His steps slowed as he turned through the entry hall. He hadn’t given real thought to Maria in years, but after speaking of her last night, her face seemed newly vivid. Turning a profit off love was a trickier endeavor in a parlor than on a street corner, but she’d managed it.
She’d managed, also, to make a fool of him. Naturally he hadn’t thought of her in years. Thinking of her entailed remembering how he’d chased after her, demanded and then begged her to reconsider her decision—heedless of his own pride, careless of the humiliation. He’d spent years building his immunity to Rushden’s jibes, but one sneer from her and he’d been flattened.
Well. Long ago. That boy—for he’d been very young—seemed a stranger to him, now. Yet in letting go of Maria and of the part of himself that had loved her, Simon also had abandoned—forever, he’d imagined—a certain vision of himself: as someone’s husband, a man obligated. Only natural, then, that this coming moment should seem surreal.
Not that he’d be obligated to Nell, precisely. He made himself smile as he turned down the corridor toward the formal drawing room. These sober reflections were ludicrously inappropriate. If the courts denied Nell her birthright, he would break the connection, easily as snapping a twig. He’d have no other choice.
Nevertheless, as he caught sight through the open door of the waiting deacon—and beside him, Nell, her eyes on the carpet, her back rigidly straight—he came to a stop, struck by something that he hadn’t been prepared to feel. He drew a sharp breath and stepped behind the doorjamb, out of sight, where a laugh escaped him: What on earth? Why was he hiding like a guilty schoolboy?
He looked down at himself, dressed in a morning coat of dove gray, freshly brushed, with diamond cuff links at his wrists. An uninformed observer would have called him the very picture of the well-dressed groom.
Perhaps he should have told Nell that this marriage need not be permanent. It had been Rushden’s way to bully a person with lies and threats, but his own specialty was different: he pushed unpalatable truths on people and made them like it. Marrying her without telling her the whole of it felt like … poor sport.
But she was skittish. Oh, underneath him on a billiards table, she was … the most perfect picture of soft, scented, willing compliance that any man could imagine. But when on her feet, she still examined his claims skeptically, from every angle available. Her trust was new, fragile, and undependable.
Meanwhile, whether permanent or not, this marriage would serve her best interests. If everything worked out, they would remain wed. And if everything… did not work out, he’d find some happy settlement to send her into a rosier future than the past she’d left behind.
A factory girl, for God’s sake.
No, he’d find some way—somehow—to give her a sum that would see her well settled.
On credit, perhaps, he’d raise that sum.
But no doubt it would work out. Daughtry’s men were on the case. Now it was his turn to take the crucial next step. And if he’d gambled correctly—well, then despite the informal setting, this ceremony would be binding. A momentous occasion. Twenty years from now, he would look back on this moment in the hallway as the last of his bachelorhood.
He reached up to tug at his ascot. His valet had knotted it too tightly.
The marriage would change nothing, of course. Both bride and groom entered into it with dreams of pounds and pennies, nothing lofty or noble. Pounds, pennies, and pleasure. Nell was a sensible woman; it would never occur to her to demand more of him than that. What else could a cynic desire?
And he was a cynic, he reminded himself.
He tugged down his long coattails—feeling foolish, suddenly, to have dressed so formally—and entered the room.
The hush that greeted his appearance felt not so much suspenseful as weary: it had started out as puzzlement, perhaps, but had since collapsed into boredom. Along one wall, a line of neatly starched mobcaps disguised the down-turned faces of the six upstairs maids, who bobbed in unison for him. His butler bowed staidly. Mrs. Collins’s creaking knees popped as she straightened.
Not for the first time, he wondered why he had so many damned servants. He could have raised a fortune simply by firing them, but decency continued to impede that temptation.
By the window, Nell looked up from her study of the carpet. The afternoon light cast her in gold. Madame Debordes had delivered the new gowns four days ago, and for this occasion, his bride had chosen to don what must be the soberest of the lot: a steel-gray silk walking dress shot through with black.
