Scandalous Love (32 page)

Hadrian had not told him
the reason for the marriage and at the time his grandfather had not asked. He
lifted a brow, knowing that he should not be surprised at Roger de Warenne's
insight.

"You may be able to
fool all of London, lad, but you can't fool me," Northumberland said.

"Indeed."

"Your necktie needs
straightening, Hadrian."

The Duke began to fumble
with it and preoccupied, he did not see the Earl of Northumberland's satisfied
smile.

Nicole sat very still,
barely breathing. Her sister was with her, and unfortunately Regina was as nervous
and frightened as if it were her own wedding. Martha sat beside her as well and
held her hand. She was the only relatively calm one in the room—yet even her
palm was damp. "Relax. You look as if you are going to your funeral."

"Aren't I?"

Regina cried out.
"Will you persist in being a fool even now?"

They had barely talked
all week. Regina was obviously thrilled with the match, making Nicole even more
angry every time their paths crossed. Their relationship seemed to have
deteriorated completely from friendship to hostility.

"I will feel
exactly the way I want to feel," Nicole snapped.

"Why not let the
whole world see how unhappy you are!" Regina shot back.

"I intend to!"

"Stop it!"
Martha cried, standing. "Dear God, now is not the time to fight. And Nicole,
if I were you, I would think twice about humiliating the Duke in front of all
his guests!"

Nicole opened her mouth
to respond that Martha was, fortunately for her, not Nicole, but she stopped
abruptly. The strains of the music which had been filling the room for the past
half hour had ceased. Her parents had been greeting the guests as they arrived;
by now all of the guests must be seated. Everyone froze, listening to the
silence. It had been Nicole's adamant decision that there would be no procession,
just the bridal march to the altar where the groom would be waiting with his
grandfather. Regina pulled a white kerchief out of her glove and wiped her
brow.

Nicole trembled. It was
about to happen. She was marrying the Duke of Clayborough. Oh God.

"Here," Regina
shoved the kerchief in her hand.

Nicole took it, not
seeing the sympathy on her sister's face, for her eyes were suddenly full of
tears. She did not even know why she was crying.

Regina looked at Nicole
and Martha. "Where is Father?" Panic filled her voice.

Maybe something has
happened, Nicole thought desperately. Maybe some crisis had occurred—and there
would be no wedding.

Her father entered the
room. "Are you ready?" he asked his daughter. He glanced at the other
two girls. "You had better go and take your seats."

Martha grabbed Nicole's
hand and kissed her cheek. Regina hesitated, then quickly kissed her sister as
well.

When they were alone,
Nicole rose unsteadily to her feet. Her relationship with her father had also
been destroyed by the advent of her wedding; she could not look at him without
feeling betrayed—and lost.

Nicholas' gaze swept
her. "You are so beautiful," he said, his voice broken. "I am so
proud of you."

It was Nicole's undoing.
What had he to be proud of? She had scandalized society since she had come out,
she was only marrying now because she had been unchaste, she had not spoken to
him since he had arranged this marriage. Tears welled. "Father..."

"I love you very
much, Nicole. Believe me, I have dwelled long and hard on whether I have done
the right thing in accepting Hadrian's suit. And I am convinced that I have.
Please forgive me for doing what I think is best for you."

She could not continue
this fight with him, not here, not now, on her wedding day. She came forward,
wanting to be his daughter again so badly—yet the hurt he had caused her would
not go away. She looked at him, wanting to say so much, wanting to ask him how
he could do this to her, wanting to tell him she did forgive him—that she did
love him. She opened her mouth to speak, saw the hope in his eyes. But no words
came out.

The wedding march began.

They regarded each other
for a very long moment. Nicholas held out his arm somberly. Unable to speak at
all now, Nicole took it.

A thousand guests were
waiting.

The Duke of Clayborough
was waiting.

The Duke of Clayborough
was furious but it did not show. However, it was unlikely that he deceived any
of his guests. And if his bride continued to so openly display her ill will
towards him, he thought, he might forget public appearances and all the good he
had done this past week and a half and openly strangle her.

They were at the
reception, held at his own residence on Cavendish Square due to the huge number
of guests that had been invited to the wedding. It would have been a beautiful
ceremony. The cathedral was a splendid work of architecture and vast enough to
hold their thousand guests. And Nicole had been a ravishing bride in her silver
gown; yet she had been an angry one, as well.

Her veil had been
transparent. Delicately spun of silver tulle, it hid nothing. Her
expression—her anger— had been obvious for everyone to see. She had not made
one attempt to appear a happy bride, indeed, the reverse seemed to be true.

