The Wedding Affair Read online

  Simon was still looking at Lady Reyne. She didn’t seem to be in mourning. That dress was nothing short of a crime—faded, baggy, and roughly the shape of a sack—but it wasn’t black. In fact, he thought, it might once have been a fetching shade of blue. So Lord Reyne wasn’t recently dead—or perhaps he was not dead at all. How aggravating that he couldn’t remember the casual mention.

  The duchess had barely paused. “That doesn’t signify in the least, Lucinda. Being a chaperone is hardly like enjoying parties, after all. I shall expect you to take up your duties tomorrow, Miss Blakely, at the earliest time that is convenient for you. I’ll send a carriage for you and your baggage. Of course you’ll remain at Halstead for the duration.”

  Simon blinked in surprise. Was his mother going to house her new companion in the attics? Or had Greeley been mistaken when he said she’d filled every single bedroom?

  Lady Stone spoke up. “Perhaps, Miss Blakely, your friend will be able to assist you in your duties. I am persuaded that the young ladies would benefit from having Lady Reyne’s undivided attention as well.”

  Simon felt his jaw drop. He had always known that Lucinda Stone had a lopsided view of the world, but to ask a woman who couldn’t keep both eyes on her child to help chaperone a dozen lively young ladies and prevent them from getting into trouble…

  The duchess’s teeth seemed to snap shut, but she said politely enough, “Of course, Lady Reyne. I am persuaded you would be an excellent influence.”

  Simon tried to stifle a snort.

  Lady Reyne heard him despite his efforts, for the look she shot at him was so pointed that it should have punctured his throat.

  The little girl’s bonnet had been knocked off by her fall and was still lying in the road at his feet. He stooped to retrieve it, dusted it off against his buckskins, and held it out. The child hesitated and looked past him at the horse with wariness in her gaze.

  Simon made a funny face at her and was rewarded with a giggle as she edged just close enough to reach for the hat. She was truly unhurt then, he thought with relief.

  “The invitation is very flattering, Your Grace,” Lady Reyne said. “But I am afraid I must decline because of my duties at home.”

  “Your daughter, you mean?” Lady Stone asked blandly. “Do bring her along, Lady Reyne. Perhaps the young ladies would enjoy having a live doll to play with… or even if they don’t, Somervale apparently will.”

  ***

  Kate could barely restrain herself. The moment the carriage had gone out of sight, with the duke riding beside it, she hugged herself and spun around in the middle of the road, sending up a little whirl of dust around her feet. “Everything is all right after all! The duchess wasn’t ignoring me. She just hadn’t received my letter.”

  Olivia took Charlotte firmly by the hand. “Or else she simply didn’t bother to answer until she realized what a predicament she’s put herself in. Twelve young women, Kate!”

  “I’m sure Lady Daphne’s bridesmaids are all perfectly well-bred. High-spirited, of course, as young women often are. But it’s not as if the duchess has adopted a group of foundlings.”

  Olivia shook her head. “The foundlings might be easier to control. I’m glad that you’re to have Her Grace’s help with the search for an employer, but Kate, it seems an overwhelming job.”

  “Then come and help me. With two of us—”

  “Oh, no. Her Grace only issued the invitation to me because she didn’t wish to appear rude by contradicting her friend. I’d seem a rare sort of climber if I didn’t take the hint and refuse.” Olivia let the garden gate drop shut behind them. “Kate, you do realize the duchess made no promises whatsoever?”

  “I’m sure she’ll treat me well. You said yourself she doesn’t wish to be rude.”

  “No, I said she doesn’t wish to appear rude.”

  “Anyway, I’ll be at Halstead all week. I can look around for myself, get to know all the guests, and consider who I’d like to work for. Think of it, Olivia—I might even have a choice of positions. That’s even better than if the duchess had recommended me to one of her friends.”

  Olivia smiled. “Indeed it is, my dear. And I know you’ll make the most of the opportunity.”

  The garden gate creaked behind them and Kate looked up.

