Duel of Hearts (13 page)

W
ith the bride's father's illness as an excuse, the wedding was a very private, albeit elegant affair. The dowager duchess, having ascertained that the Coles were not, after all, so terribly vulgar, deigned to lend her presence and that of Mrs. Buckhaven, as did lords Renfield and Rivington.

Owing to the grayness of a rainy day, the gaslights glowed invitingly in the green saloon as the party assembled. Leah, truly lovely in a simple dress of rose-colored raw silk, took her place beside Lyndon. As she walked, the silk rustled against the stiffened taffeta petticoat whose lace edging peeped fashionably from beneath the gown's hem. The single strand of perfectly matched pearls nestled in the hollow of her throat, while another strand had been woven into curls spilling from a knot at the crown of her head.

The vicar, summoned from Old St. Margaret's, cleared his throat and began with the ancient words, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here . . .”

Leah stole a sidelong glance at the viscount, catching his somber profile and thinking, despite her misgivings, that he was certainly the handsomest man she'd ever seen. If only . . .

She was brought abruptly back to the present as her father placed her hand in Lyndon's and she heard the clergyman addressing him, charging him with the responsibilities of marriage, asking his response. Her eyes widened a fraction as his warm, almost frighteningly strong fingers tightened on hers and he answered clearly that he would. And she felt his body tense beside hers when the vicar turned to her, charging and asking the same. She hesitated momentarily, her gaze traveling to where her father sat in his best coat and breeches next to the small, deceptively frail duchess.

“I will.”

It was as though she could feel Lyndon's silent sigh of relief. Turning again to him, the vicar took him through the age-old vows that bound husband and wife together until eternity, and Leah listened almost dispassionately as Tony repeated, “I, Anthony Edward Charles Robert Barsett, take thee, Leah Frances Cole . . .”

This, then, was it—she was no longer a daughter in her father's house, but rather a wife, mistress of her own establishment, responsible for the duties that went with her new and elevated status. Well, not for
all
of them, she reminded herself to bolster her lagging courage. Stealing another quick glance at Barsett's face, she wondered what was going through his mind. He too was committed forever now—if he should find another, if he should come to love someone else, he was no longer free . . .

“Repeat after me, please.” With a start, she realized they waited for her now. Drawing in a deep breath, she nodded and followed his words, “I, Leah Frances Cole, take thee, Anthony Charles . . . that is . . .” Flustered for a moment, she hesitated and began again in a stronger voice, “I, Leah Frances Cole, take thee, Anthony
Edward
Charles Robert Barsett, to be my husband, to . . .”

In a matter of very few minutes it was done and they knelt on the soft woolen carpet for the blessing and benediction. Balancing herself awkwardly with her hand in his grip, she struggled to smooth her slim skirt and rise. It was over. For good or ill, she belonged to a man she scarce knew and had not wanted.

“Not quite,” he murmured, as though he read her thoughts. Leaning so close that her senses reeled from the clean, pleasant scent of his Hungary water and from the warmth of his skin against hers, he brushed his lips across her mouth quickly and stepped back—but not before he'd seen her eyes flutter and heard her sharp intake of breath.

“Now?” she asked, trying to hide the sudden apprehension she felt.

“Now.” His hand slid down from her shoulder to her hand again, sending a shiver in its wake. “You are cold as ice, my dear,” he whispered. “Would you have me send for your shawl?”

“No—'twill pass.”

“Well, now . . . Lady Lyndon. Let me be the first to congratulate you, my dear.” Jeptha Cole's eyes brimmed brightly as he surveyed her proudly. “Aye, but don't you look fine!” he managed, his voice low with suppressed emotion.

“Mr. Cole,” the duchess cut in imperiously, “I believe 'tis proper to congratulate
him
rather than her!”

“Eh?” He eyed the diminutive dowager with a look that bordered on dislike for a moment and thundered, “Dash it, Your Grace! No need t' tell him—he knows I like him! Gave him my greatest treasure, didn't I?” Then, conscious of her affronted expression, he attempted to mollify her. “Aye, but I wish him well—congratulate him too, I suppose. Damme, Leah's a viscountess now, ain't she?” he chortled. “Calls for some sherry t' toast ‘em! Crome! Crome!”

The butler and housekeeper, who'd both been watching surreptitiously as Leah wed into the Quality, hurried forward. Leah caught the old woman's furtive brush at tears and enveloped her in a quick embrace. “I will miss you,” she whispered.

“Here, now, miss . . . madam, 'tis not fitting,” the elderly housekeeper whispered.

