Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
Forget all the stupid rules governing polite behavior that I taught you. Immediately.
Goodness!” I squeaked.
“Merde!” gasped Colette.
Lance didn’t bat an eyelash. “Unsurprising.”
“Burnsby tricked Sophonisba Ainsworth into thinking they were married,” Godric stated. “However, the record names only one witness to their marriage, not two, which invalidates the ceremony. A priest is not considered a legal witness.”
“What a cruel thing to do,” I breathed. “Yet it makes sense. I couldn’t imagine Burnsby marrying a fallen woman, no matter how much he loved her. What’s more, he told me that his father wouldn’t allow it.”
“I would guess that Burnsby arranged the deceptive ritual to placate Sophonisba, bribing the priest to record it in the parish register. I’ve seen the ploy before, and the marriage is invalid whether recorded or no.”
He turned to me. “I’m afraid you’re still married.”
And to Ophelia, “You are not illegitimate.”
My stomach turned upside down, and I came close to vomiting spiced wine all over the carpet.
“What a dreadful thing to have done,” Ophelia whispered hoarsely. “Sophonisba was so happy to be acknowledged as the lady of the abbey, and now she’ll find out that he has been lying to her all along?”
“No sympathy,” Colette stated. But her eyes betrayed her.
“Why didn’t you tell us immediately that the marriage was invalid?” I asked Godric. I felt like a wrung-out kitchen rag. For a blissful few seconds, I’d been free to marry—but now I was back in the same morass again. I still needed an annulment.
“I wasn’t certain that the record copied on this paper accurately reflected the ceremony.
Sophonisba might have remarked that her father had also been a witness, for example.
Most importantly, I had to know if Burnsby had tricked her deliberately—and the only way to find out was to threaten him with bigamy. ”
“I refuse to feel sorry for her,” Colette said, still trying to convince herself.
We all felt a twinge, in my opinion.
“I might have aired the truth, but for Ainsworth’s sake, I gave Burnsby the opportunity to confess in privacy,” Godric added. “If he holds his tongue, I will tell her tomorrow. She has to know the truth.”
Something occurred to me.
Had Godric informed me about the evidence suggesting I was unmarried, I would have welcomed him into my bed last night, nervous or no.
Our eyes met, and he gave me a rueful nod. I would have given him everything, believing I was free. My eyes blurred with tears that had nothing to do with my marital status and everything to do with the honorable backbone of the man holding my hand.
“I suppose it won’t change Sophonisba’s life either way,” Colette said. “Even if they were married, and he acknowledged her as his wife, he wouldn’t have taken her to Paris. Did you see his face when she proposed it?”
“Do not feel sorry for her,” Godric ordered me. “I can read your face, Evie.”
“She behaved despicably toward you and Lance, even if Burnsby’s cruelty was regrettable. And she planned to cook Peony! No, I was thinking of something else.”
“What?”
“I almost had it,” I rasped.
“What?”
“Freedom.”
After that, Ophelia declared herself too demoralized to eat dinner. I felt the same way, so Godric and I walked her around the colonnade to her bedroom door.
“I shall ring for figgy pudding and hot chocolate,” Ophelia said, kissing me on the cheek before darting at Godric and kissing him as well. “Next Christmas will be better, won’t it?”
He leaned forward and kissed her in return. “I promise it will be.”
Her somber face lightened. One would be hard-pressed to disbelieve Godric when he spoke with that deep surety.
“Ask me in?” he requested when we arrived at my door.
I peered at him through a fog of exhaustion before I nodded and led the way. Tess jumped from a chair, dropping Les Liaisons Dangereuses to the floor.
She dropped a curtsy. “Many happy returns of the day, Sir Godric.”
“The same to you. May I offer congratulations on my lady’s magnificent toilette?” he asked.
My lady?
He was ignoring my marital status.
Tess smiled. “I have an excellent canvas, Sir Godric. Evie, Mr. Crumpsall asked me to return to your chamber in case you had need of me.”
Her expression suggested that the butler had overheard enough to suspect that I might retreat from the tournament, vanquished and in tears.
“Crumpsall is a treasure,” Godric said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Will you please ask him to send a small Christmas meal for two to my chamber, Tess?”
He was claiming me. There was no other word for it. He was letting the household know, in every way except direct speech, that someday I would be his wife.
I rested my head against his arm.
“Yes, sir,” Tess said, throwing me an impudent glance from under her lashes.
