The Arrangement (21 page)

The man she was about to marry.

Lady Trentham took her hand and squeezed it.

They were turning into Hanover Square.

V
incent was having all kinds of second thoughts, which meant, he supposed, that by the time he had finished with them they would be thirty-sixth or fifty-eighth thoughts.

He really ought not to be thinking at all.

Except that trying not to think was no more effective than trying to hold back the tide would be.

It had turned into a proper wedding with guests at the most fashionable church in London, yet his mother and grandmother and sisters did not know about it. They did not even know his bride. He did not really know her either, though, did he? They were virtually strangers.

He did not even want to be married.

Except that if he must marry—and he would have no peace from his relatives until he did—he would just as soon it be Sophia. He actually did like her—or thought he did.

He did not
know
her.

Or she him.

Yet today was their wedding day.

And in some perverse way—thank God!—the thought excited him. His life was about to change, and perhaps he would change with it—for the better.

“Do you have the ring?” he asked George, who was seated beside him in the front pew of the church.

“I do,” George said. “Just as I did when you asked three minutes ago.”

“Did I?”

“You did. And I still have it.”

His wedding day. His best man was beside him. His friends were behind them. Although they were not talking loudly, some of them were whispering, and he could hear the rustle of their movements and the occasional cough. He could smell candles and traces of incense and that cold stone and prayer book smell peculiar to churches. He knew the great organ was going to play.

There was to be a wedding breakfast afterward at Hugo’s, a mildly terrifying thought even though he would be eating with friends. He did not like taking his meals in public.

And there was to be a wedding night at Stanbrook House. It had all been arranged without any consultation with him. Imogen was going to stay at Hugo’s after the breakfast, and George was going to spend the night at Flavian’s lodgings. Vincent and Sophia were to have Stanbrook House to themselves for the night, apart from servants, of course.

That at least he could look forward to.

“Do you have the ring?” he asked. “No, forget it. I have asked you before, have I not? Is she late, George? Will she come?”

“She is two minutes from being late,” George assured him. “Indeed, I do believe she is two minutes early. Here come Lady Trentham and Miss Emes.”

But Vincent had heard the slight commotion at the back of the church for himself. And he heard the clergyman clear his throat. He rose to his feet.

The great organ began to play, and it was too late for seventy-second thoughts. He was about to get married.

She and Hugo would be making their way along the nave toward him. His bride. He could hear the slow, steady click of Hugo’s boot heels on stone. He wished he could see her. Ah, he
wished
he could. She would be wearing new clothes. Pretty clothes. Would they make her feel better about herself?

He smiled though he could not see her. She must see that he was welcoming his bride. How many second thoughts had plagued her this morning?

And then he smelled her, that faint soap scent he had begun to associate with her. And he felt the slight warmth of a human presence on his left side.

The anthem faded away.

“Dearly beloved,” the clergyman said.

Ah, let him be adequate. Let him be a worthy husband for this damaged little waif he was marrying. Let him be a good companion and friend. Let him be a decent lover. Let him protect her from harm all the days of their lives. She was blameless. She had come to his rescue that night of the assembly and would have suffered her punishment for the rest of her days if he had not persuaded her to marry him. Let her never regret marrying him. Let him cherish her. Let him put aside second and ninety-second thoughts from this moment on. He was in the process of getting married. Let him
be
married, then, and glad of it. Let him never, even for a single moment, allow himself to feel regret, whatever the future held. Let him cherish her.

He had spoken his vows, he realized, without remembering a word. She had spoken hers without him hearing a word. He had taken the ring and slid it over her finger without fumbling or dropping it. And the clergyman was telling them that they were man and wife.

And it was done.

There was a murmuring from the pews.

There was still the register to sign. All would not be legal and official until that was done. Sophia slid an arm through his and guided him to the vestry without hauling him. He had noticed that during their walk together in Barton Coombs. Very few people of his experience could trust him to follow slight cues.

The clergyman did not expect him to be able to sign his name, but of course he could. He sat before the register, and George handed him the quill pen and guided his hand to the beginning of the line where he would write. He scrawled his name and stood.

Sophia signed her name followed by the witnesses—George and Hugo. And then she slipped an arm through his again and led him back into the church. The organ began a joyful anthem and they proceeded the short distance across the front of the church and then along the nave. Vincent could sense his friends there. He smiled from left to right.

“Lady Darleigh,” he said softly.

“Yes.” Her voice was a little higher pitched than usual.

“My wife.”

“Yes.”

“Happy?” he asked. It was probably the wrong question.

“I don’t know,” she said after a short pause.

Ah, honesty.

They walked on in silence, and then he felt a different quality to the air, and she drew him to a halt as they stepped out through the church doors into the fresh air outside, and the sound of the organ receded somewhat.

“There are steps,” she said.

Yes, he remembered that from when he came in.

“Oh, and there are people.”

He could hear them, talking, laughing, whistling, even cheering. There were always people gathered outside St. George’s, he had been told, to watch society weddings.

“They have come to see the bride,” he said, smiling and lifting his free hand in acknowledgment of the greetings. “And today that is you.”

“Oh, and there are two men,” she said.

“Two men?”

“They are grinning,” she said, “and they are both holding handfuls of … oh!”

And Vincent felt at least two light, fragrant missiles flutter past his nose. Rose petals?

“No point in c-cowering there, Vince,” Flavian called.

“Come and bring your bride to your carriage. If you dare,” Ralph added.

