Poetic Justice (33 page)

They might have sat in the old apothecary shop all morning, holding hands and talking of the future, if Sophie and the princess hadn't arrived to take her up to the Keep to dress. Jessica went unwillingly, telling John she'd just as soon be married in her gray shopgirl frock, but that was enough to make the other women gasp and drag her out the door into the dusty sunlit street.

"You must dress for the occasion, dearest." The princess took the coachman's hand and climbed the steps of the carriage, saying over her shoulder, "We are of a size, so you may make yourself free of my wardrobe."

Jessica's resistance faltered as she recalled the delicious gown the princess had worn at that fateful ball six weeks ago. She saw her face reflected in the carriage window and realized that the gray dress made her look rather washed out. "Well, if you don't mind...I suppose John would prefer me to look dazzling."

"Yes, he would," Sophie assured her, giving her a bit of a shove up the carriage steps. "Men do prefer a dazzling bride. Gives them a memory to cherish when you're nine months gone with child." With a happy sigh, she settled next to Jessica on the upholstered seat and gazed around her. "What a commodious coach," she said to the princess, who had taken the seat opposite. "Thank you for inviting me along, your highness."

"Oh, no thanks are due! And do call me Tatiana. We are all going to be sisters, after all. Oh!" The princess covered her mouth with her hand, like a small child who had uttered a naughty word. Her expression was so comic that both Jessica and Sophie burst out laughing, and soon, they were all whispering between chuckles as the carriage lurched up the long avenue.

"It's obvious enough. They are next to twins, John and Devlyn," Jessica said, holding onto the handgrip to keep from falling against Sophie.

"But if you'd known Mrs. Manning." Sophie rolled her eyes. "The most proper lady you ever imagined! She was shocked when I let little Tommy run about bare-bottomed, and he was but a year then! I just can't imagine how she ever managed it!"

The princess gave a shrug of Gallic sophistication. "Well, I suspect that the late Lord Devlyn, for all his faults, was nearly irresistible. In fact, I know Michael worries that he will someday encounter other half-siblings, none quite so congenial as our darling John. Aren't you glad," she said to Jessica, "that the sins of the father seem to have bypassed these two sons? Not that John hasn't his share of sins, but profligacy with women isn't one of them."

"I'm relieved to hear that. I think I'm likely to be the jealous sort, given the opportunity," Jessica observed, but hadn't time to elaborate before the carriage stopped and the coachman yanked open the door and bowed them out.

The princess's wardrobe took up an acre or two of a dressing room, and Jessica, who ordinarily cared little for apparel, was transfixed by the array of colors and fabrics on display. Tatiana and Sophie held a whispered consultation amidst the gowns, and emerged from it with a consensus choice, an ivory blush dress with tiny puffy sleeves and a cascade of lace on the silk bodice. The princess held it up against Jessica's chest. "It's perfect for a bride, and I've never worn it. I've never been able to blush. I think it will do very well."

And indeed, it made Jessica look both fragile and splendid, rather like Shakespeare's fairy queen Titania. She knew John would have loved her did she resemble a gnome, but it was a pleasure to see his eyes glow silver when she met him in the little chapel attached to Devlyn Keep. He wore borrowed finery too, a morning coat, a satin waistcoat, crisp white linen shimmering with colored light from the stained-glass windows. He stood with his brothers near the altar, looking for all the world like a pagan prince renouncing his ancient gods for the love of her.

She wanted to tell him he need renounce nothing, that she wanted him pagan and all. She wanted to touch him, to trace the exotic lines of his face. But the vicar was entering, muttering under his breath as he fumbled behind his neck with the fastening of his clerical collar.

So Jessica only stood next to her pagan, bending her head and smiling when he stealthily took her hand and hid the contact between their bodies. Very soon, his hand promised her, they would be alone, and they would be married, and no one in the world could keep them apart.

There was just a moment when her joy muted, when she glanced back at Devlyn and the princess and Mr. and Mrs. Manning—John's family—and longed to see her own family there too. But she supposed it was enough that her uncle had consented to the wedding, finally putting her happiness above his grief. Somehow he—and Aunt Martha too—must have seen that John, for all his apparent faults, was the one she had to love.

