Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
When Elizabeth beheld the bridal bouquet Annabelle delivered along with breakfast that morning, the Baron’s late-night visit still fluttered low in her belly, a reminder her bridegroom appealed on one level, at least. That she’d remained chaste for her wedding was a truth his white lilies could attest to, though severe misgivings still eclipsed her carnal interest in the man.
Better wedded to her books, than made his bride today.
While her sister hid her worry behind banal pleasantries, Elizabeth forced herself to eat from her tray. Her nerves were about to fail her when a knock announced the surprise arrival of Miss Li’s three maids. Rose, Evie, and Mae proceeded to help powder, perfume, and lace her into her bridal gown.
When they’d finished, Rose handed her a small box with a note from the groom.
My dear Elizabeth, I trust you are refreshed after last night’s rest. I admit I enjoyed watching you sleep.
I enjoyed quite a few other moments even more.
I hope you enjoy your wedding spectacles.
Do try not to break them. You go through eyewear like other women go through gloves.
I await you at the altar in eager anticipation of your vow of obedience, and in desire of all to come. Yours forever more, Milton
Obedience! Elizabeth crumpled the note in her fist. How like him, to add a barb to what might otherwise have been a charming message.
She shoved the wadded note into her dresser drawer and untied the oblong box.
Inside, wrapped in tissue, lay the most beautiful pair of spectacles she had ever seen.
Gold-filigreed wire encased the lenses with shimmering strips of mother-of-pearl inlaid at each temple.
And where temple met lens, a tiny diamond winked back. Exquisite.
“Lizzie, do put them on,” Annabelle gushed. “I’ve never seen anything like them.”
“Aye.” Rose’s eyes misted. “He’s sweet on yer, lass. That cost ’im a mite.”
“More’n a mite, Rose.” Evie laughed. “More like a might many pounds!”
“An’ a might many favors he’ll be expectin’ on his weddin’ night in return.” Mae giggled.
Elizabeth’s cheeks heated. “They are lovely, yes,” she murmured, admiring them in the mirror.
By the time Miss Li’s maids had finished with her, she looked the very picture of a presentable, bespectacled, London society bride.
St. Mary le Strand’s pews in London’s West End had cost Milton a pretty penny to bedeck with fragrant, snow-white lilies—the bloom he’d chosen to declare ‘my love is pure.’
Though love, of course, played no part in his marriage.
He paced the church sanctuary in anticipation of his bride.
The guests had all arrived, including those he’d hired to make their wedding appear sufficiently grand.
His side of the church was filled with well-dressed whores and sailors, his bride’s side with well-compensated actors.
He’d even paid a few London rags to report on the event.
And of course Lady Stanton sat front and center, pug wriggling on her lap.
She caught his eye and waved; Milton pretended not to see her.
His friend, Wellesley, had brought his wife, the Duchess of Allendale, who did indeed look very pregnant.
Milton was surprised the lady had ventured out.
Wells’s mother, the Grand Dowager, had also deigned to attend, for which Milton was exceedingly grateful.
She lent an air of respectability to any gathering; he’d thank Wells later for such a generous gift.
And there sat Li beside his mother, looking decidedly put out, but then, when did she not? His thoughts veered to all his wedding portended, to his arduous journey here. One step closer, and all he could think was: Would Elizabeth now accept him? Would she even grow to like him?
It was a childish thought, one he quickly dismissed. For he’d wooed her enough this past week and slaked her lust just last night. She’d succumbed to his vulgar talents and displayed an appetite for earthly delights, open, he now hoped, to more intense experience.
She had only to keep her appetite for him, for tonight.
He tamped down his lewd thoughts, willing his cock to also stand down. He had a ceremony, luncheon, and dance to get through before more amorous distractions might be enjoyed. He must first make Elizabeth irrevocably his.
He looked up and saw his bride approach down the aisle. Breathtaking.
***
Papa held Elizabeth steady, and good thing that he did, because her legs were jelly as she entered the church.
The closer she got to the altar, the more her limbs rebelled.
She couldn’t do this, it was impossible to move forward.
Yet somehow, miraculously, she did. She stared straight ahead, unable to meet the eyes of guests she passed, row upon row of people she did not know.
She didn’t want to be the center of their attention, of this ceremonial charade.
Their stares felt like arrows piercing the armor of her gown with each labored step she took.
Elizabeth wished to run, screaming from the church; her father merely patted her hand.