“Lady Lyndon, may I be the first to felicitate you?” Hugh Rivington murmured at Leah's shoulder. “All London will envy Tony for stealing the march on 'em.”

Turning around, Leah faced Tony's friends and extended her hands, only to have both carried up to be kissed at the same time in an unusual display of gallantry by Rivington and Renfield. “Hugh's right, m'dear—ain't a buck in London as won't go into mourning when he sees you,” Gil promised.

“Thank you.”

“Oh, Lady Lyndon!” Mrs. Buckhaven clasped her own hands together soulfully as she approached Leah. “I cannot yet credit that dear Tony is wed! Now he will cease raking about and—”

“Bucky!”

“Well, surely he will not—”

“Bucky! I am certain Leah will discover Tony's faults soon enough without having you enumerating 'em for her,” the duchess reproved her sharply. “Aye, I wish you well also, my dear,” she told Leah. “And don't be thinking you have to name the first gel Hester for me, 'cause you don't, you know—hate the name! Besides, a gel can't carry on the Barsett line.”

“Well, I—”

“Leah will take whatever Divine Providence gives us, won't you, my dear?” Tony came up behind her and squeezed her shoulder with one hand while reaching around her with a glass of sherry in the other. “To Lady Lyndon—may the years bring you happiness, my dear,” he murmured softly. “Here, let me get one of my own and we will drink to it.”

“I am in agreement with Her Grace,” Cole announced to anyone within hearing. “No need to name any boys Jeptha—don't know where I got such a name and don't want to pass it on. Humph! Seems to me that Lyndon's got enough names to choose from on his own, anyway.”

“Lady Lyndon . . .” Tony lifted his glass to touch the rim of hers.

Lady Lyndon. Lord Lyndon's lady. It sounded foreign to her ears and yet it was fact—Leah Cole was gone forever, replaced by the Viscountess Lyndon. She was Leah Barsett now. Slowly she lifted her glass to her lips and took a sip.

“ 'Tis quite good, really.” The duchess managed to unbend over her glass enough to smile thinly at Mr. Cole.

“Ain't it? Got it from a smuggler off the coast—said it was from Boney's own stock. Didn't believe him, of course,” he snorted, “but it could've been.”

“Yes, well, perhaps we should repair to the dining room. Monsieur Lebeau is quite the temperamental cook, and—”

“What Leah's tryin' to say is he's a demned Frenchie! Never know what he feeds us by the name of it, but it's palatable enough! Aye, we'd best eat if you are to make the Dover packet before nightfall.” Jeptha Cole patted his pocket and beamed at his new son-in-law before reaching to draw out a sheaf of papers. “Know you don't want m'money, my lord, but thought you might like to have these for a wedding present.”

Everyone turned to watch Tony remove the string that bound the papers together. As he examined them, Gil peered around his shoulder. “What are they?” he asked curiously.

Tony turned over the first one carefully and refolded it. “My thanks, sir—my heartfelt thanks.”

“But what—?”

“Stock certificates?” Hugh queried.

“No, not quite—'tis an interest in a merchant vessel and bills of lading for her first cargo.”

“Shipping!” the duchess choked in horror. “Mr. Cole”—she rounded on the still-beaming man—”Barsetts do not engage in trade!”

“Eh? Beggin' Yer Grace's pardon, but there's fortunes to be made in shipping!” Cole retorted.

“Not in my family!”

“Aunt Hester, 'tis but an interest,” Tony reasoned with the old woman. “ ‘Tis no different from investing in the funds.”

“Aye, and less chancy, if you was to ask me,” Cole added.

“Aunt Hester . . .” Hugh attempted to smooth things between Old Cole and the Old Tartar. “It ain't like Tony was to sail on it, after all. He merely buys abroad, brings goods to England, and sells them at a profit at Garraway's. He don't even have to go there to do it—can send a man of business if he wishes.”

“Less chancy than faro,” Gil offered helpfully. “Done all the time.”

“By whom?” the dowager demanded awfully.

“By the Cits.” All eyes swung to Leah as she faced the old woman, her color heightened ominously. “In case you have not noted it, whilst the nobility has sat clucking their tongues and doing nothing, we Cits have been earning fortunes that are the envy of Golden Ball,” she answered, biting off each word. “And one day it will be the Cits who live on the estates of the lords who have mortgaged their lands and houses at the gaming tables.”

