Lord Devere's Ward (21 page)

If Herbert were allowed to survive, they’d never have any peace. The thought made her feel a bit better, though not much. It made sense, more sense than considerations of honor.

She pressed her napkin to her eyes until they stopped watering. Bad form to let the servants see her weep.

Kate left the dining room and retreated to her bedroom. She stared balefully at the door which led to Quinn’s room. No sound came from the other side of the door.

The bedroom was bleak and chilly. No fire burned on the hearth, as Bettina was not aware Kate had retired early. Only one lamp was lit.

The room had been dusted, and the bed linens were fresh. The water in the ewer on the dresser was cold, but adequate.

Kate undressed and washed and cried herself to sleep.

* * *

The next day dawned cool rather than sultry.

Kate was glad of the change in the weather. Her nerves were stretched to their limits, and she did not know if she could tolerate another close, warm day.

Unsure of appropriate attire for a fallen woman who was about to wed her seducer, she opted for simplicity, selecting a plain, ice-blue sarcenet with a matching chip-straw hat. A frown creased her brow as she eyed the jaunty hat in the mirror. Shouldn’t she hide her face? Unfortunately, veils were not in fashion. She told Bettina to bring her a bonnet with an exceptionally deep poke instead.

Thus attired, she met Quinn downstairs in one of the drawing rooms. This one was lined with books and its furniture upholstered in leaf-green brocade.

She looked at her intended. Quinn’s eyes were as puffy as hers, and he seemed to have difficulty keeping his lids raised. Crop-sick, is he? Serves him right! Somehow the knowledge Quinn had as bad a night as did she made Kate feel better. Ashamed, but better.

They took the closed barouche to Doctor’s Commons to procure the license, and were accompanied by Richard Carrothers “who,” said Quinn, “is a dab with the details.” While Carrothers was in the edifice dealing with “the details,” Quinn took Kate to a coffee house and poured cup after cup of strong brew down his throat.

The day dashed by. After a quick luncheon in Berkeley Square, Kate allowed Bettina to dress her again in her white ruched silk for the simple ceremony at the church.

Based on the hastiness of the wedding, both Kate and Quinn were surprised to see numerous equipages drawn up in front of St. Martin’s. Several of the vehicles sported crests of the nobility painted on their doors. It was a Tuesday at three in the afternoon, an hour during which members of the ton normally visited each other and exchanged gossip.

Kate and Quinn entered the church by way of the main doors. As they trod the length of the nave, they were astonished to see the dimly lit church was half-full. They stepped up to the altar, decorated with flowers and greenery, looking for the officiant and the witnesses.

The cleric bustled forth from the chancel, where he had been instructing the choir in anticipation of the Sunday service.

“Well, well.” He beamed at the two of them. “You are here, and eagerly anticipated, I vow. The special license?”

“Sir, what are all these people doing here?” Kate asked as Devere removed the license from his pocket.

“And where are Sir Willoughby and Sir Pen?” The reverend raised his white eyebrows. “So impatient, these young ones,” he murmured. “I believe your witnesses have arrived.”

Sir Willoughby and Sir Pen hurried up the main aisle of the nave. Anna, who walked behind them, carried a bouquet of red roses. She handed it to Kate, then dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Weddings always make me weep.” She smiled mistily at Kate. “Welcome to our family, darling Kate.”

“Thank you.” Kate could barely force the words out. Thank heavens for Lady Anna, who could make Kate feel cherished with a mere glance. “But who are all these people? And why are they here?” Devere cast a glance over the room. “Quite a few familiar faces, what?”

“No,” said Kate. “I’ve never seen any of them before.”

“Ah, but we have,” said Sir Willoughby. “The pink of the ton have decided to grace your wedding with their presence.”

“I don’t want them here,” Kate grumbled.

“We can’t toss them out, Kate, it’s a church.” Quinn pointed out.

“I don’t even know them. How can they wish me happy?”

“They don’t. They are merely curious.” Sighing, Quinn glanced at Anna. “Can’t stop the servants from talking, can we?”

“So that’s it?” asked Kate.

“Almost certainly,” Quinn said. “I am familiar with my neighbors. Virtually everyone here lives in the vicinity of Berkeley Square, or is acquainted with someone who does.”