“An open barouche,” Sophia said. “Oh, it is all decorated with flowers and ribbons and bows.”

Vincent could feel the heat of the sun.

“Shall we go down?” he suggested. “Those are two of my friends. Are they armed with rose petals?”

“Yes,” she said and laughed—that light, pretty sound he had heard a few times before. “Oh, dear, we are going to be covered.”

She told him where the steps were and then clung to his arm as they hurried the short distance to the barouche, making it seem that he was leading her rather than the other way around.

“We are there,” she said as rose petals rained about them and upon them and Vincent could hear that their other guests had emerged from the church.

But instead of scrambling inside the barouche without further ado, she waited while he located the lowest step and offered his hand. She set her own in it and climbed inside. He followed her in and made sure he sat beside her, not on her.

The church bells were ringing.

“Well, Lady Darleigh.” He felt for her hand and squeezed it tightly in his own. She was wearing soft gloves. “Does it look as much like a wedding as it feels?”

“Yes.”

He heard the door of the barouche close and felt the dip of the springs as the coachman climbed back to his perch.

“Are you overwhelmed?”

“Yes.”

“Sophie,” he said, “don’t be. You are a bride. All eyes are upon you today.”

“That is precisely the trouble,” she said, laughing breathlessly.

“Describe what you are wearing,” he told her.

She told him, starting with her straw bonnet. Before she got to her feet, the barouche rocked into motion and moved away from the church—with an unholy din.

“Oh!” she cried.

He grimaced and then grinned. An old trick, one in which he had participated more than once as a boy. “I believe we have all the utensils from someone’s old, derelict kitchen trailing behind us. Now you are
really
on view.”

She did not reply.

“You sound charmingly clad, Sophie,” he said, having to raise his voice above the din. “Is everyone watching back there?”

He felt her turn to look.

“Yes.”

“May I kiss you?” he asked her. “It is what they are all hoping for.”

“Oh,” she said again.

He took the single word as assent. He knew she really was overwhelmed, and the realization made him feel tenderly toward her.

He reached across himself with his free hand and found her face beneath the stiff little brim of the straw bonnet she had described. He cupped her soft cheek with his hand, found the edge of her mouth with the pad of his thumb, lowered his head, and kissed her.

It was more of a real kiss this time, though he made no attempt to deepen it. His lips were slightly parted. Hers were full and soft and warm and moist—she must have just licked them.

He felt a stirring in the groin and a pleasant anticipation of bed tonight.

Even over the hideous din of several kettles and pans or whatever the devil was being dragged along the road behind them, he could hear a rousing cheer.

“Sophie.” He lifted his head but did not remove his hand from her cheek. “If you cannot tell me you are happy, can you at least assure me that you are not
unhappy
?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “I am not unhappy.”

“Or sorry? You are not sorry?”

“No,” she said. “I do not have the courage to be sorry.”

He frowned.

“I am only sorry that
you
may be sorry,” she told him.

He had expected that any woman he married would be the one who might regret doing it, for he was blind and could not live a fully normal life or see and appreciate her. But this bride, he realized, was almost totally lacking in self-esteem, even now when she had been clothed well and expensively and when her hair had been properly styled and she was Viscountess Darleigh.

He had
known
she was damaged. Perhaps he had not realized how deeply. Was she
too
damaged? But he remembered her making a daisy chain and laughing as he tried to loop it over her head. He remembered her joking about cats when he played his violin. He remembered the absurd story of Bertha and Dan they had concocted on the way to London and her admission that she sketched caricatures of people she knew.

“Never,” he told her. “I will never be sorry. We will find contentment with each other. I promise.”

How could one promise such a thing?

But he could promise to try. He had no choice now anyway. They were married. And he would do all in his power to restore her self-esteem. If he could do that for her, he would be contented.

“I suppose,” he said, sitting back in his seat, “we are attracting quite an audience.”

“Oh, yes,” she said—and laughed.

He squeezed her hand.

T
he Duke of Stanbrook was a tall, elegant, austere-looking gentleman with dark hair just turning to gray at the temples. Viscount Ponsonby was a blond god with a slight stammer and a mocking eyebrow. The Earl of Berwick was a young man, perhaps only a few years older than Lord Darleigh, and would have been entirely good-looking if it were not for the wicked-looking scar that slashed diagonally across one side of his face. Lady Barclay was tall and coldly beautiful with smooth, dark blond hair and high cheekbones in a long oval face. With Lord Darleigh and Lord Trentham and the absent Sir Benedict Harper, they were the Survivors’ Club.

Sophia found them terrifying despite the fact that they all bowed courteously to her before the wedding breakfast and kissed the back of her hand—except Lady Barclay, of course, who merely wished her happy.

She thought they had all looked at her and found her wanting. They all thought her an opportunist, a fortune hunter, someone who had taken advantage not only of good nature but also of
blind
good nature. And they were his dearest friends. As close as sister and brothers, he had told her. Perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps they felt protective toward him and therefore suspicious of her. She felt chilled.

The Earl of Kilbourne, Lady Trentham’s brother, was also a handsome, formidable-looking gentleman. He also had been a military officer.

Everyone was courteous. Everyone made an effort to keep the conversation moving, to keep it light in tone, to keep it general so that they could all participate. Mrs. Emes was a shopkeeper’s daughter and widow of a prosperous businessman. Miss Emes was their daughter. Mr. Germane was also a businessman, a member of the middle class. They were not excluded from the conversation, Sophia noticed. Neither were they made to feel inferior.