Chapter Four
Christiana neglected to write to her father to inform him of the match.
“After all,” she said to Laura Crawford as they lounged in her hotel room, “it’s not as though I intend to invite him to the wedding.”
“I should think not.” Laura wrinkled her nose. They were, at first glance, opposites in both character and figure. Laura, an everlasting flirt, was plump and pretty, with dimples in her cheeks and merry, blue eyes.
Christiana, by contrast, was plain. She always had been, to her mother’s disappointment.
Her hair had none of the glossy, sheer color of Laura’s; it was a rather dull brown.
Her eyes were gray, hidden behind spectacles, and she knew she was unfashionably thin.
At four and twenty, her breasts had yet to grow in; she suspected they never would.
Yet for all that, they had found something of a kindred spirit in each other, and all the differences in the world could not have split them apart.
Laura picked up a candied nut and tossed it in her mouth as she gave Christiana a speculative look. “Is he as ugly as rumor has it?”
“I suspect rumor would call me ugly,” Christiana said wryly.
“Rumor does not have you drinking goat’s blood in order to survive.”
“Was it goats? I rather thought it was the blood of young women.” Christiana frowned. “Perhaps the rumors depend on which part of England one resides in.”
Laura sighed. “That was hardly my point.”
“Do you think in Wales, they accuse him of drinking sheep’s blood for his eternal youth?”
“Chris,” Laura said with false patience, “you know perfectly well I was asking if he’s as scarred as they say.”
“Oh! As to that, I suppose I don’t know what they say.”
“Be reasonable!”
“I am. If I don’t know the precise nature of the rumors, how can I confirm their veracity?” She propped her chin on her fist. “He is scarred, to be sure. For a moment, I thought I would scream and ruin everything—although it serves Mrs. Dove-Lyon right for attempting to establish such a match.”
“‘Attempting’?” Laura raised both her fair brows. “Can it only be called an ‘attempt’ if she was successful?”
Christiana chewed on her lip as she gazed across the room, picturing the duke as he had been. The Beast of Somerset, live before her. And he had smiled. Surely, if he were a beast, he would not smile. She imagined beasts did rather more scowling and glowering and brooding.
“You oughtn’t have agreed,” Laura said, picking up another candied walnut. Christiana preferred salted peanuts, but her friend had always indulged in a sweet tooth. “There is always another solution to be had.”
“If I didn’t marry him, my choices were to return home and be thrown unceremoniously out, or remain in London and be thrown ceremoniously out.”
“Surely, Mrs. Dove-Lyon—”
“She only had time for me in the context of the duke’s potential wife. If I had refused, she would have sent creditors to the house, and Father would have lost everything.”
Laura jutted out her lower lip. “I daresay he deserves it.”
“I daresay he does,” Christiana agreed calmly, “but that doesn’t help me.
The duke is not looking for a pretty, simpering wife; if he were, he could have found one easily enough.
He wanted someone who would endure his presence and who would befriend his sister.
Beyond that, he had no requirements. I doubt I would meet such a husband again. ”
“He says that now.” Laura frowned in genuine consternation.
“But what if you reach the house and now he has trapped you there, he wishes to take advantage of you? Perhaps he was only saying that in order to get you to agree. It is unusual, after all, for a duke not to be concerned with an heir.” She lowered her voice.
“I’ve heard he has scared several serving girls away from the house, and he rules it like a tyrant. ”
“Mm, was this the same source that told you about the goat’s blood?”
“Chris! Be serious.”
“I am.” Christiana pushed her glasses up her nose. “The fact is, I cannot trust baseless rumors. If he is that cruel, then I will have to do something about it.”
“Like what?” Laura asked dubiously.
“Find a poker?” At her friend’s choked sound, she grinned. “I don’t suppose it would be very pretty, but if it’s what’s necessary…”
“Christiana Daisy Nightingale, are you telling me you intend to murder your new husband if he goes back on his word?”
“A few moments ago, you were outraged at the prospect of him being a monster, and now you are outraged at the prospect of me defending myself.” Christiana spread her hands. “I deplore this lack of consistency.”
Laura gave a very long-suffering sigh. “I see you are determined to poke fun.”
Seeing her friend was genuinely worried, Christiana hopped down from the bed and approached the sofa, lowering to her knees before Laura and taking both her hands in hers.
“I am making the best of what is a very poor situation,” she said, her tone somber enough now that Laura looked a little appeased.
