The Wedding Affair (5 page)

“Your Grace,” Olivia said. Her voice didn’t sound quite as shaky as she felt. She gathered Charlotte into her arms and stood up. “I most humbly beg your pardon.” She attempted a curtsey, but with Charlotte snuggled against her shoulder, it was a sadly ungraceful obeisance.

The duke’s gaze was as chilly as the village water trough had been all the past winter. “You will understand, I am certain, that the timing of your apology makes me find your change of heart less than convincing.”

“Truly, sir, I…” Olivia bit back the rest. What was the point of abasing herself, after all? He would never understand the panic a parent felt and how the sight of a child in danger could sweep away good judgment. What had Kate said about him? He fell in love lightly, fell out just as quickly, and was incapable of faithfulness. What would such a man know about the deep love one person could feel for another, much less a mother for a beloved child?

Kate also had said he was delightful and funny and charming and handsome
, Olivia reminded herself. Well, she would have to agree with
handsome.
His hair was so dark it looked almost blue where the sunlight kissed it; his form was tall and lean and muscular; and his features were regular and classical, apart from a tiny scar next to his left eye. His face might even be pleasing, she thought, if he didn’t appear to have been hewed out of a chunk of granite.

“Your Grace,” Kate said again. She sounded breathless.

Olivia was still keeping a wary eye on the duke. “Oh, don’t for heaven’s sake
beg
, Kate. I’m the one he’s annoyed at. I’m quite certain he won’t rescind
your
invitation to his sister’s—”

“Olivia,
don’t
,” Kate whispered. “That’s not…”

A woman’s voice interrupted. “Miss Blakely, Mrs. Meecham at the vicarage told me I would find you here. I wished to call on you and extend my condolences in person for the loss of your father.”

Olivia turned slowly. She knew what she would see, even though she had been so absorbed in staring at the duke that she hadn’t heard the creak of wheels or the jingle of harness as the duchess’s barouche had returned and pulled up in the road.

The two ladies inside leaned forward in their seats as if intrigued by the standoff. The one who had spoken was middle-aged and wearing a dashingly stylish hat. Her hair, once just as dark as the duke’s, was now threaded liberally with silver. Her companion was older, with a mass of multicolored feathers on her head, a nose that would have done a hawk proud, and sharp, beady black eyes.

“Your Grace,” Olivia said feebly, trying to curtsey to the duchess. Charlotte shifted restlessly in her arms, throwing her off balance.

The duke swore and cupped his hand under Olivia’s elbow as if he thought she was about to fall down. His grip was not gentle, and his voice was grim. “No doubt this time you’d manage to drop her on her head.”

Kate moved toward the barouche, curtseying so elegantly that Olivia felt like a clumsy ox.

Charlotte reached out to pat the pristine white folds of the duke’s neckcloth, and Olivia watched in horror as a tiny purple handprint took perfect shape on the linen, right under his chin.

The duchess was talking animatedly to Kate, but her companion sat up even straighter, peering at the duke through a quizzing glass. “Oh, Somervale,” she chirped. “You’re always
so
original. Tell me, are you planning to make purple-spotted clothes the new fashion now?”

***

Penelope hovered anxiously as her maid packed for the trip to Halstead, watching every fold of tissue paper as Etta briskly laid gowns and shoes and shawls and wraps and headdresses into the series of trunks and hatboxes that had been brought down from the attics and lined up across the bedroom.

“Must I really take my entire wardrobe?” Penelope ventured finally. “We’re to be there for less than a week.”

Etta didn’t pause. “You’ll need to change clothes at least four times a day for walking, riding, picnics, carriage outings, dinners, dancing—and at a moment’s notice. You’ll not embarrass me by looking less than your best.” She looked quite fierce.

The butler tapped on the bedroom door. “My lady, Mr. Weiss has asked if you are at home.”

The last person Penelope wanted to talk to today was her father. “I must help with the packing. Goodman, please tell Mr. Weiss that I—”

Etta said, “My lady, to speak plain, you’re in my way. I’ll accomplish a great deal more if you aren’t standing over me.”

When even her maid didn’t need or want her, things were in a sad state indeed. “If you’re quite sure you can manage, Etta, I’ll go down.” Penelope paused only to make sure her hair wasn’t falling out of its pins before she descended to the drawing room.

Ivan Weiss was standing before the bow window overlooking Berkeley Square. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he was rocking on his heels as if he was impatient to mark this visit off his calendar and get on with more important matters.

And that was probably true, Penelope thought. Once he’d settled his daughter by marrying her off to the Earl of Townsend, her father had dusted his hands of her and returned to his first love, the brewery that had produced his fortune.

The fortune which in turn had made Penelope such a notable heiress that she was of interest to an earl despite the lack of anything resembling blue blood in her lineage.

And you agreed to the match
, Penelope reminded herself.
So it’s hardly fair to blame your father for how it’s turning out.

“Good afternoon, Papa,” she said as he turned from the window. She dropped a deep, elegant curtsey.

Ivan Weiss beamed. The one way Penelope could always command his attention was by demonstrating the ladylike talents she’d learned at the expensive boarding school he’d sprung for. He made no pretense of appreciating art or music, but his opinion of his Penny’s talents was far higher than her own—or that of her teachers. Every time she curtseyed to him, he would laugh with delight.

So she always curtseyed to him as deeply as she would have done to the queen, had she ever been properly presented at court, before she offered her cheek for his kiss. “What brings you to Berkeley Square today, Papa?”

“I hear you’re packing up for a stay at Halstead.” Delighted pride filled his voice. “My girl to be a guest at Halstead!”

Of course he would have heard, Penelope thought. Ivan Weiss provided ale to every fine residence in the West End of London, along with most of the inns and coaching houses within range of his headquarters, and with each delivery his men made, they seemed to return gossip to their employer.

