Tallie's Knight Part 9

"And after that?"

"After that, I believe they usually feel quite well until they are brought to bed." Magnus drew out a handkerchief to wipe his brow. His betrothed was clearly shaken. Obviously it had not occurred to her that she might begin breeding while she was on the Continent. Strike while the iron is hot, he decided.

"So we are agreed--if you find yourself in a delicate condition the Tour will be called off and we will return to England at once."

Tallie chewed her lip. She was strong. Her mother had managed it. So

could she. And if she really was ill, she supposed there would be nopoint in travelling."Very well," she agreed grudgingly.Magnus refrained from nib bing his hands in triumph. He had every intention of getting her with child before there was any question of travelling beyond Paris. He would take her to Paris, show her the sights, purchase gowns and hats and perfumes and all manner of feminine fripperies, then whisk her home to d'Arenville Hall to await the birth of their child.

Their child. He could not wait. But first he had to get the wedding over with.

"And what is your next " condition", may I ask?" he said."Next condition? There are none. You have agreed to everything, moreor less." Tallie was still worrying about the wedding night.

Magnus was stunned, and vaguely suspicious. He'd been certain that she was building up to something truly outrageous.

Tallie stood up to leave.

"Thank you for agreeing to speak to me. You have relieved my mind...

about some things.

"And frightened me to pieces about others. She opened the door.Magnus recalled the jewel case in his pocket."Miss Robinson, a moment longer, if you please.""Yes?" She turned back and looked at him, wide-eyed and pale, "You may wish to wear these at your wedding. They belonged to my mother." He held out the box.

Tallie opened it.

"Pearls, how pretty," she said dully.

"Thank you very much. I shall wear them tomorrow, since you ask."

She shut the box and left the summerhouse. Magnus stood watching her cross the lawn and enter the house, frowning. He'd never had a woman accept jewellery in quite that manner. There'd been no squeals of joy, no excited hugs or kisses, no play-acting and flirtation. Not that he wanted that sort of response from the woman he would take to wife, Magnus told himself. Not at all.

He should be happy to discover his intended bride wasn't greedy or grasping. He was happy. Her cool acceptance was well-bred and ladylike. It was, in fact, exactly how his mother had accepted jewels from his father.

And why did that thought annoy him so much?

Nonsense! He was not annoyed. There was no reason to be annoyed. She'd answered him perfectly politely.

Too politely.

She'd accepted his gift of priceless pearls like a child accepting an apple, with polite, mechanical thanks, quite as if she was thinking about something else.

d.a.m.n it all, but this girl was an enigma to him. Magnus didn't like enigmas. And he was very annoyed.

Chapter Five.

Mr. Penworthy, the organist, plays the opening chord, so softly that at first the congregation is barely aware of it. Gradually the music swells, filling the ancient and beautiful church with a glorious torrent of sound. The bride has arrived.

The pews are crowded to bursting point, mostly with friends of the bride, well-wishers from the village and from much farther afield.

There are foreign dignitaries, resplendent in silk hats, glittering with medals and imperial orders--men who knew the bride's father abroad, who come to her wedding representing princes, dukes--even an emperor.

Outside in the churchyard, tall, handsome men watch from a distance, loitering palely, some gnashing their teeth, others silent and crushed with despair--their hopes and hearts dashed for ever by the bride's acceptance of another.

In the lane beyond the churchyard wall sit two elegant carriages.

Rumour has it each carriage contains an aristocratic lady, each one an heiress and a diamond of the first water. Screened from the stares of the vulgar by delicate black netting, the ladies weep. Their beauty, their riches and their rank serve them naught, for the groom has chosen his bride, and she is no famous beauty, nor even rich or aristocratic. But she offers him a prize he values beyond earthly riches--her heart. And he gives her his in return.

The first chord draws to a close and the bride steps into the centre aisle. The congregation turns to look and a sigh whispers around the church. From where she stands, the bride can hear only fragments of what they say. "Lovely gown..."

"A beautiful bride..."

The music swells again and she begins her slow walk down the aisle.

Her beloved awaits her. His eyes feast on her. He makes a small move towards her, as if he cannot wait for her to reach him but must rush up the aisle and take her in his arms. She almost weeps with joy at his loving impatience; she, too, wants to run down the aisle towards him and fling herself into his arms. Instead she walks in proud and happy dignity, her head held high, feeling, as she always does when he looks at her, beautiful.

