The Viscount and the Virgin (10 page)

Imogen woke the next morning, feeling a sense of hope rising unbidden within her. It was the culmination
of every girl's ambition to marry well. And in Society's eyes, she had succeeded.

Viscount Mildenhall was handsome and wealthy, and his kiss had been so potent she still felt a little thrill every time she thought of it. She had no reason to feel cheated. Persons of her class very rarely found love within marriage. Her aunt may have had hopes at one point, but now she seemed heartily thankful that Lord Callandar scarcely set foot in his own house. She had her own social circle and her own interests which kept her cheerfully occupied.

And very few endured such misery as Kit Hebden had put her mother through, either.

No, it was far better not to marry for that sort of love. For, after the fires of passion had burned out, her mother had warned her, all that was left were the ashes of cold despair.

She flung the covers aside and swung her legs out of the bed. There was no way of knowing what marriage with Viscount Mildenhall would bring her, but today she was going to cling to the hope that per haps, given time, they might achieve that state of easy com pan ion ship she had observed her mother enjoying with Hugh Bredon.

And at least she had the satisfaction of knowing she was repaying all the kindness her aunt had shown her, by entering into a marriage of which she thoroughly approved.

Imogen smiled wryly to her reflection in the mirror as her maid fixed her bonnet in place. It had felt like a crime to hide her gorgeous gown under her coat, but the day was too chilly to drive to the church without one.

As she climbed into the carriage, it struck Imogen that there was another aspect to her wedding day that
pleased her. Gathered in St George's chapel that morning would be representatives of all the families that had been torn apart by the murder of her father. Lords Framlingham, Leybourne and Narborough had once been friends, working together to solve a crime that was taking place in some high office.

Until the night Lord Narborough had found Lord Framlingham bleeding to death in his garden, with Lord Leybourne bending over him, a bloodied dagger in his hand.

Narborough had refused to believe his friend's protestations of innocence, and had given evidence against him that resulted in him being hanged for treason, as well as murder.

Shattering the bonds of friend ship.

Yet today, their children would stand together in St George's chapel, each, she fervently hoped, demonstrating by their attendance that they were putting past enmities aside. The fact that a Wardale had already married a Carlow had been a good start.

Now she fervently hoped that a Wardale could look a Hebden in the eye in a spirit of for give ness and reconciliation.

When the carriage drew up outside the chapel, Imogen, determined to look her best for the viscount, waited for the footman to let down the steps and hold out his arm to steady her, rather than jumping down carelessly, scarcely looking where she put her feet, as she usually did. She had no intention of beginning her marriage to a man who set such store by appearances by walking up the aisle with muddy shoes or a dripping flounce from landing in a puddle.

She waited patiently while her maid smoothed down
her skirts, adjusted the set of her bonnet and brushed a piece of fluff from the shoulder of her coat, while her uncle distanced himself from the feminine flutter by strolling up and down.

Pansy was just leaning back into the carriage for Imogen's bouquet, when a man who had been lounging against one of the pillars called out, ‘Imo?'

Imogen looked up with a slight frown on her brow to see who was calling to her. Nobody called her Imo these days. She was either Miss Hebden, or Imogen or Midge. So the voice felt like a dark hand, reaching out to her from her very distant past. A past that she had hoped was going to be laid to rest today. And so her voice, when she replied, ‘Yes?' quivered with trepidation.

The man stepped out of the shadows into the light, and Imogen gasped.

It was the first time she had seen a Gypsy up this close. But there was no mistaking his origins, with the flamboyance of his clothing, his long, black hair and the swarthy complexion set off by the gold hoop in one ear.

He came a step closer.

‘For you,' he said, holding out a small packet tied up with string. The silver bangle he wore round his wrist glinted like a knife blade in the sunlight. ‘A reminder.'

Though the gift and his words made him appear to be a well-wisher, some thing about his stance and the tone of his voice were vaguely menacing.

But even though her instinct was to draw back, she thought it would be unwise to offend a Gypsy, especially on her wedding day. The woman who had borne Stephen had tracked Amanda down after Kit died, and cursed
her for robbing her of her son, swearing she would never see a son of her own reach adult hood. Amanda had only just had a miscarriage and then she promptly lost little Thomas to a fever. After that, Amanda had been convinced that if she had any more sons, they would die, too. The Gypsy woman's curse had haunted her for the rest of her life.

So Imogen steeled herself to reach out her hand and accept the man's gift.

But just before she could do so, her uncle, who had finally noticed what was going on, let out a bellow of rage.

‘Get away from my niece, you filthy cur!' His walking cane made a swishing noise as he lashed out at the Gypsy's extended arm.

