Chapter Thirteen
“I have a job for you, young Joey,” Marcus said the following day. He’d tracked the boy down to the kitchen, where he was energetically scrubbing carrots.
“Orright. But I gotta clean these carrots fer Cook first,” the boy said importantly.
Marcus hid a smile. It was clear that he ranked rather lower in the lad’s estimation than his cook. He glanced at her and winked.
“Yes, of course, you must always do what Cook asks of you.”
“I know,” he said darkly. “She won’t feed me, else.”
Marcus nodded. “Indeed. I doubt you’ll find this job onerous.”
The boy frowned. “What’s onerous?”
“Difficult. Your task is to look after her ladyship’s dog while she’s away. We are traveling and cannot take him with us. So, you must walk him every day, clean up after him, brush him, and feed him. Cook will give you his food—”
“And mine?” Joey said anxiously.
“Yes, as long as you do what she tells you.”
Joey nodded. “Course.” He added in a confiding whisper, “She’s a good ‘un is Cook.”
Marcus smiled at Cook. “I know. As well, I want you to do whatever Peverill tells you to do.”
Joey grimaced. “Aw right,” he said reluctantly.
“And Peverill will pay you each week.”
At that, Joey brightened. “‘Ow much?”
“That will depend on how well you do your work.”
“Oh.” Joey subsided.
“As well,” Marcus continued, amused by the boy’s transparency, “from now on you will wear the clothes that were purchased for you at all times—not your street clothes.”
“Oh but—”
“Her ladyship is worried about you roaming the streets, so that will have to stop,” Marcus said firmly.”
The boy opened his mouth to argue.
Marcus said, “You don’t want to worry her, do you?”
“No,” Joey muttered.
“Good. And every night you will sleep in the house. An attic room has been prepared for you.”
Joey heaved a sigh. “’S gunna be hard.”
“I know, but only at first. And by the time her ladyship and I return from our honeymoon, she will be very proud of the new improved Joey, I am sure. So, do you agree?”
There was a long pause, then Joey said, “I s’pose so. Orright then.”
To Marcus’s surprise the boy straightened, spat in his hand and offered it. The street version of a gentleman’s agreement, he perceived, if rather . . . slimy. Ignoring his cook’s horrified expression, Marcus gravely shook Joey’s hand. “We are agreed then.”
#
TESSA’S SLEEP WAS RESTLESS, and she woke just as the faint gray light of dawn slipped through the gaps in the curtains.
Her wedding day.
Third time lucky? Oh, but she hoped so. She lay thinking. Worrying, really, even though she told herself that there was no point in worrying. The die was cast. She’d said yes, the date was set, the banns called, her bride clothes had been delivered the day before and there was no changing her mind.
Not that she wanted to change her mind. But she still had doubts about Marcus. He wanted a practical marriage, he’d said. Companionship. A friend.
She could do that.
Her barrenness wasn’t an issue, he’d assured her.
So . . . why was she worrying?
In a few hours she’d be promising to love, honor and obey. Honor and obey she could do, but love? He wasn’t looking for love, he’d said so. ‘I’ve never wanted a love match.’
But today she was going to promise to love him—before God and the congregation.
She hadn’t loved her previous two husbands, and yet she’d made those same vows. So what was the difference?
Marcus was the difference.
Had she met him again when she was eighteen—without any marriage to spoil things—she would have happily, joyfully married him. She’d been more than half-way in love with him then, even as a young girl.
Now, as a widow with no illusions left, she was more in love with him than ever.
How could she not love him? He was irresistible, not only because he was so kind and thoughtful and respectful of her feelings and opinions, and that subtle, wry, dry sense of humor, the dancing light that warmed his gray eyes, eyes that were often so grim looking. But not for her, never for her.
She turned over in bed and hunched into the bedclothes. It wasn’t just a list of qualities that made her love him. You might like a man for his qualities, but love? Love just happened.
Love for the whole man, qualities and quirks, faults and all.
Not to mention those times when his mere presence made her shiver with what she suspected was desire.
Only how could she burden him with her feelings, when he’d made it clear—more than clear—that he didn’t want love from her?
But love came in many forms, she reminded herself.
Perhaps, as long as she didn’t speak her love aloud to Lord I-haven’t-a-romantic-bone-in-my-body, she could love him quietly—‘reverently and discreetly’ as the wedding service said.
Without embarrassing or burdening him with her unrequited, unwanted love.