The dress was darker than his coat by several shades, and to his distracted mind, the choice seemed significant. A darker gray, a paler face, her expression impassive, her square jaw set. The lady’s maid had trammeled her bangs, sleeking her hair straight back from her brow. She looked calmer than he felt; she was outdoing him somehow.
The thought made no sense. He let it go as he walked to her side. “My lady.”
She bent her knee in reply. “Lord Rushden.”
The slight curtsy was appropriate and perfectly accomplished. He saw not a single sign that she remembered where he’d put his hands and mouth last night, although memories of it had kept him up almost until dawn.
The absurd sense of inadequacy deepened. He had the fleeting idea that her ragged clothing and gutter accents had been a disguise, and the face she presented now, serene and composed, was her true demeanor. That perhaps this, too, was another bad joke pulled off at his expense, and designed by her late, unlamented father.
What a singular, nonsensical idea. He dismissed it, but its effect continued to register in the sudden tightness in his throat. He had a premonition, real and unshakable: complications, unforeseen consequences, a cost to himself …
The next second, he was marveling at the misfiring of his brain. He nodded to the Reverend Dawkins, who stood a few paces away, Bible in hand. When they had spoken earlier in Simon’s study, Dawkins had done a poor job of disguising his curiosity. This made him well suited to the task at hand: within an hour, despite Grimston’s best efforts to trammel it, word would spread that Lord Rushden had married.
The notion settled the last of Simon’s nerves. It would be an interesting night at the dinner tables in Mayfair. The game, as they said, was afoot.
Dawkins cleared his throat. “Your lordship, if you would take the bride’s hands.”
Her small fingers were cold and steady. Not by a flicker of her lashes did she react to his touch. Simon fought back the impulse to squeeze, to tighten his grip until she reacted. She should be more nervous than he. She thought this marriage was unbreakable.
Ridiculous, this sudden guilt.
She lifted her brow now. Questioning his stare. He mustered a smile, which she readily returned. He focused on that glimpse of tooth where her lips did not quite meet—that gap that had seemed such a provocation when he’d first spied it, a baring of something unmeant to be seen.
But almost immediately, her smile changed, her lips tightening, shutting her teeth away. She deliberately restrained her smile. No doubt someone had told her that ladies were not meant to grin so broadly. And she’d believed this advice, as of course she should, since it was true.
The thought drove a pang through him. What a pity it would be if her uniqueness was flattened into the regular ways of the herd.
But wasn’t that the aim?
“Marriage is not to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly, but reverently, deliberately,” Dawkins intoned. The right words, nothing in them to mark that this marriage ultimately might be a sham.
Nell’s smile yet lingered, very slight, the look of a woman lost in private thoughts. She had ideas and Simon could not guess at what they might be. Was she envisioning a happy future for them? He hadn’t bothered to discuss with her what their marriage of convenience might entail. He’d never imagined it would be necessary to enlighten her: her cynicism, after all, seemed a match for his own.
The liturgy unfolded. As she spoke her vow in
a clear, strong voice, he felt a frown creeping over his brow. He felt restless, suddenly, as though her grip were the only thing holding him in this room. Marrying a woman in rags would have rendered this occasion more transparent. But an onlooker, right now, might mistake this for something other than it was. They might mistake it as a romance.
They might think he actually cared for this woman.
“I will,” Simon had just said. That meant they were married. The fat man was about to pronounce them husband and wife. Nell cut another wary look toward the deacon: a fraud, perhaps? And yet … all these witnesses: the entire staff lined up against the wall. The lawyer, Daughtry, stood beside the butler, straight-faced, earnestly observant. Would a man of the law show up to witness a fraud’s ceremony? Maybe if Simon paid him enough.
For himself, Simon looked genuinely puzzled as the deacon spoke the conclusion: “Those whom God has joined together let no one put asunder,” he said, and Simon’s frown deepened, as no doubt did her own: this shared look between them was taking on the flavor of mutual confusion, as though each of them had been waiting for the other to break first—All right, you got me, I didn’t mean it—and now found themselves baffled, stunned: had this really just happened?
