A Matter of Temptation (4 page)

“Likable because he’s a duke,” Diana chided.

“You’re beginning to vex me, Diana.”

“Would you be so keen on her marrying him if he wasn’t?”

“I don’t understand why we’re discussing this today, rather than six months ago when the duke asked for her hand in marriage.”

“Because now Torie has doubts where she didn’t before.”

“Every bride has doubts on her wedding day. I daresay every groom has doubts. The reality of the moment is unsettling, because it is an enormous step to be taken.” Her mother looked at Torie and held her gaze. “Do you care for him?”

Did she? She liked him well enough. She enjoyed his company, although there were times…

“Sometimes he leaves me,” she admitted.

“Well, of course he does, dear girl. He doesn’t live in our house. After today his departures will occur with less frequency.”

“No, I’m not talking about his not being in a room with me. I’m referring to times when he is sitting right beside me, but he seems to have…gone away.”

“You’re talking in taxing riddles. He can’t not be there if he’s there.”

“I’m unable to explain myself adequately, Mother. But his leaving has been happening more and more often of late, and I find it quite troublesome. It’s as though he’s thinking such deep introspective thoughts that they carry him far away from me. Then he will turn to me, and a look will come over his face as though he’s almost surprised to find me beside him.”

“It sounds as though you are saying he’s merely distracted.”

“Distracted is as good a description as any, I suppose, although I’m not certain it’s quite that simple.”

“He’s a duke, Victoria. With four estates to see after, and only God knows how many servants, tenants, worries…It’s quite understandable that the responsibilities weigh on his mind, and when they do, it appears he’s giving less thought to you. Your father often pays me no attention. It’s nothing to worry over.”

“I suppose not, but still—”

“Victoria, you’re wearing on my nerves. Your father and I have worked incredibly hard so that you might have a better life than the one we’ve had. My dreams have been realized beyond expectation. Be happy.”

But what of her dreams, Torie wanted to ask. Except she feared she’d waited too late to give them much credence. It had all seemed so roman
tic when the duke had swept her off her feet, but now…

“You’ll be presented to the queen,” her mother said, changing the subject, as she moved the veil a quarter of an inch to the right and a quarter of an inch to the left where it flowed past Torie’s shoulders. “It won’t escape her notice that you carry her name, and when you become close friends, as I’m sure you must, I shall be invited to the palace.”

“Mother, I’m a commoner.”

“After today, you’ll be a duchess, dear. She’ll want to meet you. I’m sure of it.”

Another of her mother’s dreams. That her daughters should have the distinction of being presented to the queen. Torie was beginning to feel that her life was about fulfilling her mother’s dreams rather than her own.

She looked back in the mirror and began to wonder who this lady was standing before her. Had she ever truly seen her before? Did she truly know herself?

Or had she always simply been a reflection of her mother’s desires?

O
nly your wedding, Your Grace
.

His valet’s words had hit Robert in the chest with the force of a battering ram. Of the numerous things he’d considered as he’d plotted his escape and retribution, his brother being married—or getting married—had never once crossed his mind.

But from the moment those fateful words had been uttered, Robert had carried on an internal debate with himself while his valet had prepared him for this most monumental of occasions.

A wedding. His wedding.

No, his brother’s wedding.

Not really, not any longer.

But should it be? Should it be John’s wedding?

Or was it merely the wedding of the Duke of Killingsworth?

The distinction was small, but incredibly important, and had weighed heavily on his mind, influencing his assessment of the situation. In the end, he’d decided that he had no choice except to follow through on the plans already made.

Robert now stood at the front of the church, reconciling himself with the decision he’d made to go forth with the blasted ceremony. He’d reasoned that most marriages among the aristocracy were based on many factors, none of which involved love. Political gain, monetary gain, a father desperate to rid himself of a daughter, a man in need of an heir. He had little doubt that the lady, whoever she might be, had consented to marry the Duke of Killingsworth because of his title, his position, not because of the man himself. In other words, she’d consented to marry the duke, not John, and therefore she would acquire exactly what she, or her father, had bargained for.

She would marry the Duke of Killingsworth.

The fact that a different man would stand before her as the duke today than had yesterday was merely a minor inconvenience that should cause her no distress. It was inconceivable to him that she could actually hold any affection for John, and while Robert didn’t dare hope that she might come to care for him, he also recognized that from the time he was old enough to understand his duties as the heir apparent, he’d known
that marriage was expected, required, and that he would base his selection of a wife on the suitability of the woman to become the Duchess of Killingsworth, not on any romantic notions of love as spouted by poets.

Marriage was a duty. Finding a lady who complemented his status among the peerage was imperative. That John had undertaken the task in his stead saved Robert the trouble of doing so himself. Of course, it also left him in the precarious position of knowing nothing at all about the young lady—he assumed she’d be young—and wondering what she might know about John. Presumably very little, since she’d consented to marry him.

