My Scandalous Viscount Page 9

  Though a small bud of hopeful excitement was slowly unfurling in her heart at the prospect of having a settled place forever where she really belonged, her optimism mingled with ever-growing apprehension about her wedding night.

  Now that sharing a bed with him was a certainty, only a matter of time, she found herself gnawed by countless fears over all the diverse ways he might react to the revelation that he had married a nonvirgin.

  What if he turned out not to be as understanding as she hoped?

  Indeed, what if he was furious? He was a warrior. What if he became violent? He could kill her as easily as a gnat. Very well, he probably wouldn’t kill her, she admitted. But what if he threw her out? Annulled the match? Divorced her? Shamed her in front of all the world?

  Frightening specters of this sort kept her awake those three nights before the wedding day, tossing and turning in her bed.

  She dared not tell him ahead of time. Then he might back out of the match, and the rumors had already begun to percolate in Society, all because Cousin Araminta had leaked the news to her best friend. The rumor clock was ticking. It was like some infectious fever that took a certain number of hours to gather strength before the full sickness exploded in the host.

  Maybe she should strive to fake her way through her wedding night, she pondered, staring at the ceiling. Just somehow try to brazen it through.

  Not all girls bled their first time, after all. Aunt Jo had told her so when they had first had that excruciatingly awkward Talk.

  But could she ever fake innocence well enough to trick a spy, a man who’d had more women than a sultan with his harem?

  And did she really want to start their marriage by deceiving him? He was only marrying her in the first place because he didn’t trust her to stay silent about the Order.

  On the other hand, if she chose honesty and told him all, then he might decide he had married a woman he’d never be able to trust and simply shut her out.

  But he can trust me, her heart insisted as she lay awake that night. Her fall had been naught but girlish gullibility. Was it really so important to dredge up all that unpleasantness?

  And good Lord, as a spy, what might he do to Roger Benton if she recounted her sad tale of how she had been seduced? Not that she cared if Beau rearranged the poet’s face, but she did not intend to send her new husband off immediately into another duel.

  Oh, come, she reasoned with herself. Why did she really have to bring it up at all? It was in the past. Everyone had secrets, and she was quite sure Beauchamp was never going to tell her all of his.

  Her worries persisted into the next day as she finished packing the last trunk to be sent over to her new home. She pressed down its contents to make it all fit, then fastened the brass latches.

  Dusting off her hands, she called for the footman to take the last trunk down to the carriage.

  Just as he took it out, Aunt Denbury bustled in, back from her wedding-related errands. The cake from Gunther’s had been ordered. She had procured the services of a harp-and-flute duet to play for the ceremony. A few flower bouquets would also be ready for tomorrow—with only one problem. With barely twenty-four hours to go, they still did not know where the wedding would take place.

  Then, that evening, Uncle Denbury marched in wearing a rare, broad smile, the sort that said he had just saved the day. He called them together and announced to his family and the bride that he had pulled some strings, then he awed them with his news. Thanks to a sizable donation, they had just been granted permission to hold the wedding in no less a magnificent spot than the Lady Chapel inside Westminster Abbey. This was his wedding gift to them.

  Carissa hugged him for his kindness, but was still in shock over everything when the next day came.

  The grand event.

  After all that flurry of frantic activity, it had all come together in the last minute as if by magic.

  Now that the hour toward which it had all been building was at hand, time seemed suspended in the stained-glass serenity of the chapel.

  The harpist and flutist played; the flower bouquets perfumed the air; her gown fit splendidly, and as she stared solemnly through the white veil draped over her head, she saw that at least, in this moment, she had nothing to be ashamed of as a highborn bride worthy of a future earl.

  Society might raise an eyebrow at their marrying in haste, but everything was proper in the end.

  Presently, the wedding was already half-over. Perhaps now she could start to focus on the marriage itself. Whatever happened, she vowed to herself, she would do her best by him. Beauchamp wasn’t perfect, but neither was she. Just as her uncle has jested, they were a pair.