But the Gypsy's reactions were swift. The cane clattered down upon the flags without striking his arm.

Her uncle then rounded on her, growling, ‘Who have you been tattling to, you stupid girl? The one thing, above all else, you should have kept quiet about…and now somebody is using it to make trouble.'

Imogen gazed at her uncle in stupefaction. Then turned her bewildered gaze on the stranger, who was regarding her uncle with a smile of what looked like grim satisfaction. Her heart began to pound in her chest. It was the most in credible coincidence that a Gypsy should turn up at her wedding, with a gift and an admonition to remember, after she had spent so much time the night before, lying in bed, thinking about her illegitimate Gypsy half brother.

She saw what her uncle meant. The man who stood before them, a mocking smile on his face, was a visible reminder of her family's deepest, darkest shame.

‘Go on!' Her uncle blustered, waving his stick in effectually at the Gypsy, who dodged each blow with ease. ‘Be off with you!'

‘Nothing to say, Imo?' The man rounded on her, his eyes burning with blatant hostility. ‘Don't
you
want me to leave?'

Imogen's mouth opened, but no sound came out. She was so shocked, she did not know what to say. It seemed in credibly cruel of someone to have sent a Gypsy to her wedding, to remind everyone that she had once had a half brother with Romany blood in his veins.

Her uncle seized her by the arm and began to drag her across the portico, towards the door of the chapel.

‘Come away,' he huffed. His face was red and shiny from unaccustomed exertion and thwarted rage. ‘The impudent fellow won't dare to follow us in there!'

‘You may have for got ten me, Imo,' the Gypsy snarled as her uncle dragged her away. ‘But I, Stephen, have never for got ten you!'

From some where she managed to find the strength to tear herself from her uncle's grasp, and turn back. Surely, hardly anybody alive today could know the name of her Gypsy half brother.

‘How could you know his name was Stephen?' she grated. ‘Are you from his tribe? Is that how you know about me?'

The man who claimed to be Stephen smiled in a way that was totally without mirth. And she felt a jolt of recognition. She had seen that very smile in the mirror, not an hour since! It was the way she always smiled, when she recognized some absurdity.
A shock of dark hair…
she seemed to hear her mother saying ‘
…and his father's smile…'

Everyone said how very like her father she was, too! She took another step towards him, her eyes searching his features, her breathing ragged. His lips were the same shape as hers. He had the same slant to his eyebrows, the same prominent cheek bones.

‘Stephen?' she whispered, stretching her hands out towards him. ‘Can it really be you?'

‘Don't be so foolish, niece!' her uncle snapped. ‘This is just some miscreant, out to make trouble for you. Come away, girl, before it is too late.'

But she could not tear her eyes from the Gypsy's face.

‘Are you really my brother?' she demanded.

The Gypsy held her gaze boldly, proudly, un ashamedly.

And then he nodded.

‘Uncle,' she declared, whirling round to face him, ‘I have not raised one single protest about any arrangement you and my aunt have made regarding this day. In fact, I have had no say in any of it! But I will stand firm in this matter. If he really is my brother, then I want him at my wedding!'

 

Snatches of Imogen's protests echoed all the way to the front of the church, where Viscount Mildenhall was standing waiting for her.

‘…not raised one single protest…arrangement you and my aunt…will stand firm…'

The guests were turning in their seats, peering over the tops of the box pews, curious to see what all the commotion was about.

Some thing like a cold fist clutched hard inside the viscount's chest. Miss Hebden had told him she did not
want to marry him, but he had not believed her. He had trampled on all her objections, then approached her uncle, having uttered dire warnings of what the con sequences would be if she refused him.

Yet Rick had told him his sister was straight as a die. That she would always be honest.

Right from the first, she had said she was not interested in him. That very first night, when she had thrown her drink over him…

There had been a group of girls standing behind her, laughing behind their fans as she had tried to apologize for what she claimed was an accident.

He had not believed her then. He had bracketed her with all the other females who had at tempted such encounters to gain his attention. Especially once he had learned she was Miss Hebden, daughter of a notorious rake and a shame less adulteress.

He cast his mind back to the stories Rick had told of her growing up and how difficult she was finding it to behave with the decorum expected of young ladies in Society. And replayed the scene in his mind with her as Midge, Rick's tom boyish little sister, chatting away to her com pan ions, waving her hands about exuberantly…with her back to the door.

She had not, he realized with cold certainty, known he was there at all.

Though her so-called friends had.

They had set her up!

His head snapped round to where the Misses Veryan were sitting, craning their necks to see what was going on in the porch. Their faces were alight with the same malice they had exhibited that night.

