Marrying the Major: Passion and peril in Regency London (Unsuitable Matches) Page 12

  This time, Emma laughed aloud, though, to Jamie's ears, it sounded a little more high-pitched than normal. "Oh, I am sorry, Jamie. I will try to do better, I promise. It was just— Well, as I said, I was in the garden. That silly little Mayhew chit had been pursuing Kit all evening. She even followed him into the garden and so, unfortunately, she saw Kit kissing me. She then announced to all the world that Kit and I were lovers, and behaving in the most licentious fashion, to boot. There was uproar, naturally, especially as neither you nor your mama was there to curb Mrs Mayhew's malicious tongue. Not unnaturally, Papa was furious and insisted that Kit marry me, giving neither of us any choice in the matter. Papa was determined that we be married within the week. To stop the scandalmongering, you understand."

  Jamie nodded. "But—"

  Emma's smile broadened. "And then the major intervened. He said that Kit and I should not suit—which is perfectly true—and that I had better marry him instead. So I said I would. There. Now you have it all."

  Jamie shook her head in exasperation at this bald narrative. It was so unlike Emma. She had always shared her thoughts and feelings with Jamie. "Emma, you know very well that you have told me nothing, nothing at all. Why was Kit kissing you in the garden, if there was no assignation? Why did Major Stratton offer to take his place? Do not pretend that he sacrifices himself out of brotherly love and duty, for that makes no sense at all. And why on earth did you decide to accept him? That is the greatest puzzle of all and I beg you will explain it to me. Kit is a better prospect, surely? He is young and handsome, whereas the major is—"

  Emma laid a hand on Jamie's arm. "Hugo is the man I will marry, Jamie. I will not go back on my word."

  Jamie was not prepared to give in so easily. "And what does he think of what passed between you and his brother in the garden? That might not bode well for your future together. Husbands do not take kindly to other men making free with their wives, you know, or even to the thought that they might do so."

  "He knows exactly what happened. He has no reason to be jealous of Kit. Believe me, Jamie, there will be no trouble over that, at least."

  "At least?"

  Emma coloured a little, but she did not attempt to cover up her obvious slip. She rose from her seat, looking down at Jamie with eyes totally devoid of expression. "Wish us happy, Jamie," she said simply.

  "I do, Emma. I do, most sincerely."

  Emma nodded politely and made for the door, excusing herself on the grounds of her duties to her other guests.

  Jamie was far from satisfied, but there was nothing more to be gleaned from questioning Emma. She was taking refuge in her best company manners and treating Jamie like the merest acquaintance. It was all very strange.

  Jamie hurried away to find her husband. He must, surely, be back from his morning ride by now?

  Richard was in his dressing room, changing out of his riding clothes. He took one look at his wife's face and dismissed his valet.

  "Richard," she began, "I do not understand what is going on. Last night Emma was to marry Kit. Today Emma tells me she will marry Major Stratton. Oh, I know that he is a fine man, but he is so much older than Emma, and dreadfully wounded, besides. He—"

  Richard grinned wickedly. "Hugo is younger than me, I'll have you know, madame, so that cock won't fight. Is that the best you can do?"

  Jamie was not to be diverted. "And what of Kit? How does he feel about being summarily rejected in favour of his older brother? Surely he feels the insult keenly?"

  "Kit? I must tell you, my love, that Kit feels the insult so keenly that he has already left for Epsom. Now that he is no longer an engaged man, he will not be forced to miss the Oaks. Had you forgotten the race was today? Kit had not, I can tell you. He plans to put all his blunt on the second favourite. And then go back to London to gamble away his winnings."

  "Oh, Richard, how can you?" Jamie tried to keep from smiling back at him. It was very difficult when he looked down at her in that way. "But is this true?" she said at last.

