"More than that. I..." she searched for words that wouldn't wound him "...I do not find you handsome in the least."
Now he laughed uproariously. "Not handsome? What a polite way to put it, my dear. I am ugly. My face is grotesque. Last night when we met I felt fortunate you didn't swoon from the shock."
She found herself laughing with him, as if they were old friends. Suddenly, he rose from his chair, took her hands, and pulled her to her feet so that they stood facing each other, she, startled, gazing up wide-eyed, only inches away. "Marry me, Flora. You shall be the mistress of Pemberly Manor, which is, as you know, one of the greatest estates in all England. You will have clothes, jewels, all the servants you could ever want."
"My father is rich, sir. I have those things now."
"You will have freedom—"
"Ha! Women are never free
."
"Let me show you." His rough hands clasped her shoulders. "You needn't love me, I don't care about that, but inside this old man's body there's a man who would very much enjoy making you happy. I don't fit your dream of a romantic young lover, but I promise for the rest of my days, I shall try to make you happy. I shall never hurt you. You will never want for anything."
Except Richard
her heart cried, but what was the use? It really didn't matter. Nothing mattered. All she wanted was to get away, start a new life somewhere far from here. As for love...all she could feel was bitter irony. Love was but a dream, her futile fantasy. "If I married you, sir, would we be staying in London?"
"Whatever you like. We can stay, or we can leave for Pemberly Manor immediately."
She frowned, her thoughts in great confusion. "I must be honest—I mean, I do not want you to think—"
"For God's sake, just say yes," he said, not impatiently but with a great depth of feeling. "You'll not regret it, I guarantee."
Somehow, despite his advanced age, his ugliness, she believed him. She believed, too, that anything would be better than staying in London, subject of cruel gossip, hiding a broken heart, abjectly miserable.
"Yes, then."
"Are you sure?" He seemed totally calm, yet she'd caught a sudden intake of his breath.
She gathered her words and for a split second examined them. She was about to change her life—plunge into the unknown. But she didn't care. Nothing really mattered. "I am sure, Lord Dinsmore. Yes, I'll marry you."
Chapter 8
"Such a happy occasion," bubbled Lady Constance Boles to Flora as they stood chatting with guests at the wedding breakfast. Her gaze swept Flora up and down. "Your wedding gown is exquisite, my dear. Silver lamé on net, is it not?"
"Over a silver tissue slip," interjected Flora's mother. Beaming, she indicated the hem. "See all those little shells and flowers embroidered in silver lamé at the bottom? Well, you cannot imagine the difficulties involved with a gown as intricate as this. Poor Mademoiselle Guiteau and her seamstresses literally stitched their fingers to the bone day and night to finish it. The results are magnificent, are they not?"
Lady Boles smiled beneficently. "The perfect gown, the perfect bride."
"We are so thrilled for our Flora," Lady Rensley airily continued on. "Of course, I had always hoped that Flora would marry well, but Lord Dinsmore himself? Beyond my wildest dreams. How fortunate we are." She slanted a sharp gaze at Flora. Although it lasted but a fleeting moment, it was quite long enough to remind Flora yet again of her mother's displeasure and intense disapproval. One would never know, though. Smiling brightly, Lady Rensley presented the ideal picture of a proud mother, exultant that her daughter had made such a brilliant match.
Mama should have been an actress, Flora reflected, recalling her mother's near swoon when she heard the ghastly news. "Flora, how could you marry a man who looks like a monster?" she had wailed.
"Hero of Seedaseer," Flora succinctly reminded her.
"I would not give a fig if he were Wellington himself. Lord Dinsmore may be a hero, but he's old, lame, one-eyed, and scarred. You'll not be happy with him. Oh, why couldn't you have said yes to Lord Lynd? Change your mind! Lord Lynd would be a much better choice than—"
"I do not want to hear it
. I have given Lord Dinsmore my promise. Surely you want your daughter to do the honorable thing."
