Chapter Eleven
The day of the wedding, four days after the disastrous carriage ride, dawned dank and dreary despite the fact this was supposed to be the height of summer.
It was London, after all. Heavy cloud overhung the city as though the weather had sensed the foreboding Jonathan was feeling.
He should, he supposed, have been anticipating this marriage with excitement, but he was not.
The fact that his bride appeared not to like him one bit and was immune to his charms had a lot to do with this.
Somehow, he had allowed himself to stumble into an alliance he did not want, and from which there seemed to be no escape.
Although…she was quite beautiful now her aunt had taken her under her wing and started dressing her well.
He rose at what was for him an unearthly hour, especially since he’d not returned home from the card table before four that morning, and took a light breakfast in his room.
In no hurry to dress, he donned a gold silk banyan with velvet collar and cuffs over his night rail and sat barefoot at the small table set in one of the large windows.
Had he felt cheerful enough, he could have looked out upon the verdant gardens in the center of Cavendish Square with the splendidly martial statue of the Duke of Cumberland astride his horse. Somewhat bedecked in pigeon droppings, but definitely impressive.
As it was, he refrained from glancing outside and picked in a desultory fashion over his food.
With a bride who had refused to see him since his perceived insult on what he’d wrongly anticipated would be a pleasant and seductive drive out of London, he had a nasty feeling today was not going to be a good one. Perhaps she might not even turn up.
He was somewhat crapulous from too much drink, having celebrated much of his last night as a bachelor with a group of friends at White’s.
His head was thick and aching, and what he most craved was another shot of brandy.
Although he was not suffering so much as he’d been on the day he’d first encountered Verity, he was, nevertheless, not quite on top form.
Not on top form at all, if he admitted it to himself.
At nine-thirty Arnold, who seemed annoyingly chipper, arrived to shave and dress his master and, by half past ten, he was donning his coat and reaching to take his beaver hat, a Wellington, from Trubshawe in the front hallway of the house, looking the epitome of a young man about town.
At a nod from his master, Trubshawe swung the front door open to reveal a smartly dressed Walter already on the doorstep, his hand reaching for the bell pull.
For a moment, his comical expression of shock at having been so preempted almost made Jonathan laugh.
But not quite. It was going to take a lot to make him laugh this morning.
The fact that had it not been for Walter’s inopportune arrival a little over a week ago, he would not now be about to set out to solemnise his marriage in a church to a young lady who seemed immune to his charms, weighed heavily on his heart.
“Good morning to you, Walter,” Jonathan said, keeping his tone curt. “I had thought we had arranged to meet at the church.” He raised his eyebrows at his friend.
Walter, his eyes sliding sideways to peer at Trubshawe, bridled.
“Thought I’d come here and walk along there with you.
Lots of footpads about, you know, even in broad daylight.
Dreadful daring, some of them.” He waved an airy hand at the perfectly respectable passersby.
“You never know. Best to make sure you get there safely.”
Jonathan, choosing to ignore this ridiculous excuse, took his cane from Trubshawe and settled his hat with so little care on his immaculately arranged hair that Arnold would have been horrified.
“No need for you to trouble yourself. I have my trusty swordstick.” He raised the cane.
“And I have my reputation. Or perhaps that’s why you’ve decided to walk with me—so that I and my reputation can keep you safe? ”
Walter’s cheeks reddened. “That’s it. Need you to keep me safe. Should’ve said that to start with. Craven coward, that’s me.”
Jonathan was not fooled. Walter had called around to make sure his friend was going to show up at the church. Since that disastrous carriage ride, the only contact he’d had regarding the wedding had been with Lady Somerton and he’d not dared ask her anything about Verity.
After maintaining a stony silence on their return journey, his bride-to-be had dismounted from the curricle, still in frosty disgust, when they’d arrived back at her aunt’s house.
He’d called the next day with a plan to attempt to mollify her, on Walter’s suggestion, but been informed by a flustered Lady Somerton that her niece was indisposed.
