When We Touch (17 page)

He almost groaned aloud. Almost spoke.

And then he saw his uncle's face.

His hands balled fiercely into fists at his side. He wouldn't speak, God help him, he wouldn't speak.

She had made her choice.

* * *

Maggie had chosen to keep the wedding as quiet as possible, and Charles had tried to accede to her wishes. But though the Queen had decided not to come, Her Royal Majesty had sent gifts and envoys, since Charles was one of her favorites. Maggie had attended some social functions in the last years, but admittedly, after her marriage to Nathan, she had not been on many guest lists.

So, she only knew half the names Justin murmured to her as they walked down the aisle and there were at least fifty people present. A few were her own friends from the limited circle she had maintained. Andrew and Missy Kelton, from her reading group. Sir Arnold Brighton and his daughter, Lindsey, from the Salvation Army. Father Vickers. She would have smiled at them as she passed, except that she couldn't seem to do anything other than keep one expression glued to her face.

There, naturally, was her Uncle Angus, her cousins, and their wives. Strange, she never seemed to visit her family. Today, they might have been as close as a band of thieves. She was marrying an important man, so naturally, they were in attendance. Frankly, she should be grateful that Angus had found the husband for her—and not an aging bride for Justin. Angus stood to gain a great deal, if Justin were to perish without a male heir. Before the demise of Angus's wife a good twenty-something years ago, she had given Angus three sons, Sean, Stuart, and Tristan. In turn, her cousins had married well, and their offspring included half a dozen boys. They were darling children, however, they weren't at the wedding. She enjoyed the boys, and many times, had tried to tell herself that it wouldn't be so terrible should one of them inherit the title.

It was only Angus himself who galled her so.

Angus, who watched her come down the aisle, an ever-calculating smile on his face.

She looked away.

Justin gave her a nudge in the ribs.

She realized that her brother was pointing out Her Grace, the Duchess, Lady Marian. Both the Prince of Wales and his son, Eddy, were in attendance, along with Princess Alexandra. That meant, certainly, that a number of the fashionably dressed fellows in attendance were guards for the royal family.

The royalty might have given her a start, except that her attention was diverted elsewhere.

Jamie stood beside Charles, somber and elegant in a black waistcoat, jacket, and trousers, and perfectly starched white shirt. His hair appeared as dark as pitch, an absolute opposite to the snow white cap of hair upon the groom.

She missed a step, and nearly tripped. Her brother's strong arm kept her from falling. She quickly recovered, and knew that she would be all right, as long as she didn't look at Jamie.

When she refocused her gaze, she saw Mireau. Very handsome in his formal attire, he was near the front, and he smiled encouragingly to her.

You are beautiful, like an angel!
he mouthed to her.

She managed a smile.

Then all the names and faces became a blur as her brother handed her over to Charles. She was afraid, at first, that she was going to have to tug away from her brother. He didn't seem to want to let her go. What a scandal that would make. Brother and sister busy at fisticuffs in the midst of such a noble and solemn rite!

But Justin released her at last and kept quiet when the Very Reverend Father Ethan Miller asked if there was anyone present who might object. Then the ceremony went on, and Maggie felt as if she had entered a netherworld, as if she were there, but not there. She watched as if from afar, as if she had somehow brought her soul to rest high above the altar, as if the proceedings involved someone else entirely, a shell of herself. She heard all the words she had heard before, and she felt in her heart that she was the greatest liar ever to live. Love, honor, and obey? She did love Charles, but as a good friend. Honor? Certainly, he was a man worthy of incredible honor. Obey?

Sadly, it wasn't in her chemistry to obey anyone, and for one absurd moment, she considered stopping the Anglican priest to argue the point. Why did such a promise have to be in a wedding ceremony? They were not living in the Dark Ages. Women were doing incredible things, laws were changing, and . . .

“You may now kiss the bride!”

And Charles turned to her. She saw his smile, and felt him draw her close, and then he kissed her.

Dry parchment against her lips. She felt nothing, and even as that kiss ceremonially sealed her vows, she found herself remembering a touch that was liquid fire, glorious in the extreme, awakening every fiber of her being.

And then it was over. Charles's eyes were on her with sheer delight, and they had turned. A hail of rice fell upon them, and she was blinded as they walked back down the aisle.

Charles had hired a photographer, and the man waited for them just outside, determined to take advantage of the last rays of sunlight. He was every inch the Viscount then, noble and kind but authoritative, directing his guests as to where and when to pose. First, naturally, the royals were asked to join with the bride and groom, and they were charming. She had heard that the threesome had been at an opera house lately—the booming industry of the last decades had brought about many changes, and there were those who were heartily against what they considered the excesses of the Royal House. Perhaps with good reason, for though Maggie knew that the Queen was distressed by many conditions within the city of London and its surroundings, she was blind to many of the activities practiced within her own family.

She now knew, with certainty, that the Prince of Wales was a flagrant philanderer, and that Prince Eddy . . . had many different tastes.

There was a moment when she felt a small seizure of panic, as she wondered if the Prince of Wales himself might recognize her as being the woman at the table so near his own the night before. But he gave no sign, and Princess Alexandra was as sweet and courteous as one could hope.

The royals moved on to the house, where the reception would take place, and then, Charles wanted photographs with just himself and Maggie; then the wedding party, Justin and Jamie, then her family, including Angus, the sons, and the wives. Then his family, Jamie and his daughter.

Except that Arianna was not to be found.

He threatened no violence, and yet Maggie realized that she would not want to be his daughter, facing his displeasure.

“Jamie, then, if you will, with my new lady wife!” Charles said, beaming.

