Tallie's Knight (11 page)

“Nonsense. I have
read Letters From Italy, and—”

“Hah!” Magnus snorted.
“Anne Miller’s book was written thirty years ago and more.”

Tallie bridled. “I
know, for my mother read it on her Grand Tour, when she married my father. And
it was much more dangerous in those days. Now that The Terror is over, all of
England is knocking to the continent. People of the utmost respectability.” Her
eyes dared him to contradict her.

There was a short
silence.

“It will be extremely
uncomfortable. You will be miserable with the appalling accommodation,” stated
Magnus. “I know because I have travelled on the Continent. You cannot imagine
the state of the roads —if roads they can be held to be. And as for the wretched
inns —if inn you can find— on several occasions I had to sleep in a barn! With
the animals!”

Tallie shrugged,
unconcerned.

“It does not seem to
have done you any harm. And if it is me you are concerned about, then let me
remind you that I have spent most of my life in a seminary for young ladies—”
Despite his anger, Magnus’s lips twitched.

“Are you suggesting
that a seminary for young ladies is worse than a barn full of animals?”

Tallie laughed.

“Well, there were a
couple of absolute cow—” She blushed, and caught herself up. “No, of course not
but it was a very Spartan place, and I am tougher than I look.”

She fixed him with
her most determined expression. A few weeks ago he’d called her sturdy. Now, to
save himself inconvenience, he was pretending she was too delicate. Lord d’Arenville
would find he could not have it both ways.

“And anyway, you
promised.”

Magnus swore under
his breath. He was trapped and he knew it. The wretched girl was not going to
give in on this —he could tell from her mulish expression. And he had promised,
even if he hadn’t meant what she said he’d meant. But he was damned if he was
going to give in tamely. He cast around for a way out and had a sudden thought.

“Travel is very
dangerous for ladies who are in a delicate state,” he stated. Let her try to
refute that one.

Tallie looked
puzzled.

“But I just told you
I was stronger than I look. I am not the slightest bit delicate.”

He stared down into
her innocent face and cursed silently.

“But you may be in a
delicate state soon after your wedding,” he said. “And many ladies become quite
ill.”

“But why, when I am
strong now? A little thing like a wedding isn’t going to weaken me…” Suddenly
Tallie paled, realising what he meant.

He was talking about
it. And he expected her to be ill after she had endured it. It was worse, then,
than she had thought. It was not just that she must not move or cry out while
she endured it, she could be sick for some time afterwards. Gracious —it must
be very dreadful.

“If I were in a
delicate state, and I am ill, would it last long, do you think?” she whispered.

Magnus was torn
between concern at her sudden extreme pallor and embarrassment at discussing
pregnancy with such an innocent. At least she was an innocent, he thought, and
she should be discussing pregnancy with Laetitia, not her prospective
bridegroom. But he had clearly frightened her by raising the question and was
obligated to respond.

“I am not sure but…
I, er… I believe many women feel ill for the first few months.”

Months! It must be
appalling, Tallie thought. No wonder people did not inform girls about such
things —they would never agree to marry.

But surely it got
better, otherwise why would women wish their daughters to be married?

“And after that?”

“After that, I
believe they usually feel quite well until they are brought to bed.” Magnus
drew out a handkerchief to wipe his brow. His betrothed was clearly shaken.
Obviously it had not occurred to her that she might begin breeding while she
was on the Continent. Strike while the iron is hot, he decided.

“So we are agreed —if
you find yourself in a delicate condition the Tour will be called off and we
will return to England at once.”

Tallie chewed her
lip. She was strong. Her mother had managed it. So could she. And if she really
was ill, she supposed there would be no point in travelling.

“Very well,” she
agreed grudgingly.

Magnus refrained from
nibbing his hands in triumph. He had every intention of getting her with child
before there was any question of travelling beyond Paris. He would take her to
Paris, show her the sights, purchase gowns and hats and perfumes and all manner
of feminine fripperies, then whisk her home to d’Arenville Hall to await the
birth of their child.

Their child. He could
not wait. But first he had to get the wedding over with.

“And what is your
next condition”, may I ask?” he said.