He’d not been fooled then, either. Despite his apology, she’d not forgiven him, and seemed determined not to give him the opportunity to ingratiate himself.
So why would he bother further? If she wanted to sulk, let her.
What did he care? He was quite good at sulking himself.
Only it seemed he did care, or he wouldn’t have been in such a miserable mood today.
And the fact that he cared what she thought of him made him angrier and moodier than ever.
Since childhood, as the cherished heir and then, after he’d inherited the earldom at barely sixteen, as the earl, he was not used to being thwarted.
He was, as Verity had rightly concluded, suffering from having led a spoiled and indulged life in which few people had ever crossed him, had he but known it.
That she had been insulted by his careless words didn’t occur to him, for no one had ever had the temerity to tell him he was wrong.
He was also well versed in justifying his own point of view.
And she was, after all, what his late grandmother would have called an adventuress.
Surely she couldn’t refute that. So of course he was going to suspect she wasn’t as pure as she wanted him to believe.
He still wasn’t convinced she’d told him the truth when she’d denied having been used to pay off prior debts.
If she had been, would she have told him the truth? Probably not.
The fact that he himself was in possession of a highly chequered past which he would have disapproved of, had it been her past, never once occurred to him.
For a man, it didn’t matter, and indeed could be said to be desirable, or that was what he’d always believed and heard his father use in justification of his own lifestyle on several occasions.
But he’d said he would marry her, so marry her he would, even if she remained in high dudgeon with him. He felt confident he could win her round.
With Walter beside him, like a broody hen with one chick, he stepped out onto the square and turned down Holles Street, heading south. A brisk walk would do both of them good and blow away the cobwebs of last night’s drinking.
They crossed Oxford Street in silence and progressed down Roxburgh Place into Hanover Square, then on into George Street, still heading south.
The pavements were quiet at this time of the morning, although a fair number of equipages rumbled past them.
Conduit Street contained smaller houses and led on to Bond Street which in turn became Old Bond Street and from there they turned into Piccadilly.
As they drew nearer, and the momentous occasion approached, Jonathan felt his sense of foreboding growing, despite his earlier confidence that he could bring Miss Farrington round.
She hadn’t wanted to see him when he’d called at her aunt’s.
He’d sent a message around the day after and received no reply from her.
He had an uneasy feeling she was holding his faux pas, his perfectly reasonable faux pas, against him.
Or was she playing hard to get? Was it all a game to her?
A game she might well have played before.
He couldn’t make up his mind.
Damn the woman. She’d upset his equilibrium more than any other woman ever had.
His brows lowered and his step lengthened, forcing Walter, whose legs were shorter, to scurry to keep up with him.
There was no getting out of this. He’d have to make do with the hand fate had dealt him, even if it meant marrying a woman who so obviously didn’t like him. At the moment.
Walter, by his side still, remained judiciously silent.
St James’s, a church very popular with members of the ton, nestled between Piccadilly and Jermyn Street, a few hundred yards to the east of the junction with Old Bond Street. As they approached it, Jonathan took out his fob watch. The time was five minutes to eleven.
The rector, Mr. Gerrard Andrewes, was waiting in the doorway, an expression of some agitation on his heavily lined face.
An elderly gentleman, he wore a horsehair wig over what, from the look of the wispy white hair escaping it, might well have been a balding pate.
His expression changed to one of relief when he spotted Jonathan and Walter approaching.
Maybe he’d thought they wouldn’t turn up.
“Lord Dunster?”
“Him, not me,” Walter said with far too much satisfaction. “Not daft enough to get myself leg-shackled to a piece of skirt. Not yet, at any rate.”
The Reverend Andrewes’s bushy white brows shot up almost into his wig and a frown of extreme disapproval settled on his face.
He was, after all, a man of the cloth. “Holy matrimony is not a thing to be joked about, sir. Today is a very solemn occasion.” He cleared his throat and the frown became a threatening scowl.
“I do not have the pleasure of your name.”
Walter, who had probably spoken before he thought about it, colored. “Walter Farrington, cousin of the bride. Here to act as best man and witness for the groom.”