You May Kiss the Bride, page 2
Upon arriving in Wiltshire, Livia was not so much welcomed into the home—if such the ancient, rambling domicile known as Ealdor Abbey could be so termed—of Uncle Charles and Aunt Bella, as absorbed. Aside from grumbling within earshot about the expense of feeding her, Uncle Charles barely noticed her. Aunt Bella, childless, somnolent, always unwell, with interest in neither Society nor useful occupation, accepted Livia’s presence without a blink but also without care or concern for the little girl for whom she was, ostensibly, responsible.
Oh, you’re the little orfin girl.
Livia smiled without humor.
Yes indeed, Cecily certainly had a knack for getting to the heart of things.
Gabriel Penhallow rode alongside the large, old-fashioned, perfectly sprung coach in which sat his grandmother and her companion Miss Cott. Its stately black panels as always were polished to a blinding gleam. Behind the coach, at a respectful distance, followed the light carriage bearing her dresser and maidservant as well as his valet, along with an astonishing quantity of his grandmother’s luggage.
He turned his head to look inside and saw his grandmother dozing, sitting bolt upright and her mouth firmly closed. Even in her sleep she was indomitable, he thought with a flicker of amusement. Miss Cott, slim and short, sat opposite Grandmama, gray hair tucked neatly inside her serviceable bonnet and holding in her lap her employer’s enormous jewelry case. She was gazing out the window, away from Gabriel, her expression calm and remote.
He had known Miss Cott nearly all his life, and never once had he seen her shaken from her pleasant equanimity, no matter how extreme were Grandmama’s outbursts of impatience or anger. Or how frequent her orders to move a sofa cushion, freshen her pot of tea, fetch a stepstool, ring for a maidservant, write a dozen letters, rearrange flowers in a vase, summon the doctor, even put on a different shawl not so distasteful to her employer.
In point of fact, his grandmother was not an easy person to be around. Both his parents having died in the typhus epidemic of 1791 that swept through Somerset, Grandmama had been his guardian since he was seven, and he remembered being secretly glad to have been sent away to Eton, and even gladder as a young man, after a few obligatory years spent in Society, to have seized the opportunity to travel across Europe as a member of the Diplomatic Corps. Between Grandmama’s relentless pressure to marry, and the brazen machinations of ambitious mothers and their wily daughters, he’d had enough of the so-called gentler sex. Experience among the ton had taught him that women were, evidently, crafty and manipulative creatures, vain, shallow, their heads full only of dresses, parties, gossip, intrigues, conquests.
All in all, a dead bore.
He had been happy to seek his pleasures elsewhere, sensibly, in the arms of well-paid courtesans, with whom there was no need to pretend he was interested in Lady Jersey’s latest on-dits about who had been dampening their petticoats, or how much the Regent (then still the Prince of Wales) had spent on new boots, and so on.
When finally the government had summoned him back to England, and released him from service with thanks, he’d been forced to admit that Grandmama was right—about one thing, at least. He was nearly thirty years old and he could no longer ignore the obligations of his station. He needed to marry and produce offspring. There was a nursery, long empty, at Surmont Hall.
Not that he had any particular intention of returning to the Hall. It was merely a place where he’d lived for a few years of his childhood. What would he do there, anyway? For a man used to active occupation, to utilizing his intellect each and every day, life in the country was bound to be unutterably dull. Besides, the bailiff—what was his name? Edwards? Eckers? No: Eccles. Eccles ran the place quite competently.
It all came down to one thing.
Choice.
He could certainly choose where he lived, but he couldn’t choose not to marry.
There had been a time, in his early twenties, after he’d nearly been maneuvered right into the proverbial ball and shackle . . . Good Lord, that fiendish Lady Washbourne, so mind-bogglingly determined that the world would have been an infinitely better place had she deployed her talents in the pursuit of something useful, like a cure for cholera. Her daughter, a beautiful half-wit, somehow ending up in his carriage made more than a little drunk and obediently prepared to yield up her virtue to him: It had been rather startling to discover in this way her ladyship’s estimation of his character, her assumption that he was so animalistic in his desires that he’d cheerfully ravish an innocent girl—one, moreover, who couldn’t even sit up straight on her own—and then, of course, marry her at once. What a tangle that had been, getting her safely returned home and himself neatly extricated from an absurd and awkward situation. He knew that any hint of scandal would enrage his grandmother; he didn’t fear her outbursts, but he owed her, at least, the courtesy of an unsullied reputation.
