Jo Beverley (34 page)

Then it was their turn, and as Lady Thalia introduced her, she sank into her deepest curtsy. When she rose, the king spoke first to Lady Thalia, then turned to Damaris to stare at her rubies.
Lud!
What did she do if he demanded them? He gestured her closer and took out a quizzing glass to inspect the central jewel. “Remarkable, remarkable, wouldn’t you say, Rothgar?”

Rothgar agreed that indeed, it was a remarkable stone.

The blue eyes turned to Damaris’s face. “And we’re told you have a remarkable voice, Miss Myddleton. You shall sing for us shortly.”

He nodded, and she could make her careful backward retreat to allow space for Ashart and Lady Thalia to present Genova.

Once out of the immediate royal presence, she could move about normally, but relaxation was impossible. She watched Genova, and everything went smoothly, though Ashart had to give her a little assistance in retreat. Where was Fitz? Still over near the door. Apart. Ignored other than by sliding looks.

Some people made their curtsies and left, but most stayed, and the room was becoming uncomfortably full. She might end up fainting from lack of air. Then she realized that she’d done her work too well. People were waiting to see what would happen with Fitz. Across the room she saw Lady Tresham head-to-head with a dapper man.

“Who’s that?” she asked Lady Thalia.

“Walpole. The greatest gossip ever.”

Rothgar was to present Fitz, but he was talking to someone. She thought it was the Prime Minister, Grenville. Had he changed his mind? Then Rothgar was at Fitz’s side, moving him toward the king.

Damaris’s mouth dried, and she vaguely thought how disastrous that would be for singing, but all her attention was fixed on Fitz and the king. He must show favor. He must.

Fitz’s deep bow was every bit as elegant as Rothgar’s. The entire room hushed.

“Ah, yes,” said the king. “Leyden’s brother, what?”

Damaris almost moaned. He’d heard.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Fitz showed not a trace of tension.

“We hear some rumor of his being indisposed.”

“Severely, sir. I fear he must be confined in an asylum for his own safety. And for that of others.”

The silence in the room was like a smothering blanket.

“Unfortunate, but he has long been disturbed, what?”

That “what?” was a peculiarity of the king’s conversation, but it threatened to make Damaris giggle.

“Yes, sir,” Fitz said.

“From childhood, we understand.”

Was the king deliberately creating doubts about the common story? Surely that was a good sign.

“Given to irrational fears and suppositions, what?” Before Fitz could answer that tricky question, the king went on, “My uncle speaks highly of you, Fitzroger. Saved his life, Cumberland says.”

A sibilant murmur ran around the room. Damaris was keyed so tight her head was pounding. This was the longest the king had spoken with anyone.

“I was honored to be of some small service, sir,” Fitz said, bowing again.

“Small?” repeated the king. “Wouldn’t call saving
our
life small, would you?”

Fitz was silenced for a moment. But then he said, “Emphatically not, sir. It must be any man’s greatest honor.”

“Preserving the peace and stability of our realm is any man’s greatest honor, sir!” The stern correction sounded like a reproof, but then the king said, “We hear you dealt with a person disturbing our peace, today, here in London. Good man. Good man. You have a long record of service. We’re minded to reward you.”

For a breath-stopping moment Damaris wondered if the king would indeed knight Fitz, but then he said, “We appoint you a gentleman of our privy chamber,” and held out his hand.

Damaris wasn’t sure what that meant, but it sounded like a position of great trust. As Fitz expressed his gratitude and bowed over the king’s hand, the room began to buzz.

Damaris was hard put not to beam like an idiot, or even laugh with pure delight. How had Rothgar persuaded the king to play such a part? However he’d done it, it had worked. Fitz’s past was smothered by his recent achievements, and he was high in royal favor. Let anyone dare turn their back now!

She flicked open her fan and hid her smile behind it as she watched reactions. Some looked thunderstruck. Others seemed delightfully intrigued. Across the room she saw Lady Tresham give a smug
I told you so
to Mr. Walpole, who looked as if he couldn’t wait to spread the story.

Fitz was stopped on his way to her by a number of people wishing to bow or curtsy, and the uniformed officer slapped his back, grinning.

Damaris bit her lip and fought tears of happiness, but she made herself look away and tried to look bored. All might yet be spoiled if the gossips realized how she felt about him. They’d know when they married. So that couldn’t be too soon, alas….

“Miss Myddleton?”

She started at the king’s voice, and hurried over to curtsy.

“You may sing now. Without accompaniment, I understand?”

Oh, Lord!
She ran her tongue around her mouth to moisten it. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

He waved to a space nearby and turned to the next people in line.

