“YOU SHOULDN’T BE CRYING, MISS WINTHROP. YOUR eyes will be all puffy for the ceremony.”
Fran sat in front of her boudoir mirror while Mary twisted her hair in elegant ropes and braids, all to be hidden beneath a veil of fine French lace anchored with orange blossoms. “I don’t care. Let my eyes be red and puffy. I should be marrying Randolph.” Her admission brought a fresh downpour of tears.
“Why do you say such a thing? Didn’t Mr. Stockwell marry some German girl?”
Fran nodded, dabbing her eyes with a white handkerchief elaborately embroidered with her wedding date. Mary pried a hairpin apart with her teeth before securing another section of hair.
“Then you shouldn’t be crying over some married man. Besides, that husband of yours looks handsome enough. He’s not going to want to see that you’ve been crying over someone else’s husband.”
“Maman has had me so involved in dress fittings and the like, I have barely seen Bedford. Papa took him to New York to show him around . . . I’m not sure he even recalls what I look like. Besides this veil will cover my face. Even Maman . . .” Fran stopped her fidgeting and glanced up at Mary in the mirror. A sly smile blossomed.
Mary shook her head. “You can stop that thought right there, Miss Winthrop. Changing places at a wedding is serious business. Besides, your mother almost dismissed me after I wore your costume at the fancy dress ball.”
“But she didn’t,” Fran said. “I convinced her that I forced you to do it.”
“Which you did,” Mary reminded her. “But I’m not pretending to be you at your wedding.” She secured the last orange blossom in her hair and glanced at the mirror. “Besides, I could never fit into that elaborate gown.”
Fran wasn’t sure she fitted in it herself. The lacing was so tight, she could barely take a full breath, which made her sigh sound like a huff. “There has to be something I can do to escape.”
The mantel clock whirled out a tune announcing the time. Each tone resonated, then faded in the big room, leaving emptiness in its wake. The lonely, forlorn sound may as well have been tolling in her heart, Fran thought. Empty, lonely, and . . .
“Where is everyone?” she asked, realizing that no other household noises competed with the clock’s chime.
“At the church, I imagine. Your mother left a while ago to make sure everything is as it should be. She intends to make this the wedding all Newport will be talking about for years. Don’t you worry, though. Ferris is waiting to drive you to the wedding. You’re to arrive in style.” Mary beamed into the mirror. “The cabriolet is covered with roses. You’ve never smelled the like.”
“Ferris is driving?”
“Um-hmm,” Mary said, surveying her efforts in the mirror. “Your mother bought new livery for all your attendants. Ferris looks especially handsome, and those two matched grays to pull the carriage—”
“Is he waiting outside now?” Francesca asked with a glance to the window. “I imagine we’ll need to be leaving shortly.”
Mary walked over to glance out the window. “Lord Almighty! Look at all those people waiting at the gate. Why, there must be crowds from here all the way to Trinity.”
Francesca’s eyes widened and her pulse increased its tempo. Why must there always be crowds? She was so tired of being placed on public display. Had she married Randolph, it would have been different. No one would care about a barrister’s wife. But married to a duke . . . Her stomach roiled. She glanced to Mary. “What about Ferris?”
“Yes, he’s there. Mighty handsome, I must say.”
“He must be thirsty waiting in that hot sun,” Francesca suggested. “Why don’t you have him come into the kitchen for some cool lemonade before we leave?”
Mary parked a hand on her hip. “Are you up to something, Miss Winthrop? Because I don’t want to be a part of any tomfoolery. Not today, at least.”
“No, no,” Fran said, hoping the lie didn’t show on her face. “I’m just concerned for his welfare. Go ahead and invite him into the kitchen. I’ll be down in just a moment.”
Mary left as she was bidden. Fran waited near the window until she saw Mary and Ferris leave the carriage unattended. Mary hadn’t exaggerated about the crowds. Could she negotiate the carriage by herself without accidentally trampling someone? She’d never driven a large carriage before. Would the crowd let her break through the line to escape to the harbor?
“I hope you are not considering another foolish scheme, Miss Winthrop.”
