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Authors: Madeleine Conway

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“Good God, I have no wish to be married to a martyr. Still less do I think that Reggie and Amelia will be content to see you so subdued. I am not a monster, Cecilia. Let us make a bargain.” Ormiston paused, seeking for the right words to frame his proposition. He had once again, he could see, offended his wife. Her back was ramrod straight, her shoulders tense, her lovely features distant and forbidding, uncannily similar to Lady Ketley when expressing disapproval. The shriek of a peacock cracked her stillness.
“What bargain?” Cecilia's voice sounded stiff and unaccommodating.
“Let us live here together for a full twelvemonth. The months remaining until your confinement and then for a space once the babe is born. Let us see if we can rub together and take some pleasure in one another. If, after a year from our marriage, you find it still intolerable, we may make our lives separate. I will not offer you a divorce—that would be worse than an annulment. But after twelve months, if you find we cannot rub along together, I will place no further pressure on you to be a part of Hatherley or the Dacre family.”
“What about the baby? If I choose to leave Hatherley, you can have no other legitimate heir.”
“How direct you are, Cecilia. If we cannot muddle along together, then we will have to share the child. You may call it Rousseauist and outmoded, but I wish to have a hand in the rearing of any child, legitimate or otherwise.”
“Have you any bastards?” demanded Cecilia, astonished as she heard herself speak the words with no apparent control over her own tongue.
“Cecilia, really, it is not delicate of you to speak of such things.” Ormiston's amused tone gave the lie to his apparent outrage.
“Now it is you who evade
my
questions.” For the first time, Ormiston saw her smile without restraint. No masks, no mourning veils, no social courtesy, but a full, true smile. He felt as though he had taken a blow in the gut. Pulling himself together, he replied: “I shall answer you honestly in this, as in all other questions. As far as I know, I have fathered no children apart from the child you carry.”
“You have no doubts that I do carry your child?”
“Why should I? You were a virgin. If you were a light-skirt, you would not have this trouble. I have not fathomed how you knew my identity at the Ferrières's ball, nor why you gave yourself to me, but I do know that I was the husband who was too foolish to treasure you as a husband should. I do not intend to repeat the mistake.”
“You are very direct, sir.”
“We have been given a chance to mend what started out marred. We cannot pretend this is a love match, but how many marriages in our circle are? Marrying for love is a novelettish indulgence. But we can treat each other with respect and honesty and perhaps some tenderness.”
“You are not angry with me?”
“I was angry with you. I was bitterly angered when I could not find Alice, I was angrier still when I discovered that you had played me for a fool. Then I remembered your situation and the unfairness of it. You have been a pawn, as I have.”
“We were not pawns in Paris, sir.”
“Can you not bring yourself to call me by my given name?”
“It seems so familiar. We still scarcely know one another.”
“Life together will seem most uncomfortable if you persist in addressing me as ‘sir' or ‘Ormiston.' Reggie and Amelia already call me Will. I wish you would do the same.”
“Very well, Will.” Cecilia rose, unsure of what should come next. Ormiston also stood, looked on her face, and longed to take it in his hands, kiss her lips and her eyes and the dip between her neck and collar bone. He could not conceal the hunger he felt for her and she stood as if trapped in a web by the heat she saw in his eyes. Then she stepped back and it was as though a door had swung shut between them. But she spoke.
“I agree to your bargain. A year at Hatherley. Then we decide on our future.”
Ormiston took her hand and kissed it in acknowledgement of their agreement, then escorted her back to the house.
Admiral Ketley wanted his wife back, and Ormiston wished the official wedding to take place without delay, so once again, Dacre procured a special license for his son. The servants and tenants of Hatherley had been apprised of the impending matrimonial before the arrival of the happy couple, so arrangements for a suitable celebration were well in hand, although the cook, a normally sanguine woman, was thrown into confusion over the provision of a wedding cake until she remembered that there were several Christmas cakes soaking up their brandy which might easily be iced. Lady Ketley made calls on the neighboring gentry, many of whom hastily cancelled their own plans so that they might be free for the rare pleasure of a ball at Hatherley. Dacre was not known for elegant entertainment, although his reputation amongst local gentlefolk was generally high. Respect for good husbandry ran far deeper than the lamentations of womenfolk that there was no marchioness to lead local society.