So tonight he would have a wife, and as his body had yet to be sated, he was filled with expectation, relief, and anticipation. He would welcome his new role as husband—and he would see to it that his wife welcomed him.

Beside Robert stood a tall, dark-haired man near his own age whom he was fairly certain was the Marquess of Lynmore. Since the man had assumed Robert was who he thought he was—and the man was serving as his best man—he’d seen no need to introduce himself.

And Robert couldn’t very well nudge him, wink, and whisper, “I say, old chap, you look rather familiar. Who are you again?”

The uncertainty was but a small disadvantage to be endured and overcome.

The advantage to this day was that John had set everything in motion, and all knew their respective roles and his. Robert hadn’t been forced to give a single command. His valet had known exactly what he was to wear for the occasion—a wine-colored frock coat, the trousers several shades lighter—and had helped him get dressed after giving his hair a proper trimming. The driver of the coach bearing the ducal crest had known precisely when and where to deliver him and, upon their arrival, had pointed to the open carriage parked nearby and explained that it would be used following the ceremony to carry the duke and his new duchess away. A man had met him on the church steps and escorted him to where he needed to be. All in all, this day might be incredibly easy to pull off.

While waiting for his bride’s arrival, he surveyed the crowd bunched up within the church and experienced a moment of dizziness. So many faces, so many people. Sitting on open pews without walls separating them from one another. Staring at him. A few leaning over to whisper to the person sitting beside them. It was a sight he’d seen numerous times in his youth, but suddenly it seemed strange, disorienting.

What were they saying? What were they thinking?

He had to remind himself that all was normal around him, that people were supposed to sit in the open, not be blocked off from viewing each-
other. People were meant to have the freedom to whisper to each other. They weren’t to be denied the pleasure of another’s company.

Many of the people looking at him were elderly. Some he thought he recognized as friends of his father’s and grandfather’s. Men like them, who had approved the building of Pentonville in 1842, who had agreed about and advocated for the separate system of confinement. Men who considered themselves modern-day thinkers.

The irony of their beliefs and how they’d affected him didn’t escape him. These men would never experience what they had wrought on others. Robert had, and once he no longer needed to worry over proving who he was and could safely take his place in the House of Lords, he was going to become an advocate for those imprisoned during this enlightened age—which, in his humble opinion, was anything but enlightened.

The isolation didn’t reform men as argued. It drove them insane. Unfortunately he often felt that it had carried him right up to the precipice of madness. He didn’t think he’d crossed over, but he experienced moments when he wondered, when he had doubts, when he wasn’t certain how he’d managed to hold on to his sanity in that madhouse of desperation.

Suddenly the organ music rose in crescendo, the unexpectedness of it taking the very breath from Robert’s body. A Gray’s organ had provided the music in the chapel at Pentonville, and
for a heartbeat, he was transported back to the horror of isolation and loneliness…

He found himself breaking out in a cold sweat, unexplainably feeling exposed and vulnerable. He hadn’t realize how accustomed he’d become to hiding his identity, to people not knowing who he was, to people not seeing his face, to looking at the world through peepholes that until that moment he’d not realized provided a certain amount of security. Everything with which he’d become familiar during the past eight years was no longer surrounding him. He’d thought he’d welcome shedding the vestments of captivity. Instead he found himself longing for the comfort of the familiar.

It wasn’t that he wanted to return to Pentonville. He was simply completely unprepared for the moment. He’d expected his first ventures out after his escape to involve small crowds, only a few people he’d selected to surround him. Not a church packed to the rafters with near strangers.

He wanted to run, to escape, but this time he couldn’t. He’d not worked loose the flooring beneath his feet. No hole was going to open up for him to squeeze through. He had to stand firm and make the best of this situation. At its very worst, it would be better than what he’d endured the day before.

It was time. Time to follow through on the masquerade that his brother had begun.

He focused on a young girl walking down the
aisle, tossing petals from a basket dangling on her arm. Two young ladies soon followed. Lovely ladies. Smiling, graceful. Unfamiliar to him. He wondered if he should know their names, if he would be forced to speak to them. Good God, he hoped not. He was terribly out of practice when it came to politely and charmingly speaking with ladies, when it came to talking to anyone. As they neared, he did nothing more than acknowledge them with a curt nod.

He returned his attention to the aisle where a lady and gentleman—a man he assumed to be her father—now made their way toward him. His bride, no doubt. Her gown was white satin and lace, the satin train trimmed with flowers. A lacy veil flowed down to her shoulders.

Should he recognize them? Was she someone he might have known in his youth? Was her father titled?

“I daresay, Killingsworth, you are one fortunate man, one fortunate man indeed,” Lynmore murmured.

