Vice (17 page)

It was perfectly normal, of course. In law children belonged to their fathers, not to their mothers. Nevertheless, Juliana didn’t like this cold laying out of her own lack of rights over the life of this putative infant.

“And if the child is female?”

“The same,” the duke said. “There is no male entail on the estate. The tide will go to Lucien’s cousin, Godfrey, but there is nothing to prevent a daughter from inheriting the fortune and the property.”

“And, of course, it’s the property that concerns you?”

“Precisely.”

Juliana nibbled her bottom hp, then turned to the lawyer. “Is that all, sir?”

“All that concerns you, Mistress Ridge.”

“You can’t tell me how much Mistress Dennison sold me for?” she inquired with an air of wide-eyed innocence. “I should dearly like to know how much I was worth.”

The lawyer choked, loosened his collar, choked again. Elizabeth said reprovingly, “There’s no need to embarrass Mr. Copplethwaite, Juliana.”

“I should think he’s accustomed to such questions by now,” Juliana replied. “He must have drawn up enough such contracts in his time.”

“Three thousand guineas,” the duke said casually. “Quite a handsome sum, I think you’ll agree.” His eyes flickered across her face and then very deliberately over her body.

Juliana curtsied again. “I’m deeply flattered, my lord duke. I trust you won’t be disappointed in your investment.”

Tarquin smiled. “I think that most unlikely,
mignonne”

“I don’t imagine George is offering such a sum,” Juliana mused. “It seems I must be more valuable to you, sir, than to my stepson. And, of course, I go only to the highest bidder.”

His eyes flashed a warning. “Put up your sword, Juliana. I’m a more experienced fencer than you.”

“If you’d care to sign the papers, Mistress Ridge … ?” The lawyer’s tactful question broke the awkward moment.

“Whether I care to or not seems irrelevant, sir,” Juliana stated acidly, getting to her feet. “Only His Grace’s wishes are relevant here.”

“Now, now, Juliana, there’s no need for impertinence.” Elizabeth rose in a swirl of pale silk and billowed across to the secretaire. “Come to the desk. Mr. Copplethwaite, would you bring the documents over here? Thank you. Now, the quill is nice and sharp.” She handed Juliana a pen. “There is blue and black ink in the double standish. Whichever you prefer.”

Mistress Dennison was clearly anxious to have the business over and done with, signed, sealed, and delivered. She hovered over Juliana, who very deliberately read through every clause before affixing her signature at the bottom of each page. What was she signing away? Her life? Her future? She was committing herself to a destiny laid down for her by these strangers into whose midst she’d dropped like manna from heaven.

A candle stood ready-lit to provide the wax for the seal. Lawyer Copplethwaite punctiliously dripped wax onto the bottom of the page, then impressed his own seal ring to witness her signature. “There, ma’am. I believe that’s as right and tight as a document could be.” Fussily, he aligned the edges of the sheets, an anxious frown beetling his brow. “If you’re satisfied, Your Grace.”

“Perfectly, I thank you. However, I have one final task for you, Copplethwaite.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The man’s worried frown grew more pronounced. “Anything, of course.”

“I wish you to witness a marriage,” the duke said as casually as if he were proposing a game of whist. “Between Mistress Ridge and Viscount Edgecombe. It’s to take place at St. James’s, Marylebone, in two hours. I could take you up in my carriage, if you wished.”

“But you said the end of the week!” Juliana protested, shocked. “You said you would procure the license after the contracts had been signed, and it would be done at the end of the week.”

“I was able to accelerate matters,” he said. “I had thought it in your best interests … in the circumstances. Do you object?”

Juliana took a deep breath. “No, I have no objection. It makes little difference when it happens.”

“I knew you were a sensible girl,” Elizabeth approved briskly. “Let’s go to your chamber and make you ready. His Grace has selected a most beautiful bridal gown.”

She’d accepted his proposition a mere two days ago! But Juliana was becoming accustomed to the duke’s ability to make things happen faster than it would seem possible.

It
was
a beautiful gown. A cream silk dress, opening over a white embroidered petticoat. For half an hour Bella fussed around her, tucking and adjusting at Elizabeth’s sharp-eyed direction. She plaited Juliana’s hair around her head in a severely restrained coronet before throwing a froth of gauzy lace over her head.