After that charming little debacle, he’d toyed with the idea of remaining unwed, and allowing the Hall to eventually pass into the hands of his cousin Hugo Penhallow. He was a nice young chap, good-tempered, poor as a church mouse, Army-mad. As soon as Gabriel had come into his inheritance he’d set up Hugo with an allowance and purchased his commission. The lad was now roiling about the so-called United States, happy as a lark.
But there was no certainty that madcap Hugo would return alive and whole, leaving open the ominous possibility of the heir being his distant Scottish cousin Alasdair Penhallow who, if the rumors were correct, was a most unsavory fellow as well as being irremediably stupid.
Before long, he’d come to accept his fate. The Penhallows had been arranging dynastic marriages for decades—centuries, really. He would wed and do his duty, but aside from the congress necessary to create progeny, he and his wife would lead separate lives. It was the Penhallow way, and he’d yet to hear anyone complain about it. Besides, he wasn’t in any danger of giving way to maudlin sentimentality about his lot in life. Generally speaking, he was a fortunate man, blessed with intelligence, good health, and a substantial fortune; too, he wasn’t some callow lad, pining away in the quest for some kind of grand idealized love.
No, he had business to transact.
And luckily, Grandmama had spared him the tedium of having to search for a bride.
Some months ago she had left Bath—where she’d been ensconced for many years—and made her way to London. There she had taken occupancy of the family townhouse in Berkeley Square and proceeded to spend the Season looking for a worthy young lady. Invited everywhere and universally fawned upon, she attended breakfasts, teas, dinner parties, assemblies, balls, Almack’s; indefatigably had she searched, interviewed, investigated. Her letters came to him bristling with detailed reports.
Angrily, she wrote that this earl’s daughter was already affianced, and that duke’s girl had just gotten married; their available sisters were too young, or too old, or had a squint, or teeth that made one blench. The girls of a fine old family from the North would have been considered if not for their abject lack of fortune. One otherwise promising young lady, Grandmama had learned to her fury, had been concealing the ugly fact of an uncle in the fishmongering trade. The granddaughter of an old friend, whom she had long thought to be a possibility, looked decidedly consumptive. Another girl who had seemed likely at first came from a family in which the women were notoriously poor breeders. And, naturally, there were whole swathes of young ladies who could be ignored—no matter how wealthy or pleasing in appearance—as their bloodlines were pitifully inferior.
On and on it went, until at last the Season had come to an end, and Grandmama returned to Bath in defeat.
Then she had met the Orrs.
Not long after he arrived in London had come the jubilant letter with the news that she had finally met the perfect young lady for him: the Honorable Cecily Orr was from a noble family, wealthy, exceedingly good-looking, elegant, fashionable, and graceful.
It was all arranged.
He was to come to Bath immediately, whereupon they would together set out for Wiltshire so that he could meet his prospective bride. She had no doubt that he would approve her choice.
He’d been slightly annoyed by her peremptory tone, but, after all, business was business. He might as well get it over with, and the sooner the better.
So off he had gone to Grandmama’s palatial residence in Upper Camden Place where she had—over a distinctly odd supper—declared her intention to leave at dawn the next morning. But it had taken several hours until the carriages had been loaded to her satisfaction. In the meantime, two footmen had nearly been dismissed. The cook, castigated for the inappropriate nature of the muffins she had baked and tenderly packed in a basket, wept. Miss Cott had trotted up and down the steps with an apparently infinite number of bandboxes, cases, and shawls. And when finally they had set out, the pace of the massive coach was so ponderously slow that Gabriel felt like they were on a royal progress of yore. He half-expected the people they passed on the road to wave and offer posies.