Godric snuggled me against his side, his arm around my shoulders.
“Oh, and please let Miss Wellington know that mulled wine spilled in the drawing room,” I said.
She nodded. “May I help you remove your outer garments before I leave?”
“I can do that,” Godric said.
She curtsied again. “Sir.” I saw the twinkle in her eyes; she liked him.
“I had only just begun to believe that I had not made the mistake of a lifetime, and now I have to accept that I never left my marital prison in the first place,” I said mournfully, after the door closed behind my maid.
Godric began unbuttoning my mantle. “I shall use the circumstances to expedite your annulment plea.”
“But at the moment, I’m still married. And can you imagine the scandal if any details slip out? It would affect your appointment as chancellor.”
“I’m not worried. Besides, it was never a certainty.
” He slipped the mantle off my shoulders and hung it up on a hook.
Then he swung off his greatcoat and hung it up as well, which gave me a chance to examine his green coat from the rear.
It was cut so skillfully that one didn’t notice the vents on either side, but I knew what the tailor was disguising from admiring eyes of women like me.
“Would you be offended if I removed my stained cravat?” he asked, turning to face me. “The reek of spiced wine is overpowering.”
“Your cravat protected my gown,” I said, nodding. “Tess would have been devastated had I returned with spotted white satin.”
“My valet is a pragmatic fellow who won’t flinch. He accepts that dark clothing disguises London’s coal smoke—and that I shall never leave the house without a penknife, whether it destroys the line of my coat or no.”
He untied and unwound the crumpled fabric that wrapped around his neck, finally stripping it off and tossing it over a chair. Unsurprisingly, his throat was not a white, slender gentleman’s throat. It was golden brown and corded with muscle.
The room suddenly felt very warm, especially after Godric turned and saw my expression. His face changed, his lids sinking low, his gaze not tense, but taut.
(I know a gaze can’t be taut; that’s the word that came to mind.)
I snatched up a fan from my dressing table, flipped it open, and began waving it before my face, since any ability to disguise my feelings was long gone. A stranger could have read my expression.
Unquestionably, Godric could.
How embarrassing. I flapped the fan so hard that ringlets billowed around my face.
A hand caught the fan and gently closed it. “Evie.”
I gulped. “Yes?”
“Would you like me to leave? I didn’t inquire whether you felt comfortable joining me for dinner in my chamber, indeed, whether you wished to join me. Crumpsall can serve you a meal here, or we could join the others, now that Ophelia has retired for the night.”
I shook my head, because the last thing I wanted was for Colette to see me in the grip of such an unladylike emotion.
“Evie,” Godric said, his voice warm and heavy, like liquid velvet.
(That sounded like a line from a dreadful novel. Worse than The Monk. Worse than a book in which the hero has taut eyes.)
Clichéd or not, his voice felt as if it caressed my skin.
“Fair warning, Evie: By next Christmas you will not be married to Burnsby.” His face had taken on that marble look again, as though he were a statue placed at the Hall of Justice to terrify evildoers.
“I know,” I croaked. “Will it take an entire year?”
“I trust not. I should like you to marry me as soon as possible.”
“I don’t know if I can ever trust my instincts again,” I confessed, eyeing Godric the way I had when we first met.
(Yes, I was trying to make him smile.)
“Should I offer arguments on my own behalf?” he asked, his lips curling as he stepped closer.
“No,” I said. And then, “Maybe. Why did I choose such a vile man the first time?”
He bent down and ran his knuckle gently down my cheek. “Your instincts are mostly sound, and so are mine.”
My stomach knotted at the tone of his voice, but in a wonderful way.
He caught up my hand, picked me up, and sat down. I found myself sideways in his lap, my back tucked against one of his arms, his legs forming my seat cushion.
“My instincts tell me that you’ve had a traumatic evening.” Godric kissed my forehead.
I leaned happily against his chest. “No need to rely on your intuition, since you were in the room.”
“A husband’s instincts—let’s pretend that I am said husband—would suggest that he lift his wife’s spirits.”
My heart began hammering in my chest. “Oh, right.” My body was overwrought with sensation. When Godric’s legs flexed, muscle rolled beneath my satin skirts. In his world, a husband would clearly kiss his wife into a better mood.
“May I?”
I could feel his breath on my cheek. I gave in to my basest impulses, looped my left arm around his neck, and leaned toward his face, the way I’d seen Colette lean toward Lance countless times.