As the deacon began the closing prayer, a hysterical feeling tickled her throat, the beginning of a lunatic laugh. After the dreams she’d had last night—one nightmare right after another, in all of which Simon had mocked her, scorned her as a slum rat—she’d woken convinced that something awful was going to happen today. Simon was kind but not an idiot. He wouldn’t marry her before her inheritance was guaranteed. They’d all but tupped last night on his billiards table—and afterward, she’d been ready and willing for more. No peer of the realm took such a woman to wife! Since she’d walked into this room, she’d been braced for the joke: he would pull away, shake his head, wave everybody out, simply flick them away like flies off a pastry, as went his usual style. Changed my mind. Let’s call it off.
But he hadn’t. She could barely comprehend it. They were married.
“You may kiss the bride,” said the reverend—to confirm her thoughts or maybe to prompt them both to action: they were staring at each other like proper dolts.
She heard a cough from the servants’ side. A murmur ran through the room.
Simon blinked. “Yes,” he said. “Of course.” His face cleared; kissing, he was not confused about. “By all means.” He leaned down. She waited, watching him, slack-mouthed still with surprise.
His lips brushed hers. Instantly, he retreated.
A snort escaped her. Oops. She put her fingers to her lips. His frown returned. He scowled down at her, the master of the house, his dignity offended.
She laughed. She couldn’t help it. Lord High and Mighty had just pecked her like a fussy aunt.
“There you go,” she said, all but brimming with hilarity. He looked so bloody disgruntled, glaring down at her. At least the servants were getting a good show! Her laughter sounded giddy, drunk.
The murmur behind her rose to a mutter. Yes, she thought, that’s right: the new countess, she’s off her rocker.
The deacon cleared his throat. Dutiful, godly, he attempted to recall her to the audience. “Your ladyship, your lordship, allow me to convey my best wishes.”
Simon’s lips pressed together; he took an audible breath through his nose. “Our thanks,” he said. Perhaps a bit of a tremble on that last syllable.
“Yes,” she said, locking eyes with her new husband. Lifting her brow. “Our thanks.”
His cheek hollowed, as though he were biting the inside of it. “Lady Rushden, then.” Definitely a tremble. And then suddenly he was grinning at her. “My lady.”
She pressed her knuckles to her mouth. Nodded. “Apparently,” she said.
“So it seems,” he agreed, and then laughed, a short, somewhat wild sound. “It suits you,” he said. “Countess.”
Her breath caught. Countess. Had a choir of angels appeared to sing it, the word couldn’t have amazed her more.
He’d done it.
He’d married her.
This man, this beautiful, charming, maddening man, was her husband now.
His smile slowly faded. Her face must be speaking something strange. Peck her like an auntie, would he? The beautiful dolt.
She stepped toward him, heedless of the servants, of the reverend, of Mrs. Hemple, who doubtless waited to scold her for some mistake. She was a countess now; what was this lot going to do if she misbehaved? She took hold of her husband’s broad, warm shoulder—smiled into his blinking surprise—and went up on her tiptoes to plant her mouth squarely on his.
Mine, she thought. Her hand slid up into his hair. She didn’t want fussy pecks from him; a husband should be bolder. With her free hand, she caught his elbow and tugged him right up against her. Mine.
For the space of a heartbeat his surprise held him motionless. And then, with a smothered laugh, he took her by the waist and pulled her into him harder yet, returning in equal measure the kiss she gave him: a deep, hot tangling of tongue and teeth, her breasts crushed into his chest, his knees in her skirts, the heat leaping wildly between them.
When she pulled away, she was breathless and he was grinning. “Right,” he said.
“Right,” she said fiercely.
His hand closed around her arm. He tugged her around so sharply that she almost lost her balance. “May I present the Countess of Rushden?” he asked the room, which was gaping at her as though she’d stripped to her knickers and done a little dance.