  An earnest welling of emotion overtook her heart as they stood hand in hand before the altar. She stole a nervous glance at the handsome viscount by her side.

  How heavenly he looked, tall and proud and noble in his dove gray coat, like a golden angel visiting earth in the guise of an English gentleman.

  His white cravat fairly gleamed with perfection; the longer edge of his pale silk waistcoat peeked out beneath his gray jacket’s neat cutaways—baby blue and silver pinstripes. His trousers were white, his shoes black. And his white-gloved hand supported hers as the vicar read to them from II Corinthians.

  “Love is patient. Love is kind . . .”

  She knew the passage well; her mind wandered.

  Despite the beauty of their setting, she could not deny that it was rather lonely for a wedding.

  The only guests were Uncle and Aunt Denbury, serving as witnesses, and their children. Lady Joss still looked bemused by it all. Araminta covered a yawn. Miss Trent wiped away silent tears yet again, while the future Lord Denbury, her uncle’s ten-year-old son, young Horace, fidgeted and scowled at having to don his stiff Sunday clothes in the middle of the week. Little monster, that one. Carissa wished that Daphne were here. And also Lord Falconridge, of whom she had grown especially fond.

  She wished at least they might have waited for Aunt Jo, who had been summoned from Paris. She should be here in a few more days, but Lord Denbury said it was just as well. He did not dare give his worldly sister the chance to come gusting gaily onto the scene as she was wont to do and say some outrageous thing that would scare the groom away, or worse, snatch him up for herself.

  There seemed to be no danger of that, however.

  Beau stood his ground beside her, listening intently to the reading. She wondered if he was already regretting this. When she stole another sideward glance at him, she found him smiling. Just a touch of softness around his lips.

  Anxiety and sheer agonizing infatuation made her every muscle clench. Dear God, please don’t let him notice anything amiss tonight! I can’t bear for him to hate me.

  At her wits’ end after three days of worry, she had thrown up her hands and more or less decided to try deception. She did not want to do it, but with spy trouble afoot, he had enough to worry about without also having to fear that he had inadvertently married a harlot.

  After all, if he thought that of her, would that not give him carte blanche to continue his libertine ways instead of behaving like a proper husband? She had already been jealous of his liaisons with other women before there had been any talk of marriage. If he resumed such pursuits after they were wed, she really did not know how she would endure it.

  So she had decided that tonight, she would play the innocent—which shouldn’t be hard, since she had only done it once, anyway.

  If he voiced any suspicions about her afterward, she would rebuke him for a scoundrel and a knave to dishonor her with doubt and accusations. Why, she could throw a fit of hysterics worthy of Araminta, if it came to that.

  Her original thought, that she might be able to trust him with her secret, faded into darkness the more the hour of truth drew near.

  “Love keeps no records of wrongs . . .”

  The wise old vicar glanced at Carissa as if he somehow knew his words were going into one ear and out the other.

&nbs
p; She looked askance at him, this dangerous, charming man who was about to become her mate for life, and wanted one simple thing with all her heart.

  For him to love her.

  Filled with tender protectiveness toward his bride, Beau stole a sideward glance at her, delighted all over again by her loveliness. She looked radiant today, and he could hardly wait to get his hands on her tonight.

  At last, he would have the right to enjoy her as he pleased, with the full consent of God and man.

  He regretted the fact that none of the people he would have expected to come to his wedding were on hand, but it was no use complaining. Virgil was dead. Rotherstone’s team was off in Europe, and Nick and Trevor were God-knew-where.

  While his bride had been feverishly making her wedding preparations, he had done the same and more, namely, marshaling every resource he had left to put all London assets on the watch for Nick.

  The baron had no family for Beau to get in touch with, but he had covered the legal and financial angles. He notified banks and solicitors in case Nick tried anything tricky with whatever money he had been paid for his nefarious deeds. Beau had also put out a query on Nick’s whereabouts with a particular Bow Street officer who sometimes helped them sniff out clues.