Mr. Penworthy times it perfectly; as she reaches the altar, the music soars to its final crescendo. The last notes echo around the ancient oaken rafters and her beloved takes her hand in his, murmuring, "Tallie, my own true love, you make me the happiest man on earth." He lifts her gloved hand to his mouth, and. "Ouch! b.l.o.o.d.y h--what the dev--er, deuce do you think you're doing?"

exclaimed Lord d'Arenville angrily, one hand clamped over his nose--the nose that Tallie's gloved hand had forcibly collided with.

His eyes were watering from the impact. He blinked down at her, then took her hand, which still hovered dangerously close to his face. A faint cloud of aromatic brown dust rose from her glove.

He stared down at her hands, raised one cautiously to his nose and tentatively sniffed.

"Good G.o.d! They reek of coffee!"

Tallie didn't respond. She just stared up at him, the last remnants of her dream shattering around her feet. For one heart-stopping moment, when he had lifted her hand to his face again, she'd thought he was going to kiss it. But it was not to be. The Icicle was incapable of a romantic gesture like that. He was merely inspecting her gloves.

His grip on her hand tightened and he thrust it down between them. He nodded at the vicar. The vicar stood staring at Tallie, bemused.

"Get on with it, man," said Lord d'Arenville curtly.

"Er, of course," the vicar muttered, then announced in ringing, mellifluous tones, "Dearly beloved, we are gathered..."

Dazed, Tallie stood there, listening to herself being married to The Icicle. And a very bad-tempered Icicle he was, too. He was positively glaring at her. Of course, he did have reason to be a little cross, but it wasn't as if she had meant to hit him on the nose, after all.

Mind you, she thought dejectedly, he seemed always to be furious about something--mainly with her. Towards others he invariably remained cool, polite and, in a chilly sort of fashion, charming. But not with Tallie. It didn't augur at all well for the future.

Still, Tallie rallied her spirits, this was her wedding day, and she'd made up her mind to enjoy every moment of it. She began to mentally tick off her blessings: the weather was almost sunny, and the wind not too cold at all. And her frock had turned out quite well--the lovely amber material was absolutely perfect for her colouring, and she was sure no one would notice the one or two little mistakes she'd made.

The music had been absolutely glorious--Mr. Penworthy had truly outdone himself--and her cousin's husband George had escorted her down the aisle looking every inch a gentleman. He wasn't even very drunk, as far as she could tell.

And if she wasn't the most ecstatic bride in the world, she was determined no one else would notice. All brides were happy and joyful--she didn't want her friends and relations upset by her own misgivings. That was why she'd invoked her fantasy--it was one of her favourites--and because of it she'd been able to act like a radiant bride should. She hoped everyone had been taken in by her performance--she didn't want to disappoint them.

She wondered where they were sitting--she'd been too involved in her fantasy to notice. She turned her head to take a quick glance at the pews behind her, searching for Brooks, Mrs. Wilmot and the children. "Thalia!" Lord d'Arenville's hand jerked her back to face the altar.

Tallie blinked at it for a moment. She felt dizzy, bereft, disorientated. She looked helplessly up at Lord d'Arenville. He stared back, his brow furrowed, his cold grey eyes intense. One hand held hers. His other arm slid around her and tightened around her waist.

For a moment it seemed to Tallie that he could see into her very soul.

She quivered under the hard gaze and closed her eyes--the intrusion was too painful. For a moment or two she was aware of nothing but the cold chill of the church and the pressure of his arm supporting her.

His arm felt warm, but the grey eyes watching her looked angry. In the distance she could hear the vicar mumbling something. She closed her eyes harder, wishing with all her heart she could invoke her fantasy back to deal with this. She heard the vicar mumbling again. Lord d'Arenville gave her a little squeeze and Tallie opened her eyes.

"Do you, Thalia Louise Robinson take this man...?" intoned the vicar forcefully, his manner conveying to Tallie that he was repeating the question, and not for the first time.

Embarra.s.sed, Tallie mumbled, "I do," and hurriedly repeated after him the words about loving, honouring and obeying Lord d'Arenville. She shivered.

She was bound for life to Magnus Philip Audley St. Clair, Seventh Earl of d'Arenville. A surge of deepest misery washed over her. Her wedding was so very different from what she had hoped for, dreamed of. And she didn't mean all that nonsense about rejected suitors and important guests and beautiful gowns--that silliness had nothing to do with her true dreams.

