My Scandalous Viscount (8 page)

An earnest welling of emotion overtook her heart as they stood hand in hand before the altar. She stole a nervous glance at the handsome viscount by her side.

How heavenly he looked, tall and proud and noble in his dove gray coat, like a golden angel visiting earth in the guise of an English gentleman.

His white cravat fairly gleamed with perfection; the longer edge of his pale silk waistcoat peeked out beneath his gray jacket’s neat cutaways—baby blue and silver pinstripes. His trousers were white, his shoes black. And his white-gloved hand supported hers as the vicar read to them from II Corinthians.

“Love is patient. Love is kind . . .”

She knew the passage well; her mind wandered.

Despite the beauty of their setting, she could not deny that it was rather lonely for a wedding.

The only guests were Uncle and Aunt Denbury, serving as witnesses, and their children. Lady Joss still looked bemused by it all. Araminta covered a yawn. Miss Trent wiped away silent tears yet again, while the future Lord Denbury, her uncle’s ten-year-old son, young Horace, fidgeted and scowled at having to don his stiff Sunday clothes in the middle of the week.
Little monster, that one.
Carissa wished that Daphne were here. And also Lord Falconridge, of whom she had grown especially fond.

She wished at least they might have waited for Aunt Jo, who had been summoned from Paris. She should be here in a few more days, but Lord Denbury said it was just as well. He did not dare give his worldly sister the chance to come gusting gaily onto the scene as she was wont to do and say some outrageous thing that would scare the groom away, or worse, snatch him up for herself.

There seemed to be no danger of that, however.

Beau stood his ground beside her, listening intently to the reading. She wondered if he was already regretting this. When she stole another sideward glance at him, she found him smiling. Just a touch of softness around his lips.

Anxiety and sheer agonizing infatuation made her every muscle clench.
Dear God, please don’t let him notice anything amiss tonight! I can’t bear for him to hate me.

At her wits’ end after three days of worry, she had thrown up her hands and more or less decided to try deception. She did not want to do it, but with spy trouble afoot, he had enough to worry about without also having to fear that he had inadvertently married a harlot.

After all, if he thought that of her, would that not give him carte blanche to continue his libertine ways instead of behaving like a proper husband? She had already been jealous of his liaisons with other women before there had been any talk of marriage. If he resumed such pursuits after they were wed, she really did not know how she would endure it.

So she had decided that tonight, she would play the innocent—which shouldn’t be hard, since she had only done it once, anyway.

If he voiced any suspicions about her afterward, she would rebuke him for a scoundrel and a knave to dishonor her with doubt and accusations. Why, she could throw a fit of hysterics worthy of Araminta, if it came to that.

Her original thought, that she might be able to trust him with her secret, faded into darkness the more the hour of truth drew near.

“Love keeps no records of wrongs . . .”

The wise old vicar glanced at Carissa as if he somehow knew his words were going into one ear and out the other.

She looked askance at him, this dangerous, charming man who was about to become her mate for life, and wanted one simple thing with all her heart.

For him to love her.

F
illed with tender protectiveness toward his bride, Beau stole a sideward glance at her, delighted all over again by her loveliness. She looked radiant today, and he could hardly wait to get his hands on her tonight.

At last, he would have the right to enjoy her as he pleased, with the full consent of God and man.

He regretted the fact that none of the people he would have expected to come to his wedding were on hand, but it was no use complaining. Virgil was dead. Rotherstone’s team was off in Europe, and Nick and Trevor were God-knew-where.

While his bride had been feverishly making her wedding preparations, he had done the same and more, namely, marshaling every resource he had left to put all London assets on the watch for Nick.

The baron had no family for Beau to get in touch with, but he had covered the legal and financial angles. He notified banks and solicitors in case Nick tried anything tricky with whatever money he had been paid for his nefarious deeds. Beau had also put out a query on Nick’s whereabouts with a particular Bow Street officer who sometimes helped them sniff out clues.

Likewise, he had activated his web of informants in the gambling hells and taverns Nick had always favored. He had also alerted the gunsmiths they had used in the past that he wanted to be told immediately if Nick came in. Hell, he had even put the blackguard’s former tailor on notice.

