Lucy picked up a little man. He stood at attention, his rifle by his side, a high military hat on his head. “How clever.”
Pocket gave her a withering look. “That’s a Frenchie. The enemy. He’s blue.”
“Ah.” Lucy handed her back the soldier.
“I’ve four and twenty,” the little girl continued as she set up the enemy camp. “I used to have five and twenty, but Pinkie got one and chewed off his head.”
“Pinkie?”
“Mama’s little dog. You haven’t seen him because he lives in Mama’s rooms mostly.” She wrinkled her nose. “He smells. And he snuffles when he breathes. He’s got a pushed-in nose.”
“You don’t care for Pinkie,” Lucy guessed.
Pocket shook her head vehemently. “So now this one”—she held up a headless tin soldier with fearsome teeth marks all over the remaining body—“is a Casualty of Battle, Uncle Sigh says.”
“I see.”
She laid the mutilated soldier on the carpet, and they both contemplated it. “Cannon fire,” Pocket said.
“Pardon?”
“Cannon fire. The ball took his head clean off. Uncle Sigh says he probably didn’t even see it coming.”
Lucy raised her eyebrows.
“Want to be England?” Pocket asked.
“I’m sorry?”
Pocket looked at her sorrowfully, and Lucy had the sinking feeling that her value might have fallen to the level of Pinkie, the soldier-devouring canine. “Would you like to be England? I’ll play France. Unless you want to be the Frogs?” She asked the last as if Lucy might just be that dim-witted.
“No, I’ll be England.”
“Good. You can sit there.” Pocket pointed to a space on the rug opposite her, and Lucy realized she was supposed to sit on the floor for this game.
She hunkered down and set up her red tin men under the little girl’s critical eye. It was actually rather soothing, and she needed a rest from her thoughts. All day she’d debated whether she should marry Simon. The violent side he’d revealed this morning had been frightening. Not because she thought he might hurt her—she knew, somehow, he would never do that. No, what made her afraid was that her attraction to him remained undimmed, despite what she’d seen. She’d even rolled about with him on that settee while he was covered with the blood of a man he’d killed. It hadn’t mattered. It still didn’t matter. If he walked in the room right now, she’d succumb again. And perhaps that was the real problem. Perhaps she feared what he could do to her: make her throw away all the lessons of right and wrong she’d grown up with, make her lose herself. Lucy shivered.
“Not there.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Your captain.” The little girl pointed to a soldier in a fancy hat. “He should be at the front of his men. Uncle Sigh says a good captain always leads his men into battle.”
“Does he?”
“Yes.” Pocket nodded decisively and moved Lucy’s man forward. “Like that. Are you ready?”
“Um . . .” Ready for what? “Yes?”
“Men, ready your cannon,” the little girl growled. She rolled a tin cannon forward and laid her fist beside it. “Fire!” She flicked her thumb, and a marble flew across the carpet and decimated Lucy’s soldiers.
Pocket hooted.
Lucy’s jaw dropped. “Can you do that?”
“It’s war,” Pocket said. “Here come the cavalry to flank your army!”
And Lucy realized the English were about to lose the war. “My captain orders his men about!”
Two minutes later the field of battle was a bloodbath. Not a single tin soldier still stood.
“Now what do we do?” Lucy panted.
“We bury them. All brave men deserve proper funerals.” Pocket lined up her dead soldiers.
Lucy wondered how much of this game was prescribed by Uncle Sigh.
“We say the Lord’s Prayer and sing a hymn.” The little girl tenderly patted her soldiers. “That’s what we did at my papa’s funeral.”
Lucy looked up. “Oh?”
Pocket nodded. “We said the Lord’s Prayer and threw dirt on the coffin. But Papa wasn’t really in there, so we don’t have to worry about him drowning in the dirt. Uncle Sigh says he’s in heaven and he watches me.”