All she truly wanted was to be loved.

The other had been mere play-acting, an attempt to distract herself, to get through the day with some semblance of good spirits in order not to disappoint her friends. But there hadn't been much point. Dully, she felt her glove being tugged off.

"With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship..." His voice was deep, harsh.

The ring was cold as it slid onto her finger.

She was married.

Tallie glanced up at her husband. He was staring down at her small hand, still resting in his large one. She followed his gaze and saw the faint brown stains on her fingers from the dye she had used on her gloves and lace. And at the end of each grubby hand was a chewed and ugly fingernail. That was what her new husband was staring at--her dirty hands and horrible bitten nails.

He put back her veil and kissed her, a hard, brief pressure on her mouth, then straightened, having done his duty. A lump rose in her throat and she bit her lip to stop it trembling. Such a cold, hollow sham of a wedding.

It was her own fault, she knew. She had stupidly allowed herself to dream of how it would be, and so of course she was disappointed. She invariably was. Life was always a disappointment when compared with her dreams. So the dreaming would have to stop. But, oh, she'd never felt so miserable or alone in her life. Tallie felt a tear roll down her cheek, then another. She surrept.i.tiously wiped them away. She straightened, preparing herself for the walk back down the aisle. She looked at the spa.r.s.e, silent congregation and cast a quick glance up at the grim face of her new husband.

A straggle of the poorer villagers were watching from the very back of the church--come, possibly, with the expectation of largesse from the rich and happy groom. Tallie sighed. The villagers were, like everyone else, doomed to disappointment in her wedding, for the veri est blind man could see that her groom was not happy. There would be no largesse.

Magnus was indeed not happy. He was furious. Had been from the moment his cousin Laet.i.tia, swooning artistically, had claimed she could not move another step that morning, that her head was positively shattered and the pain simply too, too much for a lady to bear. She had collapsed onto a Grecian sofa, reviving sufficiently to forbid that the children be taken to the church, claiming they were sickening for something, a mother always knew. It would be the basest cruelty to tear her beloved ones away from their mama when she was in such agony. A frail wisp of lace had been delicately brandished and applied to dry eyes. A battalion of small crystal bottles had been hastily arranged on a small table nearby--smelling salts, a vinaigrette, cologne water, feathers to burn. Magnus had been helpless in the face of this determined barrage of feminine sensibility. The children had looked perfectly healthy to him. Nor had he missed their disappointed little faces when they'd come downstairs dressed in their best and their mother's decision had been announced.

Then Laet.i.tia had insisted that she could not possibly spare Mrs. Wilmot--no one's hands were as gentle and healing when it came to the headache. And, of course. Brooks would have to remain at the house--someone had to run the household while its mistress was indisposed.

Magnus had seen that Brooks and Mrs. Wilmot had also been crushed with disappointment. They too had been dressed in their Sunday best--Mrs. Wilmot in a large flowered hat, with a bunch of violets pinned to her bosom. For a mo menthe half expected her to argue with Laet.i.tia. But they were elderly servants, entirely dependent on Laet.i.tia's good will and with an uncertain old age facing them. Like the children, they had had no choice but to obey.

Magnus had fumed impotently. He could not veto the orders of a woman in her own house, particularly when those orders concerned her own children and servants.

But when Laet.i.tia had claimed, in a failing thread of a voice, that she could not do without the comfort of her husband's presence in this, her hour of infirmity, Magnus had intervened. He had practically frog marched George into the carriage, turning a deaf ear to Laet.i.tia's wailing and George's bl.u.s.tering. The short trip to church had been accomplished in a mood of grim silence.

Alighting from the carriage, Magnus had looked around, frowning. There had been suspiciously few carriages. He'd told Laet.i.tia to arrange a small wedding--meaning he didn't want a huge noisy crowd. But this. He'd entered the church in a mood of black foreboding. His suspicions had been confirmed. The only people seated had been the two or three people he'd invited himself--none of them particularly close.

Not that he had many close friends--he would have liked Freddie to stand up with him, but Freddie had sent word that there was an outbreak of typhus in the village and he could not leave his wife and children, nor his parish, at such a time. Nor would he wish to risk conveying the disease to Magnus and his new bride.

