Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
M elisende had never imagined her groom, but she had imagined her wedding. The massive cathedral of Merania, with its soaring ceilings and Gothic columns, would rustle and gleam with the brocades and velvets, silks and lace of the hundreds who came in witness. The bishop, or the archbishop himself, would hold the wedding mass before the Renaissance triptych and St. Barbara’s altar draped with cloth of gold. The train of Melisende’s gown would drape behind her down the stairs, held by a dozen tiny bridesmaids.
Doves would fly up toward the arched stained-glass windows when the priest pronounced her married. Crowds would fill the piazza outside the church, all the subjects of Merania turned out to celebrate their sovereign, and carts from the palace would supply them a feast from the grand duke’s table. The wedding guests would remove for the banquet at Friedenplatz, the ducal palace at the heart of the town, where tables set up in the gardens would groan with food and drink, and the music, dancing, and toasts would last well into the early morning.
Her wedding would be an event rivaled only by her coronation, which would take place in the ancient Meinhardin Castle, where she would be seated beneath a canopy covering the Schicksalstein, the Stone of Destiny, and the bishop would drape her with the ducal mantle and give her the crown, the scepter, and the sword of state. The feasting then would last all through the night until the traditional Hahnenschrei , the First Light ceremony, held at sunrise, meant to usher in an era of peace and prosperity.
Instead she stood in the long drawing room of Fauconberg House, the parlor she used for sword practice, with an Anglican vicar leading her in English vows, the foreign words stumbling her tongue. She wore a simple robe of rose silk trimmed with crimson and a circlet of pearls in her hair. The only guests were Philip’s family and Count Voronsky, standing beside her father. More wedding guests would arrive later for the breakfast, those friends and London acquaintances who did not already have plans, the gossips who wanted to see what Melisende had pulled off for this very hasty wedding.
It wasn’t much of account. A few flower garlands decorated the main stairs, and Lady Cranbury, who seemed to feel responsible for the proceedings, had loaned her orange tree for the hall. Frau Gramper had had a mere five days to plan and assemble a feast, and that while there was still a sickroom to run, her father’s health improving but slowly.
Melisende hadn’t focused on her wedding. She had a journey to prepare for. Even now, as a rare glimpse of morning sun glinted through the bay of windows, daring to make hints about her future, her mind fled over the mountains to Merania, wondering what she would find when she arrived there.
She and Philip. Her new husband.
He wore dove gray breeches and white hose, a silver coat studded with buttons, and a waistcoat with silver embroidery to match. His hair had been trimmed. His eyes were so blue as he held her gaze steadily. He didn’t falter for a moment, not even when she stumbled over the “obey” that the priest slipped into the vows, not his, but hers. The traditional vow was to love and honor all the days of her life. What did the English mean with this “obey?”
Philip took her hand. His palm was warm and dry, his skin firm. A shiver rose along her shoulders.
“With my worldly goods,” he repeated, “I thee endow.” And he slipped the ring on her finger.
It wasn’t the fede ring she’d pulled from her jewelry box, a trinket of her mother’s. In a fede ring the clasped hands carved into the band were an ancient symbol of faith and fidelity; people in Merania still wore them. Philip had produced a different ring, one he said was the Irish version, in which the carved hands cupped a heart. He slid it on her finger, the heart facing her, the carved silver crown facing him.
His worldly goods. She knew he didn’t have any. Her father, once he was lucid and understood the situation, had demanded a proper conversation take place, which addressed the subject of finances. Melisende had her family’s wealth, her mother’s dowry and a few jewels, and there would be estates of her own, as the heir, when she got her country back. She had little, but she possessed more than Philip.
And now, by English law, it was all his. English law wouldn’t recognize that they weren’t saying these vows in good faith but were in fact hosting another masquerade.
Melisende hadn’t told her father she planned to dissolve the wedding once she reached Merania. As far as the duke was concerned, when Philip had been found in Melisende’s bed by her maids, she had consented to the match.
In a way, she had. She wasn’t a dunce or an innocent. She’d known what the repercussions would be when she told him to stay.
Her husband . A glow of heat moved through her body, soaking from the outside of her skin through to her core. She put her fede ring in his palm and he curled his hand around it. He was hers now.
“Not as poor a production as other forced marriages I’ve seen,” Lady Cranbury pronounced with a sniff as she surveyed the delicacies laid out on the tables erected in the second parlor. “You could have invited me to the ceremony, you know. I consider myself your fairy godmother, in a way.”