  He nodded. "Kit would have made an appalling husband for Emma. For any woman, in my opinion. He's not half the man that Hugo is. Hugo understands people. Kit thinks only of himself, and his extremely expensive pleasures. He's far too handsome for his own good, too. Give him a few more years on the town, and he might improve, I dare say, but only if he discovers that women will not always fall at his feet. A good dose of rejection would be the best possible medicine for Kit. Whereas Hugo has had trials a-plenty."

  He caught Jamie to him and started to nuzzle her neck. "My love, I believe that this match will be better than any of us imagines. They will be good for each other. As we were, remember?" He began to kiss her greedily.

  Jamie smiled into his kiss and wound her arms about his neck. There was nothing more to be said.

  Emma was exhausted by the time she tumbled into bed. It was all her own doing, too, so she had no cause for complaint. She had kept herself busy all day, often to no purpose at all. So why could she not sleep?

  She decided to focus on practical things—the journey home to Longacres, the arrangements for the ceremony, reorganising the apartments in the house so that Hugo could have a study separate from her father's. Surely she had enough control over her own thoughts to stop her unruly emotions from intruding? She had spent all day playing the part of the happy young woman celebrating her engagement. Why was it that the mask always cracked, the moment she was alone?

  From a child, she had always had whatever she wanted. She had decided she wanted Hugo and now she was to have him. Why, then, was she—?

  She forced herself to abandon that train of thought. The ceremony. That was better. Richard had kindly offered the use of his private chapel. In the circumstances, it was preferable to the parish church where all the villagers would come to gawp. A special licence would be needed, but Richard had plans for that, too. He had joked that he was certainly up to snuff, having done the same for his own marriage. On this occasion, however, some delay was inevitable. He and Hugo could post up to London on the morrow, but would have to cool their heels during the Sabbath. All being well, they would return to Harding by Monday evening. And Richard's chaplain would then perform the ceremony on Tuesday.

  In four days, she would be Hugo Stratton's wife.

  Why on earth had he done it? It could not be due to any degree of feeling for Emma herself, for—apart from that one, furious kiss—he had never shown her anything more than common politeness. Could it be that his kiss meant—? Emma stopped that fanciful thought before it was fully formed. He must have done it to save his brother, she decided firmly. Kit had all his life before him. And Kit had all the advantages of looks and charm. He might make a brilliant match, one day.

  But would any man sacrifice himself to save his brother?

  Perhaps it was her money that had proved the deciding factor? How demeaning to think that Hugo was no different from all the money-grabbing fortune hunters who had pursued her over the years. But surely, he would have started courting her before, if that had been his aim? He had never courted her at all, though there had been opportunities at Harding.

  Perhaps he had not courted her because of his wounds, believing she would never accept a disfigured husband, whereas now she had a stark choice between one of the Stratton brothers and disgrace. Had he seized on his only real chance of securing a fortune?

  No, it could not be so. Hugo was neither devious, nor base. He was Richard's oldest friend, and Richard vouched for his integrity. Emma knew that Hugo was an honourable man. She had always known. He had asked her to trust him and she had found that she did, instinctively.

  Besides, Hugo had wealth of his own. He had made that clear. So his reasons must have been quite unselfish, after all. He was marrying Emma to save his brother. And what kind of basis for marriage was that?

  That was a question Emma did not want to explore. She concentrated, instead, on solving the problem of her hot, sticky pillow. She sat up, turned it and smoothed it out before lyi
ng down again. That was better, cooler.

  And she must coolly decide how she was going to behave. Hugo had been scrupulously polite, but distant, since the moment he proposed. Why had he not kissed her then? He had desired her once, and she had given him the right. She had been yearning for the touch of his lips, but he had behaved as distantly as if they had just been introduced. Distant, and cold. And, since then, he had avoided being alone with her or discussing anything beyond the merest commonplace. She found she was relieved that he had to go to London for the licence—she would not see him again until the wedding—for his presence tended to make her thoughts tumble and her limbs heat, even though he hardly ever touched her. During the whole day, the day when they had become betrothed, he had twice kissed her hand and that was all. The second time, he had simply bade her a cool goodnight, no mention of what would happen when they met again, no concern about her well-being in the meantime, nothing. He must be regretting his sacrifice already.