Flora had retained her stubborn attitude, even when her father also expressed his dismay. "I know I gave Dinsmore permission to offer for your hand, but only because I was loathe to insult the man. Never did I dream you would actually accept. You are not obliged to marry Dinsmore. Obviously you weren't thinking clearly. I shall go to him and explain—get you off the hook."
She adamantly refused to change her mind and felt a certain relief when, that morning at ten o'clock, she set the matter to permanent rest by marrying Charles Fraser, Lord Dinsmore, in a small ceremony at St. George's Church in Hanover Square.
A larger, most convivial crowd gathered for the
déjeuner
that immediately followed at their town house.
Were it not for the fact that her heart was broken and her life ruined, Flora might have enjoyed herself.
As it was, standing, smiling, next to her dignified, elderly husband, she knew at least she looked the part of the happy bride, dressed in her silver lamé gown so elegantly trimmed with point Brussels lace, a pretty wreath of rosebuds crowning her flowing hair. This wasn't real. She felt numb inside. In her head a little voice kept calling
, you should be married to Richard, not this pitiful old man
. She regarded the crowd through a sort of haze. What would they think if they knew her heart was breaking, these merry guests who brimmed with congratulations and well wishes, who heartily partook of the full-course meal, drank champagne, devoured her brides-cake to the last crumb?
Lord Dashwood was not present. Dinsmore had assured her he'd made it clear to his prodigal cousin that he was not welcome at the wedding. Even so, she held an unreasonable fear he might appear. She was vastly relieved when it became apparent Lord Dashwood had the decency not to show his face. Not so, his good friend, Lord Lynd. Not only was he present at both the ceremony and the wedding breakfast, he was groomsman for Lord Dinsmore.
"I have known Lynd all his life," Dinsmore explained. "He was like a second son to me when he was growing up. Now he's a true friend."
Today there was something about Lord Lynd that kept drawing her attention. For some reason, she found her gaze following him, time and again. Perhaps her attention was drawn by his fine, broad shoulders that so stood out above the crowd, shown to perfection in his finely tailored cutaway coat. Then, too, there was the easy, confident manner in which he carried himself while doing an admirable job as groomsman, circling among the guests, paying particular attention to the shy ones who sat in a corner and the elderly whom everyone else ignored. His toast to the bride and groom was both witty and heartfelt, causing the guests to plunge from hearty laughter to sentimental tears in a matter of moments. It was judged by all to be a huge success.
Now, as Flora stood chatting, desperately striving to play the part of the world's happiest bride, she could feel Lord Lynd's eyes upon her, just as she had felt his gaze earlier at the church. Such a strange look—or rather, looks, plural. At times his eyes appeared to be dark and unfathomable, at other times, full of sympathy, or even anger. Once, they even appeared to be full of pain, although she had no idea why.
In a quiet corner she finally had the chance to speak to him alone. At first, words failed her as she suddenly realized here was a man she could not deceive. He knew of Richard's defection. No doubt he'd guessed her real reason for marrying Lord Dinsmore was that the gossip she thought contained was about to spread. How humiliating
. She would die if he said anything. Looking up into his craggy face, she managed, "I trust you have enjoyed the wedding, Lord Lynd?" She knew, before the words left her mouth, how utterly inane that sounded, but too late now.
"I always enjoy a good wedding, Lady Dinsmore," he replied with an enigmatic smile. "May I extend my best wishes for your future happiness?"
She wanted to say,
stop that nonsense and tell me what you're really thinking
, but, of course, did not. "Lady Dinsmore," she repeated, running the words slowly across her tongue. "It will take a while before I am accustomed to my new name."
"Just as you must become accustomed to many new things
’"
Oh! What exactly did he mean by that? Did he mean the marriage bed? She felt a blush creep over her cheeks. For some unfathomable reason, she was seized with a compelling urge to inform Lord Lynd her marriage would not be...what he was implying, and that Lord Dinsmore had clearly stated they would occupy separate bed chambers and would not be doing
that
. "I understand we shall be neighbors, Lord Lynd," she said, happy she'd found a safer, more acceptable topic.
