The Accidental Duchess Read online

  And, anyway, I was far too busy being terrified to be alarmed. My knees were literally knocking. Milburn, there was no getting around it, just seemed indefinably different, from his clothing to his bearing. I’m not sure what exactly I’d been expecting. That he’d be rigged out in his finest, I suppose—something in a bottle green, perhaps, or a nice primrose brocade, topped off by a work of art of a cravat. But not this grown-up Milburn in a sober rigout and austerely perfect linen. Too, he seemed more substantial somehow.

  Oh, he was the same height that I recalled, a shade over six feet, and had the same dark hair, which, I noted, was straight and falling across his forehead instead of fashionably tousled and curled as had been his wont. His mouth, well, I suppose I’d never really thought about it, because surely it was much more finely shaped than it had been before—fuller and firmer. I was suddenly, oddly, aware of a pang of anticipation at the thought that he would soon be my husband. That he would kiss me to seal the ceremony. And with that awareness came a little catch in my breathing, as though I had slid down a banister with my eyes shut, as I used to when I was little.

  Milburn’s eyes were still that bright shade of blue that I remembered, but instead of his usual open expression, one brow was lifted just a little, as if our wedding was a shared private joke between us. And the glint in them was positively wicked. I wondered, for a moment, whether he was also thinking about the moment when he would kiss me. Perhaps, I thought, as his gaze seemed to tip off a sudden lurch of excitement, this is how all bridegrooms look at their brides.

  Mother, to be sure, had not mentioned anything about sudden lurches of excitement in her talk with me last night. “Have you any questions, Gwendolyn?” she asked, from my bedchamber door, in a manner brisk enough so as to completely discourage any. “About the proceedings?”

  It was not that I knew nothing. I had, after all, been at school, and there, the topic of what went on between men and their wives had been the subject of numerous fascinating conversations. And, come to think of it, many subsequent, but no less fascinating conversations, with Cecy.

  “Actually,” I began, “I do have—”

  Mother sighed. “I’ve several cabinet ministers coming to dine, and have only a few moments to spare, so please do listen carefully the first time as I’ve no intention of repeating myself. Now: There are two pertinent things you need to know,” she said. “One is: do not allow your night rail to get crumpled, no matter what, Gwendolyn. As then the servants might think you are quite common and look at you with impertinence.”

  “But what I—”

  She held up her hand. “Please, allow me to finish. Two, is far more pertinent. It is to bear in mind that wanton feelings have no place in what will happen. This is a matter of authority to be established at the first, for it sets the tone for your entire marriage. It is a favor that you shall grant, and in so doing, establish your sovereignty in your marriage. Now. One assumes that your husband knows what he is about, but goodness knows, your father didn’t and still doesn’t and we have survived these many years.” She turned. “To think! Your wedding! I vow, I am feeling most sentimental,” she said as she sailed down the stairs without a backward glance.

  No, not even so much as a word on little tingles of anticipation.

  I tried to remember whether Barings had looked thusly at my best friend, Cecy. But then, I’d been preoccupied at the time with fulfilling my duties as bridesmaid: keeping Cecy’s mother in hand. Which office, I am pleased to say, I fulfilled in a wildly successful manner, until she hiked up her skirts and sang a rousing refrain of “Pretty Peggy of Derby,” from atop a table.

  There was, to return to the subject of my wedding, something about Milburn’s gaze that suddenly made me feel older, surer, as though I were suddenly possessed of a new, secret piece of knowledge that I had not held yesterday. In retrospect, this, of course, is a great joke on me.

  I took up my place next to him, and I struggled to keep my breathing normal as my chest seemed to be constricting inward. For one horrifying second I worried that my odd physical state was apparent to everyone, that my breath might be ratcheting as audibly through the church as it was to my own ears. Then I realized that the sound was only the Reverend Mr. Twigge engaging in a lengthy bout of throat-clearing in preparation for a lecture on the sanctity of humility within the sacred bond of matrimony. And then, to my surprise, Milburn reached out and took my hand in his clasp. A gesture that he needn’t have made, but one that I much appreciated. His hand, even through his glove, and my glove, felt sure and strong. It managed somehow to help settle the churning in my stomach and accelerate my heart at the same time.

  As Mr. Twigge started on the ceremony, Milburn looked down at me for a long moment, holding my gaze, and still, my hand. And I had a quick flash of wonderment that in the future I would sit through many Sunday sermons at this man’s side. I smiled tentatively at him, feeling unaccountably shy. Surely I had never felt shy with him before? He smiled back, the smile suddenly lighting his face. His hand tightened on mine, and everything seemed to blur.