Hawkes looked out over the throng. “Good Lord,” he murmured. “There’s Staveley.” Kate frowned. The name rang a tiny bell in her disheveled brain.

“You’re joking.” Devere raised his lorgnon.

“Weren’t you lurking about her for a while, Quinn?” Pen asked in a soft tone.

“Yes, but that was before I met Kate.”

“Whatever for? Widows, however wealthy, aren’t your style,” Anna said.

“Staveley’s all right. Got brats already. Proven breeder, and all.”

“A proven breeder? Let me see that!” Kate reached for Devere’s eyeglass.

He evaded her grab. “See here, Kate, you mustn’t stare! You’re causing a scene.”

“I’m causing a scene? Tell me, my lord, is this why you’re marrying me? To breed? Aren’t you taking a bit of a chance? After all, I am not a proven breeder.” She again tried to snatch the lorgnon.

The group at the altar was about to break into an unseemly scuffle when Kate heard the soft slap of running feet clad in slippers. She turned to look down the nave. A small figure fashionably dressed in rose-pink sarcenet dashed toward the altar, bearing a bouquet of pink roses. She was followed more decorously by a servant.

“Ah, so she made it,” said Quinn, with satisfaction in his voice. He cocked his head to Katherine. “I did arrange for one of your friends to attend, Kate.”

Lady Sybilla Farland reached the altar, puffing in a manner certain to draw censure from the watching biddies. “Oh, so you already have flowers?” Kate squashed the bouquet against her friend’s chest as she ruthlessly hugged Sybilla without a care for the condition of the sarcenet. Sybilla squeaked, then hugged Kate back, and whispered in her ear.

“I just received Lord Devere’s message. You sly minx, I had guessed after that day at Hampton Court, but I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t either. It all happened so fast! We can talk about it later.”

“Where is Mr. St. Wills?” asked Sybilla. “He’s your oldest friend. Didn’t he come?”

“Ahem!” The cleric coughed for their attention.

“If I may begin?”

Katherine examined Quinn as the reverend’s sonorous voice lulled her through the wedding service. Her lover, dressed in his finest for the occasion, had become livelier as the day had progressed. She became aware of his scent, his newly trimmed hair, his shaved chin. Watching his mobile lips as he gave the proper responses during the service, she remembered how those lips felt sucking on her breasts. Distracted, she stumbled over her words.

She came apart when Sir Pen withdrew two rings from his pocket and presented one to each of them.

“Robert’s ring,” she whispered. Tears came to her eyes. She held the heavy signet in her palm, remembering the last time she had seen it. The ring had adorned her grandfather’s hand as he lay dying.

Bennett, Kate’s father, had worn this ring, and it had been returned to Kate’s grandfather when Bennett had been killed.

“Who’s Robert?” asked Quinn, sotto voce.

“Robert Scoville was the first Earl,” murmured Kate. She sniffed, then handed her bouquet to Sybilla.

She hunted in her reticule for a handkerchief. “Henry the Eighth gave that ring to Robert along with the earldom.”

“And this one?” asked Quinn, holding aloft another ring for her inspection. It featured a large cabochon sapphire set in gold.

“That one’s almost as old,” said Kate. “It’s the countess’s wedding ring. My mother wore it.” She blotted tears from her eyes and nose. “From where did you get them?”

“Ahem!” The cleric interrupted their quiet conversation. “If I may conclude?”

“Ah, yes. Quite. Sorry.” Quinn favored the officiant with a brief smile.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” instructed the minister.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” sang out Quinn, slipping the ring onto Kate’s finger.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” murmured Kate.

“You may now kiss the bride.”

Quinn pulled Katherine into his arms and kissed her thoroughly and possessively. He whispered into her ear, “Everything will work itself out, sweet Kate, you’ll see!” She hugged him back and burst into tears.

A bit embarrassing, her conduct at the church.

Quinn knew from her tears had sprung from her tender heart, but had also heard the whispers which had flowed in their wake as they walked back down the nave, and climbed into their carriage for the short ride to Clarendon’s.
She doesn’t look happy….did you
know she’s his
ward
? Devere’s married an underage chit
with the wealth of Croesus…understandable, I’d do it
myself….probably a pretty creature when she isn’t
imitating a watering pot! No one knows her…of course
not, she isn’t even out yet! He does prefer virgins…
He hoped Kate hadn’t heard that last. His affection, no, his adoration, for his wife far exceeded anything he’d ever felt for the other women he’d used for his pleasure in the past.