Damaris backed into position, praying that her voice would not be affected by the turmoil inside her. Perhaps she did start awkwardly, but then the familiar joy in music caught her, and she surrendered to it. The paean to spring seemed entirely appropriate to the joy in her heart and the promise of the future. She was careful not to look at Fitz, but he was in her mind and heart right to the last note.

The king led applause, looking truly pleased, and declared that they would hear more of her. But then they were free to leave. It was no easy matter, however, for now that the excitement was over, half the room wanted to exit.

Because she shouldn’t be at Fitz’s side, Damaris walked with Rothgar. “I may marry him now?”

“Not precisely now, but yes. I would be disappointed to learn that you would be deterred by my opinion, but I will approve, and thus you will have your fortune.”

She frowned up at him. “When did you decide he was a suitable husband?”

“I would not have sent you to Cheynings with him if I had not thought it possible. Love is hard to conceal.”

“I didn’t love him then.”

“Did you not? It often happens in a day, in a moment, and he is a man worthy of that gift.”

Their servants came forward with their outer clothing, and then they were outside, their chairs awaiting them.

Damaris inhaled fresh air and worked hard at not looking at Fitz. As he handed her into her chair, however, she softly sang, “‘What does any lady want, more than a handsome hero?’ Rothgar gives us his blessing.”

Softly, helplessly, he laughed. It was pure joy.

Once back at Malloren House, she emerged from her chair into the entrance hall caroling, “‘For, oh, a lady cannot abide without a hero by her side. By her side, a hero!’” She grabbed Fitz’s hands. “What does being a gentleman of the privy chamber mean?”

“About five hundred a year, for a start,” said Rothgar. “At the cost of occasional attendance at court. Enough at a pinch to support a wife.”

Fitz turned to Damaris, a deep yet still unsteady joy in his eyes. He raised her hands and kissed them. “Marry me, Damaris?”

A number of saucy, piratical things came to mind, but instead she simply said, “It will be my deepest honor, sir.”

February 14, 1764

D
amaris might have preferred a quiet wedding, but a grand one was deemed part of the steady restoration of Fitz in society. The king and queen would attend, along with everyone of importance.

She tried to persuade Genova to share the ceremony, but her friend had shaken her head. “Oh, no, this will be your glorious day. I’ve no mind to be cast into the shade.”

After six weeks of the winter season, Damaris and Genova were fast friends. One of the many joys ahead would be sharing their married lives, for Ash had agreed to sell Damaris and Fitz an unentailed house on the edge of the Cheynings estate. He was glad of hard cash and welcome neighbors, and Coldmoore House suited their needs perfectly—with a name change, they all agreed.

As with everything at Cheynings, the place was in need of repair, but it was a mellow, golden stone house with just enough land to suit them. Neither Damaris nor Fitz was interested in farming. Fitz intended to add a seat in Parliament to his royal duties, so they would purchase a town house as well—a neat, modern one that was easily kept warm—and divide their time between the two.

In the end they settled on a name from the story in Fitz’s ancestry about the king’s champion who had won an heiress as his bride. Coldmoore House became simply Carrisford.

Both houses would provide enough space for Fitz’s sisters to live with them, even when there were children. Once the dowager marchioness had set off for France, Ashart and Fitz had moved to Ashart’s London house, and Ashart had welcomed Fitz’s sisters there, too. Of course, Genova and Damaris spent a great deal of time there, so Damaris was coming to know Libby and Sally.

Sally was nervous of new things, but easily pleased. Damaris had insisted on providing money for three servants to care for Sally so that Libby could enjoy society. Libby was wary as yet, as if unable to trust the turn of fortune, but sometimes she laughed in a way that hinted at the delightful child she’d once been. With God’s grace, she would heal.

Both Sally and Libby were in Damaris’s bedchamber on her wedding morning, ready to be her attendants.

Sally was dancing around in her fine yellow gown. Libby was shy in the company of the Malloren women. Lady Thalia and Lady Arradale were present, along with Lord Bryght Malloren’s wife, Portia, and the Countess of Walgrave, who had been Lady Elfled Malloren.

Damaris’s new family had made her wonderfully welcome, especially by treating Fitz almost as a family member, too.

Fitz.

They had talked so much over the past weeks, and though Damaris had been impatient at times to be wed, she’d appreciated the time to learn about each other more deeply. They’d even visited Cleeve Court, where Fitz had taken her around, recalling his past.

It was a solid house, though neglected, and they’d set in hand the plan to make it into an asylum for the insane. The kindly Dr. Erasmus had agreed to supervise it.

Hugh Fitzroger would never be happy in confinement, but there was no choice, for he continued to rave and threaten violence to all he saw as offending him. Lady Leyden seemed to find some sort of comfort in caring for him despite his ingratitude. Damaris could only pray for God’s blessings on them both.