  It really did not matter if he did, Emma concluded brutally. Nothing could now be altered, for either of them. Only the future mattered, and there, she would have control. In fact, her life would change very little and she was glad of it. She would continue to be mistress of her father's household, where her husband would also live. She would minister to the needs of two gentlemen instead of one. Hugo would learn about running the estate that would one day be his, while Emma would make sure that he recovered fully from his injuries. He was much too thin, for a start. She would order nourishing food for him so that he would fill out once more. And she would ensure he learned to ride and shoot again. His scars would fade but, until he regained those vital skills, he would be unable to fulfil the proper role of a country gentleman. It might take Emma a little time, but eventually Major and Mrs Stratton would take their rightful place in society.

  As soon as she arrived home tomorrow, she would set about the question of her makeshift trousseau. With the addition of some lace, her newest evening gown could be turned into a more than adequate wedding dress. It was fortunate she had chosen white silk. She would need flowers, too.

  As she finally drifted into sleep, an unbidden thought floated through her mind. When Hugo had thought she would marry Kit, he had made Kit promise to be a good husband to her. How very strange.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  "Emma, my dear child, you look ravishing." Aunt Augusta was tweaking Emma's bridal skirts for at least the twentieth time. If only she would not fuss so much.

  "Oh, look, your hem is ruffled." Aunt Augusta knelt quickly to smooth the offending wrinkle. She seemed to take a remarkably long time over such a minor blemish. Then, in a strained and surprisingly quiet voice, she said, "Emma, was there anything you wished to know? About, um, about being a wife?" She was looking at Emma's skirt but she hurried on, "If your mother had been here, it would have fallen to her, of course, but—" She took a deep breath. "It is up to me to ensure you are prepared for what is to come."

  How ominous that sounded. Was there something that she should be concerned about? Emma racked her brains. She had worked so hard over these last few days—and slept so badly—that she could not think clearly any more. What could she have forgotten? And why should Aunt Augusta wait until now to remind her?

  Emma reverted to the calm politeness that she had relied on since the day of Hugo's proposal. "I am always very grateful for your advice, Aunt."

  Mrs Warenne looked up sharply, frowning. Then she rose and walked over to the window where she stood for several moments, gazing out. She cleared her throat more than once before she spoke. And she did not look at Emma.

  "My dear, my dear, you are young, and innocent. Marriage is— There are aspects to marriage which you may not— Oh, dear, this is all so difficult. If only your mother were here."

  She coughed again. "Emma, your duties to your husband will include a degree of, um, of closeness. It can be a little upsetting for a new bride, but you must simply accept it. You will soon become accustomed. We all do. And it is necessary, in any case, if you are to have children. You want children, naturally. All women want children. They will be the focus of your life." Aunt Augusta had begun to sound a little more like her usual self. "And a husband's attentions do lessen later, especially when his wife is, um, especially when he has other distractions." Aunt Augusta cleared her throat yet again. She turned at last, though she did not seek to meet Emma's eye. "Forgive me, Emma, but I am afraid we do not know how badly your husband was wounded."

  Emma was by now totally bemused. What was her aunt talking about? Nothing made any sense at all.

  Her aunt hurried on. "When you retire to your chamber, you will find it best to greet your husband in the dark, my dear. Make sure the shutters and the bed-curtains are closed so that you do not have to look upon his wounds. And if, by any chance, his injuries have impaired his ability to, um, perform his duties, the darkness will hide his embarrassment. Major Stratton is a true gentleman, my dear, and will understand that you are too shy to receive him in the light. Do not be afraid to ask. I am sure he will grant you that one request."

  Emma nodded dumbly. Darkness. Yes. She would try to remember. Darkness was important.

  Aunt Augusta seemed relieved. "Good. That is done. I have prepared you as I am sure your dear mother would have wished. And now, look at the time. We must hurry. The carriages will be at the door. A bride must be late, but not so late that her groom wonders whether she will appear at all."