“Mine, madam?” Melisende stood beside her new husband near the door to the entry hall, receiving their guests. Her head already ached from so many thoughts and new sensations, and it was barely midmorning.
Her ladyship cackled. “Very well, his . Done all right for yourself, haven’t you, Devlin?”
“My lady Melisende would surpass any man’s wildest expectations, ma’am.” Philip gave her a small bow.
The Duchess of Highcastle marched up. “You could have had my Freddy,” she accused Melisende. “A duke’s son, at the very least.”
“I have no reason to regret my choice, Your Grace,” Melisende lied.
Lady Bess found her later, coming to her side and nibbling on a cake as Melisende circulated through the crowd, accepting congratulations. “You mean to depart at once, then? It sounds like an arduous journey. I hope your companion will make it sweet.”
Melisende dropped the pretense of courtesy and narrowed her eyes. “You did your best to press him on me.”
Her ladyship widened her eyes. “I? I rather thought you had already cut him out for yourself. But I suspect he has more to offer than you and I both realize.”
“I thought you warned me away from him.”
“Did I warn you away? Or did I warn you there is more to him than you think?”
Philip’s mother did not embrace a new daughter. She too wore gray, as if she were in mourning, and she did not smile when Philip brought Melisende before her.
“Thank you for my ring, Lady Devlin,” Melisende said meekly. She had summed up Philip’s mother at a glance: a woman who would permit no rival and acknowledge no equal. “I understand it is a family heirloom, an Irish symbol with long associations. I shall treasure it.”
“This Merania.” Her ladyship frowned. “Must you take him away to a wild place?”
“It is a very civilized place, madam.”
“But he was attacked. People are trying to kill you. To kill him, ” she said in a strangled voice, casting an agonized look at her son.
“I will do my best to ensure that does not happen,” Melisende promised.
“Besides, Mháthair , this is no more dangerous than half my assignments,” Philip joked.
“That isn’t an occupation, Philip,” his mother said morosely. “You’ll be buried in some far away country, if not killed. And who will say the proper rites over your grave? You haven’t even had a proper wedding. You’ll be living in sin, in a heathen land, with?—”
“We keep the Catholic faith in Merania, madam,” Melisende said, but his mother would not be persuaded that any good could result for her son from marrying the daughter of an exiled grand duke. Philip led her away to join his sisters, who all looked at Melisende from behind their fans with expressions half fearful, half fascinated.
She sat beside her father, propped in an armchair with pillows at his back. He had insisted on making an appearance but did not intend to stay long. He had recovered speech and use of his limbs, but the left side of his mouth drooped slightly, and his left limbs responded more slowly to commands than did his right. He was ashamed to be seen in company and perceived weak.
“I wish you were coming with me, Papa,” Melisende murmured in Ladin.
“I wish that too, child. As soon as I can travel, I will follow.”
“Not alone. You will need a proper entourage, equipage, servants?—”
“Are your preparations in order?”
She sighed. “We cross the Channel tonight and spend the night in Calais. After that, home, by any conveyance we can find. I am glad we will cross the mountains in summer.”
“And for protection?”
“Bruyit and the hall boy, Gin. And Philip, of course. My husband.” The words lay strange on her tongue, foreign in any language. She had a husband .
“You know you cannot simply send him away when you are done with him.” Her father’s gaze followed Philip, accepting congratulations from the Duke and Duchess of Hunsdon. “And you cannot simply kill him, either, as one of your medieval foremothers might have done. His family may not be grand, but he has high friends.”
The Marquess of Rockingham joined Philip’s group, shaking his hand cordially. The prime minister was a commanding man, with a sharp nose and intelligent eyes. Melisende thought Britain would fare well under his leadership; he was already arranging a truce with their rebellious colonies across the sea.
Equal treatment and the rights of man. Melisende would have to study these principles if she meant to be an enlightened ruler, as the Holy Roman Emperor aspired to be.
If she had a country to rule at all. Her uncle might put her in the stocks or have her killed. Meinhardin Castle, a medieval fortress perched on the sides of the mountains, still had an oubliette, it was said. She could be left to die there, and her usurping uncle could claim the crime of her death was not on his soul.
And what would happen to Philip if she expired?
