One Perfect Rose (18 page)

When the Fitzgeralds reached him, Thomas said in a stage whisper that filled the glade, “Mind you take care of her well, lad, or you'll rue the day.”

“I'll do my best, sir.” Smiling, Stephen took Rosalind's hand. This was the most unusual wedding he'd ever seen. And the best.

She returned his clasp firmly, her dark eyes glowing. He had to restrain himself from kissing her immediately. They both turned to the vicar while her family withdrew to join the other guests.

In a deep voice that compared favorably with that of Thomas Fitzgerald, the vicar began the wedding ceremony. Stephen heard the familiar words as never before, perhaps because his first marriage had not been of his own choosing.

There was a faint puzzled stirring when the vicar said the name Kenyon, but no one reacted. For Stephen the difficult moment came when the cleric first asked the question “…so long as ye both shall live?”

Rosalind's gaze involuntarily went to his, and he saw in her eyes a reflection of his own bittersweet emotions. “I will,” he said firmly. His hand tightened on hers, and she gave him a tremulous smile.

When her time came, she said, “I will,” in a clear, stage-trained voice that contained no hint of doubt.

Jeremiah produced the ring with the flourish of a man who knew how to make the best of his moment at center stage. Stephen slid it onto Rosalind's finger and said gravely, “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”

She smiled, her hand closing over the ring without looking. He wondered when she would notice that the band was embedded with small, exquisite diamonds. Because, after all, he'd wanted to give her both jewels and barn cats. He wanted to give everything in his power in return for the miraculous gift she was making of herself.

“
I pronounce that they be man and wife together
.”

The ceremony was over, and Stephen could kiss his radiant bride. Their lips touched only lightly, but he pulled her close in his arms, feeling her heart beating against his. Rosalind. His wife. His perfect rose.

Then they were surrounded by well-wishers, men clapping Stephen's back and shaking his hand, the bride getting hugged by everyone. The informality of the setting brought a joyous abandon to the congratulations.

When the excitement died down, Stephen put an arm around his new wife. “Shall we proceed to the wedding breakfast?”

Frowning, Thomas said, “A moment. The vicar said your name is Kenyon?”

“Stephen told me about that this morning,” Rosalind gave her new husband an affectionate glance. “I misunderstood his name the first time he said it, and he was such a gentleman that he never corrected me.”

Several people chuckled, but Thomas's frown deepened. “Seems damned irregular to me.” Then his eyes widened with shock. “Kenyon. Ashe.
Ashburton
. Isn't the Duke of Ashburton named Stephen Kenyon?”

Stephen braced himself. This wasn't the way he would have chosen to break the news, but Maria had interrupted him when he had tried to tell Rosalind earlier.

He looked down at his wife, his arm tightening around her waist. “Yes. And the Duchess of Ashburton's name is Rosalind Fitzgerald Kenyon.”

There was stunned silence. Rosalind stared at her new husband. Surely he was joking. But there was no teasing in his eyes, only wary resignation.

Stephen was Ashburton, one of the wealthiest noblemen in the country? She said feebly, “If that isn't a joke, no wonder Papa kept casting you as a duke.”

Stephen's mouth twisted. “It's no joke, Rosalind.”

Thomas Fitzgerald exploded. “Damn you, Ashburton, what kind of mockery is this? Did you get a false marriage license so that you could have a pretend marriage?”

“Of course not,” Stephen said in a level voice. “The marriage is entirely legal. Everything I said about myself was true, except for my last name.”

Thomas opened his mouth to reply, but Maria forestalled him with a hand on his arm. “Control that Irish temper of yours, my dear.”

Her husband growled, “He lied, and there's no excuse for it.”

“No?” Maria gave Stephen a piercing glance. “Thomas, my love, you and I can play any role we wish onstage, then walk away. It's harder for a man to walk away from the role of duke.”

“Exactly. I've never had the chance to be less than a lord.” Stephen cast an ironic gaze around the circle of wedding guests. “Given the way everyone is stepping back as if I've suddenly developed leprosy, perhaps you can understand why I enjoyed the anonymity of being plain Mr. Ashe.”

Jessica came forward. “Well, I, for one, think it's positively splendid. I long to tell people, ‘I just dined with my brother-in-law, the Duke of Ashburton.' Or perhaps, ‘You like my shawl? It was a gift from my dear sister, the Duchess of Ashburton.' I shall flaunt your title
shamelessly
.” She gave Stephen an energetic hug. “And I like you very well even if you are hopelessly noble.”

Silently blessing her sister for breaking the ice, Rosalind said, “He did try to tell me, Papa, but Mama shooed him away before he could.”

Yet even though she instinctively tried to smooth over the awkwardness, she was struggling with her own shock. She looked up at her new husband, unable to comprehend the implications of her new status. A duchess? Rosalind Fitzgerald Jordan, foundling, actress, and widow?