  Emma took her seat in the carriage beside her father's comforting bulk. He squeezed her hand once, but said nothing. Emma was grateful. It was so peaceful now that her aunt had finally gone ahead to join the little congregation at Richard's chapel. Aunt Augusta had done nothing but talk since the moment she arrived in Emma's chamber to help her dress, besides fussing over the silliest details. Emma was too pale—should she not wear rouge? Emma's posy of flowers was too small—it was not too late to send for more. Emma's veil would look better if she wore it with an aigrette, or at least a circlet. Although Emma had dumbly acquiesced to every suggestion, it had not helped to stem Aunt Augusta's flow. Emma's head had begun to ache well before she was fully dressed. And from then on, it had become worse and worse.

  She promised herself that everything would soon be over. She would simply concentrate on taking one step at a time. That way, she would be able to remain in control, for she was determined to appear resolute. She must thank the servants who had come to see her off. She must remember to hold her head up as she arrived at the chapel. She must not allow her knees to shake as she walked up the aisle. She must—

  One step at a time. Concentrate on the carriage journey first. Smile farewell to the servants. Above all things, smile, always smile.

  The drive to Harding seemed to be shorter than usual. Emma could not remember passing through the lodge gates. Had she smiled to the lodge-keeper? She supposed she must have done.

  Papa—dear, dear Papa—held her hand firmly as he helped her down and led her to the door of the chapel. Jamie was there, apparently waiting for Emma. Should she not be inside? Ah, no, Jamie had offered to act as matron of honour. Someone had to be there at the altar to receive Emma's flowers.

  Jamie straightened Emma's lace veil. "You look lovely, Emma," she said.

  Papa patted Emma's hand. "If you are ready, my dear child?"

  Emma straightened her back. One step at a time. Walk slowly down the aisle. Keep your head up. Smile. Always smile.

  "I am ready, Papa."

  They walked together through the doorway and started down the aisle, Jamie following a little way behind.

  One step at a time. Keep your eyes on the altar. Smile.

  After the sunshine outside, it was difficult to see clearly. The chapel was almost empty—a few hazy figures on the left, the white robes of the chaplain in the centre and, on the right, two tall dark men, standing shoulder to shoulder, waiting. Why was there no music to break this awful silence? The only sound seemed to be Emma's own footsteps.


  One step at a time. Smile.

  "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here…"

  The familiar words were soothing, almost soporific. It would be over soon.

  One step at a time. Her hand must not shake when it was given to Hugo.

  "Who giveth this woman…"

  One step at a time. Her vows must be strongly spoken.

  "Do you, Emma Frances, take this man…"

  One step at a time. Smile.

  "I now pronounce you man and wife."

  Smile.

  Hugo looked down at her. Her husband, now. What was he thinking? Should he not be smiling, too?

  He lifted her hand to his lips. Then he bent to place a soft kiss on her cheek. Nothing more.

  Smile.

  Hugo turned, offering Emma his arm. Now they must walk back down the aisle, together.

  One step at a time.

  The sunshine beyond the open doorway was blindingly bright. Everything inside the chapel became dim in contrast. Emma walked slowly towards the light. Out there was her new life.

  The sun's fierce rays penetrated her thoughts as nothing else could.

  Dear God, what had she done? She was married. And to a man she barely knew. Had she really spoken those vows? She must have.

  For days, she had been wandering through a dream, a dream she had willingly created for herself. But this was no dream. She was walking out into the light of day on the arm of her husband.

  She lifted her chin and focused her eyes on the bright light ahead of her. She was moving into a different world, now. She must live with the choice she had made.

  Hugo Stratton was her husband. He had the right to command her obedience, in everything. He owned her, and everything about her, as surely as he owned the shirt on his back. She, whose slightest wish had always been granted, must bow to the whims of the dark, silent man at her side.

  Hugo placed his hand over hers as they reached the door.