“The wedding of a duke’s sister is about as close as you can get to royal,” he went on. “I called in just to see whether you need anything extra. Dresses or female fripperies?”

“No, Papa. There’s no time, anyway, but I already have everything I need.”

He laughed. “Never thought I’d live to hear a woman say that! But here—you might like something new anyway.” He pulled his hand from behind his back and held out a velvet box. “Women always like jewelry, and having a new bauble to flaunt will help make you feel at home with those fine society tabbies.”

Penelope took the box with reluctance. Ivan Weiss’s taste in jewelry was no better than his eye for art, and his choice was guaranteed to be the most startling one in view. Penelope had long since given up trying to modify his ideas of what was fashionable.

Today’s offering was a gold brooch bearing a central stone that was dark yellow and as big as her knuckle. It looked like an unwinking cat’s-eye, and it was so heavy that it would drag down any dress she pinned it on. But the good manners her father had paid so much to instill in her made her say, “This is very thoughtful of you, Papa.”

He looked her up and down. “You seem a little peaked. Are you increasing, Penny?”

She shook her head.

“I think maybe you are,” he offered hopefully. “Your mother looked the same way—a little pinched in the face—when she was first carrying you.”

Far better to be honest, Penelope thought, than to face deeper disappointment later. “I am not with child, Papa.”

Ivan Weiss’s face fell. “Well, what’s keeping you then? I’m getting to be an old man, and I want little ones to dandle on my knee. A whole raft of them, starting with a grandson who’ll be an earl one day himself.”

Yes
, Penelope thought.
Now we reach the crux of it.

He looked at her darkly. “Are you telling me there’s something wrong with that fancy earl of yours? I’d think, seeing as how producing an heir is the only thing that will increase the allowance I pay him, he’d be working hard to get you in the family way.” He eyed her shrewdly. “Or maybe he’s doing his best, and it’s
you
that’s the problem, Penny?”

She wanted to tell him it wasn’t her fault that her husband refused to do his duty. And yet… perhaps it
was
her fault. If a wife was so displeasing to her husband’s eye that he could not bring himself to share the marriage bed, then who else could possibly be to blame but the wife?

Penelope had heard tales whispered under the blankets at her boarding school of how men behaved with women, but masculine hesitation to leap into a bed had not figured in any of those stories.

Nor had the duenna Penelope’s father hired to chaperone her through her brief betrothal given so much as a hint of why a man might not avail himself of any woman who was accessible to him. Quite the contrary, in fact. Though her discussion of wedding-night mechanics had been brief and—in Penelope’s view—singularly unhelpful, the one thing Miss Rose had been clear about was that by the morning after her wedding, a bride would have no doubts left regarding what a husband and wife did together.

So if the man was not the problem, the woman must be.

If I had tried harder to lure him to my bed…

Perhaps Lady Daphne’s wedding was not something to be dreaded after all, but an opportunity to be seized. They would be away from their normal routine, away from the London house that held such mixed memories, away from the bad habits they had fallen into.

And perhaps in a different place and surrounded by happiness and liveliness and the joy of another bride and groom, they might yet find their way to some kind of real marriage.

Even if she had to seduce him… if she could only figure out how
that
was done.

Penelope decided she’d think about a plan later. In the meantime, she squared her shoulders and faced her father. “Yes, Papa. I’m the one who’s to blame.”

He let out an exasperated whoof. “Damn it, Penny—”

She hadn’t heard the drawing-room door open, but suddenly she felt a whisper of air stirring against her neck and turned to see her husband standing on the threshold.

The earl displayed his usual air of languid grace. He was dressed in fawn-colored pantaloons and a bottle-green coat today, and the tassels on his Hessian boots were still swinging. Somehow the dark green of the coat threw reddish highlights into his curly, dark brown hair.

What was he doing at home in the middle of the day? Since the morning more than three weeks ago when she’d confronted him over the invitation, Penelope had barely seen him. In fact, she’d scarcely caught a glimpse of him during daylight in the entire three months they’d been married.

But then she hadn’t seen much of him at any other time of day, either. Occasionally he dined at home and they silently occupied opposite ends of the long table. Once in a while he stepped aside politely as she passed in a hall. But since the very first night after their wedding, when he had come to her bedroom only long enough to tell her that he would not be returning…

She hoped he hadn’t heard what her father had said. A man like the Earl of Townsend, with all his culture, couldn’t understand one like Ivan Weiss who had rough edges aplenty.

“Mr. Weiss,” the earl said gently, “pray allow the
fancy earl
to pay his compliments.”

Penelope winced, though she had to admire the way the earl had delivered the sarcastic comment as delicately as he would flick his whip to brush a fly off the ear of one of his horses without injuring the animal. She had seen him do it once, when he had taken her for a drive through the park in his curricle, right before their wedding…

Her father turned brick red from embarrassment—or rage. But he said, calmly enough, “You’re going to a wedding at Halstead, I understand.”

“Yes, I am a distant relative of the Somervales. I’m sure you can tell me, sir, whether Lady Daphne is my third cousin or my fourth. I do find genealogy such a tiring pursuit.”

“It appears you have no stamina at getting descendants, either,” Ivan Weiss said dryly.

The earl’s gaze turned steely.

Ivan Weiss did not seem to notice. He reached into his pocket and drew out a letter. With slow, deliberate movements he unfolded the paper and held it up as if to peruse the words.

The earl hadn’t moved, and a bystander would probably not have noticed a change in his expression, but Penelope had become so closely attuned to his every attitude that he might as well have shouted that he recognized the sheet of paper. Whatever was written there, he knew about it—and seeing it made him uneasy.