Once underway, Grandmama’s spirits had brightened considerably. At their halts she spoke ceaselessly of the wedding, the brilliancy of the guests, the beauty of the bride-to-be and the handsomeness of the Penhallow sons she would produce; he listened politely and thought of other, more interesting things. He was thankful to be riding outside, as at least she did not shout to him through the carriage window, and confined her seemingly endless flow of remarks to the more receptive Miss Cott.
Livia looked balefully at the rumpled heap of expensive, fragile gowns lying on the floor. So Cecily thought one of her old cast-offs might suit her for the ball? And Lady Glanville thought that she’d be thrilled, grateful, to peek out from behind a potted palm to enjoy a glimpse of luxury?
Well, they were wrong.
Dead wrong.
Livia jumped to her feet and went over to the gowns. She snatched them up and shoved them onto a low shelf of her armoire.
She was not going to the ball. Uncle Charles might if he wished—and let him drink port until he had to be carried out by the servants. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.
Gabriel walked rapidly to the Orrs’ stables, conscious only of an overpowering desire to escape the house and each and every one of its occupants. A day (not even a full day) here had stretched his patience to the limit—not to mention how his grandmother had, within an hour of their arrival, managed to entirely overset the household. The sheets in her bedchamber hadn’t been properly aired, the wood in the fireplace looked wormy, the chairs were inconveniently placed, Miss Cott’s accommodations were too far away, she required better candles, and the cook was to prepare her special dishes according to exacting specifications. Oh, and dinner needed to be served forty-five minutes earlier.
Lord and Lady Glanville had scrambled to meet these demands, and servants had scuttled about under a dizzying array of orders. He’d had only a brief opportunity to meet their daughter, the Honorable Miss Orr, who was indeed as beautiful as he’d been led to expect. She had smiled and swept into a graceful curtsy while Grandmama looked meaningfully at him. Later, Miss Orr had been quiet during dinner, her eyes cast down in maidenly modesty; it wasn’t until he and Lord Glanville and his gawky lout of a son Tom, after a vapid interval over some very good port, had rejoined the ladies that he realized, without surprise, that Miss Orr was like every other young female he had met among the haut monde. She talked about the roads, she chatted about the weather; she complained about the servants, and casually let fall the fascinating fact that her gown for the ball had cost thirty-eight pounds.
“But what about yourself, Mr. Penhallow? You have recently been in Town, I believe? Tell me—” And here she leaned forward, her blue eyes shining in the candlelight. “—have you met Mr. Brummell? Is he as diverting as they say? And is it true that he wears coats made of pink silk?”
Grandmama stopped short in her elucidation to Lady Glanville regarding the most efficacious methods of polishing silver, as she had noticed (she did not scruple to divulge) a certain dullness in the implements set out at dinner. “Brummell? An upstart grandson of a valet and a dreadful égotiste, whose so-called charm I find to be entirely overrated.” She fixed her gaze sharply on Miss Orr. “How on earth do you know about his absurd pink coats?”
Quailing slightly, Miss Orr answered, “I only happened to read about Mr. Brummell in one of Mama’s magazines.”
“Magazines.” Grandmama sniffed, managing in a single audible inhalation to convey a rather ominous disapproval.
“Of course, dear Cecily doesn’t make a habit of reading magazines,” Lady Glanville interpolated hastily. “She’s far too busy visiting the poor. Why, just the other day she gave away quite a number of her old gowns to a deserving orphan.”
“Very laudable,” Grandmama had said, unbending, and deigned to accept from Miss Orr a cup of tea.
The conversation then meandered again to the weather, Lady Glanville expressing at length the hope that it might be fine for the ball. Tom stared into space and Lord Glanville snored quietly on a sofa. Miss Orr expertly played for them several songs on the pianoforte. Grandmama nodded off but did not snore. Lady Glanville came to sit next to Gabriel and in a low, confidential tone regaled him with details concerning the extremely costly carpet they had recently laid in the drawing-room—the very one upon which his feet now rested. Miss Orr joined them and animatedly described to him the distinguished people to whom she had been introduced while in Bath. “Mrs. Penhallow being first among them, to be sure,” she had concluded with a pretty smile.