And so, she was stood beside Jamie, and in those terrible moments, he looked at her, and she felt as if she wanted to crawl beneath the earth and die. And though he was far too well-mannered and schooled in the mores of their society to make any outward show of his displeasure, she felt the way that he touched her as they stood for the camera. As if he had been forced to pick up dung in the streets, as if he could barely stand it until he could release her. It was as if he had touched something filthy beyond comprehension.

“My turn!” Mireau called happily.

She felt almost giddy with relief as her dear friend came to stand beside her, his warmth real, his friendship and loyalty always unconditional.

At last, the photo sessions came to an end. They moved on to the house where an orchestra played, and a grand march began for their entry. Then, the first wedding dance, a waltz, and she was pleased to discover that she could fall into step with her new husband beautifully, and despite the tremors that had taken hold of her somewhere during it all, she could move about the floor without being an incredible embarrassment to Charles.

A magnificent dinner had been planned, and she had to marvel at the elegance and grace with which everything moved. Champagne was served, and she drank liberally, knowing she would need the fortitude for the hours to come. She met friends of Charles, and others she knew through her brother. She was walked around on her uncle's arm to speak with various people, all members of the elite, friends from his club, those he would consider to be the
right
people for her to nurture in her new life.

Each of her cousins and their wives greeted her warmly, watching her with a new esteem. Seriously, the boys were not so bad. Tristan told her that he had been studying some of the latest reports on work regarding investigations in France, and though he hadn't told his father yet, he was seriously considering police work himself. She encouraged him, and he admitted sheepishly that he hadn't yet admitted it to his wife.

“There is nothing wrong with honest work, Tristan,” she told him.

“Easy for you to say.”

“I'll support you, whatever you choose. So will Justin—and Charles!”

Tristan nodded, grinning slowly. “I may well need your support, and you just might find that I'm forced to seek a bed within your walls.”

“Tristan, the world has changed, and I believe that the rest of our family will have to figure that out soon.”

He moved closer to her, speaking softly. “Indeed! It's actually getting quite frightening. There are so many people who feel that royalty and nobility alike take such advantage of their situation—the insurrectionists are often in the streets. The royals are often booed on the streets. Not Her Majesty, the Queen, of course . . . but there are others . . .”

She knew that he referred to the Prince of Wales, and his son, Eddy.

She looked to the group and noted that they were in deep conversation with her uncle, Charles, her brother, and a few other guests.

A few moments later, the threesome, followed by their “escorts,” came to her side, wishing her well, saying their good-byes. The Prince of Wales assessed her rather openly, as if amused by the night ahead for Lord Charles. Eddy, whom she had met often enough in social circles, was simply pleasant. Princess Alexandra was lovely, and exceptionally sweet, apparently pleased in the company of her husband and son, and Maggie found herself wondering how the woman put up with her husband's behavior, and all that was constantly whispered.

But then, perhaps it was worth it all to her, for one day, she would be queen of the greatest empire in the world.

A trade-off . . .

Just as she had made her own trade-off, Maggie thought, and it was not a pleasant image in her mind.

When the royals departed, the discussion turned openly to the Crown, the state of the country, the shortcomings of the home secretary and the prime minister, and how it seemed that they were moving ever closer to disaster because way too many immigrants from other European countries found their way to English shores.

She stood with Charles, listening to Lady Marian give a tirade on how they wouldn't need to worry about the dreadful conditions in the East End if they could just keep the riff-raff from spilling across the channel. “Why, most of them just believe that they can come here and live off the charity of the land—or worse! Stealing their incomes from those who have been born to class or even those gentlemen who had created such fine businesses!”

“Oh, come, Marian!” Charles said. “We've come a long way from the days of the Regency. Remember, we've our modern police forces now, and those fellows do extraordinary work. Imagine life before the Police Act of 1829.”

“Pish-posh!” Marian said. “Now we've police! And we've decided that horrible criminals deserve the decency of private executions, and we've turned prisons into places of solitude and comfort.”

“We're trying to truly reach an age of enlightenment,” Mireau said quietly. “Sadly, despite our incredible technological achievements, there are still those who don't mind making a living off the suffering of others. Those who charge massive rents for slum living conditions are criminals, as sure as petty thieves are.”

“It's only the charity of the rich that keeps those poor devils in the slums alive!” Lady Marian said. “The wealthy are the ones seeing to the very livelihoods of the poor! And if punishments were sterner, we'd find there would be more law and order!”

“Oh, come, Marian!” Sir Roger argued, slipping into the group. He winked at Mireau, who looked quite taken aback. The Duchess had looked at him as she might her old bath water. Roger was attempting to lighten the moment. “What? Would you bring back the chopping block and axe?”

“We need stronger deterrents. Quick action. Why, just the other week, I might well have been shot and killed because of a wretched charlatan pretending to be a great medium! And what did the police do? Let the head fellow escape! One was killed outright; the woman involved was a pretty thing and the police were kind to her, though she might well have committed murder herself! I tell you, if it weren't for the ordinary citizens there . . . I shudder to think of what might have happened to me.”

Maggie felt herself growing increasingly uncomfortable.

“And, I tell you, it is coming to a truly wretched state!” Marian continued. “Have you kept up with the papers? There is a real monster afoot in the East End. Surely a foreigner, for no Englishman would ever be such an insane animal! There will be more, mark my words. Now, I grant you that this madman is killing women who can hardly be granted such a term in themselves, drunkards they are, the worst kinds of street harlots. But still, cattle are surely put down with less frenzy! We should rid the country of all of these people!”