Since their uncomfortable
tête à tête
in the garden, Ormiston and Cecilia had scarcely been given an opportunity to see each other, let alone speak at length. Ormiston could not forget that she had been barely able to speak his name. There was no time to remedy the situation before their wedding. Dacre was intent on absorbing his son into the operation of all his interests, while Lady Ketley and the younger Marchmonts made constant demands on Cecilia. Then there were fittings for a wedding gown which could not be deep mourning, and must be made by the local seamstress since there was no time to send to London, letters to old acquaintances of the Ketleys and her own from London, thank-yous for a procession of gifts which began to arrive at the great house, and decisions to be made about music and flowers and menus for the multitude of guests who found themselves able, after all, to attend the nuptials of one of the most influential families in the county—in fact, in the country.
Familiar enough with the obligations of land and tenantry, Cecilia was still taken aback by the extent of the Dacre interests and responsibilities. Becoming the viscountess officially was a great step, and one that she was not entirely sure she was ready to take. She thought often of Ormiston's words (she could not bring herself to think of him as Will, though she did test the sound of it from time to time with Reggie and Amelia) and whether she would take the escape route he offered. At tea with ladies from the prominent families around Hatherley, she found herself longing for Sawards, and considering which of the smaller houses near Sawards might be suitable for her to settle in, once Reggie had attained his majority, and how she might furnish it, and wondering whether Dacre might lend to her the small but very fine Guardi painting of the Grand Canal she had seen tucked away in a niche in the morning parlor.
It seemed at once an age and no time at all to find herself eating toast and drinking hot chocolate on the morning of her second wedding day while Lady Ketley paced the chamber, counting off the last-minute guests and reviewing the timetable for the momentous day ahead, complete with ball and tenants' dance, at both of which the bride and groom most certainly would open the dancing.
Wearing a simple dress of lilac satin with a mantilla of silver lace, bearing a bouquet of wisteria, Cecilia entered the chapel at Hatherley hesitantly. This time, she felt no less reluctant than on her previous wedding day, but at least she knew she looked her best, a knowledge confirmed by the collective intake of breath that greeted her appearance at the chancel of the Norman chapel where Dacres had commemorated most of their births, deaths, and strategic alliances for some seven hundred years.
The music of Purcell rang out, Cecilia accepted the escort of her brother and sister, and walked toward her husband, past the aisles filled with people giving speculative and supportive glances, past her aunt and godfather, up to the altar where Ormiston stood, cutting, as always, an elegant figure in a navy tailcoat with a white satin waistcoat embroidered with delicate gold thread, his cravat fastened with a simple pearl pin, his cream trousers immaculately pressed and his shoes buffed to a high sheen. This time, she saw no anger or resentment in his bearing or expression. This time, she knew the responses and did not stumble on her vows. This time, she knew, whatever bargain Ormiston had offered, there would be no escape.
Ten
The dance for staff and tenants was held in a great barn, which had been decorated with garlands of greenery and a profusion of white blossoms. Trestle tables were laid with simple trenchers, with bread tumbling from baskets, platters of cheese, ham, and fruit placed at strategic intervals. Just outside the back of the barn, two lambs, a haunch of venison, and a side of beef were being turned over a great open fire whose heat was so intense that the men tending the roast had removed their shirts and were slicked with sweat. Along one wall of the barn were barrels of ale, each manned by a steward. All four were hard at work filling tankards. The great double doors had been opened onto a courtyard, and just inside the barn, three fiddlers, a drummer, and a group of singers were running through a repertoire of lively folk songs as the bride and groom appeared in an open landau. The viscountess threw her bouquet, causing shrieks of amusement as the cook caught it and turned to look sternly at the head gardener. Dacre, Lady Ketley, and the Marchmont children also arrived, along with the vicar, the estate factor, and an assortment of other guests of high degree.
Then Ormiston handed Cecilia down from the carriage and they were swept into the barn. A warm speech was made by the butler, Burden, followed by a raucous toast. The fiddlers started up, and Ormiston took his bride by the hand to lead the assembled crowd in the Sir Roger de Coverly, a venerable country dance.
Once the dance had ended, Ormiston raised his own tankard high and toasted the guests before bidding them a good evening. Burden and a contingent of footmen set off for the house, ready for their evening's work, while Ormiston and Cecilia returned to their carriage, followed by the dignitaries also planning to attend the formal wedding breakfast and ball.
“They look as though they will have a wonderful evening,” commented Cecilia almost wistfully.
“I half wish we might stay with them instead of having to shake hands with a parcel of stuffy dowagers. Still, I daresay we should throw a damper on their celebration.” Ormiston paused, then said, “You look very beautiful today. I have not had a chance to say so.”
“Thank you, my—Will.”
“There, that was not so painful, was it? I shall have to give you practice, then my name will slip easily from you.”
Cecilia smiled. “I need only talk of the future and your name will trip out as free as it may. You'll see.”
“Avoiding the issue, I think. You are most evasive, Lady Ormiston.”
