flower the Clarendon Rose.”

Her last sentence coincided with a lull in all the other conversations and Tina suddenly found herself at the center of attention.

“The Clarendon Rose, you say?” Bastian looked over at the duke.
 
“Sent by an old friend of yours, Clare?”

Clarendon scowled at Lord Sebastian.

“A Mr. Fitzwilliam,” Tina clarified.
 
“I’m sorry I didn’t mention his visit earlier—what with everything that’s been going on, it slipped my mind.
 
But he called a few days ago, didn’t he, Miss Smye?”

The other woman nodded.
 
“He breeds roses.”

The dowager duchess had already launched into a speech about how
proper
duchesses never forgot to mention such things as callers.
 
Clarendon, in the meantime, was looking absolutely thunderous.

“What did this Mr. Fitzwilliam look like?” he asked, his tone controlled.

Tina described him as best she could, all the while watching Clarendon’s expression intently.
 
But, aside from a very obvious anger, it gave nothing away.
 
He and Lord Bastian exchanged another glance as she spoke.
 

“He says he’s the one who’s been sending you the roses,” she added, starting to frown herself.
 
There was obviously some kind of communication going on between the two men.
 
She watched Lord Sebastian as she continued.
 
“He seems to have a lot of affection for you, Clarendon.
 
Says you made him the man he is today.”

Lord Bastian had closed his eyes and winced at Tina’s last sentence.
 
Her lips thinned and she raised a challenging eyebrow at the man who was now her husband.
 
“Sorry to have missed him, were you?” she asked.

“You have no idea how sorry,” Clarendon replied tightly.

“I can hardly blame you, Your Grace.
 
He was a lovely man,” Miss Smye interjected, still examining the roses.
 
“And I’m so very excited to have seen these, Miss Merri—or rather, Your Grace.”
 
She gave Tina a glowing smile.
 
“I’ve never before had the opportunity to see a new rose
before
the
Rosarian Gazette
published its creation—except, of course, with the one or two I’ve managed to breed myself.
 
Of course, sometimes I’ve gone afterwards, if the
Gazette
listed the creator as living nearby.
 
But I must say, this is one of the most exquisite roses I’ve ever seen!
 
Look at the petals—”

“
The Rosarian Gazette
, Miss Smye?” Lord Bastian interjected.
 
“What’s that?
 
A publication of some sort?”

Tina had to smile as Miss Smye launched into a lengthy barrage on the endless fascination afforded by a single issue of the
Gazette
.
 

Lord Sebastian was eventually able to interrupt.
 
“So you have a number of the back issues of this publication?”

“I’ll have you know that I’ve been a longtime correspondent with the publisher, so I have every single issue ever printed.”
 
Miss Smye spoke with no small measure of pride.
 

Tina noted yet another glance exchanged between Clarendon and Lord Sebastian.
 

“That must be quite a sight, Miss Smye.
 
I should dearly like to see that,” Lord Bastian commented.

Clarendon gave his friend a very slight nod, and Tina’s lips compressed.
 

“I almost forgot to mention,” she said suddenly.
 
“Mr. Fitzwilliam sent a little note along with the bouquet.
 
It had a message I was to pass on to you, Clarendon.
 
Something about how it’s easy to ask questions, but generally far more difficult to obtain answers for them.”

Now she had both Clarendon and Lord Bastian’s attention.

“Did it say anything else?”

She shook her head.
 
“It’s up in my room—you may see it if you like.”

“I would like, in fact,” Clarendon said, before dispatching one of the footmen on the errand.
 
Then, to Tina’s astonishment and mortification, Clarendon and Lord Sebastian both excused themselves from the table, leaving her to preside over the small luncheon.

“Oh dear,” Miss Smye said in the awkward silence following their retreat.
 
“I gather they were exceptionally sorry to have missed Mr. Fitzwilliam.”

“Indeed, that must be the case,” Edmund agreed with a smile at the company.
 
He tried to catch Tina’s eye but she avoided it, furious with Clarendon for leaving the table.
 
What plot could the two of them suspect that would justify such a breach of manners?
 
Surely the affable Mr. Fitzwilliam couldn’t be as bad as all that, after all.
 
Did they somehow suspect him of sinister intentions?

The two men rejoined the party just as the Fieldings were preparing to take their leave.
 
Upon their departure, the dowager duchess ascended the stairs with one of her tiresomely eloquent sniffs.
 

“It’s shaping up to be a lovely afternoon,” Edmund said to the remainder of the small assembly after a quick glance at Tina’s expression.
 
“Perhaps Miss Smye and Lord Sebastian would care to join me in a turn about the gardens.
 
I am convinced they’ll be a splendid sight.”

He winked at Tina’s grateful look.
 
Both men offered their arms to Miss Smye, who seemed delighted by all the attention.
 
Once they were safely out of earshot, Tina turned on Clarendon.

“Would you mind telling me what all that was about?”

“It sounded to me like Edmund wanted to go for a bit of a walk.”

“Clarendon,” Tina said warningly, hands on her hips.
 

“Tina?” he replied, his expression altogether too nonchalant.

“I should dearly like to know what burning topic could have compelled you to desert your luncheon guests on your wedding day.”

He gave her a wicked grin and touched her cheek.
 
“I’d much rather talk about other things, my dear.”

Suddenly, all her earlier tension returned as she met Clarendon’s searingly intimate gaze.
 
She turned away.

 
“Clarendon…” she began, only to feel the heat of his hands upon her shoulders.
 
She swallowed against the dryness in her throat.

“Or rather,” he continued, his breath warm against the back of her neck, “to be precise, I’d prefer it if we didn’t talk at all, at this particular moment.”
 

Tina’s body was taut with the effort of holding herself back, her muscles tense and her nipples painfully erect against the material of her chemise.
 
His lips touched the back of her neck, burning her skin with its intensity.

Tina’s awareness of the heat of his body grew even more acute as her mind strayed back to the way his muscles had felt under her questing hands that afternoon in the garden.
 
Her palms tingled as she thought of how easy it would be to turn around and slip her arms under his formal jacket, under his vest.
 
She would pull his shirt from his pantaloons and....