Her gaze fell to her wedding ring. It sparkled with a fortune in brilliant gems. Her mouth tightened. Even the ring was vivid proof that they came from different worlds.

She would think about that later. Right now, she sensed, Stephen needed her to accept that he was still the man he was before. Lightly she said, “I'm going to want a diamond-studded collar for my kitten, my dear.”

His expression eased. “If that's what you want, Portia shall have it.”

Thomas still looked dissatisfied. Rosalind suspected that while much of his anger was because he'd been deceived, a small part was a father's ambivalent feelings about the men who took their daughters away. His anger would pass soon; it always did.

Before Thomas could speak again, Brian said in his most Puckish voice, “Good sirs and madames, may I respectfully suggest that it is time to begin the wedding breakfast?” He gave the bride and groom a mischievous glance. “Surely even dukes and duchesses must eat.”

His comment occasioned general laughter, and people began to move toward the banquet tables. Stephen's arm stayed around Rosalind as they crossed the glade. She found it comforting. Yet she could not stop wondering what this news would mean.

 

The wedding feast was a great success, though Rosalind's nerves were too tightly strung for her to fully enjoy it. She laughed and talked and silently cooperated with Maria in keeping Thomas and Stephen apart.

Lavish amounts of food and drink eliminated the wariness the troupe members had briefly experienced upon learning that they'd been asking a duke to carry scenery. Stephen was at his most charming and unpretentious; by the time the bridal couple was ready to leave, almost everyone was inclined to treat the matter as a great joke.

Rosalind hugged everyone at least once—family members twice—then accepted Stephen's help into the elegant carriage he had hired. At least she thought he'd hired it; perhaps he'd bought it from pocket change. Then, Portia's travel box in hand, he climbed in and closed the door, taking the rear-facing seat opposite Rosalind.

She waved and smiled when the carriage pulled away, continuing until she could no longer see her family. Then, as they began to move at the speed that could only be achieved with first-rate horseflesh, she leaned back against the velvet seat and contemplated her new husband. Oddly, now that the original shock was past, she was not really surprised to learn that he was a peer of the realm. It had been clear that he was a gentleman, and he'd always had an unmistakable air of authority. He had silenced the bullying poor law overseer, Crain, with a single glance. She had tended to overlook that side of Stephen's nature because he was so easygoing with her and her friends.

But he was one of the most powerful men in England. If he spoke, the Prince Regent would listen. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples.

“You have a headache?” Stephen asked with concern.

“A bit of one. Jessica pulled my hair too tightly when she styled it.” Rosalind took out her hairpins and the wilted chrysanthemums, exhaling with relief as her hair fell around her shoulders. “Plus, of course, I feel as if I've wandered into the tale of King Cophetua and the beggar maid.”

His face darkened. “I am no king, and you are no beggar maid.”

“Close enough.” She began combing her fingers through her hair to loosen it. “A gentleman marrying an actress of dubious origin is scandalous enough—for a duke to do that is outrageous. I'll be universally seen as a fortune hunter, and you a fool.”

“There is nothing outrageous about our marriage,” he said sharply. “You were raised in the household of a gentleman, albeit one who decided to go on the stage. You are a lady in speech and manner and refinement—no one who knows you could think otherwise. And any man who meets you will be envious, not judge me a fool.”

Was he being naive? Or was he so used to deference that he couldn't see that it would not be extended to her when he was not by her side? With black humor, she thought that it was just as well their marriage would be a short one, because she would never be accepted in his world.

But that really didn't matter. When he was gone, she would return to her own kind. In the meantime…“What do you want of me, Stephen? What are the social obligations of a duchess?”

He looked surprised. “I want you to be my wife, Rosalind. My friend. My companion. My mistress. Your social duties can be as much or as little as you wish. If you want to be presented at court, I shall arrange it. If you prefer never to set foot in a fashionable drawing room, that's all right, too. The choice is yours.”

It sounded easy, but she didn't believe that. “Your rank makes you a public person with responsibilities. There must be many men with strong claims on you.”

“Why do you think I ran away?” he said with unmistakable bitterness.

“Is it so dreadful to be a duke?”

Curbing his flash of emotion, he said, “Actually, in the two years since I succeeded to the title, I've found that it's far more pleasant to be a duke than it was being the heir. Now I can do very nearly anything I please—even become a commoner, at least for a while.”

“You enjoyed being Mr. Ashe?”

He hesitated, then said quietly, “I've never felt more like myself than I have for the past month. No one had any preconceptions as to what I should be like, what I should do or say. I felt like a falcon that had escaped my jesses.”

Sensing that the subject was one that should be explored, she asked, “You said that being the heir was worse than being a duke. Why?”