“It will take a little time for me to adjust to my new name. I was not sure who they were addressing when they toasted Viscount and Lady Ormiston in the barn. Still, the receiving line will be all too lengthy an initiation.”
“We have time first to go upstairs and put ourselves to rights.” Ormiston wondered how Cecilia would feel when she discovered that Dacre had moved his son and daughter-in-law to the master suite of Hatherley. The marquis had moved out of it many years before, and it had lain unused as long as Ormiston could remember. The viscount was not inclined to tell Cecilia the news with the coachman in earshot. Somehow, he felt she would not be pleased.
Fortunately for Ormiston, Dorcas was waiting to escort her mistress up to her new quarters, where Cecilia was to freshen herself, remove her veil, and have her hair rearranged. It was as the maid was pinning up the last of Cecilia's tresses, woven with silver ribbons, that Ormiston knocked and entered. Dorcas placed the last pin, then turned to give a little bob to her new master. Cecilia turned and met his eyes.
“Dorcas, you may go. Thank you for all your trouble. The dance at the barn must call—run now and have a wonderful evening. I shan't need you again tonight.”
“Goodnight, Dorcas,” added Ormiston. The girl bobbed once again and tripped away.
Cecilia stood and walked toward him, drawing on her evening gloves, dyed in the same silvery-purple shade as her dress. She did look magnificent. But she also looked a little bare, for she wore no jewelry at all.
“When we were last married, you wore a diamond necklace and earbobs.”
“I did not want to wear anything that reminded either you or me of that day. I have some fine pearls, but Aunt Letty told me that it's bad luck for a bride to wear pearls, for pearls mean tears. Or some such.”
Ormiston held out a black leather case. “Perhaps these will suit. They belonged to my mother. The marquis gave them to me for my bride. If you don't like them, don't feel obliged to sport them out of politeness. You need no jewelry. No other woman here can hold a candle to you, my dear.”
Cecilia opened the case and gasped. Within was a fine silver necklace of diamonds and amethysts, with a matching bracelet and pendant earrings.
“These are perfect! Exquisite! But I should have kept Dorcas. I am clumsy in gloves and it takes me an age to get them on and off.”
“I will be your maid.”
She held the case and first he placed the bracelet on her left wrist. Then he picked up the necklace and stood behind her to fasten it. His hands fumbled slightly with the clasp so that his fingers brushed the nape of her neck and tickled against her hairline. She took a deep breath to steady herself. She had not expected to respond to so slight a caress. Next, he picked up the left earring and screwed it into place, his fingers once again shifting against her skin. She stood as still as she could, struggling to suppress the shiver of response his touch drew from her as he moved around and fixed the final earring in place, his breath warm on her ear, his hands now sure. She waited until the heat of his touch dissipated as he dropped his hands and stepped back. Then she turned to face him. His eyes were dark pools, his breathing now harsh.
“How ... ?”
“Don't be coy. You must know the effect you have on me. Come. We must go down now. Everyone will be waiting, and if we stay here much longer they will be waiting all night.”
Cecilia hurried to the door, flustered by his words, now utterly unsure of what would happen later that night. She had not thought past the wedding itself, had refused to think of the wedding night. Did the bargain include marital relations? There was no time to consider this vexed question, for Ormiston was escorting her down the stairs and into position. Dacre turned to his daughter-in-law and said, “Lady Ormiston, you look very well.” He called to Burden and the flow of guests began.
It took well over an hour to welcome the stream of well-wishers, but the crowd in the Great Hall was dwindling when the doors were thrown open for a tall, caped latecomer. He threw off his driving cloak in a great swirl of wool, tugged off his gloves, and checked his reflection in one of the great pier glasses before taking a flute of champagne and joining the queue of guests.
“It is Earl Lazenby!” exclaimed Dacre. “Do you remember him, Ormiston? Cecilia's met him in London, I know.”
“Yes, I do remember him. The great huntsman, is he not? A hard goer.”
“Aye, in more respects than one. He was one of your flirts, wasn't he, Ceci?”
There was no time to respond as a local family drew near, eager to meet the bride and fawn on the marquis. Inadvertently, Ceci caught Ormiston's eye, and he gave her a quizzical look before diving into conversation with Mrs. Selby.
It was not long before Alexander, fifth Earl Lazenby, was lifting Ceci's gloved hand to his mouth and drawling, “Devastated, my dear girl, to see you in this cub's clutches. Hoped you'd make me a happy man someday.”
“Earl Lazenby, you never hoped any such thing,” responded Ceci robustly. Then indelicacy got the better of her: “You made eyes at me, but your real attentions lay elsewhere, I believe.”
