Midnight Marriage: A Georgian Historical Romance (Roxton Series) (7 page)

Martin Ellicott regarded his godson impassively. It was easy to understand why the young man was so arrogantly self-assured; he had looks, breeding and was destined to inherit an ancient and exceedingly wealthy title. He came from a long line of arrogant noblemen who knew their own worth and counted no cost in achieving their wants and desires. Arranged marriages were commonplace and considered the only way of ensuring lineage, land and wealth remained within the confines of the aristocracy. Still, Martin was left with a nagging doubt as to the infallibility of such arrangements and he voiced his concern saying calmly, “Your parents have a very different marriage from the one your father arranged for you, Julian.”

The Marquis was dismissive. “Ha! An aberration. Anyone will tell you so.” He went up the stairs two at a time and on the second landing looked down at his godfather with a sly grin. “I always suspected you of harboring romantical notions; now it is confirmed.”

“When you speak in that manner you so remind me of Lord Vallentine!” Martin Ellicott said stiffly.

“Good God! Do I? How distressing for you. I hope she is halfway to being pretty.”

“I leave that decision entirely in your hands, my lord,” the old man threw over his shoulder as he hurried out of doors.

When Julian descended the stairs some ten minutes later he was shrugged into a close-bodied embroidered waistcoat of Venetian silk; diamond buckles on his shoes, and feeling absurdly nervous at the prospect of meeting the female his father had forcibly married him to when he was barely sixteen years old. He hardly remembered the events of that fateful night. He’d been blind drunk and what details he did remember were so painful that he’d conveniently blocked them from his memory. Thus he had not the slightest idea what his wife looked like, only the impression of a small brown haired girl with a frown. Nor had he given her a single thought since.

That he was wedded for better or worse, the choice of bride taken wholly away from him, did not bother him. Marriages for people of his station in life were arranged and for the sole purpose of ensuring continuance of the line. But then Julian had the most appalling thought: What if his wife was cross-eyed and pudding-shaped, or pock-fretten with bad teeth or worse still, resembled her brother, that mealy-mouthed, egg-headed bore Sir Gerald Cavendish? God forbid! How was he to beget an heir under such appallingly difficult conditions? Drunk? Drugged? Would he be able to perform at all?

He hurried out onto the terrace with the frightening image of having to bed a female version of Sir Gerald Cavendish lurking in the back of his mind and found his wife alone on the terrace. She was admiring the gardens and sipping wine from a crystal glass. She had her back to him, and had he stopped to really look at her he would have noticed the deep autumn tones to her upswept hair. But he was not in the habit of summing up females on the straightness of their backs and height alone. He did not mean to startle her but he did, and in the confusion that followed he stared not at her but at the smashed glass and the damage done to the hem of her petticoats. It was her exclamation that instantly brought his green eyed gaze up to her face.

If Deb was startled into uttering an impudent sentence, Julian was momentarily struck speechless. He could not believe his luck. Standing before him was his beautiful fiddler of the forest. Her majestic figure was perfection itself in a deep green velvet riding habit with wide lapels and square low cut neckline that complemented her cream complexion and deep red hair. Horrid images of a female Sir Gerald burst like a soap bubble as he stepped forward and, without a second thought, firmly took hold of her hands.

“Forgive me,” she was saying, her brown eyes searching his handsome smiling face. “I did not mean to be so horridly ill-mannered. You gave me quite a shock. Oh, but it is
such
a relief to see you looking so well. You can’t know.” She gave a nervous laugh at his widening smile. “I had visions—horrible ones—that my clumsy attempt—”

“Never clumsy.”

“If not clumsy, then unskilled. Allow me that,” she said, returning the pressure of his hands, oblivious to her surroundings and the fact the butler, agog with curiosity, had twice stepped out onto the terrace. “Oh, but you do look well,” she sighed with satisfaction.

A lackey came out from behind the butler with pan and brush and quickly set to sweeping up the shards of broken glass from Deb’s smashed wine glass. This broke the spell for Deb and she quickly pulled her hands free and crossed to the table, feeling the heat in her cheeks. The Marquis followed, one sharp soft word directed at the crouching servant. The moment of intimacy between them was over. Julian saw it in the tilt of her chin and the determined set to her full mouth.