As the woman came to stand before him, her father beside her, Robert acknowledged the truth of his best man’s words.

She was lovely beyond measure. The lacy veil provided an ethereal quality that couldn’t quite hide her features. Her hair was dark, pinned in place, giving him no hint as to its length or thickness, although it appeared a few strands curled about her face. Her dark eyes were focused on
him, and he wondered if they were brown or black. It was difficult to tell. She was small, her head barely reaching his shoulder. She looked to be so incredibly young.

Or was it only that he felt so incredibly old?

Either way, he could well imagine come nightfall that John would throw his body against the door, would pound the walls and floor, would be desperate to escape as he was filled with the knowledge of what Robert might be doing with the bride John had planned to marry. That was the true horror of Pentonville.

The unbearable imaginings that isolation could bring forth in a man’s mind when it was continually tortured by silence and loneliness.

It took determination, control, and concentration to hold the nightmares at bay. And sometimes, no matter how much he wanted to, Robert couldn’t latch on to any of the skills needed to be free of the nightmares. He would be too weary, too beaten, too tired. The emotional strain…yes, his brother would suffer tonight.

The archbishop was asking something, her father answered, and Robert realized that he couldn’t continue to drift off into reminiscences of the hell he’d endured, but that he had to remain focused on this precise moment. If anyone suspected that he’d swapped places with his brother, he could very well find himself trying to justify his own scheming before he was ready, and it would place him at a huge disadvantage.

He had to remain cautious and alert until he could determine the best course of action.

No one around him was speaking, everyone seemed to be waiting, and he feared he might have reached the portion of the day when he was supposed to know precisely what to do without assistance from anyone.

“If you’ll extend your arm to your bride, Your Grace,” the archbishop whispered.

Of course. Her father was giving her into Robert’s keeping. He was familiar with this part of the ceremony, having attended a few weddings as a guest. It was simple enough to perform. So he held out his arm.

Then she smiled, an incredibly sweet, joyous smile, her eyes shining with such happiness that the veil couldn’t disguise the hope, faith, and affection that she was showering on him.

Oh, dear God
. He’d made a ghastly mistake, vastly misjudged the situation. It wasn’t the duke she was here to marry, it was
John
. As unlikely as it seemed, she cared for John. If the warmth reflected by her expression was any indication, she might actually love his brother.

It was an aspect to the marriage that he’d not even considered. The ramification of what he was about to do almost brought him to his knees.

During all his scheming, his carefully thought out plans, the many hours he’d lain on the hammock that stretched between the walls of his cell and stared at the unadorned high ceiling, ponder
ing his strategy, his escape, his retribution, he’d not once considered that he might shatter a young woman’s heart, that he might betray an innocent.

He should simply stride out of the church while murmuring his apologies and regrets. Better to embarrass the lady now than mortify her later. He could say that he’d had a change of heart, which was the truth. The duke’s heart was different, because the duke was a different man. Convoluted reasoning to be sure, but the truth nonetheless.

But if he marched out, he’d find himself in a worse situation than he was already in. Because people would want to know exactly why he wasn’t willing to go through with the ceremony.

Besides, crying off generally carried grave consequences, and he had no idea what those might entail. All he knew was that he wasn’t in a position to deal with them while righting all the other misbegotten affairs of his life. He cursed his brother, cursed his own lack of planning, and cursed his wife-to-be for good measure. Even though she was innocent, she was going to sticky up an already dreadfully sticky situation.

He saw no other recourse except to go through with the ceremony. But not the marriage. He would find an excuse to distance himself from the woman—to allow her to remain chaste. And once he’d determined how to prove he was the true duke—then what would he do?

He would release his brother from captivity,
undo the ridiculous marriage, and magnanimously return his brother’s love to him, not so much out of kindness to his brother but rather his concern for fairness to the woman. It wasn’t honorable for her to have to marry a man other than the one she’d intended, especially when she looked upon him with such adoration.

Yes, his plans could all still work. Not as smoothly as he’d originally hoped, but it could come about. He would set himself to the task—as diligently as possible—to prove his claims. Then they would all be free from his brother’s troublesome—not to mention illegal—meddling.

He forced himself to give her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

She placed her hand on his arm, and they both stepped forward, giving their attention to the archbishop, whose voice began to ring out to the rafters with the words that would soon seal both their fates.

Robert surreptitiously slid his gaze over to the woman who was to have been John’s bride and was now his. She was much more interesting to study than the aging archbishop. Her eyes were her dominant feature: large and almond-shaped. They were almost exotic. He wondered what details the curtain of lace held secret. Were her lashes as long as they appeared, or was that merely an illusion of the lace? Did she have blemishes or delicate lines that had been etched by laughter? Did she smile often, or did she save her
smiles for the most special of occasions, such as when greeting the man whom she was to marry?