A shocked silence descended over the wedding party like a pall as the oldest Barsett faced the newest. “Yes, well”—the dowager collected herself and her surroundings—”that is not to say that I opposed all trade, my dear. 'Tis that I would leave such things to those who do them well.”

“I mean to turn a profit, Aunt Hester,” Tony announced calmly. “There are fortunes to be made, and I intend to make mine. Now, if the toasts are finished, I suggest we proceed to dine.” Taking out his watch and flicking open the cover, he observed the time. “If we are to board for the crossing this evening, we'd best be on the road by three o'clock, I think.”

“Know your mind, don't you?” the dowager addressed Leah. “And you ain't afraid to speak it neither. Daresay there's truth to what you say, but I am an old woman and things change slowly for me. Come give an interfering relation a kiss before we sup.”

Leah's anger faded at the duchess's attempt to make amends. Leaning down, she brushed her lips dutifully across the wrinkled cheek and wished fervently that she could indeed know her own mind.

Parked around the corner from the Cole residence was a particularly elegant equipage, complete with a bang-up team of bays, four sweet-goers. To his chagrin, the Earl of Rotherfield discovered he was too late—the careful abduction he'd planned was thwarted by an error in the announcement. Instead of an evening wedding, it had been a morning one.

T
he well-sprung carriage barreled down the road, its swaying motion lulling the tired viscount, who now napped across from Leah. Outside, the rain had ended and the clouds had dissipated, leaving the countryside bathed in the rosiness of early dusk. It was a pretty scene, and one totally at variance with the emotions that warred in Leah's breast.

At first she'd tried to read, but the gentle swaying had threatened to make her sick. Then she'd taken careful inventory of the inside of the carriage, admiring the shining wooden and brass trim, the ornate Italian coach lamps, the lush blue velvet of the upholstery, the thick woolen rug at her feet—everything.

Finally, having exhausted her surroundings, she turned her attention to Lyndon himself. Unlike her, he seemed so utterly unaffected by the change in their circumstances that he slept. As she studied him openly, he shifted his weight to cradle his head against the side of the carriage. After removing his hat and placing it on the seat beside him, he'd combed his blond hair with his fingers, and the unconscious effect was devastating. Idly she wondered if the stories told of the
ton
were true—that gentlemen and their valets struggled for hours to achieve just such charming disarray. In Anthony Barsett's case, his hair fell in short waves, curling boyishly across his forehead and over his ears. In sleep, the strong, well-chiseled planes of his face softened, taking on a boyish innocence at odds with his rakehell reputation.

It was as if her speculative gaze wakened him, for his eyes opened, blinked to focus, and met hers. Straightening in the seat, he smiled ruefully, murmuring, “Your pardon—I must have been more tired than I thought.”

“ 'Tis scarce flattering, but I did not mind it.”

“Did you abandon Caro Lamb's turgid tale?” he asked, noting the book that lay on the seat beside her.

“Well, I cannot think she would have been published had it not been for curiosity. And I do not think she needed three volumes to tell her story,” she added with feeling. “ 'Tis utter nonsense to suppose that anyone would fall in love with Lord Glenarvon, for a more selfish, tortured, evil man has never been called a hero. I washed my hands of it when one of his many mistresses committed suicide. I think him a dashed loose screw, if you would have the truth of it, and Calantha's passion for him is just plain silly—almost as silly as Caroline Lamb's for Byron.”

“Do you not believe 'tis possible to love unwisely?” he asked, the corner of his mouth quivering with amusement at her scathing review of the book that had set society on its ears.

“For a peagoose perhaps,” she retorted.

“But not for the practical Leah Cole, I suppose.” With an exaggerated sigh he rolled his eyes heavenward to complain, “Alas, but I am given a wife whose heart cannot be touched.”

“ 'Tis better to have one's heart untouched, sir, than to have it touched too often,” she answered primly. But a certain mischief danced in her smoky eyes.

“ 'Tis not my heart so much as my purse that the females of my acquaintance have pursued, my dear.”

“Perhaps you dangled after the wrong sort.”

“One is very like another—except for you, of course.”

“What fustian, my lord. 'Tis the same as saying all gentlemen are alike, when 'tis obvious they are not.”

“Ah, but we are,” he contradicted lightly. “The principal difference between us is merely one of facade.”

“What a lowering thought, my lord—you would leave the reformers amongst us with nothing to strive for.”

“Four hours a bride and already you would change me.” He reached across to cover her hand in her lap, and his fingers played with her wedding ring. “ 'Twill be a very long life if we are forever at daggers drawn, you know. We shall both have to change somewhat, Leah.” His voice had grown soft and his blue eyes seemed to communicate silently with her heart.