  A man stood just inside the wall, dressed entirely in black from head to foot. He was an inch or two taller than Kate, stocky and square, with thick shoulders and a jaw that was already running to jowl despite the fact that he was probably no more than thirty-five. “Have I the honor of addressing Miss Kate Blakely?” His voice was deep and sonorous.

  Kate stepped forward.

  He bowed. “The Reverend George Blakely, at your service. I am your distant cousin, of course, as well as the new vicar of the parish, here to take up your father’s yoke.”

  And about time, too, Kate thought.

  As if he had read her mind, he bowed. “I was regrettably detained by the demands of my previous parish. But I look forward to quickly making my place here. I hope you will be of assistance in that endeavor, Miss Blakely.”

  Kate’s answer was automatic, born of years of expectations of the vicar’s daughter. “Of course I would be happy to do whatever lies within my power, but…”

  The crease between Mr. Blakely’s brows eased, and he smiled widely. “I am honored. Since you have seen fit to agree, then all is decided.”

  “What’s decided?”

  “What your father wished for us, I believe, Miss Blakely. I look forward to the privilege of making you my wife.”

  ***

  Penelope was out of bed at dawn, and well before nine o’clock she descended the stairs. She was wearing the best of her walking dresses, and her hat was pinned firmly in place, anticipating the breeze that would be created by a swift ride in a high, open carriage. A light cloak was draped over her arm, and she carried her reticule and her jewel case.

  She had left Etta still frantically repacking the smallest of the portmanteaus—trying to fit in everything she insisted Penelope would need until the baggage wagon arrived—all the while muttering about mistresses who took odd notions. When Penelope left the room, Etta had been saying something about behavior unfitting a countess.

  But Penelope had made up her mind. Whether or not she had a spare chemise or even a hairbrush to her name, she was going to be in the earl’s curricle when it pulled away from Berkeley Square at nine o’clock.

  If, indeed, the earl was ready to leave at the appointed hour. Penelope doubted that would be the case, for she had heard him moving around the house in the small hours of the morning. If he’d been drinking at his club—and she assumed he must have been, for he generally didn’t make so much noise when he came in that she could hear him in the hall outside her bedroom—he would not even be awake yet at nine.

  At any rate, she suspected he had named the hour only to shock her out of the idea of accompanying him and not because he truly planned to leave then. Still, if she was sitting by the front door when his horses were brought around, he could hardly go off without her.

  The senior footman was closing the front door as she came down, and a wave of suspicion washed over Penelope. Had all the stumbling around last night been a ruse? Perhaps the earl had left even earlier than he had told her he would.

  The servant sent a sideways look at her. “His lordship’s in the breakfast room, my lady.”

  “Thank you, Martin.” Penelope started toward the back of the house, pretending to ignore his wide-eyed surprise that she hadn’t turned in the opposite direction. Perhaps, she thought, after this week at Halstead the servants would have to readjust their thinking completely.

  The earl was at the breakfast table. Instead of eating, however, he was nursing an ale—and he didn’t appear to be enjoying it.

  So her first guess had been correct. “It appears you have a head this morning, my lord.”

  “Clever of you to notice,” he growled.

  Penelope set her retic
ule and jewel case down on the table and went to the sideboard. She poured half a cup of coffee from the pot and regarded the dark fluid thoughtfully. “This is strong enough, I think. Goodman,” she told the butler. “Please ask Cook to send in the juice of a lemon, along with a small pot of honey.”

  She set the cup aside and selected eggs, ham, and toast from the sideboard. “If you would pass me the teapot, my lord,” she said as she sat down.

  “I thought you were getting coffee. I could smell it from across the room—nasty stuff.”

  “The coffee is for you, as soon as the lemon juice arrives.”

  He eyed her blearily. “You’re quite the managing wife this morning. What has caused you to make such a shift?”

  Penelope buttered her toast and opted for partial truth. “I have been fixed in Berkeley Square for three months now, and I don’t intend to miss the opportunity for an outing.”

  “Even if it means spending half the day in my curricle?”