“Without doubt,” her ladyship added punctiliously. “But Cecily was quite an acknowledged favorite, Mr. Penhallow, I assure you. Why, the cards we received were beyond counting.”
“I can easily believe it, ma’am,” he said, his boredom by now so acute that he wished he could take a nap too.
Miss Orr had blushed and at that moment Grandmama snapped awake. “A charming performance on the pianoforte, my dear,” she said graciously. “Most refreshing.”
When later he had escorted his grandmother to her rooms she pronounced the evening to be an unalloyed success, aside from the unpalatable food served at dinner and the draughts roaring throughout the drawing-room. “And I could see how taken you were with Miss Orr,” she said, with what in a lesser person would have been termed smugness. “Shall we announce the engagement at the ball?”
Gabriel felt a cynical smile curving his mouth. Although he had certainly exerted himself not to let it show, he was not particularly taken with the beautiful and accomplished Miss Orr. Not that it mattered. She was, in fact, an entirely suitable choice. And it had been made very plain to him how satisfied she would be to accept his offer. For all she knew he was the worst sort of monster imaginable, but he was a Penhallow, with his limbs intact and a full head of hair, and that was clearly good enough. Miss Orr had spent well over twenty minutes inquiring in the minutest detail as to the particulars of the Penhallow townhouse in fashionable, exclusive Berkeley Square, while her mother sat by, nodding approvingly.
“Perhaps,” he had suggested to his grandmother, irony in his tone, “I ought to propose first.”
Airily she waved a bejeweled hand in the air. “Fine.”
He had planned to speak to Miss Orr the next day, but found himself at breakfast being eyed by Lady Glanville and Miss Orr as if he were a juicy first-rate carcass hanging in a butcher’s shop. And when her ladyship made a blatant attempt to hustle him and Miss Orr out into the garden for a private stroll, a flash of intense irritation overrode his good intentions—how he loathed being manipulated!—and he only said, standing:
“If you’ll excuse me, ladies? My horse is in need of exercise.”
“But—” Miss Orr glanced toward the window. “But it looks as if it might rain, Mr. Penhallow.”
“Then perhaps,” he said, pleasantly, “it would have been a mistake to walk in the garden. Your gown would most certainly have been spoiled. Good day.”
At the stables he had his horse Primus saddled, and rode away toward the woods. Already he was a little sorry for giving in to his annoyance; he really should have gone out into the garden and gotten it over with. When he got back to the house, he’d do it. A few polished phrases, perhaps a quick obligatory kiss, and then everything would be nicely settled to everyone’s satisfaction.
Cheered by a comfortable sense of resolve, Gabriel rode on.
Chapter 2
“Not go to the ball?” Aunt Bella said, for what was possibly the twentieth time. “But Livia, whyever not? Such a delightful treat for you, I’m sure, and your Uncle Charles so thoughtful as to take you. Come away from those drapes. It will rain, I feel it in my very bones, and I do not care to see it. What on earth are you wearing? You look a positive ragamuffin. Your ankles are showing! Surely it’s not one of the gowns which Cecily so generously gave you?”
“No.” Today was one of those days when Livia couldn’t bear to put on yet another of Cecily’s things, and so she’d worn an old dress of Aunt Bella’s which she hadn’t even bothered to alter. What did she care that it was too short and an ugly puce color and looked ghastly on her? As Cecily had pointed out with that barbed sweetness of hers, she didn’t go anywhere anyway.
Briefly vivified by Livia’s dreadfully off appearance, Aunt Bella now lost interest in the subject. “My head is aching,” she said fretfully. “I need a little more cordial. Ring for someone to bring it to me. And do go. Your pacing about is making my head worse.”
“Certainly, Aunt.” Livia pulled violently on the bell cord and without ceremony left the drawing-room. She went quickly to her bedchamber where she exchanged her slippers for a pair of sturdy old boots and flung round her shoulders another of Aunt Bella’s discards—a large and hideous gray shawl, stretched in places and shriveled in others. Then she ran downstairs and out a little-used side door. She couldn’t bear the stifling atmosphere for one more minute.
