The Accidental Bride (4 page)

“Yes, of c-course I do.”

“I would be a partner in his life,” Phoebe continued. “Not a dependent with limited uses.”

“Married women are always dependent,” Olivia stated. “They can’t help but be . . . well, except for Portia,” she added.

“What Portia can do, I can do,” Phoebe said.

“But once you give my father an heir, I don’t expect he’ll trouble you much. He’s always so busy . . .” Olivia’s voice trailed off. She was not offering much in the way of comfort to her friend, who was facing the one situation they had always agreed to avoid. A situation that Olivia herself couldn’t bear to contemplate.

“Not so busy that he won’t expect me to honor and obey implicitly in exchange for a roof over my head and clothes on my back,” Phoebe said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “He said as much. Wives aren’t people, they’re chattels.”

Olivia shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know what to say.”

“There isn’t anything,” Phoebe declared. “I’m stuck with it. Unless I can do something about it. So I’m going to try.”

“O
h, do stand still, Lady Phoebe. How can I set these
pins when y’are wrigglin’ around like an anthill . . . and just watch where you put your ’ands, now! Filthy, they are. They’ll leave great dirty marks all over, they will.”

Phoebe sighed and curled her grime-encrusted hands into fists, holding them away from her skirts. She’d been in the village helping one of the young widows muck out her stable, and the time had run away from her, so she’d been late for the fitting and hadn’t had a chance to wash.

“Do you think Portia will get here in time for the wedding, Olivia?”

Olivia, from the window seat where she was alternately reading and watching the progress of the fitting, shook her head. “My father said it would b-be impossible for her to make the journey in less than four weeks, and we only sent to her three weeks ago.”

Phoebe nodded glumly. She was in sore need of some robust counsel of the kind that only Portia could provide.

The wedding night.
She could think of little else these days. She had only a hazy knowledge of the whats and wheres of the business, but when she imagined being in the great four-poster bed with Cato, her body caught fire. Whatever it was exactly that they would do, she reasoned that they had to be close to do it. Skin to skin . . . mouth to mouth. She could run her fingers through his hair, press her lips to the deep hollow of his throat. Inhale that rich masculine scent that he had. An indefinable mélange of aromas that she had come to associate just with Cato. It was his hair, his skin, the tang of
leather and musk, the lavender of his linen, and the fresh, clean scents of the open air.

“Oh, Lady Phoebe, keep still, do,” the seamstress exclaimed as Phoebe took an involuntary step forward with one foot off the stool she was standing on.

“Let me look at the gown,” Phoebe said, brushing the woman aside and stepping down completely. She picked up the trailing hem and walked over to the console glass.

Phoebe examined her reflection critically. “Hand-me-down gowns for a hand-me-down bride,” she remarked with a somewhat bitter smile. “Why on earth should people assume that what looked wonderful on Diana on her wedding day would look as wonderful on
me?”

The gown was of pearl-encrusted ivory damask and was caught under her breasts with a girdle of silver tissue. Five years before, Diana had married the marquis of Granville in this very gown. And she had looked exquisite, ethereal. Not so Phoebe, who looked dumpy and insipid.

“And no one asked me if I wished to wear it!” she complained. “My father just said how economical it would be, and Lord Granville merely shrugged as if it didn’t matter a tinker’s damn what I wore to the altar.”

“I don’t suppose he thinks it does,” Olivia said from an accurate knowledge of her parent. “He’s much more likely to think that a new gown would cost as much as outfitting three troopers of his militia. I wish the war would be over,” she added with a melancholy sigh. “It’s all my father ever thinks about.”

“It’s a little difficult to ignore,” Phoebe pointed out. “But even if it was over, my father would still be trying to save money. He just wouldn’t have the same excuse.”

She frowned at her reflection, muttering, “You know, I think I’d rather wear one of my old gowns.” She turned sideways and pressed the material to her body. “I’m so fat,” she wailed.

“Oh, now don’t you be silly, Lady Phoebe.” The seamstress
bustled over. “A lovely little figure you’ve got. Round in all the right places. Men like a bit of body to get ahold of.”

“Do they?” Phoebe asked hopefully. Would Cato like a bit of body to get hold of? The man who’d once been married to Diana? Highly unlikely.