Lazenby raised his eyebrows and gave a dramatic sigh. “You wrong me, Lady Ormiston. All I ever longed for was the affection of ‘The Impregnable.'”
“ ‘The Impregnable'?” queried Ormiston, offering his hand so that Lazenby had to shake it and, in so doing, move away from Cecilia.
“Why, yes, Miss Marchmont was thus known. You have succeeded where so many have tried and failed. She was also known as ‘The Citadel.' My congratulations on your conquest. I wish you both every happiness.”
Ormiston could not help smiling, for he had succeeded far better than anyone knew. His amusement was only sharpened by the knowledge that in truth, Lazenby was planning already on making him extremely unhappy. The earl's reputation as a philanderer interested only in other men's wives had been well-established by the time Ormiston had left England. It came as something of a surprise that he had ever shown any interest in an ostensibly unattached maiden like Ceci. Presumably the unavailability suggested by her nicknames had presented sufficient challenge to Lazenby, and clearly the introduction had been effected in a careless moment by Dacre. Ormiston noticed that Lazenby and Lady Ketley greeted each other coolly. Cecilia's risqué riposte had not gone unremarked, either. It suggested that she, too, was aware of the earl's dubious standing.
As the family was finally gathering before entering the ballroom, Lady Ketley spoke in a fierce undertone to Dacre, “I am surprised you invited Lazenby, I must say. I know he is a neighbor, but he is not good Ton.”
“I've known the lad since he was in leading strings, and there's a solid core to him. He looks after his land, and the odd affair with a bored wife ain't enough for me to cut him. He's perfectly good Ton. His family's older than ours if we were to tot up the centuries.”
“It was bad enough him dangling after Ceci in London.”
“Aye, Letty, you made it plain you disapproved then. This is the sort of do where he must be invited, and let me be plain with you, he is always welcome in my house. He may not be the thing in the petticoat line, but he's caused no outright scandal. Indeed, he'll be welcome even if he does.”
“He'll be after Ceci, mark my words. Warn your son to be on the
qui vive
. If you don't, I shall.”
“You will not. She's safe from Lazenby until she's produced an heir. He's quite honorable that way. It's up to my son to keep Ceci happy enough so that she don't feel the need to wander. We must leave the young folk to their own machinations, Letty—it don't do to interfere.”
Lady Ketley harrumphed and followed Dacre into the ballroom, knowing that they must be ready to watch the happy couple lead the first dance.
Ormiston had specified that he wished the ball to open with a waltz. He had been careful to direct the music master away from the melodies he remembered from the Ferrières' ball. Cecilia and he were greeted with a cheer as they entered the ballroom, followed by a hush as they took their position in the center of the room, waiting for the music. The first notes sounded and he swept her around the floor, making a full circuit before Lady Ketley and Dacre followed them, formally opening the dancing. Suddenly the ballroom was a whirl of colors, as the music soared and crested.
Cecilia barely had time to think after that, for gentleman after gentleman demanded the honor of dancing with the bride. It was nearly two hours later when she managed to excuse herself from a dance by declaring that her thirst must be quenched. A hand bearing a glass of lemonade presented itself before her. She looked up. Lazenby gave his breezy smile, his blue-gray eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Quite like old times. Lemonade is still your favorite beverage, I hope.”
“Old times! Last year, you mean. It was only last year that you deigned to notice me at all. Before then, I was just another chit.” Cecilia sipped at her drink.
“Never
just
a chit, my dear, but much too young for me, certainly.”
“Why, Methuselah, you cannot be more than thirty. That is not so very old.”
“Ah, thirty-two summers have I, fair Cecilia.” Lazenby had found some more champagne and was clearly enjoying it.
“The difference between us remains the same. I have been out four years now, and you didn't pay me a jot of attention for the first three. Of course, that was when you were deep in dalliance with ...”
“My dear Lady Ormiston, it does not become you to remind me of the follies of my youth. As for attention, you have always basked in it. What need to add me to your court of followers?”
“Then why did you join?” Cecilia found herself enjoying the rake's company as much as ever. He had made a great show of reluctance when first flirting with her, assuring her it was only as a favor to Dacre and Lady Ketley, to deter her numerous hangers-on.
“At first, to see what all the fuss was about. And then, my fair Arachne, you trapped me in your web and now I writhe like the rest of your prey.” He grinned as she absorbed and laughed at his hyperbole, then became serious. “I have missed you a good deal.”
“If you are staying at Edenbridge for long, you will be able to visit us here.”
“You have no plans to go up to London for the rest of the Season?”
“No. We are still in mourning for Papa, and we think it best for my brother and sister to remain here. Lady Ketley and I should still have been in Paris were it not for Papa's sickness, so I'd not have been here for the Season in any case.”
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