No doubt, Nick had holed up somewhere that he would be impossible to find, but with a hundred pairs of eyes on the lookout, he soon wouldn’t be able to drink a pint in London without Beau’s knowing about it, where and when.

Yet, still pained by the betrayal of the friend he had always expected would be his best man, he put Nick out of his mind and focused on the ceremony.

The vicar asked the great question.

Smiling, Beau glanced at Carissa; maybe it was time he took a new best friend. He laid his hand over her fingers, which rested lightly on his forearm. Then he looked forward again and gave the priest a proud nod. “I do.”

Chapter 8

W
hen they returned to the Denbury home, Carissa could not stop staring at the ring on her hand.

The deed was done, their mad pact cemented.

The slim golden band on her finger was startling proof that the two of them had actually gone through with it.

She was Lady Beauchamp now.

It was all a little overwhelming. How ironic it was in hindsight, that two people so expert at keeping secrets should have so swiftly concluded that this was one they couldn’t keep—their unsanctioned time together inside Dante House. Maybe deep down, both of them had really wanted this but had been too cowardly to admit it. All she knew was the day had the disconnected quality of a dream, a swirling mix of unexpected happiness—and the sudden recurrence every now and then of her own, private agony about tonight.

Scarcely able to believe that the beautiful man beside her was her own, she teetered between amazement and terror, that it would all fall apart in the blink of an eye. Shame still lurked in the hidden corners of her heart ever since Roger Benton had robbed her of her innocence.

If Beau figured it out—if he asked—should she maybe just tell him the truth? She could not stop watching him, trying to read him, looking for any sign of what she ought to do.

Of course, he quickly charmed her relatives though not perhaps her uncle. Aunt Denbury and Miss Trent were in awe of him. Even the little monster warmed up to him; the brotherly air he adopted soon cut through Araminta’s shallow flirtations and even thawed the hauteur of the elder sister, Lady Joss, by talking to her about the racing colt that the famed equestrienne had chosen for her father’s stables.

Though it was only just the family, they had an elaborate dinner—which Carissa barely touched—followed by the splendid wedding cake with champagne. The vanilla almond cake from Gunther’s was an artful confection of seven layers, with fluffy white icing and marvelous sculpted flowers.

Then came the exchange of gifts, starting with her teary-eyed aunt’s contributions to her trousseau. Among these treasures were a silver tea service that had been passed down in her family, and a bolt of ravishing Brussels lace for tablecloths or whatever else she might need to make her new home more her own.

Miss Trent gave her the latest book of essays on wifely virtue and another on managing a great household.

Araminta gave her a green Paisley shawl; Joss gave her a fabric-covered blank journal for a diary and a writing set. Horace presented her with a gift obviously supplied by his father, a small painting of all of them together that had been done years ago at Christmastime.

She hugged them all, taken aback by their rare display of warmth. Either they had cared for her all along more than they had ever shown, or were doting on her now from guilt, realizing that they could have made her feel a little more included all along. Now that she was leaving, perhaps they felt a belated touch of regret.

Or, the cynical side of her observed, maybe this show of affection came from a more practical awareness of her new position in Society. But she pushed the uncharitable thoughts away. They did not belong here now. Whatever was causing her relatives to be so kind to her on this, her wedding day, she was not about to question it, merely grateful and quite touched.

Then her husband of about three hours turned to her with a roguish smile. “Well, my lady, would you like to see your gifts from me?”

“Of course.”

He stood, took her by the hand, and pulled her up from her seat, holding her gaze. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

Mischief danced in his blue eyes. “Oh, you’ll see.”

“Where’s he taking her?” Cousin Horace echoed.

“Join us,” he invited her kin in his usual easygoing way. “I’m sure we’ll all be very interested to see her reaction.”

“Beauchamp, what have you done?” she murmured as he led her to the front door.

He opened it without a word, gesturing to the world beyond as he held it open for her.

Carissa looked at him in puzzlement, then lifted the hem of her skirts and stepped out. Sunset had set the western sky afire; the leaves of the tall plane trees in the garden square caught the light and glittered as if gold coins were growing on every bough.

Following her out, Beau lifted his fingers to his lips and let out a piercing whistle in as common a fashion as some Billingsgate fisherman or burly mail-coach driver.