“He gave me a sense of his sincerity, and his scars truly are terrible. I can see why he might not want a regular debutante bride.”
“Because she might scream and run away?”
“Quite.”
“Heavens, is that all it takes?” Laura clucked her tongue. “At least you don’t have a weak stomach.”
“Truly, it’s not so bad. Besides, I will only have to endure his company for a year. After, once I’ve launched his sister in London and she is married, I will retire to my childhood home and live out the rest of my days there.”
Laura peered at her, a line appearing between her brows. “And this prospect makes you happy? What of children?”
“I will be content on my own, and I believe he is sincere about his lack of desire for them. Perhaps he is incapable.” He was certainly burned enough for that to be the case, and it excused her from having to manufacture desire or be forced into bed with a man she cared nothing for.
“This will make me happy, Laura, or as close to it as I can manage. It’s the best outcome I could see. ”
“What of your father?”
“What of him?” Christiana shrugged and sat on the sofa, reaching across to pluck at a candied nut. Whenever she thought of all the ways in which he’d betrayed her, she felt another shiver of anger. To distract herself, she got to her feet and strode to the window overlooking the street.
In two days, she would be married.
In two days, she would be traveling back to Wiltshire with her new husband, and for all her bravado, she knew very little of what would occur once she was there.
She knew nothing about Lady Amelia; the girl had lived on the estate her entire life, and even if there had been rumors, Christiana could have given them no credence.
All she could do was wait and see.
“I think I might run away with my groom,” Laura said, so suddenly that Christiana whirled.
“Now you are the one not being serious.”
“I am. Quite perfectly.” Her eyes turned dreamy.
“And you know, there are worse things than a bad marriage. I have some money put aside from our adventures, and my dowry if my father releases it, and my aunt left me a sizeable inheritance. We should not be wealthy, you know, but we could sustain a household.”
Christiana gaped at her friend. She’d known—of course she had—that Laura enjoyed her escapades, and she had mentioned the groom on more than one occasion.
She and he had dallied a little when she was younger.
A stolen kiss here and there, perhaps a little more; Christiana had never pressed for the specifics.
But marriage?
“Dearest,” Christiana said, gripping the window ledge so she could be certain she wouldn’t do anything dramatic in her shock, like fall. “Are you quite certain this is what you want to do?”
“Why should I not? Papa would have me marry a lecher if he were given a choice. So when the time is right, I will run away with my darling Ewan and we will be happy together.” She kicked her legs absently. “It will be a love match.”
“A love match with a groom?”
“Have you never heard of such things? Mabel ran away with a footman last year, you know.”
“And it was perfectly scandalous,” said Christiana, who’d heard of the event only because of said scandal. The youngest daughter of an earl running away with a mere footman. The ton had been shocked.
“You are marrying the Beast of Somerset, so I hardly know what you have to say about scandal. London will be up in arms about it.”
“I don’t care what anyone says.”
“Of course not. You’ll be a duchess.”
“And you will be a nobody.” Christiana gripped Laura’s hand. “What about your friends? Your position?”
“Will you abandon me?”
“No, but…” She chewed her lip. “I can’t know what the duke will think about it.”
Laura patted her hand, her eyes gentling. “Then we will endure. But did you think me content to live out my days as an elderly baron’s wife?”
“Not in the slightest. I expected you to live a handful of years as an elderly baron’s wife, then spend the rest of your days as a very merry widow. If you marry a groom, you will never be invited to another party again. You adore parties.”
“I adore Ewan more,” Laura said simply. “Believe me, I’ve given it plenty of thought. For years, I thought it a sacrifice too far, but I love him. And the more men I meet, the more I realize how much I love him. No sacrifice is too great.”
Christiana fell back on the sofa. “A love match,” she said.
“I never knew how to tell you. You never seemed to believe in love.”
Christiana rubbed at her eyes wearily. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in love—although she had seen little enough evidence for it. But she comprehended its existence; enough poets had written about the wonders of the heart in such a way to make love seem mystical.
Marrying one’s groom did not seem mystical.
“But now you’re also marrying,” Laura continued. “And I thought I may as well tell you now, before the duke whisks you away to be his good, little pet.”
“I won’t be his pet,” Christiana said absently. “Are you certain this is what you want?”
“It’s not a mere flirtation.” Laura leaned down and kissed Christiana’s cheek. “I promise.”
“Then be happy. And so long as I have a say in the matter, you will always be welcome with me.”
“Let us hope,” Laura said wryly, “that you continue to have a say in the matter.”