The moment Hadrian had
seen her coming down the aisle, he had been stunned senseless. The fiercest
emotions he had ever experienced had welled up in him, and for one
heartstopping instant he had known that he was, somehow, in love with her.

That instant had passed
immediately. Her countenance became clear as she approached, her beautiful,
silver-eyed, dark countenance. There was no mistaking her emotions. She dared
to humiliate him—and herself—in front of their thousand guests.

She avoided looking at
him as she approached. In fact, she kept her chin high, her mouth set in a
grim, mulish line. Nor would she look at him when she paused beside him at the
altar. When it was time for her to say her vows, she had actually been silent.
Hadrian had taken her hand and squeezed it very, very hard—a warning that he would
force her to his will even if she so stupidly made more of a spectacle of
herself now. She had then, finally, to his relief, spoken. But it was too late
to quell his anger.

Now they were man and
wife.

And there was not one
soul at Clayborough House who did not comprehend that the bride was reluctant,
to say the least.

The Duke's polite smile
had long since fallen by the wayside, a cold unyielding mask slipping into its
place instead. He had had enough. He did not care that they had been at their
own reception barely an hour. The longer he remained seated beside his
stony-faced bride, who refused to eat, drink or even speak, the more dangerous
his anger became. And he was trying so very hard to control it.

"We are
going," he told her abruptly.

"Now?"

"Now. This
minute." He rose, and because he held her hand, he pulled her up with him.

"Then let me
change."

"Interested in
propriety now? It's a little late, don't you think so—Madam Wife?"

She stiffened.
"They won't cut the cake for hours."

"I don't give a damn."

"That is
apparent," she said, looking at him meaningfully.

"Your
double-entendre escapes me. Why do you seek to delay? You are obviously not
having the time of your life."

"Because staying
here is better than leaving with you."

He laughed coldly.
"Ah, now we get to the bottom of things. You seek to delay the inevitable.
Are you afraid of being alone with me and betraying yourself?"

"I am not
afraid," she said tightly. "I merely wish to delay what shall be
exceedingly unpleasant—our future."

"If you continue to
rile me this way, it will be more than unpleasant."

Her eyes widened.
"You threaten me?"

"Take it as you
will." He grabbed her arm again and propelled her along with him. She
started to struggle, and he turned on her in tightly controlled fury. "Haven't
you made one scene too many today? Must you make another?"

"You are the one
making a scene," she hissed, but she stopped fighting him.

Hadrian ignored her.
They paused to say good bye to their families. In the process of departing,
however, they were waylaid again and again by well-wishers, many of whom could
not disguise their lurid interest in the cool groom and hostile bride. The Duke
nearly jettisoned his wife into the Clayborough coach once they were outside.

She scrambled into the
opposite corner and sat there. Hadrian climbed in across from her, ignoring her
as best he could, though he was so angry with her that he wanted to throttle
her. He signaled the driver to begin their journey.

Neither one spoke,
Hadrian was furious with her for her behavior on this day, in front of the
cream of British society. He had worked hard to quell any gossip about them,
wasting his precious time on stupid fetes and silly balls, charming insipid
ladies and fawning gentlemen, acting like a lovestruck fool. No doubt everyone
now thought him the biggest sort of fool—besotted with a bride who openly
despised him. In just a few hours Nicole had undone all that he had achieved in
the past ten days—all that he had achieved for her sake.

"I hope you are
pleased with yourself," he said.

"Why should I be
pleased with anything on this day of all days?"

She was sitting as far
from him as possible, in the corner on the other side of the coach. As angry as
he was, he could not help but notice how spectacular she was in her silver
wedding gown with her ebony hair flowing loose. He stretched out his long legs
in a casual manner which belied the tension rising in him. "I suggest you
begin to change your attitude. You are now my wife. That circumstance will not
change—not until I am dead. Or do you enjoy creating scandal?"

She glared. "You
know I do not."

"To the contrary, I
think you truly enjoyed making one scene after another today." And he
certainly knew that she had enjoyed humiliating him. Another surge of anger
rippled over him. He fought it admirably.

"You forced me to
the altar. Did you think I would come meekly? With head bowed, in submission?
If you thought so, then you thought wrong."

"There is only one
place where you submit to me, Madam." His glance skewered her.
"Perhaps that is the one place where I should keep you. For both our
sakes."

Nicole had flushed at
his reference to her unfortunate passionate nature, now she gasped at his
suggestion. "I hope you are jesting," she muttered grimly.

"The idea has vast
appeal."

They stared at each
other. For Nicole, the coach was too small. Hadrian was too near for comfort.
His proximity had been disturbing since the moment she had approached him at
the altar. His proximity was always disturbing. She could not help but think
about the impending night—their wedding night.