She cupped her full breasts just above the girdle. The neckline was lower than most of her gowns, but it had a wide lace collar falling over her shoulders and concealing the upper swell of her bosom. She thought her shoulders looked fat and her breasts pushing against the ivory damask were as shapeless as pouter pigeons.

“Don’t you go an’ complain at what the good Lord gave you,” the seamstress said severely. “Now, let me fix this hem, then you can take it off.”

“Don’t you think I’d be better off in one of my old gowns, Olivia?” Phoebe pressed.

Olivia frowned as she looked up from her book. “They’re all so shabby, and they don’t fit you,” she pointed out with devastating candor. “At least that’s a pretty c-color.”

“But it doesn’t suit me. It suited Diana. It doesn’t suit me.”

Olivia considered and was forced to agree. “It’s not as if you’re in the least like Diana. Not in
any
way! Thank heavens.” She examined Phoebe with a speculative air. “Actually, I think you should wear darker c-colors. Something that would accentuate your eyes and make the most of your hair.”

Phoebe looked a little surprised. Olivia in general evinced very little interest in clothes herself. “Well, much chance of that,” she said with a sigh. “Hurry up and take it off, Ellen.”

Tutting, the seamstress edged the gown over Phoebe’s hair and hurried away with it, leaving Phoebe still in her shift.

“Perhaps if you told my father that you hated the gown, he would ask your father to b-buy you another one,” Olivia suggested.

“If I had money,” Phoebe stated, “I could buy my own gowns.” She sat down on a three-legged stool and stretched
her legs in their woolen stockings to the fender. Absently she wriggled her big toe that was sticking out of a rather large hole. “The devil of it is, I do have money. From my mother’s jointure. But you think anyone’s going to give it to me?” She shook her head vigorously.

“I suppose it’s part of your dowry,” Olivia said sympathetically.

“To be managed by my husband, because what could a woman . . . a mere wife . . . know of such complicated matters?” Phoebe gave a snort of disgust.

“Maybe you should show my father some of your poetry,” Olivia suggested. “That would show him how c-clever you are.

“Men aren’t interested in poetry,” Phoebe said glumly.

“But most poets
are
men,” Olivia pointed out.

“Well, soldiers aren’t interested in poetry.”

“But you won’t stop writing, just b-because you’re married!”

“No, of course not. It’s my life,” Phoebe stated. “I don’t intend to stop doing any of the things I do now. I shall go on helping out in the village, and learning to be a herbalist with Meg, and I shall go on writing my poetry.”

“Then you’ll hardly feel married at all,” Olivia said. “It’ll almost be as if you’re not.”

Phoebe gave her a quick glance. How could she tell Olivia that that outcome was the last one she wanted? It was impossible to explain this stupid dilemma. On the one hand she wanted more than anything to feel married to Cato, to
be
married to Cato, and all that her lusting imagination told her that could mean. But because she couldn’t see how it could ever become what she wished for with such desperate passion, she could hardly bear the prospect of going through the motions.

“Well,” Olivia said, with uncanny intuition, “perhaps not exactly as if you’re not.”

“No,” Phoebe agreed. “Not exactly.”

•  •  •

P
hoebe awoke on her wedding morning as exhausted as
if she hadn’t slept a wink. Her head had been full of dreams . . . dreams bordering on nightmares. Twisted strands of excitement, of hope, of a dread certainty of disappointment. And she opened her eyes onto a torrential rain, slashing against the windowpanes, sending gusts of drops down the chimney to sizzle on the embers of the fire.

“What a horrible day!” Olivia declared in disgust. “Horrible weather for a horrible day. They’ll have to hold the wedding feast for the tenants in the b-barn.”

“It’ll be warmer than in the courtyard, anyway,” Phoebe said. The weather, as Olivia said, seemed entirely appropriate. She could have predicted it herself. “I shall get very wet going to the church,” she added with a certain grim relish. “It’ll ruin my gown . . . or rather, Diana’s gown.”

It was to be a small wedding, a far cry from the grand affair that had been Cato’s marriage to Diana on the day when Parliament had executed the king’s favorite, the earl of Strafford, on Tower Hill, and civil war had become inevitable. On that occasion divisive political opinions had still been in their infancy, and there had been nothing to disturb the harmony of celebration. But now many of those who had celebrated with the marquis of Granville would sooner meet him on the battlefield than break bread with him. And many another had fallen in the great pitched battles that had been fought before the strife became as it was now, mostly one of sieges and attrition.

