Authors: Beth Pattillo
He had lied to her, to the woman he loved.
Nick did not lie on principle. It was dishonorable, and too easy a path to dishonor at that. But principles were gone, and he’d lied to Lucy, lied grievously, and lied so that she would be joined to him for a lifetime. Old ghosts, damp caves, lifelong convictions—all held no sway when he’d stood in the midst of the crowd in the market square and watched the soldiers thunder toward the speaker’s platform. For a fraction of a moment, he’d felt like the child he’d been in Santadorra when the peasants and the French soldiers had stormed the palace, but the screams had quickly pulled him back to the present. The terror-filled eyes of the young woman who’d thrust her baby at him had been his mother’s eyes. The older woman who had keened over the body of her son had wept as
bitterly as his mother must have when they’d snatched four-year-old Josephine from her arms. Nick clutched his midsection, for the thought was like a physical pain. But he was not a boy any longer. He was a man, and it had been a man, not a frightened boy, who acted in the Nottingham market square. The young woman stood a good chance of recovery in the Selkirks’ care. The grieving mother could never be comforted, and so there was nothing more he could do. Most of all—thank God, most of all—Lucy was safe and for the most part unharmed. If her anger at his falsehoods was any indication of her returning strength, she would soon be as well as she’d ever been.
But he would still be a liar.
Nick turned back between the little cottages carved into the hillside and mounted the uneven stairs he’d climbed two nights before. He strode up the slope until he came to the log he and Lucy had occupied that night. She’d shown him no pity then. That was one of the reasons he loved her, he supposed. Despite his fears that he would become one of her reform projects, she hadn’t turned his transformation into a civic duty. Perhaps it would have been better if she had.
Nick sank down on the log. He was not altogether converted to her cause, he admitted to himself as he rubbed his arms to keep warm. He still saw the dangers of mass gatherings. He still believed that the nobility held a sacred charge to govern their lands. Yet now he understood, as
he supposed he should have understood before, what it meant to be without a voice in determining one’s own destiny. He’d already known how it felt to stand at the wrong end of a bayonet, but he had not known the feeling of injustice when soldiers attacked an unarmed populace. He had known what it meant to diminish his belief in his religion for the sake of social acceptance, but he had not known how it felt to understand that a place in the social order would forever be denied him. She had changed him, damn her eyes, when he had not wanted to be changed. It was too difficult. Much easier to find solace in whiskey and wagers and little acts of heroism.
Still, he had not capitulated to his instinct for self-preservation—the instinct to run as far as possible from Lucy Charming. Instead, he had lied to her, to keep her safe, and though she would marry him, she would despise him. Nick wiped his suddenly damp hands on his worn breeches.
When the whole charade had begun, he had not cared whether she loved him. She was entertaining. She was a challenge. He wanted her, and she would irritate his father. All that had seemed enough, if he were forced to settle for a bride. Now, though, in the cold light of dawn, none of those things mattered anymore. Boredom, self-indulgence, even spiting his father could all be satisfied in a myriad of ways. His love for Lucy could only be fulfilled if it was returned, and his lies would prevent her from ever opening her heart to him.
Despair filled him, and he slumped on the log. He had spent most of his life trying to escape who and what he was, to avoid his destiny, but alone on a hillside above Nottingham, he could no longer elude himself. Nicholas St. Germain, Crown Prince of Santadorra, was, like many men before him, forced to accept that the situation he’d created was his own doing, and his own damnation.
MR. TWICKENHAM was the curate of the parish and did the real work of tending to the flock while Mr. Whippet danced attendance on the duchess. Lucy could tell from his pursed lips that he was scandalized by the whole affair, for who had ever heard of a royal wedding held in a cave?
Mrs. Selkirk’s cottage, though, proved adequate for the small wedding party. Lucy hid herself in the bedchamber, ostensibly to don the dress that Tom Selkirk had borrowed from one of the neighbors, but her real purpose was to avoid Nick.
He had lied. The more she considered it, the more certain she grew. How could he have witnessed the devastation in the market square and still remain unchanged? Tom Selkirk had told her of Nick’s heroics, not only his rescue of her but of the woman with the babe. Besides, a flicker of guilt had flashed in Nick’s eyes when he’d claimed the victory of their wager. His gaze had not quite met hers, as if he were hiding something.
Mrs. Selkirk opened the door to the bedchamber, her smile as broad as her ample middle. “Come now, dearie. ‘Tis time.”
Lucy put a hand to the bandage on her forehead and willed the fluttering in her stomach to subside. Unfortunately, the Selkirks, having learned Nick’s true identity, were pleased beyond reason that their beloved Lady Lucy had snared a handsome prince. Visions of happily ever after danced in Mrs. Selkirk’s eyes especially. Only a prince would have been fine enough for the motherless miss who had stood on a stool in her kitchen at Charming Hall to stir the puddings and soups.
Lucy refused to cry for herself, but her feelings for the Selkirks as her surrogate family threatened her equanimity. She gave her homespun skirt a final brush and moved toward the door. “The sooner we start, the sooner it will be done.”
Mrs. Selkirk put an arm around Lucy’s shoulders as she brought her into the main room. “Tut, tut, my dear. ‘Twill not be so bad. At least you will be out of your stepmother’s clutches.”
Lucy couldn’t echo Mrs. Selkirk’s sentiments, though, for she was sure that life as a crown princess would be far more onerous than even she suspected. They moved to the center of the room, and Lucy looked over the company. The groom stood patiently by the fireplace while what was surely the most unusual party ever to grace a royal wedding assembled in a half circle around the curate. In the corner, the woman Nick had rescued lay on a makeshift pallet and nursed her baby to keep him quiet. Tom Selkirk begrudged the groom a bow and then stood as best man. Mrs. Selkirk, her work-roughened hands hidden in her apron, stood next to Lucy to attend her. Mr. Selkirk sat at the rough table, ready with ink and quill so that the couple might sign the special license as soon as possible.