Footsteps sounded outside in the corridor. The servants were up and about. Soon one of the maids would bring Tessa a cup of hot chocolate and ask her when she would want her bath.
Time to put fruitless worries away. She had a wedding to get on with.
The previous day Daisy Chance had sent around the finished wedding dress and a number of others to wear on her honeymoon.
They were, Tessa decided, the nicest clothes she had ever had in her life.
Every single clothing decision had been hers—taking into consideration Miss Chance’s advice, of course, and Bragge’s gentle suggestions.
But the final decision in every case had been hers.
For the first time in her life. It was an amazing feeling.
Unlike her previous husbands, Marcus had not offered a single suggestion.
After rejecting any breakfast—she couldn’t eat a thing—Tessa bathed and washed her hair. How much easier it was to wash and dry short hair. She slipped into her underclothes—all new. She was taking nothing from her old life into this new one.
A short time later Bragge arrived to help her dress. She lifted the soft violet silk dress over Tessa’s head, and then the gauze overdress embroidered with tiny knots of violets.
It looked lovely, Tessa decided, examining her reflection in the long mirror in her room. A little bit bridal, without looking virginal. She was achingly aware of the shadow of those two previous weddings.
Bragge put the final touches to her hair—not that there was much to arrange, but the tiny wreath of silk violets was perfect.
“His lordship sent this,” Bragge added, and handed her a flat velvet-covered case.
Tessa bit her lip as she took the case. A wedding gift. Should she have given him something? She wasn’t sure. It had never come up before.
She opened the case and gasped. A beautiful delicate pearl and amethyst necklace lay inside, along with a dainty bracelet and a matching pair of earrings.
“Oh, how pretty,” Bragge commented, looking over Tessa’s shoulder. “He must have known the color of your dress. Here, let me help you with the fastenings.”
And then it was time to go downstairs. She found Lady Gosforth waiting for her, looking magnificent in a gold and purple dress, with a large gold and purple turban on her head.
She eyed Tessa critically through the lorgnette, and sniffed.
“You’ll do. We’re both a little overdressed for a quiet wedding that nobody will come to,” she said with ill-disguised disgust. “But we don’t need to lower our standards.
At least it’s in St. Georges, Hanover Square, and not in some nasty little hole-in-the-corner church in some obscure out-of-the-way place. Now come along, the carriage is here.”
Tessa knew why the old lady was in such a grumpy mood: apart from being denied a grand wedding fuss, suitable to an earl, she was even more put out that she wasn’t even an official member of the wedding party.
Knowing that Tessa had no female friends or relations, she’d offered to be Tessa’s matron-of-honor, but Marcus had said a firm no to that.
And then Lady Gosforth had announced that in that case, she would give the bride away, Tessa having nobody to perform that office either.
But again, Marcus had said no, that he’d arranged something else. And refused to explain.
At the entrance of the church, Tessa hesitated.
“Nerves?” Lady Gosforth said. “Should have thought you’d be used to this by now.” She stomped into the church.
#
MARCUS WAITED BY THE altar. He hated waiting.
He itched to pace back and forth, but one didn’t pace in church, not with the vicar standing by and the pews slowly filling before him.
His hand drifted up to loosen his neckcloth, but he forced himself to stop.
One didn’t greet one’s bride with a disarranged neckcloth either.
Where was she?
Beside him his best man, Barney Wimple was wittering on about something, his voice low and confiding. Marcus wasn’t listening. Barney was a good fellow, but he often wittered on about things Marcus had no interest in.
He pulled out his watch and looked at it for the umpteenth time. She wasn’t late. But where was she?
“So, I’m sorry about it, Marcus.”
Marcus half-turned. “Sorry about what?”
“Those rumors.”
Marcus shook his head. “Not your fault.” He went back to staring at the church door, willing Tessa to appear. And not pacing.
“I’ve always found her terrifying. You know that.”
“Mmm.” Marcus was listening with half an ear. Less. “Why is that, d’you think?”
“Dash it all, Marcus, you know your aunt is a, a gorgon.”
Marcus blinked. “My aunt? What has she to do with anything?” He glanced at her, sitting upright in her pew, wearing a massive gold and purple turban, glaring at him through her lorgnette. Still crabby at not being included in the wedding party, no doubt.
“She made me do it. I tried to tell her it would only make things worse. But she stares at a fellow through that glass thingummy and it turns a fellow to stone, I swear it. She’s a gorgon!”
“What things? What are you talking about? When did you talk to my aunt?” As far as he knew Barney avoided his aunt like the plague.