Little cousin Horace, much impressed by this feat, instantly tried to copy him, but Aunt Denbury brushed the boy’s hand away from his mouth. “Don’t do that, Horace.”

“Close your eyes,” Beau said to Carissa. “Go on!”

She did, and blocking out all sights made her more aware of other senses, like touch: his gentle, steadying hand on the small of her back.

And hearing . . .

The clip-clop of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels approached. A curious smile tugged at her lips. “Who’s coming? Have you brought someone to see me?” Then all of a sudden she gasped. “Have you brought Daphne?”

He harrumphed. “No.”

The sound stopped.

“Now open your eyes.”

She obeyed.

Halted at the curb, she beheld a gorgeous coach-and-four. The liveried coachman tipped his hat to her. “Milady.”

Her jaw dropped. Wide-eyed, she spun to face her husband. “For me?”

He grinned. “Now you can travel in style.”

“Oh—Beauchamp!” Amazed, she covered her mouth with both hands and looked at it again.

The rich cherrywood of its sleek chassis had been polished to a high gleam. The brass fixtures fairly sparkled—and the horses! The snow-white pair in black harness had been adorned with red plumes on their heads for the occasion.

“Jamison will be your driver,” Beau informed her, gesturing to the coachman. “He’s been with my family a long time. I trust him implicitly.”

Carissa nodded to her new driver. “Pleased to meet you, Jamison.”

He bowed, beaming at her. “Felicitations, milady.”

“It’s beautiful, Beau. Just beautiful,” she echoed in lingering disbelief, turning to her new husband.

He tapped her on the nose and playfully leaned closer. “Just so you’re aware,” he added in a conspiratorial tone, “I’ve given Jamison strict orders to keep you out of mischief when I’m not present. Given your penchant for getting into trouble, I don’t intend to let you go gadding about Town willy-nilly when I’m not there to keep you out of trouble. If you ask to be driven to any destination that I might deem unwise, I’ve given Jamison discretion to refuse until you’ve checked with me first.”

“Oh, really? So you’ve set your man to spy on me?” she murmured with a pointed look.

He smiled serenely, his face close to hers. “Rather irksome when the tables are turned on one, isn’t it, my dear?” He took her hand. “Come. There’s more.”

“More?” she exclaimed.

He marched back into the house, tugging her after him.

“Oh, yes. We’re just getting started. Hurry, love. We can’t stay here all night. If you take my meaning.”

Her eyes widened at his murmured innuendo.

When they arrived in the drawing room, three boxes tied up with ribbon bows had appeared on the low table in front of the fireplace, along with a large, mysterious, mound-shaped object concealed under a square of blue silk and, likewise, adorned with a ribbon.

“All this is for me?” she exclaimed.

“You are the bride, aren’t you? Start with this one.” He pointed to the silk-draped object. “Hurry,” he added, glancing at the mantel clock. It was a couple of minutes before six.

“Don’t be so impatient, Lord Beauchamp. Honestly,” her uncle muttered.

Carissa inspected the odd-shaped present, then turned to her bridegroom in skeptical curiosity. “What’s under there?”

“I’ll never tell. Go on, open it. Don’t try to lift it, though. It’s too heavy. Just take off its clothes.”

Her cousins shrieked at his mischievous whisper. Aunt Denbury’s eyes widened; Miss Trent choked; the earl scowled. Suppressing laughter, Carissa gave him a warning look that scolded him to behave. Then, pink-cheeked from his flirting, she did what he suggested. As she untied the ribbon, she realized that never in her life had anyone made such a fuss over her. It really was bizarre.

Taking hold of a corner of the silken square, she glanced at him where he sat in the nearby armchair; he stared back at her like a man at a card game, his face revealing nothing. He rested his chin on his fist.

Then she whisked the silk away and gasped in amazement at the ornate, gilded, vase-clock sort of a thing built in layers. The bottom was a sturdy wooden pediment ornamented with flower garlands and medallions. Above that was a small pastel painting of what looked like the main pavilion at Vauxhall, and above that, there sat golden figurines of four musicians with their instruments.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, staring at the mystery. “But, um . . . what is it, then?”

“Hold on thirty seconds, and you’ll see.”

She turned to him, brow furrowed. “Why is that?”