Keeping her voice light, she answered quickly, “Just because we are to be friends, my lord, does not mean I should be a silly widgeon hanging on your sleeve, does it?”

“As if you could do it!” He leaned closer until his eyes were almost level with hers. “ 'Tis so very wearying being an unwanted fortune-hunter, you know. Think how it must look to my friends: ‘Poor Tony,' they shall say, ‘he has such a hard wife that he's earned every penny of her papa's money.' ”

“When in truth they should be saying poor Leah has been sold for a title.” Incredibly, she was smiling.

“Does this mean you will pretend some small affection for me?” he asked as his own heart thudded.

“When we are in public, I suppose I must—I am no more proof to false pity than you are,” she admitted.

“ 'Tis a fair bargain then. And in return, I shall endeavor to be an exemplary husband, Lady Lyndon.”

Lady Lyndon. Once again she was reminded that Leah Cole no longer existed. Her eyes dropped to where he still held her fingers in his, but she made no move to pull away as she studied his hand. Unlike so many white, almost limp, and totally effete hands she'd seen amongst those of the
ton,
Tony's was firm, warm, and decidedly masculine.

“I'd almost pay to know your thoughts, Leah.”

“What? Oh, I was wondering how much different 'twill be now that I am a viscountess,” she invented quickly, striving for a lightness she no longer felt. “How shall I go on, do you think? Shall I look down my nose at the servants just so?” She affected the expression she'd seen on Mrs. Drummond-Burrell the first time she'd met that haughty lady.

He grinned openly now. “I hope you do not—'twill be said you are suffering from indigestion if you do.”

The coach rolled to a halt, nearly throwing her into his lap. Righting her, he grasped the pull strap and looked out the window. “We are arrived at the Black Swan, where we shall sup ere we board for passage to Boulogne. And, as you did not eat much at your father's, you must surely be famished.”

“I am—and thirsty also.”

Jumping down, he turned back to assist her. “A private parlor has been bespoken for us, and I am told the roast beef is particularly excellent here. You'd best enjoy it, as everything from tomorrow morning forward will be decidedly French.”

Not trusting her cramped legs, she stepped down rather gingerly to survey their surroundings. “Despite Papa's ships and trade, I have never sailed, my lord—nor have I ever traveled beyond one small trip down the Thames to see the gardens at Hampton Court.” Her hand still on his arm, she observed the busy innyard curiously. “Is everyone here going to France?”

“No, 'tis crowded with people coming in from several continental ports as well as those who are leaving for Calais, Boulogne, and the Dutch coastal cities. Someday when we have more time, I should like to take you on the complete tour—Holland, Belgium, France, Spain, Portugal, Italy—all of it. But we have to hurry now if we are to make it aboard the packet to France.”

As busy as the place was, it did not take long for the innkeeper to have all in readiness. New covers were laid, sparkling silver and cut glassware produced, and a fire lighted against the chill of a spring evening in the small rear parlor. And all the while the room was being prepared, the innkeeper hovered about them obsequiously.

“There are obvious advantages to a viscount's company,” she murmured as soon as they were out of hearing. “Do they always treat you thus?”

“Actually, no. I was about to say the same for your company, my dear. But then perhaps my man told them 'twas our wedding supper and they are merely being romantic about it.”

“Oh.” She took a sip from her glass and choked. “What in heaven's name is this?”

“Madeira.” Swirling it, he took a small sip and nodded. “Yes, 'tis definitely Madeira. If you would prefer it, I will order ratafia for you, but this is quite good really. The thing to remember about Madeira, my dear, is that it is rather strong.”

“I am not overly fond of ratafia either, my lord.” Raising the glass again, she sipped deeply to slake her thirst. “And no doubt 'tis possible to acquire a liking for this.”

“Then . . .” Lifting his glass to clink against hers, he toasted her again. “To Lady Lyndon—may she learn to call me Tony ere I am in my grave.”

“ ‘Tony' seems so informal for a viscount, do you not think?” she responded. “Perhaps ‘Anthony . . .' ” Her voice trailed off as she paused to finish her wine, and then she cocked her head to consider him. “I mean, for one named Anthony Edward Charles Robert Barsett, ‘Tony' is almost too common.”

“If you are not careful, you will puff me up with my own consequence, my dear, and I shall begin addressing you as ‘Leah Frances.' ” He smiled engagingly as he refilled her glass.

“You would not dare—I think ‘Frances' sounds as though it belongs to a man.”