“If you think I’ve given away your forest forays,” he said softly at her ear as he pulled her out a chair, “you are sadly mistaken in my character.”

“Thank you. I never thought you would.”

“Miss Cavendish,” he began and smiled crookedly at her quick frowning glance. He took his place at the table directly opposite her. “Now you are being foolish. It is only reasonable I should know your name if you came to visit Martin.”

Deb looked down at her lap where her hands were pressed firmly together. “Yes, of course. Damn. What a muddle.”

He smiled and privately wondered if their meeting had not been fated all along. “Does Martin know you play your viola in the wood—?”

“
No
.”

“No, I don’t suppose he can,” he agreed, thinking that if his godfather had known about his wife’s penchant for playing a fiddle in the forest he would have set it all down in one of his regular missives to the Duke. “Poor Martin. I put him to the unnecessary trouble of trying to find you.”

This did bring her gaze up to his face. She gasped. “You made inquiries about me?”

“Discreet inquiries, Miss Cavendish.”

“Thank you very much! No doubt whomever you asked thought you fit for Bedlam. I just hope it doesn’t reach the ears of—”

“—tone deaf Gerry perhaps?”

This made her laugh. “So you remember that, do you?” She put out her dish. “May I please have some coffee?”

“Certainly. Where are my manners? I don’t know where Martin has disappeared. Problems in the kitchen, I suspect. He has a temperamental French housekeeper.”

“I sympathize. I have a temperamental French cook who regularly sullies my ears with the most unladylike of idiomatic sentences.”

“Most lamentable,” he mocked. “Martin tells me your French is very good indeed… and that you spent some time on the Continent…?”

“This coffee is very good.”

“Yes, it is. But I’m not interested in the coffee. I’m interested in you, Miss Cavendish.
Comment vous appelez-vous
?”

Deb stared into her dish. “My name? Claudia Deborah Georgiana Cavendish. Dreadful mouthful, isn’t it? I prefer my second name.”

“I knew I would have it from you eventually!” he said with a smile. “Deborah or Deb? I like both. And the—er—Cavendish?” he asked, although he knew well enough her family’s long illustrious history.

“Deb. And if you must know, my great-grandfather was the younger brother of the first Duke of Devonshire. I am cousin to the present Duke through both sides of my family. Quite a lineage, isn’t it?” she said nonchalantly. “If you count such social intangibles as important.”

“I see that you don’t.”

“Why should I? Oh, it is all very awe inspiring on paper. The name Cavendish gets one in the door at important social occasions. It doesn’t matter to the toadeaters and trencherflies that, like my father, I too am a Black Cavendish. He had three wives, y’know.”

“Your father had
three
wives?” Julian commented encouragingly.

“The second was positively unsuitable: An Opera singer. He did redeem himself by marrying my mother, a Boscawen. Her family is on the roll of Norman nobles.”

“The Norman rolls? Now
that
is impressive.”

Deb peeped up at him, wondering if he was laughing at her. But as he sat with his chin cupped in his hand and his green-eyed gaze riveted to her face, all interested inquiry, she rattled on for want of something to mask the sensation that he made her feel as if she was sitting too close to an open fire.

“I suppose if one wanted to one could throw one’s relatives about, especially now as the name of Cavendish is connected to practically everyone who is politically and socially important,” she commented with a shrug. “My brother, Sir Gerald, lives for all that sort of nonsense. He’s very good at lacing his conversation with his titled relatives. It adds to his self-consequence, and that he has in abundance.”

The Marquis pulled a face. “Sir Gerald is a positive bore.”

Deb laughed. “Yes, he is, isn’t he? But he married a sweet creature who’d been left on the shelf: unrequited love for a rakish cousin, so my brother Otto said. That must redeem Gerry somewhat.” She leaned forward, as if fearing to be overheard and said confidentially, “I secretly suspect my brother was aware of Mary’s lineage well before he ever realized she was pretty.”

“The cad!”

“Mary’s cousin is a duchess. I won’t bother you with the name. Suffice that the Duke’s family is on the roll of Norman nobles and, Mary tells me, is the largest land owner in the kingdom.”

“Dear me! An ancient name, a title and half of England: You see me all agog.”

“Well you needn’t feel humbled. Gerry toad eats them enough for all of us.”