  She heard the challenge that lay under his perfectly polite words, but she chose to ignore it. “I am looking forward to some country air. At any rate, you’re said to be an excellent whip, my lord—at least when you’re not in your cups, so by sobering you, I’m assuring I’ll be safe.” She dug her fork into her scrambled eggs.

  The earl snorted. “You’d be perfectly safe with me whether I’m in my cups or not.”

  The butler returned with a cruet. Penelope stirred lemon juice into a full cup of coffee and set it in front of her husband.

  He looked at it as if it were a worm crawling on his neckcloth. “What is this?”

  “I know you have no fondness for my father, my lord, but you must own he knows ale and its aftereffects.”

  “I was drinking brandy last night.”

  “The result cannot be far different, no matter which variety of spirits you were imbibing. Drink it, and you’ll feel better.” Penelope applied herself to her breakfast and pretended not to notice whether he complied.

  He sipped and made a face. “You forgot to add the honey.”

  “That’s for later—after you’ve downed the coffee.” She polished off her toast and eggs, considered having a second serving of ham, and decided against it. The fresh air would no doubt give her an appetite, but a fast drive on a full stomach couldn’t be the best of ideas. After curing her husband’s morning-after woes, it would be too ironic if she were to become carriage-sick.

  The earl was looking doubtfully into the coffee cup. “You’re quite sure this is a treatment, not a punishment?”

  “I do not know from my own experience, you understand.”

  “I should think not.” He took one more swallow and pushed the cup away. “I’d prefer to have the head.”

  Penelope was determined to let nothing interfere with her equilibrium this morning. “As you wish, my lord.”

  The butler came in. “The curricle is at the door, my lord. And Mr. Carlisle has arrived.”

  Penelope gathered up her reticule and jewel case. “Mr. Carlisle?”

  The earl paused to hold the door for her. “Andrew Carlisle. He is also a friend of the duke’s, and we have both been summoned to Halstead. We made plans to go down together.”

  Penelope said faintly, “You mean… in your curricle?”

  There was a glimmer in the earl’s eyes. “He has none of his own, you see.”

  She could picture the scene. The high, narrow seat of a curricle—intended for just two passengers—with a gentleman on each side and Penelope squashed in the middle for hours…

  “Are you certain,” the earl asked politely, “that you still feel strongly about leaving Berkeley Square for an outing today?”

  ***

  The occupants of the cottage were up early, for though the duchess had said Kate was to come whenever it was convenient, Olivia knew that whenever the Somervale carriage arrived, Kate would need to step in immediately.

  At the moment, Kate looked anything but ready. She was pale and silent. Olivia wondered whether it was the task she had taken on which was upsetting Kate, or the ridiculous offer from the new vicar.

  “Did you sleep at all last night?” Olivia asked finally.

  Kate shook her head. “I lay awake and thought about how to answer. I never expected…”

  “If the next words out of your mouth are ‘It’s quite a good offer, you know,’ I shall throw the water jug at you, Kate. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you’re thinking that you should accept. You’ve been offered a home, a place in the world, a familiar routine. You could go straight on with your life—running the vicarage, visiting the sick and needy, and arranging flowers for the altar each week.”

  Kate nodded eagerly. “Just as I did while my father was alive.”

  “Almost as you did when your father was alive. But the one change is a very large one.”

  “Being a wife, you mean.” Kate crumbled her toast. “You’ve never talked about what it was like to be married, Olivia.”

  Olivia suppressed the shiver that ran through her. “And I don’t wish to speak of it now. Just take it from me, Kate. This offer feels easy, I grant, but just because something seems obvious doesn’t make it the right choice.”

  “Well, I must own that I’d prefer Mr. Blakely had waited until he knew me for more than four minutes before concluding we should suit, but—”

  “Four minutes? Do you think it was so long?” Olivia asked earnestly, and was rewarded with Kate’s first smile of the day. “At least don’t answer him right now. Wait to see who’s at Halstead and consider your other options first.”

  “I would have my own home, you know.”

  “Marriage is forever, Kate. When you take a job, you can leave if your employer isn’t compatible or pleasant or kind. But when you marry…” You’d be better off as a mistress, she wanted to say. At least then you’d have some bargaining power.