He glanced at Katherine, who sat a few inches away from him in the barouche. Too far. He slid next to her, and slipped his arm around her shoulders. She turned her face up to him, accepting his kiss. He didn’t release her until the equipage stopped at Clarendon’s for their wedding feast.

The conversation over the meal was also lively but general. No one mentioned the forthcoming duel.

Sybilla again asked about the whereabouts of Bryan St. Wills.

“We don’t know.” Quinn fidgeted with his napkin. “I hunted for Kate along the Great North Road, and Hawkes went south to Dover. We asked St.

Wills to go to Badham Abbey, in Wiltshire. I sent a message there, but I’m not quite sure what’s happened to our friend.”

“I am quite troubled,” said Kate. “Bryan is so very reliable.”

“P’raps I’ll ask my father to check on it,” said Sybilla. “What’s the use of having the ear of royalty if you can’t use it once on a while?”

The chef at the Clarendon, who had served Napoleon, outdid himself, but Quinn couldn’t taste a bite. His sole desire was getting his lovely wife back into his bed.

His wife. What wonderful words.

He’d missed her last night, but felt he needed to prove a point, to himself, if not to her. Neither of them had spoken of their quarrel all day, but it was there, like a half-healed bruise. ’Twas only a matter of time until one or the other pushed on the spot to see if it still hurt. He guessed it would be Kate, especially since he planned to go to Signor Angelo’s on the morrow to practice. He also knew she was too honest to make love with him if she were angry, and he’d be damned if he forced her.

* * *

Quinn opened the door adjoining their rooms, attired in a nightshirt. Kate was seated in front of a vanity as her maid brushed her hair. He caught her eye in the mirror.

“That will be all, Bettina,” he said, keeping his voice low and soothing. He noticed the servant did not leave until Kate nodded.

“Well, Countess Devere, my bedroom or yours?”

“This doesn’t truly feel like my bedroom.”

“If the decor is not to your taste, you may of course change it in any way you please,” he said.

“Perhaps we shall visit a draper’s on the morrow to purchase new fabric for hangings and bedclothes.” Her visage brightened. “I’d enjoy that, my lord.”

“I’m your husband now. No more ‘my lord’

except in public.” The conversation was stilted, but he hadn’t any idea how to put her at ease. Dash it, they should be more easy with each other now that they were married, shouldn’t they?

Perhaps she would not feel truly married until they shared a bed. Yes, that was it. A good bout of sex would surely improve her mood. It always made him feel better. Why should she be different?

“Come,” he said, taking her arm to lead her to his room. She pulled away gently.

“I’m sorry, Quinn, but we really have to talk.” Kate’s voice had only the merest hint of a tremble.

He smiled as he took back her arm, kissing her on her forehead. “Are you still upset about the duel?”

“Very much so, my l—Quinn.” She sat on her bed.

“Some actions cannot be ignored, sweet Kate.”

“I know.” Her voice was miserable as her hands twisted in her nightgown.

“I thought you would be relieved to be rid of your detestable uncle and his whelp.” He sat next to her to cover her hands with his own.

“I will be. Are you also going to duel Osborn?”

“I am not sure. It would be unattractive for me to kill an underage child, especially since I have already wounded him.”

She rubbed her face against his arm. “My lord, please call off the duel.”

“No.”

“Oh, God, Quinn.” She turned her face into his chest and cried without shame or restraint.

He took her in his arms and waited out the flood.

It was shorter than forty days and nights, but no less damp. When she lay against him, quiet, limp, and weak, he pulled back the covers and put them both into her bed. He found her a handkerchief.

“I’m sorry. This is our wedding night, and I’m spoiling everything.” She blew her nose with a small but appealing honk.

He kissed her moist cheeks and her forehead.

“You’re not spoiling anything, sweetheart. We’ll have many nights together. But I must say your attitude does not betoken much confidence in me.”

“I hate to take any chances. He’s so absolutely wicked. What if he arranges to stab you in the back, or whatever?”

“I hardly think that is a possibility, but I shall arrange to, er, watch my back.” He cuddled her close.

“I say, would you like to come to Signor Angelo’s fencing establishment with me tomorrow? Then you will see that I’m not so helpless.”