But the vicar wasn't so ready to let the past go. He shook his head until the sun danced off his shining pate. "Miss Seton, are you certain this is what you want to do? You must not know all there is to know about this groom of yours." The reverend shot an accusatory glance at John, who tried but failed to look innocent. "He wasn't always a baronet, you know. In fact, he was other things, far more disreputable."

Jessica regarded him with a hauteur the princess might have envied. "I know exactly the sort of man he is, and I wouldn't have him any other way."

She thought she heard a sigh of relief from behind her, where her two future sisters-in-law sat. John only pressed her hand and smiled down at her as the vicar made a minute study of the special license. "I suppose it's in order. We don't get many of these here in Dorset, you know. Most couples post their banns ahead of time, for they have nothing to fear and nothing to hide. And they haven't any reason not to place their own names on the license, the ones they received at their christening."

No doubt this was an acquaintance of longstanding. Indeed, Jessica thought perhaps this old vicar had christened John so many years ago. Probably John had bitten him during the ritual, and the vicar had never forgiven it.

At any rate, the ironic glint in John's eyes indicated that he was about to say something. Devlyn forestalled whatever it was, stepping forward so that he blocked the vicar's view of the disreputable groom. "Thank you, Mr. Tooley. Let's get on with it then. Do we need anything else?"

"A ring," the vicar said, a bit sullenly.

Beside her, John closed his eyes as if in pain.

"You didn't forget the ring." Though Devlyn's voice was perfectly level, something in the way he gazed at the flowers on the altar suggested that he was about to laugh.

Unexpectedly the princess spoke up from the first pew. "Of course he forgot a ring, darling. I'm surprised he remembered to bring his head with him, as distracted as he must have been when he left London. Fortunately, I thought of that, and checked my jewel box before we came down. Here."

She interposed herself between Jessica and John, indicating with a nod that they were to hold out their hands. As if doling out candy to children, she said, "One for you, John, and one for you, Jessica. A matched set. Aren't they lovely?"

They were, actually, a slender twist of gold in John's hand, crowned with sapphires circling a diamond, and a wider twisted band for Jessica to trade for the other. "But these must be worth a fortune!"

"Not at all!" The princess closed Jessica's hand around the man's ring. "Oh, they are valuable. But they aren't part of the crown jewels, just some bits that my mother's great-granduncle left behind when he disappeared. That was Fyodor Romanov."

"The Butcher?" Devlyn broke in, adroitly catching the ring John tossed him and putting it away in his pocket.

"Oh, no. This was Fyodor the Intriguer. If he'd been the Butcher, he would never have disappeared." She flashed a blinding smile at John. "I tried to use them for our wedding, but Michael said he'd rather have his finger ripped off than wear a Romanov ring. I knew you wouldn't be so scrupulous. In fact," she added, slipping back between them to retake her seat, "you will appreciate them, both of you being so very Byzantine. Now, Mr. Tooley, do let us get on with it. The bride has another ceremony to attend tomorrow in London."

Jessica was about to object that few men wore rings these days, but then she saw the glint of gold on Lord Devlyn's left hand and thought that perhaps the princess had the right of it after all. There was no harm in alerting other women ahead of time that a man was unavailable, especially a man who might well have inherited his father's irresistible quality.

And so, with a clear conscience, Jessica was able to repeat the vicar's reluctant words, "With this ring, I thee wed."

John's most fervent vow was the next one, "With my body I thee worship." Jessica looked up to see that disorienting flash of desire in his eyes, and though her heart tumbled in confusion, she smiled at him. It was a marriage of true minds, she knew that, but bodies could worship too.

Twelve hours later, though, as dusk fell around them and John showed no signs of tiring, Jessica realized that he had forgotten all about that vow. A bridegroom in the grip of an obsession was a most frustrating companion.

As they approached an inn yard bright with lanterns, she put her hand on his gripping the reins, and tugged at it. He murmured something to calm the startled horses, and reined them in just before the inn drive. "What is it, sweetheart?"