Lucy stilled, imagining Simon comforting this little girl at his brother’s graveside, putting aside his own grief to explain in childish terms that her father wouldn’t suffocate in the ground. What a tender act. And what was she to do with this new side to Simon? It would be so much easier if he was simply a man who killed, someone who was callous and uncaring. But he wasn’t. He was a loving uncle, a man who tended roses all by himself in a glass cathedral. A man who acted like he needed her and made her promise never to leave him.
Never to leave him . . .
“Want to play again?” Pocket was looking at her, waiting patiently.
“Yes.” Lucy gathered her soldiers and set them upright.
“Good.” Pocket set to work on her own soldiers. “I’m glad you’re to be my aunt. Uncle Sigh’s the only other one who likes to play soldiers.”
“I’ve always wanted a niece who played soldiers.” She looked up at Pocket and smiled. “And I’ll be sure to invite you to come and play with me when I’m married.”
“Promise?”
Lucy nodded decisively. “Promise.”
Chapter Eleven
“Nervous?” de Raaf asked.
“No.” Simon paced to the rail, pivoted, and strolled back again.“Because you look nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.” Simon angled his head to search down the nave. Where the hell was she?
“You do seem nervous.” Now Pye was looking at him queerly.
Simon deliberately stilled himself and took a deep breath. It was just past ten o’clock on the morning of his wedding day. He stood in the designated sacred church, arrayed in formal wig, black brocade coat, silver-embroidered waistcoat, and red-heeled shoes. He was surrounded by friends and loving family—well, his sister-in-law and niece anyway. Pocket bounced in the front pew while Rosalind tried to shush her. Christian looked distracted in the row behind. Simon frowned. He hadn’t talked to Christian since the duel; there hadn’t been time. He’d have to do it later. The vicar was here, a young man whose name he’d already forgotten. Even de Raaf and Harry Pye had shown. De Raaf looked like a provincial squire in muddy boots, and Pye could have been mistaken for the sexton in plain brown.
The only thing missing was the bride.
Simon suppressed an urge to charge down the aisle and peer out the front doors like an anxious cook awaiting the arrival of the fishmonger with her eels. Oh, God, where was she? He hadn’t been alone with her since she’d caught him returning from the duel with James, nearly a week ago now, and while she seemed content, while she smiled at him when in the company of others, he couldn’t shake off this morbid worry. Had she changed her mind? Had he repulsed her, making love to her while his shoulder dripped gore and he wore the stain of a dead man’s blood like a badge of dishonor on his chest? He shook his head. Of course he’d repulsed her, his angel with her strict morals. She must’ve been horrified. Was it enough to make her break her promise? She’d given her word, on her mother’s memory, that she wouldn’t leave him.
Was that enough?
Simon walked to a granite pillar that towered to the barrel ceiling fifty feet overhead. A double row of the pink granite columns held aloft the ceiling, decorated with recessed painted squares. Each square was edged in gilt, as if to remind one of the golden afterlife that presumably awaited. Off to the side, he could see into a St. Mary’s chapel with a statue of a pubescent Virgin Mary gazing serenely down at her toes. It was a pretty church, lacking only a pretty bride.
“He’s pacing again,” de Raaf said in a tone he probably thought was quiet.
“He’s nervous,” Pye replied.
“I am not nervous,” Simon said through gritted teeth. He reached to stroke his ring be
fore remembering it was gone. He turned to saunter back and caught Pye and de Raaf exchanging a significant glance. Wonderful. Now he was considered a case for Bedlam by his friends.
A screech came from the front of the church as someone opened the big oak doors.
Simon wheeled. Lucy entered, escorted by her father. She wore a rose-colored gown, pulled back in front to reveal the pale green underskirt. The color made her complexion glow, gave her dusky eyes, brows, and hair a perfect setting, like a rose surrounded by dark leaves. She smiled at him and looked . . . beautiful.
Simply beautiful.