So the only people seated in the church had been a couple of chaps from his club, a fellow he'd known at Oxford, who lived locally, and Magnus's valet, his groom and his tiger. A congregation of six--three of them servants and all male.

Magnus had cursed long and silently. Better to have no one at all than to humiliate his little bride with such a poor showing. For himself, he cared not a jot--marriage was a business transaction, and required the bare minimum of fuss. He was acquiring a wife who, with G.o.d's blessing, would give him children, and she was acquiring wealth, a t.i.tle, and security for her lifetime.

But women set great store in weddings.

The bigger the better. With hordes of people. Expensive gowns and jewels. Flowers. Champagne. Happy throngs of celebrating guests! That was what women liked--he was sure of it. And little Thalia Robinson would be no exception; he was sure of that, too.

So where the h.e.l.l was everyone?

And what the h.e.l.l was he going to do?

What the devil had Laet.i.tia been up to? He'd told her to organise everything, d.a.m.n it! And it wasn't as if she'd indicated it would be any sort of imposition--far from it.

Women liked organising these affairs--look at how Laet.i.tia had jumped at arranging that blasted house party with all those simpering debutantes. She'd organised that at a moment's no 5

tice. She'd had weeks to arrange his wedding. Three whole weeks. And a day or two to spare. He'd given her carte blanche with the arrangements. And the costs. And had sent her a stunning emerald necklace.

So where were all the happy blasted guests?

The organist had played the opening chords and Magnus had turned to see Miss Thalia Robinson, his bride, standing at the entrance of the church. Smiling blissfully. Beatifically. For a mo menthe frozen, staring, riveted by her smile--dazzling, even from behind the lace veil she was wearing. Her smile had driven every angry thought from his head. Every thought.

She had looked radiant. Beautiful. And utterly happy.

Was this the same girl he'd overheard sobbing? Alone and forlorn on a cold afternoon in her cousin's garden maze. Sobbing as if her heart would break--because Lord d'Arenville had offered her marriage.

The girl who, with reddened eyes and blotchy skin, had accepted his offer in a bleak little voice laced with defeat?

The girl who'd coldbloodedly laid down her set of conditions only days before the wedding?

But today she was smiling. Music had filled the church, soaring up amongst the blackened oak rafters as she had stepped out onto the strip of red matting which ran down the centre of the aisle. Her movement had jolted him out of his daze, and as he had watched her walking slowly towards him, floating proudly to the music, he'd gradually become aware of what she was wearing. And his frown had slowly returned.

Magnus was no great follower of feminine fashions, but he knew when something looked right. Or, in this case, when it looked wrong. Though exactly what it was he hadn't quite been able to put his finger on.

The pale shimmering amber colour was not particularly fashionable, but it suited her. The fabric seemed rather too stiff for the soft, gauzy look which was so a la mode today, but that was not the problem. His eyes had been drawn to the neckline, and for a mo menthe hadn't believed his eyes. It was crooked. Distinctly crooked. And so, now he had come to notice it, were her sleeves--or at least one of them was. And the gown hung all wrong. She had a nice little figure, he had realised suddenly, but this gown was utterly atrocious.

His temper had grown. How the devil had Laet.i.tia allowed Thalia Robinson to go to her wedding dressed in a gown like that? Women always strove to look their best, but the most important time of all, the day when every woman expected to look beautiful, was on her wedding day. It was another thing Magnus understood about women. Which was why he'd specifically told his cousin to spare no expense in fitting out his bride. So why was she not wearing the finest gown a London modiste could provide? Good G.o.d, she looked for all the world as if her gown had been made by some half-wit in the village!

The closer his bride had come, the more he had noticed. Stains on the gloves, inadequately removed. A dam in the lace of her veil. A crooked hem. Uneven st.i.tching. the list had grown.

And through it all Thalia Robinson had smiled, as if this truly was the happiest day of her life. As if she was not dressed in a frightful travesty of a wedding dress. As if the church was not virtually empty of well-wishers. As if Magnus was the man she loved. He'd stared, angry, bemused, dazzled. And then she'd cracked him on the nose so hard that tears had come into his eye and he'd been embarra.s.sed, and growled out something which had caused the smile to drop from her face and the joy to seep out of her body. He'd watched it happen before his very eyes--one moment she had been joyous and radiant, the next miserable.

So then Magnus had really been furious. With himself.