They hadn’t visited Worksop yet, but they would, to sell the house and retrieve the few things Damaris wanted to bring into her new life. And to exorcise ghosts, she thought, for that life did seem like another one, a former one.

Here and now, all was laughter and teasing as her ladies assisted her to put on her gown, made for this occasion of Autumn Sunset silk and embroidered with a linked-ring design in tiny golden beads.

For contrast with her famous rubies and emeralds, she wore pearls that she had purchased for herself. Today she would wear nothing that came directly from her parents except, in a way, her wedding ring. She had given Fitz her mother’s ring and asked him to have it remade, but with exactly the same words engraved inside:
YOURS UNTIL DEATH
. The words had also been engraved inside the cameo ring she’d given him. Together they would wipe away the past.

At the moment she wore only the betrothal ring he’d given her. It had caused considerable amusement. As she had enough precious stones, he’d commissioned a ring similar to the cameo she’d given him, but with a sailing ship carved upon it in exquisite detail—a ship flying the pirates’ symbol, the skull and crossbones. It was perfect.

Fitz.

She suppressed a smile as people fussed with her hair, pinning pale gold roses into the complex weave of plaits. She could hardly wait to see him again—to pledge to be his and he hers forever. To seize her prize.

To let down her hair…

“You’re smirking,” Genova whispered.

Damaris laughed aloud and broke free of fussing hands to twirl around with Sally. “I’m going to float away soon. Isn’t it time yet?”

Everyone laughed, but Diana slipped away to make sure all was in readiness in the grand ballroom of Malloren House. Damaris stood there jiggling simply because she couldn’t stay still.

Then Diana returned. “All’s ready. Their Majesties are here.” She came over and kissed Damaris’s cheek. “I can only wish you as much happiness as I have.”

Lady Thalia fluttered over to hug Damaris. “So beautiful, my dear! And he’s almost as good a man as my Richard. I shall cry during the ceremony, because I will be very happy and just a little sad, but you’re not to mind me.”

They all went out to where Damaris’s brother, Mark, waited to escort her downstairs. She’d pondered this, for Rothgar could have performed the duty as suitably, but she wanted to break down all the barriers. Over the past weeks she and Mark had come to know each other quite well.

They might never be close, for they had little in common. His likeness to their father was all on the outside, whereas hers was more internal. He had been born and raised by a silly, indolent woman, whereas she had been shaped by sterner steel. She truly admired his amiability and lack of greed, but found him somewhat weak, too.

All this was as it might be with a full brother, however, so they would make do. She smiled as she took his arm and headed downstairs.

At last.

She paused at the door to the ballroom, which had been made into an arch of golden blossoms. A thousand candles lit the room, shooting fire from jewels and gold. She couldn’t help grinning at the sight of Fitz, a shimmering figure in the cream-and-gold suit Ashart had worn for Christmas Day at Rothgar Abbey. They’d bought it off him, diamond buttons and all. Neither of them cared if anyone recognized it, for it was completely perfect for Fitz, especially with his blond hair unpowdered.

She walked toward him, needing to use all her willpower to do so slowly and steadily. She made herself turn her head a little to acknowledge the smiles of those nearby. So many people had become acquaintances and even friends during the winter season. She paused to curtsy deeply to the king and queen.

Then she had eyes only for Fitz. “My golden Galahad,” she said softly as he took her hand, her heart pounding with pure bliss.

He raised her hand and kissed it. “I’d call you my ruby except that you’re masquerading as a sunset. Say, rather, sunrise. You are my sun, Damaris. The light of my life. My new and everlasting day.”

Tears prickled, but they were a sign of a happiness almost past bearing. “As you are mine, my love. My all, my everything. Oh, my, what need have we of vows after this?”

“We’d better make them all the same. Their Majesties await.”

Startled by the reminder, Damaris cast an apologetic look at the king and queen, but both were smiling. Everyone was.

They plighted their troth in the traditional way and accepted the applause of their guests. Then music struck up, and they danced the minuet
à deux,
alone on the floor. Every touch, every look, spoke of love and desire, and Damaris grew weak with desire. How long must they perform this way before they were alone?

Not long after the dance the king and queen left. Then friends and family rescued them, bustling them away to their wedding-night chamber.

And there, at last, in urgency and in leisure, they plighted their troth and worshiped with their bodies, caressing with words and loving hands.

And later, much later, lying limp in Fitz’s arms, kissing his beautiful clever hand and the ring she’d given him, Damaris said, “I’m glad you’re a man of your word.”

“What?” he asked, eyes heavy-lidded but smiling.

“You promised once to stand by me, and to make sure everything turned out as I wished.” She wriggled up to kiss him. “I assure you, you have exceeded every expectation, my love, my champion, my perfect, handsome hero.”