They were interrupted by a serving girl bringing a tray laden with a platter of beef, a joint of mutton, bowls of peas and potatoes, crusty rolls, Cornish butter, clotted cream and preserves, and a trifle. Even before she withdrew, Tony began cutting the roast and laying slices across Leah's plate, urging her to eat and drink up.

“You'll find the Madeira complements the beef most excellently,” he promised. “The more you have of one, the better the other tastes.” Taking care to fill her glass yet again, he turned his attention to his own plate.

Warmed by the food, the fire, and the wine, Leah relaxed as the meal progressed, and found herself actually enjoying his company. In between mouthfuls, he managed to regale her with some of his more moderate misadventures as a young man traveling abroad during Boney's wars. “I went at England's expense, of course, and I cannot say the accommodations were all I would have liked, for the ground had little to recommend it.”

“You fought as a soldier?”

“Alas, but who did not? But lest you think I managed anything heroic, let me assure you that I had the distinction of reaching most of the battle sites
afterward,”
he added modestly. “My only battle of note was Talavera in Spain, and it was more of a defense than an action, but I was only nineteen and thought it quite exciting at the time.”

“You know Wellington then?” she asked, fascinated. Drinking deeply of her fourth glass of Madeira, she leaned forward to rest her elbows on the table.

“But then he was not even Viscount Wellington—that came after Talavera, in fact.”

“What is he like—I mean truly like?”

“Wellington?” He sipped his wine and considered Old Douro for a moment. “Well, I cannot profess to know him intimately, for although I was cavalry, I was not under his direct command, you understand. But even then, he was invincible to us—the gift of a Divine Providence to England. And he was not given to mixing with the troops, preferring to stay aloof, which in the end always makes for a better commander. I think what I liked best about him was his laugh, for he is not a humorless man, and he is not puffed up with his own conceit. But I did not really make his acquaintance until we were both back in England.”

“And what happened to you, my lord?” she asked, her voice now slurring softly from the effects of the Madeira.

“I was wounded—though not heroically, I fear.” Refilling her glass again, he admitted, “I suffered a broken shoulder from being unseated when my horse went down in the crush of a crowded Spanish street, and I was sent home. I was devastated at the time, for I wanted to fight the enemy with all the zeal of youth, but the accident probably saved my life.”

“I am glad.”

Her words cut through his reminiscing, making him acutely conscious of her. Keeping his voice light despite the surge of hope, he watched her carefully. “I came back and learned to be a bruising rider to salve my conscience. But enough of me, my dear—a man can go on forever with old tales, and I'd hear of you.”

“There's naught to tell, my lord.”

“Tony.”

“Tony, then.” Eyeing her newly emptied glass suspiciously for a moment, she decided, “I'd best have no more of this—it makes me giddy. Anyway . . .”

“We were speaking of you,” he prompted.

“Were we? I've forgotten—daresay it wasn't important.”

“Viscountesses are always important,” he teased her.

“Are they? But then I have never been one before, you know,” she whispered conspiratorially. “You shall have to tell me how to go on.”

“Well, as a viscountess, you will be expected to preside at any number of routs, balls, and musicales.”

“Really?” she drawled with an exaggerated lift of her brow, not noticing that he'd refilled her glass for the fifth time. “And what does a viscount do at these affairs?”

“Oh, in this instance, the viscount shall most probably watch the viscountess.”

“Sounds deuced silly to me, but I suppose I shall have to learn the proper way to be watched.” Her plate finished and the covers removed, she drained her glass yet again and rested her head on an elbow. “How should I look, do you think? I am a positive failure at simpering, and I despair I will ever learn.” For effect, she tried fluttering her lashes, speaking in an exaggerated voice, “How de do? Charmed, my dear—that gown is positively stun-stunning—made from French army jackets, is it not?” Leaning even closer, she whispered again, “ 'Tis quite the fashion to admire the French, you know.”

He'd been enjoying himself so thoroughly, basking in the pleasure of watching and listening to her, that he'd not paid any attention to how much wine he'd given her. But her speech now told him it was too much.

“My dear, you are foxed.”

“Am I?” Straightening with difficulty, she started to shake her head and then decided solemnly, “I think you may have the right of it, Tony—I think I am a trifle dish . . . disguised.” The rings around her gray irises appeared even darker than usual as she attempted to focus on him. “Thish . . .
this
is rather strong,” she mumbled, lifting her empty glass and letting it fall onto the table, where it rolled to rest against a crumpled napkin.