He could return to Britain a merry bachelor again. He could travel the courts of Europe winning favors and friends. He could be taken into the keeping of a wealthy patroness who wanted a handsome toy, and he could forget about his erstwhile wife.
A hollow ache moved through her belly. She had not eaten since dawn; she must be hungry. “I will find a way to end things without shaming us or him, Papa.”
And things would end. Philip might be clever, debonair, and distractingly handsome, and he might gesture in conversation in a way that made her body warm with the memory of how, and where, those hands had touched her. But he had not been raised to assume a high station, as she had, and he was made to spy and cozen, not rule.
Eventually, they would part ways. She couldn’t afford to be attached to him when that happened.
Melisende pulled on her regal smile as the Duchess of Hunsdon moved her way. The duchesses of Hunsdon and Highcastle, Lady Bessington, and Lady Cranbury presiding over all; Melisende’s wedding would be ranked one of the highlights of the Season. A pity she should triumph just as she was to leave.
“Your Grace. You honor us.”
“Felicitations on your marriage, highness. And I’m to bid you safe travels, I hear.”
“Again, I thank you.”
“You will send me news of any interesting books you come across, I hope? I would enjoy adding to my inventory.”
“Of course.” Melisende smiled sadly. Had she stayed in London, she would have made great friends with this woman. “Do you know that woman talking to Philip? The one with a hat that looks like my wedding cake, only grander.”
The duchess raised her brows. “That is Gertrude Mahon, one of London’s most recognized courtesans. They call her the Bird of Paradise. She is Irish, and in between protectors, I hear. Does she have an association with your husband?”
“Not any longer. Forgive me.” Melisende rose and clenched the train of her skirt in her hand.
The woman had pert, pouty features and a bodice cut outrageously low for day, the neckline barely covering her nipples. “So you are the one to finally put the shackle on our Devlin,” she simpered, giving Melisende a brief curtsy as she neared. “What a lucky woman you are, your grace.”
“Highness,” Philip murmured, and Melisende wondered if he detected an intentional slight or if the woman simply didn’t know.
“You couldn’t be so cruel as to take him away and keep him all to yourself, could you?” Gertrude cooed to Philip, tapping him on the chest with her closed fan.
Melisende bristled with outrage. That chest belonged to her husband. “I’m afraid I intend exactly that, Mrs. Mahon.”
Philip must have sensed the dangerous undercurrent in her voice, for he held out his elbow. She slid her hand around his and he drew her close to his body, anchoring his free hand possessively on her arm.
“I’m certain you can find other ways to amuse yourself, Gertrude.”
“To be sure, but can another companion prove quite as… delightful , Devlin?” Satisfied that Melisende understood her meaning, she smiled and sauntered away, hips swinging.
Melisende curled her fingers into the fabric of Philip’s coat. “You did not invite her.”
“No. She came with Cholmondeley, your father’s crony. And I didn’t bed her, either. Her lover is an usher to the king, and we wanted to know his majesty’s stance on one or two issues he was not being forthcoming about.”
Melisende didn’t have a fan, so she settled for smoothing her hand over his chest, as if she could push the other woman’s touch away. “No more birds of paradise for you, husband. You are mine now.”
He tilted his head slightly, his expression going still, his eyes brightening. “Say that again.”
She scowled, lowering her voice so they would not be overheard. “You are pretending to be my husband, and I am pretending I promised to obey you. That must be an English innovation.”
With a flex of his arm, he drew her closer. “And I have promised to be faithful. To put no others before you, nor between us.”
She met his gaze. Heat sailed through her, like melted butter poured down her spine.
“And tonight is our wedding night,” he murmured.
The buttons of his coat pressed into the delicate silk covering her breasts. Her heart reared like a spooked horse. The air between them stilled, grew translucent.
“Our pretended wedding night,” she breathed.
“Then we owe it to one another to pretend to enjoy ourselves.”
He picked up her free hand, the one not resting on his elbow, but he did so by sliding his hand down her arm, over her sleeve, the bared flesh above her elbow, and her silk glove. His touch was firm, masterful, possessive. Quivers rose on her skin and darted beneath her flesh to her core, to the warm space deep in her belly that suddenly yawned open for him.
Even worse, her heart leaned toward him. She could feel the foolish thing expanding in her chest, tilting his way like a colt asking for pets.
She’d been warned he was dangerous. She understood now how much.