Lucy heard very little of the ceremony until the waspish little curate said, “Do you, Lucinda Eleanor Charming, take this man to be your lawful husband?”
Her throat closed when she opened her mouth to answer, and no sound emerged. How could she do this? How could she sacrifice her love for reform? But how could she not, for it was a debt of honor she owed to Nick. And in truth, she could not deny the longings of her own heart, however disastrous they might prove.
Perhaps, at least for a short time, she could have the man she loved. The thought filled her with both hope and despair. Because for whatever brief joy she might find, she knew that devastation would surely follow. They were so unsuited, so different in their aims and purposes and beliefs. Marriage was the worst mistake they could make.
She couldn’t look at Nick, or at anyone else for that matter. If she were going to leap from a cliff onto the rocks below, she would simply shut her mind to the consequences and jump. “I do,” Lucy said, the words slightly breathless.
The curate continued. “Do you, Nicholas Alexander Leopold St. Germain, take this woman to be your lawful wife?”
“I do.” Nick’s thunderous affirmation left no room for doubt, but he said the words as if they weighed twelve stone.
Another few moments, and it was done. There was no kiss, for Lucy turned her face and moved away from Nick as quickly as possible. Mrs. Selkirk produced a great quantity of cakes, and Tom carried a plate and a mug of milk to the woman and baby in the corner.
Not the most romantic of moments, Lucy thought, but it would suffice. Mr. Selkirk dipped the pen in the inkwell and offered it to her, and Lucy signed her name with deft, bold strokes, binding herself forever to the man she loved. It was folly of the worst kind, and the most exasperating bit was that she could not deny that she wanted Nick. She only feared what would happen now that she had him.
THEY WERE NOT to spend their wedding night at the Selkirks’, Lucy learned shortly after she signed the special license that Nick had brought with him from London.
“Mr. Selkirk has agreed to drive us into town in his cart.” Nick held himself as stiffly as he had during the ceremony, as if any sudden movement might unleash a disastrous torrent of feeling.
“Into town?” Lucy was surprised. “Is it safe with the dragoons there?”
“The soldiers left yesterday, and the market square has been put to rights.” Nick’s face was impassive, but Lucy could hear the sadness in his voice. “There is little left to evidence recent events.”
Nick had refused to take her to the square to view the aftermath of the soldiers’ attack, and she’d been angry. Secretly, though, she’d been relieved as well. No one wanted to view her dreams as they lay in ruins.
“Very well,” she said, suddenly nervous. She’d been so intent upon the wedding ceremony that she’d not considered the wedding night. “We need our rucksacks.”
“Tom put them in the cart before the curate arrived.”
Lucy wiped suddenly damp palms on her borrowed skirt. “We should help Mrs. Selkirk with the washing up. She has enough to manage with a sick guest and an infant.”
Nick’s brow furrowed in frustration. “Lucy, you are the bride. Mrs. Selkirk would not want you up to your elbows in suds.”
“Oh. Of course not. You’re right, certainly.” She tried to think of another reason to delay, but no inspiration occurred to forestall what was to happen next. Their good-byes took no time at all, and Lucy soon found herself once more riding in the back of an ox cart with Nick. She heartily wished for the presence of the other men who had accompanied them from London. Anything to distract her from—
“Lucy
. . .
” Nick began to speak and then stopped. She waited, glad for the quantity of hay separating them. It had happened so quickly, the wedding, but there’d been no point in procrastinating. Nick was not going to release her from their agreement. She could see it in his eyes. And in the most secret corner of her soul she was glad. She had just married the man she loved. It was sure to be a disaster. He would never be able to understand the dearest wishes of her heart, and ahead she could see only division and the ruin of her hopes. Perhaps he would divorce her or have it annulled, but for now the marriage lines were there, tucked in the pocket of his vest, an irrevocable fact. She had just married, and now she was to have a wedding night with a man she loved, a man who would surely put an end to her dreams.
Lucy sighed and glanced at the sky. It was still not yet noon and hours to go before the late summer sun would set, and darkness would claim the sky. How did one survive such a quantity of anticipation of what might prove to be both a disaster and a fantasy?
Mr. Selkirk drove them to an inn on the London road and pulled into the busy yard. The native stone of the long, low building glowed with the patina of age.
“We’ll return to Town by post chaise in the morning,” Nick informed her as they climbed from the back of the cart. Lucy would have preferred to prolong their journey instead of facing the reality of her new marital state. Her steps faltered. Nick reached out and grasped her hand as they crossed the coach yard.
“What will we do, then, ‘til tomorrow?” she asked, and the look he shot her almost melted her bones. Lucy blushed at her poor choice of words. Gathering her courage, she persisted. “Until nighttime, then. What shall we do until it grows dark? If we are hiring a post chaise, we might be halfway to London before nightfall.”
Nick opened the door to the inn’s taproom and ushered her inside. “Has anyone mentioned waiting until dark?” he whispered in her ear, and her insides turned to jelly. Why wasn’t she fighting her fate with greater passion? Why was she not railing at the unfairness that had taken her destiny from her own hands? Instead, she stood meekly by as her new husband bespoke a room, paid the innkeeper with a few guineas, and then led her up the staircase to a wooden door. The innkeeper had given Nick a heavy iron key, and when he placed it neatly in the lock it turned with a soft click, and the door swung open.