As her panic grew, her breaths stuttered in her chest. She gulped air as the room tilted sharply and the altar swam dizzyingly before her eyes. In the nick of time, the Baron turned and locked her in his stare: a flicker of calm, of hope.
No more, no less.
Air filled her lungs, as if she’d silently gasped. Her breaths propelled her forward and not once did Milton’s gaze waver.
When she reached the altar, her father let her go. The Baron’s warm grip steadied, his smile genuine.
The ceremony passed in a blur—Elizabeth’s fine new spectacles notwithstanding. Already, she sat atop her husband’s phaeton, unable to recall how she’d gotten from altar to carriage, a handsome white gelding pulling them through the streets, for all of London to see.
She was, God help her, married.
Elizabeth waved to passersby, performing her new role, and Milton, seated right beside her, appeared well pleased.
When he stopped them before an impressive, limestone-embellished dwelling, he jumped down to hand the reins to a groom before he helped her alight.
Rows of staff stood outside the house to welcome them inside, but before they’d even reached the front door, he scooped her into his arms to carry her across the threshold, into her new life.
Inside, he planted her on her feet and kissed her roundly. She was overcome by both his ardor and the sheer scope of the entrance hall: the massive, ornate staircase, tall potted palms, enormous Baroque paintings, and more rows of servants lined up against the walls.
“Welcome to your new home, wife.” Milton grinned.
She blinked, disbelieving wealth like his was real.
“Our guests will arrive shortly, Elizabeth. We will greet them in the parlor for our wedding luncheon and afterward, there should be time for you to rest before the dinner and dance. My mother and Miss Li arranged for everything; we need only mingle. You can do that, can’t you?”
She blinked again, overwhelmed.
“Lizzie?” he demanded.
“Yes, yes of course I am capable of mingling, Milton. I am simply stunned by your … abode.” She stared up at the gilded ceiling, the sweeping arches. Good God this man was—
He laughed. “Why yes, Lady Milton.” He used her new name, which sounded very strange. “Your husband’s filthy rich. Get used to it, darling.”
He led her straight into his parlor, where, like his wealth, Elizabeth knew she’d be shown off too. And she was, just as soon as guests arrived.
“My congratulations, Baron, Lady Milton.” The Dowager Duchess of Allendale peered one second too long at Elizabeth’s spectacles.
“Your Grace, it is so good of you to come.” Milton bowed as Elizabeth dropped into a curtsy.
“I promised Roland if he gave me grandbabies I’d acquiesce more often to his demands.” She side-eyed her son, the Duke.
“Mother has been pleased with me only since I married.” He put his arm about his very beautiful, and very pregnant, wife.
“And my husband, Lady Milton, is a rake of the worst order.” His Duchess smiled warmly at Elizabeth. “But he’s an honest rake, I’ll give him that.”
Elizabeth fell into another deep curtsy, her eyes resting on the lady’s midriff. “Congratulations, Your Grace, on your impending joy.”
“Joy, yes.” Her Grace sighed. “With a two-year-old at home, Lady Milton, there’ll be more work than joy once his sibling arrives.”
The Dowager’s lips pursed.
“But never mind all that.” The Duchess promptly took Elizabeth’s arm.
“I should like to learn more about you, Lady Milton, as I know a thing or two about your husband already.” She flashed Milton a tidy grin.
“I am going to steal your bride, sir,” she told him, bold as anything, “but I promise to return her to you relatively unscathed.”
Elizabeth could not believe her husband’s paling face, nor how quickly the Duchess swept her into an alcove. Her Grace eased herself onto a bench, cradling her belly. She was a striking woman with hair the color of burnished gold, her figure, even with child, of stunning proportions.
“Tell me, Lady Milton, was your husband as insufferable as mine throughout your courtship?”
Elizabeth’s jaw dropped.
The Duchess leaned closer. “I am not as you think,” she whispered, “and suspect you are not either. Call me Charles, please. May I call you Elizabeth in return?” Her smile was warm and inviting.
“Charles…?” Elizabeth tripped over the name, confused.
“It is a boy’s name, but it is mine, nonetheless.”
“Call me Lizzie, Your Grace,” she blurted.
“Lizzie.” Charles smiled. “I like it.” She instantly put Elizabeth at ease. “Our husbands are good friends you see, and I hope we will be too. In fact, they go far back in friendship. I assume you’ve met their other good friend, Madam LeBrecht, or Miss Li?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth answered, thinking here, at last, was someone who might reveal something of her husband’s past.