But the room, knowing Lord Rushden had no use for its permission to do anything, understood his question for the order it was. Collecting their jaws from the floor, they bowed and bobbed, while Nell clutched Simon’s large, lovely hand and smiled back at them all. “God bless you,” she said to the company.
God bless the whole bloody world!
Like any girl, Nell had dreamed of a marriage for herself: some shy lad waiting in the rough wood hall of the parish church, a body of guests turning to smile at her in their patched Sunday finest. A dance at the pub afterward. Rollicking fiddle music and tankards of ale. No more than half an hour into this merriment, her groom would urge her to steal away, the two of them slipping out the back door to avoid the hooting of the lads. They’d fall into each other’s arms in the first dark, private room they could find.
But the nobs did it differently. First came a stiff celebration in the morning room, in which the servants toasted their master and new mistress and cheered the news of a half holiday. Then came a formal meal in the dining room, during which Simon seemed distracted and overly polite, as if she were some stranger whom he’d just met at the altar. After dinner, he retired to his study, a thing he’d never done before, leaving Nell to mount the stairs alone.
She wasn’t nervous, not even when she found Sylvie waiting in her bedroom with a costume of scandalous dimensions—a robe and nightgown of white silk, the neckline cut so low that a girl couldn’t stand too quickly for fear of shaking herself out of it. “Stop blushing,” she told Sylvie as she slipped it on. Aye, this was a costume for tupping, but what of it? Every mother in the world had managed the act.
The maid finally excused herself, leaving Nell alone in the deep, thick silence peculiar to this house. She spent a minute at the mirror looking at herself. Her face had grown a bit rounder in the last weeks; her arms had fleshed out and the yellow tobacco stains had faded from her fingers. Soon her body would show no signs of her former life. She was decked out like a harlot bride, dressed all in white but barely clad.
Growing restless, she walked into the sitting room, took up a book, and curled into an armchair. But the sentences on the page—a bit of fanciful history about the ancient Persians—made no sense, though the English was plain.
She laid down the book and breathed for a while. Her eyes knew where they wanted to go, but she made them watch the fire, burning so merrily in the blue-tiled hearth, in this soft, luxurious room, ami
d walls molded in gilt, beneath a ceiling painted to resemble a summer sky. She wasn’t worried at all.
The door across the room—the door (Polly had told her in passing) which opened into his lordship’s apartments—remained shut.
She forced herself back to the book. It wasn’t until the muffled chimes of the clock in the hallway struck eleven that a knock finally came at that door.
She’d been waiting but it still struck her as a shock. Her fingers tightened over the book and wouldn’t loosen. No point in being nervous, but her vocal chords didn’t realize that.
The knock came again.
She pinched herself, a sharp little pain. Stupid to be nervous! “It’s open,” she croaked.
The door swung inward. “Took you long enough,” said St. Maur.
How romantic. She measured him up. No special outfit for the man, it seemed. He looked half disassembled, his fine neck cloth gone, his charcoal vest hanging open. The open collar of his snow-white shirt exposed the length of his throat and a small glimpse of sparse black chest hair. No jacket.
She glanced beyond him into the darker furnishings of his sitting room, an Oriental carpet of bronze and green, a low chaise longue covered in chestnut velvet. Masculine colors. He had a fire going in there, too.
She looked down to the book. Back up to him. Her body seemed to have forgotten the natural rhythm of breathing. She put aside the book as her mood clarified: she was annoyed. “I was waiting,” she said. “You’re the one who’s late.”
He smiled a little. Put his hands into his pockets and dropped his shoulder against the doorjamb. He looked so utterly at home in this rich house, so casually in possession of its wealth.
A dark feeling swelled through her. He stood only feet away, but there was a subtler distance between them that would never be spanned. No matter how he tried, he would never know the whole of her. Never guess that more than once, she’d knocked a rat away from a loaf of bread before eating it. That she’d gone on her knees in the mud to grab up coins tossed by men and women like him, while they’d laughed from the windows of their fine coaches.