"Indeed," he answered pleasantly, "I look forward to your meeting my sister, Louisa, who lives with me at Vernon Hill. It's less than two miles from Pemberly Manor, by the way. When we were boys, Lord Dashwood and I...played together frequently."
Noticing his obvious pause, she hastened to salvage her pride. "It's quite all right, Lord Lynd, you needn't hesitate to mention the name of the man who jilted me." She lifted her chin. "I'm quite past that now. I am fine."
"No, you're not."
How did he know? Startled, she declared, "You are mistaken. I'll have you know this is the happiest day of my life."
"Balderdash." He bent forward, eyes sharp and assessing. "You tried to force an impossible fantasy into reality. It didn't work. I hope you learned something."
She was disturbed to think he somehow knew of the secret dreams she harbored but managed to ask lightly, "What should I have learned, sir?"
"Dream all you like. Everyone entertains impossible fantasies from time to time. Just don't expect them to come true because they won't. Life's not like that."
"My love for Lord Dashwood was not impossible," she snapped. "It was simply the circumstances—"
"Circumstances be dammed," he said in a tone that was affable enough, yet she noticed a certain hardening around his eyes.
She drew back her shoulders. "I would prefer you not say anything derogatory about Lord Dashwood. After all, he's not here to defend himself. As for circumstances, we don't know them all, do we? He might have had a good reason for doing what he did."
Lynd's expression clouded with anger. "Foolish woman, can't you see Dashwood is a liar and a cheat?" He appeared agitated—something she'd never seen in him before, and fighting for control. "Do you realize you have just thrown your life away with both hands? How ironic, when you and I could have..." He bit his lip, looked away, and said abruptly, "Never mind."
"What's wrong?" At least, angry though he was, he'd spoken softly. Still, she peered around to make sure no one overheard. "Why are you so angry?" she near-whispered. "Do you think I didn't realize you had proposed to me out of pity? And how could you say such things about your dearest friend?"
"Dammit, he's not my dearest friend. He—" Lynd caught himself, and after a long moment, forced a smile. "What am I doing, arguing with you on your wedding day? Lord Dinsmore is one of the best men who ever lived. Who better than I should know?" He shook his head regretfully, seeming to bring a curtain down on his emotions as he backed a step away. "Forgive me, Lady Dinsmore, I have said too much. Don't forget we'll soon be neighbors. If ever you need help, or if even if you just need someone to talk to, I'll be there. Always remember that. Always remember—"
"Flora?"
Lady Constance Boles appeared. "Come tell us where you're going on your honeymoon, my dear."
Flora dipped a quick curtsey to Lord Lynd and excused herself. She would have loved to continue the conversation, but now was not the time. "We are not going on a honeymoon as such, Lady Boles, but later today will travel directly to Lord Dinsmore's estate in Kent..."
After talking to Lady Boles, Flora was dismayed to see her sister across the room talking in animated fashion to the Duke of Armond. Flora didn't care for the Duke, a cold passionless man, now a widower. He was much sought after by mothers attempting to secure an outstanding match for their daughters, despite dark rumors concerning certain of the duke's personal preferences and the oft-reported deep unhappiness of his now-deceased wife.
Later in her bed chamber, Flora, dressed for travel, found herself alone with her mother. "One thing before I go, Mama. Surely Amy isn't interested in the Duke of Armond?"
"
Why not? He's the catch of the Season. Surely you wouldn't mind if your sister married a duke?"
Flora had
no time to discuss the matter further. She watched two footmen carry the last of her trunks out the door. "That's the last of my baggage. It's time to go."
Her mother gave her an unexpected hug, a rare circumstance, indeed. Her eyes dampened as she said, "More than anything else, I want you to be happy, Flora. If I have been too harsh, too judgmental, please forgive me."