He felt like rushing to her and capturing her arm. Instead, he straightened and moved to stand by de Raaf. He watched her approach, patiently waiting. Soon. Soon, she would be his. He would have no need to fear her loss, her desertion. Lucy laid her hand on the crook of his arm. He refrained from clamping down on it with his other hand. The captain scowled at him and slowly released his daughter’s arm. The old man wasn’t happy about this. When he asked for her hand, Simon had known that had Lucy been younger or less loved, he would have been out on his ear in an instant. As it was, his angel had prevailed even against her father’s clear disapproval. Simon smiled at the older man and gave in to his urge to grasp her hand on his arm. She was his now.
The captain didn’t miss the gesture. His ruddy face darkened.
Simon leaned his head close to hers. “You came.”
Her face was grave. “Of course.”
“I wasn’t sure you would after the other morning.”
“Weren’t you?” She watched him with unfathomable eyes.
“No.”
“I promised.”
“Yes.” He searched her face but couldn’t read any more there. “Thank you.”
“Are we ready?” The vicar smiled vaguely.
Simon straightened and nodded.
“Dearly beloved,” the vicar began.
Simon concentrated on the words that would bind Lucy to him. Perhaps now his fear of losing her would finally die and be laid to rest. No matter what she found out about him, no matter what ghastly mistakes, what grave sins he committed in the future, his angel would have to remain with him.
She was his, now and forever.
“I SHALL SEND UP A MAID TO ASSIST YOU, my lady,” Newton intoned from behind Lucy that evening.
She blinked and glanced over her shoulder. “Yes. Ah, thank you.”The butler closed the door softly behind him. Lucy returned to gawking at the room. Her room. And she’d thought the bedrooms in Rosalind’s town house grand. The walls were covered in rose damask, a warm and soothing color that gave the bedroom the intimate feel of an embrace. Underfoot, the patterned carpet was so thick her heels sank into it. Above, the ceiling was painted with cupids or angels—hard to tell in the dim light of evening—and was edged in gilt. Of course.
And centered between two long windows was a bed.
But to call this piece of furniture a bed was like calling St. Paul’s Cathedral a church. This was the gaudiest, the largest, the most sumptuous bed Lucy had ever seen in her life. The mattress was easily three feet off the ground, and on one side were steps, presumably to mount the thing. A massive poster rose from each corner, carved, gilded, and draped with swathes of burgundy velvet. Gold ropes drew back the burgundy drapes to reveal pink gauze underdrapes. The actual bed linens were ecru and made of satin. Lucy hesitantly touched them with one finger.
Someone tapped at the door.
Lucy whirled and stared. Would Simon knock? “Come.”
A mobcap peeked around the door. “Mr. Newton sent us, my lady. To help you undress?”
“Thank you.” Lucy nodded and watched the little woman trot into the room, trailed by a younger girl.
The older maid immediately began rummaging through the wardrobe. “You’ll want the lace chemise, I think, don’t you, my lady? On your wedding night?”
“Oh. Yes.” Lucy felt a flutter in her stomach.
The maid brought the chemise over and began unhooking the back of Lucy’s dress. “They’re all talking about the wedding breakfast this morning, my lady, down in the kitchen. How elegant it was. Even that Henry, my lord’s valet, was impressed.”
“Yes, it was very nice.” Lucy tried to relax. Even after a fortnight in London, she still wasn’t used to being served quite so intimately. She hadn’t had help with her clothes since she was five. Rosalind had assigned one of her maids to look after her, but it seemed that now that Lucy was Simon’s wife, she required two.
“Lord Iddesleigh has such a wonderful sense of style.” The older maid grunted and bent to undo the last hooks. “And then they say he took you ladies on a tour of the capital after the wedding breakfast. Did you enjoy that?”
“Yes.” Lucy stepped out of her gown. She’d been with Simon for most of the day, but they’d never been alone. Perhaps now that they were finally married and the ceremonies over with, they could spend more time together, learn to know one another.
The maid quickly gathered the material and handed it to the younger maid. “Now mind you check that over good. Wouldn’t want a stain to set.”
“Yes’m,” the girl squeaked. She looked no more than fourteen and was obviously in awe of the older woman, although she towered over her.