The wedding was to be a small affair, an economical affair. Phoebe’s father, Lord Carlton, was not one to waste his money. Phoebe was not her sister—a diamond of the first water. She was making a convenient alliance for her father, but there was no need to go overboard in the middle of a war.

In these unusual times it had seemed practical to both
Lord Granville and his father-in-law for Phoebe to be married from the house where she’d been living for the last two years. But the marquis had graciously stepped aside in his own house and allowed the bride’s father to make all the arrangements.

“My father won’t let you get wet,” Olivia stated.

“He can’t stop the rain with a wave of his hand,” Phoebe pointed out with much the same gloomy satisfaction.

Olivia’s confidence was not misplaced. At dawn Cato took one look at the leaden sky and the sopping ground and decided that no one was going to walk to the church as had originally been intended. Within an hour bevies of soldiers from his militia were laying straw thickly the length of the drive between the front door of the house and the little village church just outside the gates, so that the iron wheels of a carriage wouldn’t sink into the mud.

The guests would be transported to the church in groups by carriage, and the bride and her father, with Olivia in attendance, would follow last. As a final touch, a makeshift awning of tent canvas was constructed over the path from the lych-gate to the church door.

Cato inspected the arrangements himself, ignoring the rain that drenched his cloak and dripped from his soaked hair down the back of his neck. He returned to the house for breakfast, shaking water off himself like a dog who’d been swimming.

Phoebe and Olivia were breakfasting in a square room at the rear of the house, generally known as the young ladies’ parlor. Or rather, Olivia was eating in her usual absentminded manner, her eyes glued to the book she was reading. Phoebe for once had no appetite. She crumbled bread on her plate, sipped from the cup of small beer, and wandered back and forth between the window and the table, as if hoping that the rain would have stopped between one circuit and another.

Cato rapped once on the door and entered on the knock.
Olivia jumped up from the table. Phoebe, already on her feet, stared at him in startlement and mortification.

She was wearing an old nightrobe that was too small for her, straining across her bosom in the most unflattering fashion and reaching only to mid-calf. She knew the short length made her exposed calves and ankles look thick and lumpy. To make matters worse, it had lost half its buttons, the fur trimming was now mangy, and there were some intractable stains down the front.

Cato had seen her looking scruffy before, but somehow on her wedding morning it seemed worse than usual.

“My lord, it’s unlucky for a man to see his bride before the wedding,” she said, the words tumbling forth. “Please go away.”

“That’s an old wives’ tale, Phoebe,” Cato said impatiently. “I came only to put your mind at rest about the weather.”

“But it’s still raining,” she pointed out.

“Yes, it’s still raining,” he agreed, striving for patience. “But since you will travel to the church by carriage, you won’t get wet.”

“Oh . . . Thank you, my lord. But would you
please
go away now.”

Cato hesitated, frowning, then with a brief headshake he left the parlor.

“I look such a mess,” Phoebe groaned. “Why did he have to come in and see me like this? Today of all days.”

Olivia regarded Phoebe in surprise. “You always look like that in the morning. Why should it matter?” Then, when that didn’t appear to have the intended reassurance, she added comfortingly, “I expect he’ll be up and out of the house long before you most mornings . . . if it really c-concerns you.”

“I’m a bundle of nerves,” Phoebe said in faint explanation. “Of course it doesn’t really matter what I look like.”

“Well, you’d better go and get ready now anyway,” Olivia
stated. “It’s close to nine o’clock and you have to b-bathe and wash your hair.”

In reinforcement, another knock on the door brought the housekeeper, Mistress Bisset. “Lord, Lady Phoebe, are you still in your nightrobe? Come along now. The bath is all ready for you.” Tutting in reproof, she swept Phoebe down the passage to the bedchamber where her maid was adding dried lavender and rose petals to the steaming tub before the fire.

Phoebe gave herself up to the ministrations of maid and housekeeper and seamstress. She followed instructions without conscious thought, barely hearing their stream of charter bubbling around her. Her entire body was tingling, her skin sensitized as if someone had scraped over every inch with an oyster shell.