"John, do let's stop for the night. Or at least part of the night."

"But, Jessie, we must be in London as early as we can in the morning, before Wiley can get his hands on the play! You know that."

"All I know is this is my wedding night, and I am spending it squinting into the darkness at a horse!" She didn't mean to sound plaintive, but weariness and frustration had taken a toll on her self-control. John's curricle was well-sprung, and she found his lean form beside her a welcome support, but not nearly so welcome as it would be in a bed.

She raised her hand to touch his face. She could hardly see him in the dark, but under her fingers his jaw was tense with the conflict she had posed for him. He was vulnerable, and she knew just how to take advantage of it. She edged a little closer so that their legs touched from hip to knee, trailed her fingers to his mouth, and gentled her voice. "We are already past Basingstoke. We can leave before the first light, and be to Berkeley Square by nine. You said my uncle would delay the transfer. We will be there in plenty of time."

He closed his teeth gently on her thumb, then pulled her hand away only to tug it back so that he could kiss her knuckles. "It's just that I've had little rest this past week. I think if I close my eyes, I will sleep the clock round."

She leaned closer, so that her lips were only a fraction of an inch from his. "I think I can contrive some way to keep you awake."

"Another test?" His kiss brushed her mouth longingly then drew away. "This is one I hope I can help you pass."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Soul of the Age!

The Applause, delight! the wonder of our stage!

My Shakespeare, rise.

Ben Jonson, "To the Memory of My Beloved, The Author, Mr. William Shakespeare"

She didn't pass the test. It was a valiant effort, but they fell asleep just before dawn, still tangled together. John woke an hour late when the full morning light streamed through the window. He knew a moment of panic, then forced it down as he calculated from the sun's angle that it wasn't yet five o'clock. He subsided again next to Jessica, his chest pressed against her naked back, his mouth against the sweet curve of her neck.

There was some simple, profound wonder in this, that he could wake up beside her, see her nakedness glowing golden in the morning light, and know that this moment would be his every day of his life. And it was only that knowledge, that after another night he would have this moment again, that got him up and washed and shaved before she woke.

He pulled on his breeches, though he knew they would prove only an inadequate guard against temptation. Breakfast ordered from a chambermaid in the hallway, John returned to sit on the bed beside his wife. Even as he bent to kiss her cheek, he regretted the necessity of awakening her. It was for her own good, he reminded himself, and the good of the collection, and the good of English literature. Were the stakes less exalted, he would crawl back into bed with her and let the sun run away with time.

Instead, he waited till her eyes opened and closed and finally opened again. In their drowsy blue depths he saw incomprehension, surprise, and finally remembrance. "John," she whispered.

"Happy birthday, my darling. I wish I'd had time to find something to give you."

"You have. My happiness." She frowned, and used his arm to leverage herself into a sitting position. The sheet fell to her waist, but she didn't seem to notice. He did. "And my collection. Is it very late?"

"No. We have time." He had come prepared to wake her up. He gave her a drink of water, then took a cool damp cloth from the basin on the washstand and applied it to her sleep-flushed face, then down along her shoulders and arms. When he drew it back up her side, she seized it, color rising in her cheeks, and said with asperity, "I shall see to the rest myself. And I think I can manage to dress myself too, if you can locate my—my undergarments."

So he turned to find her shift tangled in the bedclothes. She touched the healing slashes on his back with a gentle finger. "I'm sorry they hurt you."

"Believe me, the anticipation was worse than the reality. And solitary confinement was worse than either."

He rolled the silk garment up and fitted the neckline over her head, helping her find the sleeves with each arm. There was a moment's remorse when her breasts disappeared from view, but he reminded himself that they were married for life, and he would surely see them again.

She wriggled the shift into place around her hips—a surprisingly erotic process, one that he would like to see done in reverse—and slanted one of those inquisitive glances at him. "You do hate confinement, don't you? You said you didn't want marriage, because it would restrict your freedom. I took a shirt out of your bag for you last night, by the way, to let the wrinkles hang out."