It was impossible to
believe, but she was now his wife. Once she had wanted that with all of her
heart, but that seemed to have been a lifetime ago. She was his wife, he had
done his duty. And now he expected her to accept her position—and, she
suspected, his advances. She clenched her fists. He could not force her to
marry and expect her to be docile, he could not. And if he really thought that
tonight she would accept
him with open arms, then he was insane.

But what about all the
nights after this one? Even if she successfully refused him tonight, how long
could she succeed in rejecting him? Nicole did not have to think too long to
know that her cause was hopeless. For she rejected out of hand the idea of an
anullment, and would not even examine her reasons.

But he must see that he
could not force her to his will this way, he must.

However, her heart was
beating too rapidly and she was too aware of his regard upon her. It was bold
and blatant—his intentions were obvious. Nicole wished she could not remember
what it felt like to be in his arms, what it felt like to be the recipient of
his kisses. Unfortunately, her memory was perfect.

Nicole turned away from
him to stare out the window. The winter evening was approaching with undue
haste, yet despite the chill in the air, and the fact that her silver fox cloak
was open, she was not cold. Far from it. She was suddenly seized with an
inexplicable panic, suddenly feeling trapped, boxed in. She clutched the fox
closer, for comfort.

Hadrian broke the
silence between them. "I did not make any plans for a honeymoon."

"Good."

He continued calmly
enough. "I have some pressing matters to attend to at Clayborough and at
several other estates. I will have disposed of these matters within three
weeks. We can travel then—if you wish."

She finally turned to
face him, the panic still there, its partner despair. "I do not wish! I do
not want to go anywhere with you! I do not wish to be your wife!" Her
voice broke. "I do not!"

"Again, your feelings
are no revelation. In fact, I am tired of hearing them. Please keep your
distress on the topic of our marriage to yourself."

Nicole turned her teary
gaze from his hard, glittering one.

"I have no wish to
honeymoon with a shrewish bride, anyway," he said.

It shouldn't have hurt,
because she did not want to go abroad with him. Honeymoons were for lovers, not
antagonists. She knew without a doubt that if he had married Elizabeth, they
would have enjoyed weeks and weeks alone together on the continent. But it did
hurt. She snuggled deep into the fox cape, fighting tears of exhaustion,
hysteria and perhaps, defeat.

They arrived at
Clayborough Hall five hours later. It was dark now, a starless, dismal night,
and Nicole could not really see the palace which, she had heard, rivaled that
of even the royal dukes. Hadrian helped her from the carriage. Nicole let him,
having no choice, but the moment her feet touched the solid ground she quickly
withdrew her hand from his. She heard his breath hiss in displeasure.

There were so many
servants lined up in the vast entry to greet her that Nicole froze in surprise
and a touch of fright. Perhaps a hundred members of the staff were all waiting
to meet their new mistress—her. She pulled her silver fox cape more firmly about
her shoulders, her only movement. She realized that Hadrian was addressing
them.

"It is late. You
may meet the Duchess tomorrow at noon. Please return to your duties."

Everyone disappeared.

Duchess.
You may meet
the Duchess tomorrow.
It hadn't really registered. Nicole still did not
move.
She was the Duchess of Clayborough.
It was amazing, it was
terrifying.

"This is the
housekeeper, Mrs. Veig. Tonight she will show you to your rooms."

Nicole managed to nod at
the stern-faced, uniformed woman who stood silently by the stairs. Hadrian then
asked her if she would leave them for a moment. Mrs. Veig also vanished.

Nicole became aware that
the room they were standing in—the foyer—was larger than most ballrooms. The
ceiling was several stories high. The floors underfoot were green and
gold-flecked marble. Huge white pillars rose to touch the ceiling. Naked angels
were carved at their tops. This was Hadrian's home?

This was now her home?

"I will give you a
tour of the house tomorrow," he said.

She turned to look at
him.

"Because it is
late, we will eat in our rooms—later."

Nicole stared at him,
still trying to adjust to the idea that she was now the Duchess of
Clayborough—one of the premier peeresses in the realm.

"I shall be up in a
half an hour," he told her. "I expect you to be ready. Is that enough
time?"

All at once what he was
saying struck her and her eyes widened. She realized that he was watching her
closely, attempting to read her thoughts. Before she could tell him not to
bother intruding upon her on this night, he called for the housekeeper, who
instantly appeared. Without another word, the Duke strode abruptly away.

"Are you ready,
Your Grace?" Mrs. Veig asked. Her voice was not as stern as her
expression.

Nicole was shaken by the
circumstances, including the fact that this was her wedding night and she was
not about to submit to Hadrian again. She managed to turn to the housekeeper.
"Yes, please."