And as for the terrace outside Lady Carteret's
ballroom… He almost groaned aloud. She had strenuously insisted she had only gone out onto that terrace for some fresh air. Now he fully under stood why she had bitten him and punched him in the face. His behaviour had been un for givable!

But she had looked so alluring in that silver gown, that wistful expression on her face…he almost doubled over as hurt pierced him through. She had claimed she had been thinking of some other man. If that was the truth, as he now accepted all her other protestations were the truth, then Midge's affections were engaged else where! She had never intentionally pursued him, let alone wanted to marry him. That notion had sprung entirely from his own vanity.

The girl who had written all those loving letters to Rick had such a giving nature, she was bound to yield to her family's wishes. Yes, he could see it all now. She had tried valiantly to give up all hope of this other man, but he had seen the night he had dined in their home what it was costing her. Her sense of family duty had got her as far as the church door. But the thought of actually tying the knot with a man she had not hesitated to call a vile worm was just too much.

‘Rick,' he grated, feeling as though some thing inside him was dying. ‘Go and find out what she wants. And make sure she gets it.'

With a puzzled frown, Rick got to his feet and strode out of the chapel.

Funny, but when he had decided to marry Miss Hebden, he had thought she was the victor and he was her prize. Yet now it felt as though if Midge would not have him he would be losing some thing that would have enriched his life immeasurably.

At the chapel door, far from the quarrel quieting down, the voices grew even more agitated. Rick's reasoning tone mingled with Midge's cries of protest and her uncle's bombastic hectoring.

Finally, he could take it no longer.

Midge could not possibly hate him more than he hated himself for the way he had misjudged and mal-treated her. If the only way he could make amends was to set her free, then he must do so.

As he stalked down the length of the aisle, the eyes of all the assembled guests followed his progress avidly. He reflected how he had once foolishly thought that marrying her would be the price he would have to pay for his un gentlemanly conduct on Lady Carteret's terrace. Now he knew better. The price he must pay for alienating Midge would be letting her go.

‘M
idge, the fellow is an impostor!' Rick was saying. ‘You know he is. My father left no stone unturned in his search for the little boy your mother wanted to adopt. He found the orphanage where your grand father had tried to conceal him.' He took hold of her shoulders, forcing her to look into his face. ‘And the records that proved he was killed in a great fire that destroyed a whole wing of the place.'

‘But look at him!' Imogen protested. ‘The records must have been wrong. Or your father…' A dreadful doubt shook her. ‘He didn't want to have him in the house!' She gasped. ‘Just like my grand father!'

‘Do not say one word against your grand father,' her uncle weighed in. ‘He was doing his best to put things right. Utter disgrace to foist the brat on your poor mother in the first place! Should never have been brought into the marital home!'

Rick shot him a look of annoyance. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but tearing a boy she thought of as her son
away from her was not the best thing for my step mother at all. Nearly broke her heart to lose the boy, wherever he might have come from. Mourned his loss to her dying day. Midge,' he sighed, ‘for heaven's sake, my father may have had his faults, but he would not have broken his word. Amanda only agreed to marry him on condition he promised to search for that boy.'

But Imogen no longer shared Rick's faith in his father's notion of honour. He had not been unduly worried about leaving her penniless, when he had helped himself to the inheritance her mother had tried to bequeath her. With hind sight, she could see that he had only tolerated having her about, for Amanda's sake. She did not think he had ever quite managed to forget she was Kit Hebden's child too. And Stephen had not one single drop of Amanda's blood running through his veins. Would he really have welcomed Kit's bastard into his home and allowed him to be brought up along side his own sons?

Catching a movement out of the corner of her eye, she turned and saw Stephen push himself off the pillar, against which he had been lounging, to stare at her as though he could not believe what he was hearing.

‘Hugh Bredon was not lying, and the records were not wrong!' Lord Callandar shouted. ‘He did manage to locate the foundling home where my father sent the boy. And there was no question the brat died in a fire. I saw the records myself.'

‘Then who is he?' Imogen's bouquet swooshed through the air as she waved in the direction of the Gypsy. ‘Why does he know so much about what everyone tried to hush up? Why does he look like me?'

‘Stop talking such nonsense, girl! He looks nothing like you.'

‘But his smile, Uncle! And the shape of his brows when he frowns. They are straight. Just like mine. Like my father's.'

‘What is going on?'

At the sound of Viscount Mildenhall's calm authoritative voice, everyone involved in the altercation turned to where he was standing in the church doorway.

Imogen ran to him and grabbed hold of his forearms.

