Chapter Three
Two days following Julian’s unexpected marriage proposal, Verity descended the winding staircase of Penrose Abbey en route for the breakfast hall.
She had not seen Julian yesterday. According to Mr. Harold, he’d departed at dawn, leaving no word as to his destination. By supper, he had yet to return.
Verity had a guess of where he’d gone—to procure the common marriage license he’d mentioned.
On the other hand, it was equally likely he’d merely decided to avoid her, having changed his mind following his brief stint of insanity. After all, his heart belonged to another, she thought, dourly. Why should he want to settle by marrying her?
Only the sight of her maids unpacking the items they’d placed in her travel trunks yesterday—at the behest of His Grace, they’d explained—said that he still intended to go through with the mad scheme.
The question was, did she?
Maybe, if all she felt for him was friendship as she’d convinced herself until yesterday’s epiphany, she could move forward with absolute aplomb. Unfortunately, the pain conjured by Julian’s admission that an unknown woman had his heart made it all too clear where her true feelings lay.
She was in love with Julian. She was also a fool. She was far too old for him, and he was…magnificent. Kind, charming, handsome. Young, vital, rich. Not to mention, a duke! He could have any woman he chose.
She entered the breakfast hall and her gaze went immediately to the dark haired, utterly arresting man seated at the table’s head, apparently absorbed in reading a pressed copy of The Times.
He glanced up, brow arching and she made haste for the sideboard rather than continue standing there, gawking at him. “Good morning, my lord,” she said, and began scooping eggs onto her plate.
From the corner of her eye, she saw him rise to pull out a chair adjacent to his. “Good morning, Verity.”
Her pulse skittered as she carried her breakfast plate toward the table to join him, her mouth curving helplessly into a tremulous smile as pleasure at the mere sight of him flooded her senses.
His pale blue gaze drifted over her in a bold manner to which she was not accustomed. Bold and, for a split second she could swear, possessive.
In an instant, heat washed over her, making her cheeks throb and her lower belly hum. Even as the delicious sensations swarmed through her, she knew herself to possess a too-rampant imagination.
For perhaps the fiftieth time his words echoed in her head. My heart belongs to another…and that is never going to change.
Jealousy ate her alive. Who could this nameless, faceless woman be? He had traveled to London on business with Sylvester a mere handful of times. On one of those visits he must have formed a connection with a young lady. Arguably, the greater mystery was why this lady was not at Julian’s side now?
Verity closed her eyes briefly. She could not abide these dark emotions—and she could not seem to stop them from arising. How much worse would it be when she married him?
She had endured her loveless marriage with relative ease. But a one-sided love affair was another matter, entirely.
Adjacent to her, Julian propped his elbow on the white tablecloth and rested his chin in his hand.
“I thought you might like to know I took the carriage into Exeter yesterday and procured the marriage license.” His tone was blasé to the point of boredom, but when her gaze shot to his, she saw he slanted her an almost-challenging look.
Longing rushed through her before she could talk herself out of it. “I wondered if that was where you’d gone.”
“Indeed? Following breakfast, I shall seek out the vicar. The small chapel near the edge of the estate, I think, will do nicely for the ceremony. I shall see it’s readied for us at the week’s end. Tea?” He finished on a casual note, already reaching for the pot to pour for her.
“The week’s end?” she echoed.
“Friday,” he replied smoothly, pouring.
She blinked. Friday. Today was Tuesday.
“I also intend to send for the modiste in Truro.” One corner of his broad mouth curved upward, creasing his cheek. “Lemon Street modistes are not exactly up to the standard of those on Bond Street, whom I know you to prefer, but I understand one or two have considerable skill.”
“Modiste?” Good Lord. What had happened to her ability to speak?
The answer was as simple as it was complex. She wanted to marry him. And she wanted to bed him. Repeatedly. And she wanted to throttle him for loving another while caring for her as a friend and being so bloody good at the business.
He sent her a gentle smile that warmed his eyes and made her chest ache, almost as if her heart had grown suddenly too large for the space that encased it.
“There isn’t time for us to have a proper wedding gown made for you, but I thought, perhaps, one of your newer London gowns might be altered into something fitting. You will look beautiful in anything you choose, of course.”
“Why?” she choked, her heart in her throat.