The low masculine voice with a distinct accent sent a shiver down her spine. She spun away from the window. His large frame blocked the door. It seemed he was always blocking her plans for escape. Only this time there was no back exit. She sidled to the far wall, putting as much distance between them as possible.
“You!” she challenged. “You’re supposed to be at the church. You’re not supposed to see the bride before the wedding. Perhaps you should go.”
“And leave you to slip away and avoid the proceedings?” He must have noticed the color draining from her face as a knowing smile tilted his lips. “What were you planning this time?” He pointed that well-defined chin toward the window. “Make off with the driver for some remote love nest? Is that the reason for this rushed wedding? Have you been scandalous with the servants?”
How dare he! How dare he insult her, suggest she was some light skirt, granting her favors like a common trollop. Before she knew what she was about, she had crossed the room with her hand raised to slap the indecent suggestion right off his face. But he caught her hand in mid-flight, then blocked her ineffective efforts to kick at him. He swung her around, pinning her back to his chest, his hands holding her forearms immobile.
The exertion required by her brief rail conflicted with the restraint of the tightly laced wedding corset needed to mold her midriff to the gown. The stays felt as if to cut into her sensitive flesh, the constriction forcing her bosom to rise and fall in rapid succession. Her hand slipped to her stomach as she fought for breath.
His warm breath glided over her shoulder to the bluff that swelled above the top of her corset, defining the path of his gaze. His hands slid down the length of her arms to cover her own where she clenched them at her stomach. He encircled her within his arms much like a safe harbor sheltering a ship.
She was tempted to linger there. Her breath seemed to come easier encased in his arms. She felt protected, similar to the familiar comfort of being surrounded by her beekeeping gear. Still, she struggled to hold on to her anger. She needed to maintain her guard. Opportunities to escape matrimony were becoming increasingly rare.
“You shouldn’t exert yourself,” he said, his words warming her ear in a most delicious fashion. His hand pressed against the layers of fabric that covered her belly. “Trust me. It can’t be safe for you or for—”
“Trust you?” She immediately stiffened her spine. He had almost lulled her into forgetting she was trading one set of iron shackles for another. “You think your judgment will keep me safe? Might I remind you that a forced marriage to a stranger is fraught with risk.”
She batted at his fingers to release her. His hand slid to her elbows, before he marched her to a gilded chair near the door. Then he gently pushed on her shoulders till she perched on the edge of the cushioned seat, her bustle and voluminous layers of white satin and lace occupying the remaining space.
“I suppose that is true,” he said, with a stern glare. “But an innocent should not suffer for it. Sit here and catch your breath.”
If the act of drawing breath had not been so very difficult, she would have asked to which innocent he referred. However, one glance at the authoritative figure in a cutaway black jacket answered her query. Surely her own innocence would suffer as a result of his actions. Tonight, she would lose her claim to innocence entirely. A tantalizing flutter danced within her rib cage, the aftereffect of her exertion, she quickly decided. “Why aren’t you with the others?”
“I thought I might accompany you to the church, just in case . . .”
“In case of what?” she asked, though she suspected she knew the answer.
“In case you tried what you were just about to attempt.” His brow raised in conjunction with the tilt of his lips. He crouched in front of her and took her hands in his. Through the white lace of her gloves, a warmth traversed up her arms, reminding her of the comfort she had found earlier in those arms. The flutter within her chest expanded, but this time she knew better than to blame her corset. It was him, the man with the slight pout to his lip and the calm assessment in his deep blue eyes. The wrong man to make her heart race and her knees weak. Lord help her, but it was the wrong man! She pulled her hands from his.
A flash of disapproval rippled across his expression, yet he still extended his hand to her. “Shall we go? I suppose your
maman
is frantic at the absence of the bride and the groom.”
Fate and her mother had left her no place to hide, no place to run. She closed her eyes and retreated deep inside herself, abandoning all plans of escape. Aware of the people outside the gate, she imagined she was walking on the ocean shore, allowing the waves to wash softly over her feet. With each pass, her panic lessened . . .