  “Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded Wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?” Mr. Twigge asked.

  Milburn looked into my eyes and said, very clearly and seriously, holding my gaze all the while, “I will.”

  And God help me, he seemed to mean it. I’d more expected a quick smirk and a, Right ho. So long as she doesn’t run to fat or become a shrew like her mother, I will, than this dead serious vow.

  Then I spoke my words, and it seemed only a moment later that Reverend Twigge said that we were married. And, no, in case you are wondering, I noticed absolutely nothing amiss. But I was caught in the moment, and truthfully, in Milburn’s eyes, which were having a very odd effect on me. So when he said, as he must have done, Edmund Harold Bertram Milburn instead of Edwin Henry Bernard Milburn, it didn’t raise any feeling of alarm. I do know, for a fact, though, that Mr. Twigge did ask the congregation whether any man could show just cause as to why we might not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony. And if so, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace. And no one, not one person, so much as squeaked, let alone said, he’s the wrong bridegroom.

  So there you have it. I am not a complete idiot. Or at least not as much as it appears at first glance. And besides, in my own defense, there were Circumstances.

  Or at least, there were according to Mother’s bosom bow, Violetta Egglesham, Lady Worth: “Circumstances,” she said, both darkly and knowingly, but that is for later. For the moment, I shall tell you what happened next.

  3

  In which we have a very odd wedding breakfast

  As we walked back up the aisle to sign the register, Milburn looked down at me, his eyes alight. “Hullo, Gwen,” he said.

  “Hullo, Milburn,” I replied.

  Our first unscripted words as man and wife. Not exactly romantic, and yet, somehow suitable. In all our years apart I have had precisely three letters from Milburn, none longer than a paragraph, one of which stands out in my mind as being the very essence of him. It said: What hey, the weather is foul, the wine is bordering on passable, and there is not so much as a drop of decent boot-blacking to be found. Vastly muddy country, this. Regards to your brothers and, should you bump into him, Stinker Boxhurst. Yrs, Milburn.

  And that, sadly, constitutes both the sum of my love letters, and of Milburn’s profound correspondence about the bleak realities of war and the anguish of our separation.

  Yes, all things considered, Hullo, Gwen, seemed about right.

  We signed the register. My neat hand above his scrawl, and then no sooner had we put the quills down, but Milburn bent to me. “Shall we take our leave?” he said, very close to my ear.

  I looked at him. “You don’t mean now?”

  “I do mean no
w,” he replied, with something in his voice, an undertone that made my pulse jump.

  “But the … our guests—” I began to object, recalling how many hours Mama and Violetta had spent debating the size of the lobster patties, the flavors of the ices, and the best sources of smuggled champagne.

  Milburn, however, wasn’t listening. He was smiling, glinting some kind of wickedness at me, and suddenly I knew I would not refuse him. “Forget our guests,” he said. “Come, Gwen, don’t you think we can be excused from doing the proper?”

  He came a little closer. “No one will remark it. They will simply think us … eager,” he said in my ear, and again my pulse seemed to skitter. Milburn raised my hand, and turning it over, kissed my palm through the glove, his gaze never leaving mine as he did so.

  “Oh!” I said, startled, and pulled my hand back.

  He smiled and said, “You prefer, then, to attend the breakfast?”

  The truth is, it was a token objection and I had known, even as I protested, that I would prefer to be alone with him. I could hardly say that, however, so, instead, I said, “Er, well, of course not. Not, in fact, that I’m hungry, particularly, at all, of course, and in truth, I’ve never cared overmuch for lobster patties—” before bringing myself to a halt. Really, I was almost cross. Since when had Milburn had the ability to put me out of countenance? Never. And yet, from the first moment I had laid eyes on him this morning, I had been a wreck.

  “No lobster patties, then,” he said, softly. “Unless you are concerned that I shall neglect to feed you?”

  And suddenly I was fairly certain that we were not talking about lobster patties, after all. “Well, in that case,” I replied, my mouth suddenly dry, “I should apprise Mama of our plans. She, you must know,” I could not resist adding, “will be most put out with us.”

  He paused for a second, I assumed at the prospect of Mama’s wrath, but only said, “I shall take the blame.” His hand rested, warm on my back, and exerted a gentle pressure. “Consider it the first benefit of having a husband.”