“I know what that is!” Horace announced, stepping closer. “It’s an automaton clock!”

And right as the hour struck, the clock came to life with a single, melodious chime.

A great whirring and clicking gathered from inside its wooden mechanical housing. The chimes turned to music, the gilded players striking their instruments, their tiny arms working to produce the little, tinkling, music-box melody.

At the same time, a tiny placard popped down in front of “Vauxhall” that said:
Dance.

On this command, painted figures of waltzing couples only as tall as her pinky finger emerged from the side of the vase and began revolving across the front of the Vauxhall painting and back into the other side. She counted ten different pairs of little painted dancers, each clothed in the first stare of fashion.

The girls exclaimed in wonder as the next feature clicked into motion—a miniature Cupid flew out of a tiny golden door and began circling above the dancers, bobbing up and down mechanically with his bow and arrow, as if looking for a target.

“Oh, how perfectly delightful, Lord Beauchamp!”

“It’s a marvel!”

They all clapped when the little show was over. The musicians stilled their bows; the dancers retired until the next set on the quarter hour; and Cupid flew back into his hiding place.

“Do you like it?”

“I do! Thank you so much, you dear man. It’s magical,” she told him with a warm gaze.

“You forgot to read the inscription on the back,” he added softly.

Mystified, Carissa stepped around the corner of the table to view the back of the musical automaton clock. She leaned closer to read the small brass plaque attached to the wooden base. She saw he’d had it engraved.

Flowing script letters recorded their names and the date of their marriage, and then in plainer block font beneath this, she read the inscription: T
O MY SWEET
C
ARISSA.
D
ANCE WITH ME FOREVER.
Y
OUR
L
OVING
H
USBAND,
B
EAU.

Her heart fluttered as she read it a second time. Speechless, she went over and hugged him.

When he drew her into his arms with a low, fond laugh, she kissed him fervently on the cheek.
I think I’m going to like being married to you.

As she pulled back, he captured her face between his fingertips and gazed, smiling, into her eyes. His lack of a droll comment filled her with exquisite, trembling hope that he actually meant every word of that romantic inscription and that it was not just his usual, droll hyperbole.

Maybe he
wasn’t
just marrying her in order to make sure she didn’t spill his secrets. Maybe he truly cared.

When he chucked her gently under the chin and told her to continue opening presents, she could not find her voice. His generosity and the words engraved on that splendid clock had practically melted her into a puddle of honey on the floor. “Go on,” he urged, nodding toward the other boxes. “I’m not done spoiling you yet.”

The dreamlike feeling returned as he awed her yet again, with a beautiful opal necklace made small and delicate enough not to overwhelm her petite stature. So much of the Renaissance-Revival-style jewelry so popular was too much for a lady of only five-foot-one. Miss Trent helped put the necklace on her, and they all admired her while he beamed with husbandly pride.

“I had a feeling that stone would look perfect with your skin.”

The smolder in his eyes was growing stronger as she kissed him in thanks, this time a cautious peck on the lips. His fourth present, thankfully, lightened the mood. She knew he was up to something when he set the largest of the three pasteboard boxes on her lap. It was wide and tall, circular in shape, but for its size, it felt lighter than it looked.

She pulled off the ribbon, then lifted the lid. And promptly burst out laughing as she lifted out the most hideous bonnet the world had ever seen.

“What? You don’t like it?” he exclaimed, pretending hurt.

“It looks like a drowned peacock on top of a rat’s nest!” She laughed uproariously, as much in release of nervous tension as with real humor.

Her relatives were silent; politely baffled, they knew not how to react. They could not imagine why the man would give her such a thing—or why she’d laugh—but it was a private joke between the two of them.

The promised hat.

The moment was seared in her memory from that night at Dante House, when he had promised to take her to the best milliner’s shop in London and buy her any hat she wanted if she’d just hold still and let him make the stitches.

His way of apologizing for having to clip a little of her hair to clean the wound. “Well done! You are true to your word, my lord!” she declared.

“Put it on. I want to see how beautiful you look.”

She did, presenting herself with a flourish.

“Gorgeous,” he declared.

“Oh, but, cousin, you can’t wear that in public!” Araminta burst out, unable to help herself.

“She’s right,” Joss agreed sternly. “It’s horrid.”