Juliana examined herself in the mirror through the shifting gossamer of the veil and thought of the wedding gown Lady Forsett had had made for her. Juliana had thought it pretty, but compared with this, it had been a dull and dowdy garment, ill fitting at the waist, with a barely existent hoop. The veil had been heavy, clipped to her hair with a hundred painfully tight pins.

She was to be married twice in ten days. The first ceremony had had its farcical elements, but this one was a charade to challenge reason. Juliana adjusted the veil, flicked at the lace ruffles at her elbows, and turned to the door. “Do you accompany me, ma’am? Or do I go alone?”

“Bella is to accompany you as far as the church, my dear. His Grace will be waiting there to give you away.”

Juliana felt an almost irrepressible urge to burst into hysterical laughter at the solemnity of Mistress Dennison’s voice. It wasn’t as if the woman didn’t know the truth
about the sham marriage and the duke’s intended role. And yet she could manage to sound completely convinced and convincing as she put forth this ludicrous version of the truth.

“It’s so wonderful, miss,” Bella breathed. “To see ye wed, all respectable, like.”

“All respectable,” Juliana murmured, opening the door. “Yes, of course.”

She was unprepared, however, for the excited chorus of girls awaiting her in the hall. They fluttered around her, examining her gown, exclaiming at her good fortune with clearly genuine pleasure. They would take hope and encouragement from the luck of one of their number, Juliana reflected. Where one of them had good fortune, another could soon follow. She responded as warmly as she could, since the truth was not to be told, but was relieved when Mr. Dennison with great ceremony gave her his arm and ushered her outside, into a waiting hackney. Bella climbed in after her and busily straightened Juliana’s skirts, making sure they were in no danger of catching in the door.

The church was in a small, quiet lane. Marylebone was almost in the country, and the air was cleaner, the sound of birdsong more easily heard. Bella jumped down from the coach first, and Juliana gathered up her skirts, praying that she would manage this maneuver without disaster. It would be typical of her luck to catch her heel on the footstep and tumble headfirst to the ground.

But the duke appeared in the open doorway. He was looking grave and held out his hand to assist her.

Juliana took the hand and managed to extricate herself and her skirts through the narrow aperture without mishap. “Where’s your cousin?”

“Waiting at the altar.” He straightened her veil with a deft twitch.

“Do I pass muster, my lord duke?” She couldn’t manage to keep the sting from her voice, but he merely nodded.

“You look just as I expected.” While she was still trying
to decide whether that was a compliment or not, he had tucked her hand into his arm. “Ready?”

As I’ll ever be.
Juliana lifted her head boldly and faced the open church door. Bella, with an air of great self-importance, bent to straighten the bride’s skirts, then solemnly stood back and watched, dabbing a tear from her eye as the Duke of Redmayne and Juliana disappeared through the church doors to meet her bridegroom.

Lucien, standing at the altar with Quentin, looked impatiently toward the door, shuffling his feet on the cold stone. Lawyer Copplethwaite sat in the front pew, staring intently into the middle distance. The elderly priest flicked nervously through the pages of the prayer book as if looking for the right section.

“I can’t think why you wouldn’t officiate yourself,” Lucien muttered. “Keep it in the family.”

Quentin’s face was carved in granite. “I’d not commit such sacrilege,” he responded in a clipped whisper, wondering why he was there at all. Except that he had never been able to refuse his brother anything. And he felt a compulsion to stand by the girl. She was in need of a friend, however much Tarquin might swear that she would not be hurt … would indeed only be better off by lending herself to his scheme.

He turned toward the door as the couple entered the dim nave, Juliana a shimmer of white against the duke’s dark red.

“Tall, isn’t she? Quite the Long Meg,” Lucien observed in an undertone. “Hope she’s not some hatchet-face into the bargain. Don’t want to be the laughingstock of town.”

Quentin’s mouth tightened, and his fingers closed over the simple band of gold in his pocket. The bride and her escort reached the altar, and Quentin nudged Lucien to step forward. Juliana, still on the duke’s arm, stepped up beside him. Quentin could detect no hesitation in her manner, but he could see nothing of her face beneath the veil.