As if from a distance, she felt a tug on her arm, leading her out of the room. She heard cheering, or was that the roar of the waves breaking on the reef? The cloying scent of roses wove its way into her consciousness. She must be near the cliff walk, near the gardens. It would be over soon . . . this quiet stroll along the shore . . . all be over . . .
WILLIAM WAVED AND SMILED AT THE CROWDS LINING the street. This aspect of American life was not so very different from what Francesca could expect in England. He glanced to her side of the cabriolet and noted her fixed forward gaze. It would have pleased him to see her at least offer a smile to the many well-wishers. One might think he was leading her to the gallows.
If there was one thing he had learned through his life experiences, it was that duty and responsibility often called for one to do the necessary, rather than the preferred. Wouldn’t he have preferred to run off to Yorkshire and dabble with paint as his brother had done? Or use his knowledge of Thoroughbreds to maintain the finest stables in England instead of painfully selling the stock in an attempt to shore the depleted estate coffers?
Duty, responsibility, and sacrifice. His shoulders ached from the weight of those words. He rubbed the familiar spot on his shoulder and stole a glance at his bride-to-be. Perhaps she was just learning the harsh rules she’d be expected to abide by as his wife. He squeezed her hand, just to remind her that he would see her through this. But she didn’t respond.
She sat straight and proud, removed and distant—resigned, like a modiste’s life-sized fashion doll. She was indeed that—fashionable. Lily would at least have to hold her tongue on that note. His mistress hadn’t been pleased when he ended their relationship to come to America for a bride. Duty, responsibility, sacrifice . . .
The wedding proceeded exactly as his mother-in-law had planned. It was a shame she hadn’t planned that her daughter at least smile during the ceremony. He glanced at her askance. Most women in England would give their eyeteeth to take her place by his side, yet she appeared as if she were facing the magistrate. Didn’t the woman realize that he was saving her from the special kind of social chastisement reserved for unwed mothers? You’d think she’d be grateful for that charity alone. She certainly hadn’t quibbled over his earlier reference to her innocent babe and her hand seemed drawn repeatedly to protect that area of her person. Such actions seemed to confirm his suspicions of her pregnancy.
He stood a bit taller, quite convinced that he was doing the right thing, the responsible thing, by sliding a wedding band onto her finger. One might expect her to take delight in the value of the family heirloom. Yet, if anything, the lace-clad woman to his right diminished slightly with her barely audible vow to love, honor, and obey.
The deed was done. The cleric blessed the union. William looked askance at his new wife. It was fortunate indeed that demonstrations of affection were never exchanged in a society wedding. A stone column held more warmth than his bride. They turned as one to face the guests, then walked down the aisle together, as solemn as if marching behind a casket. At least, with the cold chill emanating from his wife, he should have no difficulty delaying consummation of their vows. No difficulty at all.
THE BRIDAL LUNCHEON PASSED IN A BLUR, OBSERVED from a distance. Fran contained her panic in a tight uncomfortable ball that roiled in her stomach. She managed a practiced smile to deal with the endless line of well-wishers. Her mother had indeed outdone herself with the extensive guest list, few of whom Fran was acquainted with. Even her brides-maids were unknown to her at a personal level. All were daughters of her mother’s friends. Of course, her mother had kept her so isolated, she hadn’t had the opportunity to collect friends. Hers had been a quiet, lonely existence.
Periodically, she would feel a tingling at the base of her spine. She glanced over her shoulder to discover that
he
was watching her, taking her measure. Then his brow would lift, almost imperceptibly, an acknowledgment perhaps. He’d done the same that day when she hid in the tobacco shop window. His conversation would continue without apparent effort.
She envied his ease. All these people had to be strangers to him, yet he slid into their conversations like champagne into a glass. There was no awkwardness about him, none of the forced courtesies that she was required to exercise. He seemed to genuinely enjoy the company of strangers. They relaxed in his presence, while she managed to frighten them away. The Duke and her mother shared that talent to put others at their ease. Even as the thought entered her mind, her mother took a position by the Duke’s side, laughing and chatting as if she had been involved in the conversation from its inception.