  She didn’t realize until she saw the sudden glow of warm sympathy in Kate’s gaze how much she’d admitted about her own marriage. But just then, through the cottage’s open window, she heard the jingle of harness and the thud of hooves as a carriage drew up in front. “Promise me you won’t rush into this. At least make him court you. Find out what sort of man he is.”

  Kate swallowed the last of her tea and jumped up. “I won’t answer Mr. Blakely until the wedding is past. Will that do?”

  Olivia was so relieved she felt silly. “I only hope you can keep him dangling so long,” she said, “for I’m quite sure he thinks you’ve already agreed!”

  ***

  The earl’s curricle, like everything else he owned, was stylish without being showy. Unlike the rig that Penelope’s father drove—a conveyance almost as garish as the jewelry Ivan Weiss chose for his daughter—the Earl of Townsend’s curricle was very plain and shiny black. His horses had been curried to such a polish that their coats matched the paint as well as each other. Though Penelope was no judge of horseflesh, she had no doubt of their quality. She wondered how the stable boys told the animals apart. The shape of a hoof, perhaps, or the precise color of the eyes? She could see no other difference.

  She looked at the horses longer than she otherwise might have done, trying to distract herself from the ride to come. But when she heard the earl greet his friend, she could no longer pretend Andrew Carlisle wasn’t there. She smothered a small sigh and turned to the young man who waited on the top step.

  He was not the tulip of fashion that she had expected any friend of the Duke of Somervale to be. Instead, he was neatly but soberly dressed in well-worn riding garb, and at the railing by the base of the stairs a roan horse waited—saddled, bridled, and fresh from the stable. He was not as elegant or highbred as the earl’s carriage team; this was an animal intended to cover long distances efficiently.

  Andrew Carlisle had come prepared to ride. Despite what the earl had said, Penelope was not going to be the pressed-ham filling in one of those ridiculous sandwiches the gentlemen called for when they were too absorbed in gamb
ling to rise from the table.

  She chewed her lip and looked warily at the young man. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Carlisle. I didn’t realize how disobliging I would be to take your place in the curricle. Surely you can’t intend to ride all the way.”

  “Take my place?” the young man said blankly. Then he started to grin. “You mean Charles let you believe I would allow him to drive me to Halstead? The truth is, Lady Townsend, I detest riding in a carriage of any sort. It’s a milk-toast sort of man who needs a curricle and a team and an entire system of roads to get himself across country.”

  “Milk toast? Keep talking that way, Andrew, and I’ll have to plant you a facer.”

  “Have no fear your husband will come to fisticuffs on your front step, my lady,” Andrew Carlisle said, “for he knows quite well he couldn’t carry out his threat. Give me a horse any day. I’ll cross the fields, jump the gates, and be there long before the curricle arrives.”

  For the first time in the three months of her marriage, she heard the earl laugh as if he was genuinely entertained. “Don’t believe him, ma’am. Andrew’s real reason for riding everywhere is that if the company is dull, he can saddle up his horse and escape before anyone is the wiser.”

  Penelope was so startled at the idea that the earl might have teased her—misled her on purpose simply because it amused him—that she whirled to face her husband, tripped over her ruffled hem, and nearly slipped off the step.

  Each man shot out a hand to steady her, but the earl moved more quickly, catching her arm as she flailed madly in an attempt to keep her balance. She felt as clumsy as a cow, having to be pulled back onto the stair.

  Andrew Carlisle looked thoughtful. “Now, Charles, don’t manhandle the lady. Even though she did look for a moment as though she would take a swing at you, I’m quite certain you deserve it.” His smile was endearingly crooked and his green eyes were alight as he swept a bow. “May I help you into your chariot, my lady, and show you how a gentleman comports himself? It’s dead sure Charles will never be able to demonstrate the finer points of—”

  The earl’s right hand was still firm on Penelope’s elbow; his left feinted toward Andrew Carlisle’s jaw, and the young man stepped nimbly back out of reach with a grin.