‘Oh, please, Monty, help me! I have done everything you have asked of me, haven't I? Won't you let me have my way in just this one thing? It is our wedding. Yours and mine. Surely I may have just one guest of my own choosing? If you say he may come in, then nobody else has the right to refuse him. He can sit right at the back, if you like, right out of sight!'

He tensed as she specified that it was a ‘he' they were all arguing about.

‘Perhaps,' he said coldly, ‘it would help if you were to explain exactly who
he
is you are so keen to attend our wedding despite your uncle's objections?'

‘Stephen,' she said, stepping back and releasing his arms as though they burnt her. ‘My brother.'

‘Your
brother
?' It felt as though the sun had come out. ‘I see no reason why your brother should not attend if he wishes. Why all this fuss?'

‘Because he is not her brother, that's why!' bellowed her uncle. ‘The impudent rogue who claims kinship with her is just some filthy Gypsy, trying to cause trouble!'

‘It's true, Monty,' put in Rick, stepping forward. ‘The Gypsy boy in question died years ago.'

‘A Gypsy?' He was so relieved it was not the marriage itself she was objecting to he would have cheerfully given permission for a whole tribe of Gypsies to dance right down the aisle banging tambourines if that was what she wanted.

But before he could tell her so, she had lifted her chin, and said, ‘Yes! My father took a Gypsy woman as a lover…'

Her uncle groaned and covered his face in his hands. She flung her shoulders back, her whole posture now screaming defiance as she continued, ‘And she had his son. And my father brought him to live with us until my grand father sent him away while my mother was too ill to know what was happening. And his name is Stephen, and he brought me a gift!' She waved her bouquet towards one of the pillars where he had noticed a swarthy individual lurking before. But there was no one there now.

‘Oh!' she shrieked, darting to the edge of the portico. ‘He has gone! I must find him!'

Her uncle, surprisingly swift for such a portly man, darted after her, grabbed her arm and pulled her back as she would have run down the steps.

‘Oh, no, you don't! We have a church full of guests waiting!'

Viscount Mildenhall strode across to the top of the steps, where she was still struggling with her uncle. ‘Midge,' he said firmly. ‘Your uncle is right.' For a second, a look of utter loathing blazed across her face. He gritted his teeth and went on, ‘You cannot go run
ning all over town, today of all days. Let Rick find him for you. Captain Bredon!' he barked.

To his relief, years of military discipline had Rick snapping instantly to attention. ‘Sir!'

‘Find out where the fellow went, and see if you can make some sense out of all this.'

‘Right away, sir!'

Imogen's eyes widened as Rick ran obediently down the steps, crossed the street and approached a group of people who had been avidly watching the altercation on the church steps. One of them raised his arm and pointed. Rick promptly trotted off in that direction, and was soon lost to sight.

‘Rick will get to the bottom of this,' he vowed. ‘You know you can trust him.'

He saw the fight go out of her.

‘Y-yes,' she said in a muted voice, hanging her head. Viscount Mildenhall looked pointedly at where her uncle's hand still held her arm in a vice-like grip and Lord Callandar finally released her, but she just stood there, looking so lost and alone that the viscount could not help himself. He drew her into his arms and held her close, rubbing his hands up and down her back. After an initial start of surprise, she leaned into him. He felt a flare of triumph at the way she was drawing comfort from him, even if it was only because nobody else was offering it.

Her uncle made a disparaging noise at the back of his throat and stalked off towards a knot of people who'd had the temerity to creep up the steps at the far end of the portico.

‘Better now?' said Viscount Mildenhall presently, slackening his hold.

She nodded, stepping back and glancing around her guiltily, as though just becoming aware of their breach of etiquette.

Until her eyes snagged on the pillar where the man who claimed to be her brother had been standing. And gasped.

Lying on the ground was a small brown-paper packet.

She swooped on it like a hawk to the prey.

‘Imogen! Put that down this instant!' her uncle bellowed.

She rounded on him, cheeks flushed, the gift clasped between both her hands as though she would fight anyone who at tempted to take it from her. Then, without taking her eyes off her uncle, she began to sidle towards Viscount Mildenhall as though seeking sanctuary.

Viscount Mildenhall's heart missed a beat. There was a damp patch on her gown where she had knelt on the flags to pick up the packet she was convinced came from her brother. Her glove had a green smear of moss on it, and petals from her bouquet were scattered all over the flag stones. Her bonnet had been knocked askew in the tussle with her uncle and her curls were falling into her eyes.