“Does your brother have anything to recommend him?”

“I’m sure, given time, I shall think of something,” she said simply, her brown eyes alight with mischief. She dimpled delightfully when he put up his brows in expectation of her suggesting at least one redeeming feature that Sir Gerald might possess. “He is forever plagued with having me for a sister. Although he does enjoy the sympathy this elicits. You needn’t appear so interested. I’m not about to tell you why I’m a Black Cavendish. But you really should feel for Gerry’s position.”

“I certainly will not!” he said and sat up. “The fellow is not only a bore but devoid of sentiment. I hope you won’t expect me to receive him once our marriage is publicly known, regardless of his sweet wife and her connections.”

“I avoid him at all costs, so I don’t see why you should—” She blinked and the breath caught in her throat. “You’re absurd! You don’t know the first thing about me. My name and face aren’t sufficient reason to want to marry me—oh! You’re as impertinent as ever!”

Julian grinned. He was enjoying himself hugely. “You’re adorable.”

“Mad,” she said with conviction, showing him her profile, chin tilted in affront. “I-I wish I’d never set eyes on you!”

“That’s a shame because I’m very glad I set eyes on you.” As he said this he was playing with the sugar in the ornate silver sugar bowl, eyes seemingly on the spilling grains as he tipped over the spoon, yet his whole concentration was on her. “Naturally you have my word that your—um—lack of corset will not be disclosed to anyone, particularly odious Gerry.” When her jaw swung open and the color reignited in her cheeks he couldn’t help a lopsided grin, adding matter-of-factly, “Of course, as your husband, I would counsel the wearing of corsets in public.”

Now Deb was angry. “You may think it a great piece of funning to-to
flirt
with me but—”

“And I thought you’d taken a fancy to me…?”

“Did you indeed?” she answered with arched brows. “I’d say you were feverish at the time.”

Julian gave a bark of laughter. “Please! Don’t make me laugh or Dr. Medlow will have to put his needle and thread into me again.” When she said nothing, lips pressed firmly together, he put out his hand across the table and said in quite a different voice, “I am in earnest.”

She ignored the hand, saying in a small voice, “If you knew the first thing about me, about my family, you wouldn’t use me in this way. Besides, what do I know of you or your connections? My groom thinks you’re an adventurer.”

“An adventurer? He could think worse. Are you in the habit of discussing gentlemen with your groom?”

“Joseph was my brother Otto’s major domo. After Otto’s death, he took it upon himself to look after me. But that has nothing to do with anything!”

“It does. That I’m considered a worthy topic of discussion with the estimable Joseph gives me hope. More coffee, Miss Cavendish?”

“No! Yes! Oh, where is M’sieur Ellicott?”

“Gone to Paris to fetch our breakfast, the time he’s taking about it. Fibber!?” Julian called out over his shoulder. “Find out what’s happened to our breakfast. Miss Cavendish and I are ravenously hungry. A roll, an egg, whatever you can scavenge. And while you’re about it, find out what’s happened to your master.” He called out to the retreating butler’s stiff back, “And more coffee!” then turned a smile on Deb to catch her staring at him in a penetrating manner. “My name isn’t branded on the back of my scalp, y’know. That’s better. I do so like your smile. And you have the loveliest eyes, and your hair… I’ve been trying to decide if it is red or brown. It is unusual. Sort of an autumn-leaf red, isn’t it?”

“This is all very gallant, but it’s getting you nowhere,” she said crushingly. “No doubt I ought to be flattered. I’m sure your charm is irresistible to the vast majority of females.”

“That’s hard to say,” he said with a thoughtful frown. “It depends on what sort of female you mean. If you mean the sort you are unlikely ever to meet, I don’t waste a lot of words on them. And if you mean females of your quality, I am inclined to believe they hear none of it because they don’t know the real me. They are only interested in what they will get by marrying me.”

For one moment Deb thought him in jest, and when she realized he was being perfectly serious she giggled. “You are the most extraordinary man I’ve ever met. I should think you only have to enter a room to set all female hearts aflutter. And five minutes in your company would put the seal on your worth as a gentleman.”

The Marquis nodded absently, looked unconvinced and sighed in feigned resignation. Her frown of embarrassment at speaking so candidly made him smile to himself but he said perfectly seriously,