Lucy took a deep breath as the maid undid her stays. Her underskirts and shift were whisked off and the lace chemise settled over her head. The maid brushed her hair until Lucy could stand it no longer. All this fussing was giving her too much time to think, to worry about the coming night and what would happen.
“Thank you,” she said firmly. “That’s all I need for the night.”
The maids curtsied as they left, and suddenly she was alone. Lucy sank into one of the chairs by the fire. There was a decanter of wine on the table next to her. She stared thoughtfully at it for a moment. The wine might dull her senses, but she was fairly certain it wouldn’t calm her nerves. And she knew she didn’t want her senses dull tonight, no matter how nervous she was.
A soft tap came from the door—not the one to the hall but the other one, presumably a connecting door.
Lucy cleared her throat. “Come.”
Simon opened the door. He still wore his breeches, hose, and shirt, but he’d removed his waistcoat and coat and he was bareheaded. He paused in the doorway. It took her a moment to place his expression. He was uncertain.
“Is that your room in there?” she asked.
He frowned and glanced back. “No, it’s a sitting room. Yours, actually. Would you like to see it?”
“Yes, please.” Lucy rose, very conscious that she was nude beneath her flowing lace chemise.
He stepped back, and she saw a rose and white room with several settees and armchairs scattered about. There was a door on the farther wall.
“And is your room beyond that?” She nodded to the far door.
“No, that’s my sitting room. It’s rather dark, I’m afraid. Decorated by some dead ancestor with a gloomy sensibility and a disapproval of any color but brown. Yours is much nicer.” He tapped his fingers on the door frame. “Next to my sitting room is my dressing room, equally gloomy, and beyond that, my bedroom, which, fortunately, I’ve had redecorated in my own colors.”
“Good gracious.” Lucy raised her eyebrows. “What a hike you’ve had to make.”
“Yes, I—” He laughed suddenly, covering his eyes with one hand.
She half smiled, not knowing the joke, not knowing in fact how she was supposed to act with him, now that they were finally man and wife and alone in their own rooms. It was all so awkward. “What is it?”
“I’m sorry.” He dropped his hand so she could see that his cheeks had reddened. “This isn’t the conversation I’d expected to have on our wedding night.”
He’s nervous. With that realization, a bit of her own anxiety seemed to fall away. She turned and strolled back into her bedroom. “What would you rather talk about?”
She heard him close the door. “I was going to i
mpress you with my romantic eloquence, of course. I’d thought to wax philosophical about the beauty of your brow.”
Lucy blinked. “My brow?”
“Mmm. Have I told you that your brow intimidates me?” She felt his warmth at her back as he moved behind her, but he didn’t touch her. “It’s so smooth and white and broad, and ends with your straight, knowing eyebrows, like a statue of Athena pronouncing judgment. If the warrior goddess had a brow like yours, it is no wonder the ancients worshiped and feared her.”
“Blather,” she murmured.
“Blather, indeed. Blather is all I am, after all.”
She frowned and turned to contradict him, but he moved with her so that she couldn’t quite catch sight of his face.
“I am the duke of nonsense,” he whispered in her ear. “The king of farce, the emperor of emptiness.”
Did he really see himself so? “But—”
“Blathering is what I do best,” he said, still unseen. “I’d like to blather about your golden eyes and ruby lips.”
“Simon—”
“The perfect curve of your cheek,” he murmured close.
She gasped as his breath stirred the hair at her neck. He was distracting her with lovemaking. And it was working. “What a lot of talk.”
“I do talk too much. It’s a weakness you’ll have to bear in your husband.” His voice was next to her ear. “But I’d have to spend quite a bit of time outlining the shape of your mouth, its softness and the warmth within.”
Lucy felt a tightening in her middle. “Is that all?” And she was surprised at the low vibration of her voice.
“Oh, no. Then I’d move to your neck.” His hand came around and stroked the air inches from her throat. “How graceful, how elegant, how much I want to lick it.”
Her lungs were laboring to fill with air. He caressed her with his voice alone, and she wondered if she would be able to bear it when he used his hands.