Juliana peered through her veil at her bridegroom. Her
first impression was of a curiously shrunken figure, hunched and hollow-chested. She felt very tall and robust beside him. It gave her a comforting sense of advantage. She couldn’t see his face too clearly, but his pallor struck her powerfully—the dead whiteness of a fish’s underbelly. And his eyes were just sockets, deep-set, burning holes as he glanced incuriously at her when the priest began the service. A little prickle of apprehension lifted her scalp, and without volition she turned toward the duke on her other side. He placed his hand on hers as it rested on his arm and smiled reassuringly.

Juliana licked suddenly dry lips. How would she feel at this moment if she were marrying the Duke of Redmayne? Not apprehensive, certainly. It could surely be said that she knew all there was to know about him already.

She wasn’t marrying him, but she was inextricably twining her life with his. He intended to be the father of her child. How much closer could two people get? Much closer than any counterfeit marriage could afford. The idea gave her courage, and she heard herself make her responses in a clear, firm voice.

Lord Quentin handed his cousin the ring. Only then did the duke remove the support of his arm from Juliana. She extended her hand. It was not quite steady, but not as shaky as it might have been. The viscount’s fingers, however, trembled almost uncontrollably as he tried to slide the ring on her finger. He cursed savagely, muttering that it was deuced early in the day and he needed a drink to steady him. The undertone reached the priest, nervously nodding and smiling as he oversaw the ritual. He looked shocked and uttered a faint protest as the fumbling continued.

The duke moved swiftly. In the blink of an eye he had taken the ring from Lucien and slipped it onto the bride’s finger. The priest, still clearly shocked, pronounced them man and wife in a quavering voice.

“Thank God that’s over,” Lucien declared as soon as the priest’s voice had faded into the shadows. “Am I to be vouchsafed a look at this wife of mine?”

“Sir … I beg you … must you …” But Lucien ignored the stammering, violated priest and reached for Juliana’s veil with his violently shaking hands. He threw it back and then surveyed her critically in the gloom.

“Better than I expected,” he commented. “I need a drink. I bid you join me, madam wife, in a toast to this auspicious event.” With a mocking bow he proffered his arm.

He was dressed impeccably and lavishly in emerald-and-gold brocade, but Juliana shuddered at the thought of touching him. Some infection seemed to emanate from him, from his caved-in chest and his thin shoulders, his burning eyes and ghastly green-white complexion. Like some graveyard maggot, she thought, feeling queasy. Some loathsome, crawling inhabitant of the tombs. He was supposed to be sick. But what could he have that would waste him so, would produce this waft of corruption, as if he were rotting from within?

Juliana’s eyes darted in almost frantic appeal to Quentin, then up at the duke, as she hesitated. “I imagine we would all like some refreshment,” Quentin said before Tarquin could move. “Come, my dear.” He took her hand, tucked it under his arm, and Viscountess Edgecombe walked back down the aisle after her wedding on the arm of her husband’s cousin. Her husband lounged after them, taking snuff, and Tarquin moved into the sacristy with the priest and Lawyer Copplethwaite, to settle the business side of the ceremony.

Outside Juliana breathed deeply of the sultry air and forced herself to look again at her husband. In the bright sunshine his color looked even worse. The greenish skin was stretched taut on his skull, showing every bone and hollow. He looked as old as Methuselah and as young as Juliana herself. Suddenly he doubled over with a violent coughing fit, his thin chest heaving, perspiration gathering on his brow. She gazed in sympathetic horror while he coughed as if he would vomit up his lungs.

“Can’t we do something?” she said to Quentin, who was standing beside her, his face tight and furious.

“No,” he said shortly. “He needs cognac.”

“What is the matter with him?” she whispered. “The duke said he was ill … but what is it?”

“He didn’t tell you?” Quentin’s eyes flashed with anger, and he looked remarkably like his half brother.

“Didn’t tell her what?” Tarquin’s voice came from the church steps behind. He glanced at the still-convulsed Lucien, then came down the last step.

“The child does not know what ails her husband,” Quentin said harshly. “For shame, Tarquin!”

“Juliana will have nothing to do with Lucien, so what does it matter to her what ails him?” Tarquin said, drawing out his snuffbox. “Your husband is riddled with the pox,
mignonne.
But I promise he will not lay so much as a finger upon you.”

Juliana stared at the duke, speechless, as he took a leisurely pinch of snuff, dropped the box into his pocket again, and slapped Lucien hard on the back. “Come, Edgecombe. We’ll put a glass of cognac down your gullet, and you’ll be right as a trivet.”