  Likewise, he had activated his web of informants in the gambling hells and taverns Nick had always favored. He had also alerted the gunsmiths they had used in the past that he wanted to be told immediately if Nick came in. Hell, he had even put the blackguard’s former tailor on notice.

  No doubt, Nick had holed up somewhere that he would be impossible to find, but with a hundred pairs of eyes on the lookout, he soon wouldn’t be able to drink a pint in London without Beau’s knowing about it, where and when.

  Yet, still pained by the betrayal of the friend he had always expected would be his best man, he put Nick out of his mind and focused on the ceremony.

  The vicar asked the great question.

  Smiling, Beau glanced at Carissa; maybe it was time he took a new best friend. He laid his hand over her fingers, which rested lightly on his forearm. Then he looked forward again and gave the priest a proud nod. “I do.”

  Chapter 8

  When they returned to the Denbury home, Carissa could not stop staring at the ring on her hand.

  The deed was done, their mad pact cemented.

  The slim golden band on her finger was startling proof that the two of them had actually gone through with it.

  She was Lady Beauchamp now.

  It was all a little overwhelming. How ironic it was in hindsight, that two people so expert at keeping secrets should have so swiftly concluded that this was one they couldn’t keep—their unsanctioned time together inside Dante House. Maybe deep down, both of them had really wanted this but had been too cowardly to admit it. All she knew was the day had the disconnected quality of a dream, a swirling mix of unexpected happiness—and the sudden recurrence every now and then of her own, private agony about tonight.

  Scarcely able to believe that the beautiful man beside her was her own, she teetered between amazement and terror, that it would all fall apart in the blink of an eye. Shame still lurked in the hidden corners of her heart ever since Roger Benton had robbed her of her innocence.

  If Beau figured it out—if he asked—should she maybe just tell him the truth? She could not stop watching him, trying to read him, looking for any sign of what she ought to do.

  Of course, he quickly charmed her relatives though not perhaps her uncle. Aunt Denbury and Miss Trent were in awe of him. Even the little monster warmed up to him; the brotherly air he adopted soon cut through Araminta’s shallow flirtations and even thawed the hauteur of the elder sister, Lady Joss, by talking to her about the racing colt that the famed equestrienne had chosen for her father’s stables.

  Though it was only just the family, they had an elaborate dinner—which Carissa barely touched—followed by the splendid wedding cake with champagne. The vanilla almond cake from Gunther’s was an artful confection of seven layers, with fluffy white icing and marvelous sculpted flowers.

  Then came the exchange of gifts, starting with her teary-eyed aunt’s contributions to her trousseau. Among these treasures were a silver tea service that had been passed down in her family, and a bolt of ravishing Brussels lace for tablecloths or whatever else she might need to make her new home more her own.

  Miss Trent gave her the latest book of essays on wifely virtue and another on managing a great household.

  Araminta gave her a green Paisley shawl; Joss gave her a fabric-covered blank journal for a diary and a writing set. Horace presented her with a gift obviously supplied by his father, a small painting of all of them together that had been done years ago at Christmastime.

  She hugged them all, taken aback by their rare display of warmth. Either they had cared for her all along more than they had ever shown, or were doting on her now from guilt, realizing that they could have made her feel a little more included all along. Now that she was leaving, perhaps they felt a belated touch of regret.

  Or, the cynical side of her observed, maybe this show of affection came from a more practical awareness of her new position in Society. But she pushed the uncharitable thoughts away. They did not belong here now. Whatever was causing her relatives to be so kind to her on this, her wedding day, she was not about to question it, merely grateful and quite touched.

  Then her husband of about three hours turned to her with a roguish smile. “Well, my lady, would you like to see your gifts from me?”

  “Of course.”

  He stood, took her by the hand, and pulled her up from her seat, holding her gaze. “Come with me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  Mischief danced in his blue eyes. “Oh, you’ll see.”