“Next condition?
There are none. You have agreed to everything, more or less.” Tallie was still
worrying about the wedding night.

Magnus was stunned,
and vaguely suspicious. He’d been certain that she was building up to something
truly outrageous.

Tallie stood up to
leave.

“Thank you for
agreeing to speak to me. You have relieved my mind… about some things.” And
frightened me to pieces about others. She opened the door.

Magnus recalled the
jewel case in his pocket.

“Miss Robinson, a
moment longer, if you please.”

“Yes?” She turned
back and looked at him, wide-eyed and pale.

“You may wish to wear
these at your wedding. They belonged to my mother.” He held out the box.

Tallie opened it.

“Pearls, how pretty,”
she said dully. “Thank you very much. I shall wear them tomorrow, since you
ask.”

She shut the box and
left the summerhouse. Magnus stood watching her cross the lawn and enter the
house, frowning. He’d never had a woman accept jewellery in quite that manner.
There’d been no squeals of joy, no excited hugs or kisses, no play-acting and
flirtation. Not that he wanted that sort of response from the woman he would
take to wife, Magnus told himself. Not at all.

He should be happy to
discover his intended bride wasn’t greedy or grasping. He was happy. Her cool
acceptance was well-bred and ladylike. It was, in fact, exactly how his mother
had accepted jewels from his father.

And why did that
thought annoy him so much?

Nonsense! He was not
annoyed. There was no reason to be annoyed.

She’d answered him
perfectly politely.

Too politely.

She’d accepted his
gift of priceless pearls like a child accepting an apple, with polite,
mechanical thanks, quite as if she was thinking about something else.

Damn it all, but this
girl was an enigma to him. Magnus didn’t like enigmas. And he was very annoyed.

Mr. Penworthy, the
organist, plays the opening chord, so softly that at first the congregation is
barely aware of it. Gradually the music swells, filling the ancient and
beautiful church with a glorious torrent of sound. The bride has arrived.

The pews are crowded
to bursting point, mostly with friends of the bride, well-wishers from the
village and from much farther afield.

There are foreign
dignitaries, resplendent in silk hats, glittering with medals and imperial
orders —men who knew the bride’s father abroad, who come to her wedding
representing princes, dukes —even an emperor.

Outside in the
churchyard, tall, handsome men watch from a distance, loitering palely, some
gnashing their teeth, others silent and crushed with despair —their hopes and
hearts dashed for ever by the bride’s acceptance of another.

In the lane beyond
the churchyard wall sit two elegant carriages.

Rumour has it each
carriage contains an aristocratic lady, each one an heiress and a diamond of
the first water. Screened from the stares of the vulgar by delicate black
netting, the ladies weep. Their beauty, their riches and their rank serve them
naught, for the groom has chosen his bride, and she is no famous beauty, nor
even rich or aristocratic.

But she offers him a
prize he values beyond earthly riches —her heart.

And he gives her his
in return.

The first chord draws
to a close and the bride steps into the centre aisle. The congregation turns to
look and a sigh whispers around the church. From where she stands, the bride
can hear only fragments of what they say. “Lovely gown…”

“A beautiful bride…”

The music swells
again and she begins her slow walk down the aisle. Her beloved awaits her. His eyes
feast on her. He makes a small move towards her, as if he cannot wait for her
to reach him but must rush up the aisle and take her in his arms. She almost
weeps with joy at his loving impatience; she, too, wants to run down the aisle
towards him and fling herself into his arms. Instead she walks in proud and
happy dignity, her head held high, feeling, as she always does when he looks at
her, beautiful.

Mr. Penworthy times
it perfectly; as she reaches the altar, the music soars to its final crescendo.
The last notes echo around the ancient oaken rafters and her beloved takes her
hand in his, murmuring, “Tallie, my own true love, you make me the happiest man
on earth.” He lifts her gloved hand to his mouth, and.

“Ouch! Bloody h… what
the dev… er, deuce do you think you’re doing?” exclaimed Lord d’Arenville
angrily, one hand clamped over his nose —the nose that Tallie’s gloved hand had
forcibly collided with.