His face hardened. “I was the Marquess of Benfield from the instant I first drew breath. My whole life was preparation for the exalted rank I would someday bear. A boy who will be a duke does not cry for any reason—not for sentiment, and certainly not when he is beaten. Which he is, often. He does not indulge in undignified activities, such as playing with children of common rank. He must excel at his studies and sports. He does not complain when older boys torment him at school, or for any other reason. He never shirks his duty, nor apologizes to his inferiors, which include almost everyone. He honors his sovereign, even if the king is merely a jumped-up Hanoverian with vulgar tastes. He chooses his companions only from among those who are worthy of his regard. He marries—” Stephen stopped abruptly.

She stared at him, appalled. “That sounds dreadful.”

He began unconsciously rubbing the area just below his rib cage, a sure sign of pain. “You'll have noticed that not all of my training took. It enraged my father that I never set a high enough value on my rank. He considered me soft. Lacking in dignity.” He smiled with ironic humor. “By his standards, I was, and am.”

But much of that training
had
taken. No wonder Stephen was so good at concealing pain. If not for his innate decency and sense of justice, he would have become the kind of monster his father seemed to have been. “Did the ducal code allow any room for love?” she asked quietly.

He shifted his gaze to the window. “Love was…not part of the curriculum. Lust was quite acceptable—both of my parents had notorious affairs. But love was a foreign language.” A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I think that, like languages, the ability to love must be learned when one is young. Otherwise one will never have the ear for it.”

So even if he loved his wife, he might not have been able to say the words, Rosalind thought compassionately. She hoped that the previous duchess had been good at hearing what was unsaid. “You make me very glad I'm a commoner. But you turned out rather well despite everything.”

“So you don't regret having married me?”

The words were light, but she saw in his eyes that the question was in dead earnest. Lord, when time was so limited, why were they even talking about things like social rank? “Of course not—I'm congratulating myself on my brilliant instincts. Here I thought you were merely a delightful, sinfully attractive man. Now I find that I pulled off the marital coup of the year without even knowing it,” she said in a teasing voice. “My only regret at the moment is that you're too far away.”

“That's easily remedied.” He unfolded himself from his seat, stepped over Portia's box, and settled next to Rosalind. In the tight confines of the carriage, that meant they were touching from shoulder to thigh.

“Where are we going and when we will get there?” She took his hand, sliding her fingers between his. “Things have been in such a turmoil that I forgot to ask.”

“I have a small house by the sea not far from Chester. It's pretty and private, with only a married couple for servants. We should arrive about sunset.”

“How many houses do you own?” she asked curiously.

He thought a moment. “Six. Remember when I asked if you'd like a cloistered abbey? The family seat, Ashburton Abbey, has a cloister garden. It's very lovely.”

So she'd gone from not having a roof of her own to being mistress of six houses. She shook her head, bemused, then found herself yawning. As she covered her mouth with one hand, she said apologetically, “Sorry. I didn't get much sleep last night.”

He put his right arm around her. “Use me for a pillow.”

She curled up against him, her head on his shoulder. They fitted together so nicely. Be damned to the difference in their ranks, this was
right
. This was what she wanted of a husband, this sense of peace—and this burn of anticipation.

She drifted into a dreamless sleep, her lips curving into a smile.

As they rolled across the parklike hills of the Cheshire Plain, Stephen savored the soft, trusting form of his new wife. He felt…contented. More so, perhaps, than ever before in his life. In the last weeks he'd learned to live in the moment, and this one could hardly be improved on.

Then a blaze of pain scorched down his esophagus and through his belly. He stiffened, fighting the urge to double up convulsively. Not now. Not today.

His arm had tightened around Rosalind, and she made a small sound. He forced himself to hold still so that he would not wake her. Though how could she not feel the vicious scarlet pain that burned a few inches away from her softly curved cheek? Or the chill clamminess of his right hand, where it rested on her waist?

But she shifted slightly and slept on, sweet and calming by her very presence. Carefully he used his left hand to dig an opium pill from an inside pocket. He'd taken one just before leaving the wedding breakfast, and would have preferred not to take another so soon. He disliked wasting any of his remaining time in a haze, though perhaps, at the end, cowardice would overcome his qualms. Many people's fondest wish was for “a good death,” with massive doses of opium to shield them from the pain.

If another pill meant keeping Rosalind from learning of this attack, it was worth taking it. He swallowed the medication with some difficulty, then closed his eyes and waited. Gradually the tide of pain ebbed, leaving numbness in its wake. He supposed that he must consider himself lucky that he hadn't vomited uncontrollably or suffered some of the other unpleasant symptoms that sometimes accompanied an attack.

Lucky.
Hell
.

 

A gentle hand caressed Rosalind's arm. “Time to wake up, Lady Caliban. We're almost there.”

“Mm-m-m.” She lazed a little longer, enjoying being so close to Stephen. Then, just as the carriage stopped moving, something cool and moist touched her cheek. She opened her eyes and saw that Portia was nose to nose with her. “Am I dreaming, or do I have a cat on my chest?”

“I let her out. After she exhausted herself playing ricochet, she decided that you look soft and comfortable.” His eyes sparkled with humor. “I couldn't agree more.”