His face went carefully neutral. “What are you asking, Verity?”
“Why the rush?”
“For you,” he said, eyes slanting toward the window. “I know you do not feel it proper, the two of us living under one roof, unmarried.”
She licked her lips. “And what of the woman…” Her words drifted off as his gaze shifted back to her.
He said nothing, merely waited for her to continue.
She cleared her throat and tried again. “Are you so sure you missed your chance to be with the woman you love?”
Thick brows furrowing, he reached for one of her hands, something he had never done when Sylvester was alive. His long fingers toyed with hers, and heat spiraled through her, threatening to consume her from the inside out.
“Verity, I am content with my decision. I would not have asked you if I was not sure.”
And just like that, her qualms quieted. He sounded certain about wanting to marry her, and she loved him. He loved her, too, in a way. She prayed it would be enough for both of them.
*
Her wedding day had come. That morning, at the small chapel at the base of the estate, both she and Julian had spoken vows.
She ought to have known better.
Now, shrouded in shadow as dusk fell outside, Verity gazed at her reflection in the tall, gilt framed mirror in her bedchamber.
She still wore her beautiful, pale rose wedding gown, the one Julian had so thoughtfully seen altered by bringing in the modiste from Truro.
Just as he’d arranged for the license, the vicar, the chapel, the witnesses—the vicar’s wife and daughter—the garden wedding breakfast for two during which he’d apologized that neither of their families had been given the opportunity to attend the ceremony.
“It would have taken them too long to get here,” he’d said, his tone off hand. “I thought, perhaps, we might travel to London soon, at which time we can inform my mother and your parents of our decision to wed. I…er…did not send word or post the notices.”
She cocked her head, eyeing him as he sliced a bite of smoked salmon. “No?”
He shook his head. “This way we can deal with any…er…questions in person,” he said before forking the salmon into his mouth.
Something about his admission didn’t sit right with her.
In fairness to him, she hadn’t shared their plans, either.
Not with her parents, nor his mother. Not with her sister and her husband, nor Julian’s younger brother.
For her part, she had preferred to exist in her fairytale world where she could pretend Julian did not love another, that she was not selfishly marrying him to satisfy her own desire to keep him for herself.
But why had Julian refrained from telling anyone? He had seen to everything else with methodical precision.
“Questions?” she prodded.
“My…er…mother. She…It’s nothing.” He gave a self-conscious laugh.
Verity rather liked his mother. The last time she spoke with her had been recent—at Julian’s father’s funeral, in London.
Mrs. Attwell had been understandably distraught at the time, having lost her husband so unexpectedly.
But she’d spoken of more than her grief. She’d also made mention of Julian’s steadfast commitment to his apprenticeship under Sylvester.
“I expected his keenness to reside at the abbey, to study under Penrose, to fade with time. After all, he’s a man in his prime, and he’s unlikely to find a suitable bride in the remote wilds, and yet something keeps him there.” The woman fixed Verity with a penetrating stare.
“I quite agree. On more than one occasion I have suggested he return to London, to partake of the Season. I blame Sylvester,” she confided in a whisper. “To him, the dukedom is all. I fear, now that Julian stands as his heir, his unwillingness to let him out of his sight will be even greater.”
Mrs. Attwell gave her a long, considering look. “I do not believe Penrose has nearly as much sway with my son as you seem to think.”
Not wishing to argue the point, Verity struggled for something appeasing to say. “They say a mother knows.”
Her expression had turned oddly resigned. “Indeed. I only hope Julian does not live to regret the choice he has made.”
Now, she imagined Julian’s mother’s face when she learned her son, the current Duke of Penrose, had married a woman five years his senior—one who was, in all likelihood, sterile.
Little wonder Julian would want to break the news to her carefully. She would be horrified—and rightly so.
As for why he wouldn’t wish to post the notices in the society section, there could only be one reason. He was embarrassed by her. Everyone would think she’d somehow entrapped him. And, in a way, she had.
Suddenly the delicious feast Cook had prepared for their wedding breakfast settled like lead in her stomach. She pushed back from the table and rose. “I…I’m sorry, but I have the head ache. I would like to retire.”
Julian went very still. Then, he stood, as well. “Should I accompany you?”
“No,” she said, very definite.
“I see. Is there anything I can do for you, then? Do you need anything?”