His eyes were
watering from the impact. He blinked down at her, then took her hand, which
still hovered dangerously close to his face. A faint cloud of aromatic brown
dust rose from her glove.

He stared down at her
hands, raised one cautiously to his nose and tentatively sniffed.

“Good God! They reek
of coffee!”

Tallie didn’t
respond. She just stared up at him, the last remnants of her dream shattering
around her feet. For one heart-stopping moment, when he had lifted her hand to
his face again, she’d thought he was going to kiss it. But it was not to be.
The Icicle was incapable of a romantic gesture like that. He was merely
inspecting her gloves.

His grip on her hand
tightened and he thrust it down between them. He nodded at the vicar.

The vicar stood
staring at Tallie, bemused.

“Get on with it, man,”
said Lord d’Arenville curtly.

“Er, of course,” the
vicar muttered, then announced in ringing, mellifluous tones, “Dearly beloved,
we are gathered…”

Dazed, Tallie stood
there, listening to herself being married to The Icicle. And a very
bad-tempered Icicle he was, too. He was positively glaring at her. Of course,
he did have reason to be a little cross, but it wasn’t as if she had meant to
hit him on the nose, after all.

Mind you, she thought
dejectedly, he seemed always to be furious about something —mainly with her.
Towards others he invariably remained cool, polite and, in a chilly sort of
fashion, charming. But not with Tallie. It didn’t augur at all well for the
future.

Still, Tallie rallied
her spirits, this was her wedding day, and she’d made up her mind to enjoy
every moment of it. She began to mentally tick off her blessings: the weather
was almost sunny, and the wind not too cold at all. And her frock had turned
out quite well —the lovely amber material was absolutely perfect for her
colouring, and she was sure no one would notice the one or two little mistakes
she’d made.

The music had been
absolutely glorious —Mr. Penworthy had truly outdone himself— and her cousin’s
husband George had escorted her down the aisle looking every inch a gentleman.
He wasn’t even very drunk, as far as she could tell.

And if she wasn’t the
most ecstatic bride in the world, she was determined no one else would notice.
All brides were happy and joyful —she didn’t want her friends and relations
upset by her own misgivings. That was why she’d invoked her fantasy —it was one
of her favourites— and because of it she’d been able to act like a radiant bride
should. She hoped everyone had been taken in by her performance —she didn’t
want to disappoint them.

She wondered where
they were sitting —she’d been too involved in her fantasy to notice. She turned
her head to take a quick glance at the pews behind her, searching for Brooks,
Mrs. Wilmot and the children.

“Thalia!” Lord d’Arenville’s
hand jerked her back to face the altar.

Tallie blinked at it
for a moment. She felt dizzy, bereft, disorientated. She looked helplessly up
at Lord d’Arenville. He stared back, his brow furrowed, his cold grey eyes
intense. One hand held hers. His other arm slid around her and tightened around
her waist.

For a moment it
seemed to Tallie that he could see into her very soul.

She quivered under
the hard gaze and closed her eyes —the intrusion was too painful. For a moment
or two she was aware of nothing but the cold chill of the church and the
pressure of his arm supporting her.

His arm felt warm,
but the grey eyes watching her looked angry. In the distance she could hear the
vicar mumbling something. She closed her eyes harder, wishing with all her
heart she could invoke her fantasy back to deal with this. She heard the vicar
mumbling again. Lord d’Arenville gave her a little squeeze and Tallie opened
her eyes.

“Do you, Thalia
Louise Robinson take this man…?” intoned the vicar forcefully, his manner
conveying to Tallie that he was repeating the question, and not for the first
time.

Embarrassed, Tallie
mumbled, “I do,” and hurriedly repeated after him the words about loving,
honouring and obeying Lord d’Arenville. She shivered.

She was bound for
life to Magnus Philip Audley St. Clair, Seventh Earl of d’Arenville. A surge of
deepest misery washed over her. Her wedding was so very different from what she
had hoped for, dreamed of. And she didn’t mean all that nonsense about rejected
suitors and important guests and beautiful gowns —that silliness had nothing to
do with her true dreams.