  “Where’s he taking her?” Cousin Horace echoed.

  “Join us,” he invited her kin in his usual easygoing way. “I’m sure we’ll all be very interested to see her reaction.”

  “Beauchamp, what have you done?” she murmured as he led her to the front door.

  He opened it without a word, gesturing to the world beyond as he held it open for her.

  Carissa looked at him in puzzlement, then lifted the hem of her skirts and stepped out. Sunset had set the western sky afire; the leaves of the tall plane trees in the garden square caught the light and glittered as if gold coins were growing on every bough.

  Following her out, Beau lifted his fingers to his lips and let out a piercing whistle in as common a fashion as some Billingsgate fisherman or burly mail-coach driver.

  Little cousin Horace, much impressed by this feat, instantly tried to copy him, but Aunt Denbury brushed the boy’s hand away from his mouth. “Don’t do that, Horace.”

  “Close your eyes,” Beau said to Carissa. “Go on!”

  She did, and blocking out all sights made her more aware of other senses, like touch: his gentle, steadying hand on the small of her back.

  And hearing . . .

  The clip-clop of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels approached. A curious smile tugged at her lips. “Who’s coming? Have you brought someone to see me?” Then all of a sudden she gasped. “Have you brought Daphne?”

  He harrumphed. “No.”

  The sound stopped.

  “Now open your eyes.”

  She obeyed.

  Halted at the curb, she beheld a gorgeous coach-and-four. The liveried coachman tipped his hat to her. “Milady.”

  Her jaw dropped. Wide-eyed, she spun to face her husband. “For me?”

  He grinned. “Now you can travel in style.”

  “Oh—Beauchamp!” Amazed, she covered her mouth with both hands and looked at it again.

  The rich cherrywood of its sleek chassis had been polished to a high gleam. The brass fixtures fairly sparkled—and the horses! The snow-white pair in black harness had been adorned with red plumes on their heads for the occasion.

  “Jamison will be your driver,” Beau informed her, gesturing to t
he coachman. “He’s been with my family a long time. I trust him implicitly.”

  Carissa nodded to her new driver. “Pleased to meet you, Jamison.”

  He bowed, beaming at her. “Felicitations, milady.”

  “It’s beautiful, Beau. Just beautiful,” she echoed in lingering disbelief, turning to her new husband.

  He tapped her on the nose and playfully leaned closer. “Just so you’re aware,” he added in a conspiratorial tone, “I’ve given Jamison strict orders to keep you out of mischief when I’m not present. Given your penchant for getting into trouble, I don’t intend to let you go gadding about Town willy-nilly when I’m not there to keep you out of trouble. If you ask to be driven to any destination that I might deem unwise, I’ve given Jamison discretion to refuse until you’ve checked with me first.”

  “Oh, really? So you’ve set your man to spy on me?” she murmured with a pointed look.

  He smiled serenely, his face close to hers. “Rather irksome when the tables are turned on one, isn’t it, my dear?” He took her hand. “Come. There’s more.”

  “More?” she exclaimed.

  He marched back into the house, tugging her after him.

  “Oh, yes. We’re just getting started. Hurry, love. We can’t stay here all night. If you take my meaning.”

  Her eyes widened at his murmured innuendo.

  When they arrived in the drawing room, three boxes tied up with ribbon bows had appeared on the low table in front of the fireplace, along with a large, mysterious, mound-shaped object concealed under a square of blue silk and, likewise, adorned with a ribbon.

  “All this is for me?” she exclaimed.

  “You are the bride, aren’t you? Start with this one.” He pointed to the silk-draped object. “Hurry,” he added, glancing at the mantel clock. It was a couple of minutes before six.

  “Don’t be so impatient, Lord Beauchamp. Honestly,” her uncle muttered.

  Carissa inspected the odd-shaped present, then turned to her bridegroom in skeptical curiosity. “What’s under there?”