Now she looked like Midge! The girl who was more at home climbing trees after birds nests than flitting about drawing rooms. Midge, who had written such amazingly warm and witty letters to Rick, though he was not even her real brother. Who had cast her mantle of goodwill over him, too, congratulating him on his promotions, commiserating with him on his injuries and convincing him that some where out there, away from
the hellish brutality of the battle fields that comprised his life, warmth and decency still existed.

He did not think he had ever seen a woman look more appealing. He felt a strong rush of affection for the impulsive, honest, direct woman he was about to take to wife.

Swiftly followed by a vision of spending a lifetime pulling her out of the scrapes her impulsive nature was bound to catapult her into.

‘I'd better take that,' he said firmly, stepping in between her and her uncle. He placed his hands over hers, and lowered his voice, so that only she could hear him. ‘I will keep it safe for you. No need to provoke your uncle any further.'

She looked deep into his eyes, and though he could see a brief struggle taking place there, eventually she relented, relaxing her hold on the package and letting him take it from her.

‘We must have a long talk about all of this, later,' he continued, slipping the package into an inside pocket, ‘and decide what is to be done. But for now…' He held out his arm, and jerked his head in the direction of the church.

‘I…' She straightened up, pushed her hair off her face and gripped her battered bouquet with renewed resolve. ‘I…' She looked over her shoulder one more time, in the direction the Gypsy and then Rick had gone, and he saw a brief look of anguish flash across her face.

But then she took his arm. She did not merely lay her hand upon it, but linked her own arm through it, as though she needed some thing solid to cling to as he steered her away from her uncle, who had begun to harangue the crowd. He could feel tremors running
through her whole body, but she kept her head held high even when the buzz of conversation within the church hushed into an expectant silence the moment they stepped over the thresh old.

He bit back an oath. Everyone was looking at them as though he owed them an account of what had just taken place in the portico. Well, he was certainly not going to dither about in the doorway, answering a lot of questions about a business that was nobody's concern but Midge's! The best thing to do would be to get on with the ceremony as though nothing un toward had occurred.

Squaring his shoulders, he marched briskly down the aisle. So briskly in fact, that Midge had almost to trot to keep up with him.

Then he barked, ‘You may commence!' to the rather startled clergy man.

Shocked gasps rippled through the congregation, which doubled when Lord Callandar came striding down the aisle on his own and took up his position behind the bridal couple, audibly muttering imprecations.

‘Are you sure you wish to proceed?' the minister asked Midge, pointedly ignoring Viscount Mildenhall.

Her cheeks went pink, but her voice was firm as she declared, ‘I am!' The minister looked at the way she was clinging to Viscount Mildenhall's arm, appeared satisfied, and after clearing his throat loudly, opened his prayer book and intoned the opening words.

All went well until he asked who was giving the woman away. Lord Callandar prized Midge's fingers from Monty's arm and practically flung her hand into Monty's extended palm. Then strode away, still mut
tering under his breath to take his place beside his own wife, who had such a frozen expression on her face she might have been modelling to be a waxwork dummy.

And from some where behind him Viscount Mildenhall heard a sound a bit like muffled coughing. A grin began to tug at his lips. It sounded suspiciously like that ne'er-do-well Hal Carlow trying desperately not to fall about laughing.

His stance eased. He would not mind letting just Hal know what had sparked off the whole episode. He didn't think Midge would object, since Hal was a close friend of her brother, too. Actually, he reflected, she had not seemed to care if the world knew her brother was a Gypsy. She would have had him in the church, and probably introduced him to all and sundry, had he not slunk off into whatever back alley he had crawled from.

Lord, he grinned, that would have set the cat among the pigeons!

As he turned to leave the church—vows made—with Midge still clinging to his side like a limpet, he made a point of looking Hal straight in the eye. The scoundrel was still holding a large handkerchief to his face, and his eyes were watering. The only thing the irrepressible joker would have found more entertaining would have been for the argument in the porch to erupt into a full-blown brawl which spilled into the church. For a moment, his mind filled with a vision of Midge setting about all and sundry with her bouquet, raining petals and broken foliage all over the nave. With a completely straight face, Viscount Mildenhall lowered one eyelid in a surreptitious wink.

There was a decided spring to his step as he led Midge
out into the sunshine, towards the carriage that waited to take them back to Mount Street. He felt more like himself than he had since setting foot back in England.

London Society was foreign territory to him; that was the trouble.

Until his older brother had died, he had existed almost exclusively in what was very much a man's world. First school, then army barracks and the officer's mess, where he had earned the respect of his sub ordinates and made friends where he felt some connection.

He had not wanted to leave the Army any more than his father had wanted to see him step into his brother's shoes. He had left Shevington as much to escape the feeling he would never measure up to the earl's favoured first born, as to appear to be obeying his edict to find a wife.