The Earl's Mysterious Lady
Autorzy
Louise Allen
Lektury
19,8K
Rozdziały
23
Chapter One
The bride was late.
Unmoved, Captain Guy Thurlow, Earl of Easton, continued his study of the memorial plaque to Alderman Thaddeus Wilmslow who had died in 1673, a credit to the town of Stowe Easton and a model of domestic virtue.
Brides were always late, apparently. It was their last opportunity to demonstrate independence before they became wives and he was quite prepared to tolerate this traditional gesture. He intended to be a benevolent husband. After all, how difficult could it be?
The Honourable Miss Viola FitzWalden had been reared to be the wife of an aristocrat. As far as he could tell after three formal and stilted meetings, she appeared to be dutiful and without any irritating idiosyncrasies. It went without saying that she had no vices. She was even tolerably pretty, although at only seventeen years of age she still had to grow into her looks and out of youthful plumpness. An expensive lady’s maid would soon deal with the deplorable eyebrows and the unflattering mass of ringlets.
By the time he inherited, she would make an entirely suitable Marchioness of Thornborough. Her late father, the Viscount FitzWalden, might have been a nonentity in public life, but he had a duke for a cousin, as well as relationships to most of the members of the Cabinet. Even better, his daughter came to the marriage with a dowry that included the manor of Bishop’s Fulling, land that the ancestors of the Marquess of Thornborough had coveted over many generations.
There was the family black sheep, of course, but Guy had dealt with that, making it clear to his betrothed that her uncle, the dishonourable Mr Charles FitzWalden, would never cross any threshold of his. She had agreed without hesitation.
Beside him Captain Arthur Graham, his best man, stirred, the gilt buttons and gold lace on his dress uniform catching the sunlight from the east window as he moved. ‘She’s here.’
Of course she was. Guy could hear the stir at the back of the church quite clearly, despite the size of the place. The wedding should have been in the chapel at Easton Court, of course, but that, along with the rest of the ancient family estate, was in disrepair. But however much the Marquess preferred the modern conveniences of Thornborough Chase, the family seat built by his own father, he was enough of a traditionalist to want his son and heir married fifty miles away where Alberic de Turloe, follower of the Conqueror, had received the lands that began the family’s rise.
Easton Court had been tidied up sufficiently to hold the wedding breakfast in the great hall, but the chapel roof was decidedly unsafe. The parish church allowed a far larger number of guests to attend, even if it meant that everyone was exposed to the gaze of the local population, who had seen nothing quite as splendid since the day that George II’s carriage broke a shaft in the High Street.
The organist broke into something that managed to mingle solemnity with joyfulness and Guy listened until the ripple of sound from the congregation told him that his bride was about halfway down the aisle. Then he turned and found it no hardship to smile.
The gown of primrose silk was fashionable, tasteful and disguised any imperfections in the bride’s figure. The drifting veil of ivory gauze was modest, but gave glimpses of dark brown hair, the pale oval of her face, the glimmer of pearls. Blue eyes or grey? He tried to recall.
Viola was supported by her elder brother, Cedric, the Viscount: dull and harmless in Guy’s estimation. He delivered his sister to her position at the altar rail and stepped aside so that Viola could hand her bouquet of yellow roses and myrtle to one of her attendants.
Her hands shook, just a little, Guy noted. Bridal nerves, presumably. That was only to be expected from a well-bred virgin. The wedding night was certain to be a little tense, of course, but he had every hope that Viola would prove to be as responsive as any husband could wish for, given time. With good fortune—and suitable application on his part—she might even be with child by the time his month’s leave was up and he returned to the Peninsula.
That security for the title would please his father, although Guy had no intention of getting himself killed. He had the Thurlow luck, his colonel said: bullets whistled past his ears, shot ploughed into the ground just where his horse had stood moments before, cavalry lances did no more than rip holes in his sleeve. He, Arthur and their tight-knit group of friends called themselves The Indestructibles and they were having a very good war.
A waft of perfume rose to his nostrils, the scent of the roses mingling with something warmer and more herbal from his bride’s skin. He glanced down at her pale hands and felt his body stir pleasurably.
The Vicar cleared his throat. ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered together...’
‘...can show any just cause why they may not be lawfully joined together let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace.’
He really is the most dreadful old poser, Guy thought as the Vicar scanned the pews, milking the moment for maximum dramatic effect. The congregation obliged by producing a ripple of little gasps and nervous laughter. Guy smiled faintly. They would be appalled if someone actually leapt to their feet with a cry of, ‘I am his true wife!’ or, ‘That woman is not who she seems!’
Silence fell. The Vicar took a deep breath, ready to launch into the rest of the service.
‘No,’ said a faint voice beside him. Then, louder, ‘No! I cannot marry him.’
The bride flung back her veil, sent Guy one desperate look of appeal and fled.
She ran down the aisle, her little kid shoes making hardly any sound on the stones. The congregation rose raggedly to its feet and her brother spun around, calling her name, but Viola FitzWalden did not pause. For one moment she was framed in the west doorway against blue sky and the darkness of the churchyard yew trees, and then she had vanished.
Captain Guy Thurlow, Earl of Easton, was left standing on the altar steps, a jilted bridegroom.