  “Oh, but surely you cannot!” Mama exclaimed in her usual must-be-obeyed tones when we had detached her from Mrs. Foster-Morton and informed her of our plans to depart.

  Milburn raised a brow.

  “I meant, cannot wish to do that,” she amended hastily.

  And I was pleased to note that it was not just me—that Milburn was clearly having an odd effect on her also. My mother, you must know, is never out of countenance.

  He flashed her a most engaging smile and I could see her unbend slightly. “W-e-ll,” she said, patting her hair and peeping at him from beneath her lashes in what I deemed a most revolting manner. “I suppose you are newlyweds, after all. And no sort of mama-in-law would I be, were I to say no to your pretty request, my lord.”

  Then Violetta-who I believe I mentioned previously, as Mama’s constant companion—approached, making no bones about having eavesdropped. “Leaving already, are you?” she said, looking me up and down. “That eager, I suppose.” She shook her head.

  I blushed and looked down at my slippers poking out from beneath the hem of my gown.

  “Yes, well,” Milburn said in a completely unruffled manner that I could not help but admire. “We shall be off.” He looked at Mother. “Will you send Gwen’s things to the Clarendon?”

  “The Clarendon?” Violetta said, raising a brow. “Not at home, then?”

  It occurred to me to wonder at her surprise, but I dismissed it before it was even a fully formed thought.

  “Not at the moment,” Milburn replied.

  And then, having apparently spotted someone judged in need of haranguing more than we were, Mama and Violetta left us. Milburn took the opportunity afforded by their departure to lean down and whisper into my ear, “Just us tonight.”

  I managed a smile, but suddenly having acquired a husband seemed more unnerving than one might have supposed it would be. “Am I to bring Larsen?” I asked him. “She was to remove to Milburn House with me as without a maid I shan’t be able, you know, I cannot unbutton—” I stopped, aware that my face was flaming.

  “I promise, Gwen. I will take care of your every need,” he murmured, softly, which did nothing to soothe my blush as we made our exit. No sooner had we reached the bottom of the cathedral steps, however, but a boy came rushing up and said, looking directly at Milburn, “Are you Milburn, sir?”

  And Milburn looked at him blankly for a moment, before replying in a tone that sounded surprised—although, as with so many other things that day, I did not fully remark the significance of that until later—“Ah, yes. Yes, I am!”

  “Message for you, sir,” the boy said, holding out a document.

  Milburn looked at it for a moment, frowning, before he reached over and took it. “Excuse me a moment, my love,” he said to me, and moved a few steps away.

  That quick, unthinking, my love had made my breath catch. Whatever was wrong with me?

  Milburn was still frowning, and had not yet unsealed the missive. The boy stood, rocking on his heels, waiting for either a vail or a reply. Suddenly, Milburn seemed to become aware of both of us, me and the boy, watching him. “I beg your pardon,” he said, and reached into the pocket of his greatcoat, and then stood, apparently finding nothing there.

  And this gesture was just so … Milburn, that for the first time all day, I felt the comfortable relief of familiarity. I started to open my reticule. Of course Milburn would need me to tip the postboy! I relaxed a bit at this dependably Bertieish behavior. Just then, though, he located a guinea in his pocket and handed it to the postboy, who looked as though he could scarce believe his good fortune and took himself off before it could change.

  As I stood feeling disgruntled by his lapse once again into adulthood and by my, well, not-neededness, I suppose, he tipped me an apologetic smile before unfolding the letter.

  And then, not only was the smile gone as though it had never been, but I could have sworn I heard him mutter an oath under his breath. “I’m sorry, Gwendolyn,” he said abruptly. “Something urgent has come up, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, since I could think of nothing else. Since when, I wondered, had Milburn had any business at all to attend to? Let alone that of the urgent variety? I was finding this new husband most confusing. It would have been just like him, this change of plans, had he not seemed so very serious about it.

  “Perhaps you should go on to the breakfast for a time, after all?” he said, his voice gentle. “And I will come and rescue you as soon as I can.”

  “Do you mean without you?” I asked, wishing my voice didn’t sound so plaintive. “By myself?”

  He smiled. “Well, hardly by yourself, since I’d numbered your two best friends, most of our relatives, and at least two hundred old tabbies in there. But without me, yes.”

  I laughed then, despite my discomfort. “Well, when you say it like that, it does sound like so attractive a prospect that it is rather difficult to refuse. You are certain you’ve been summoned on urgent business, sir?”

  “Never tell me that you have become a cynic!” He looked injured.

  “I most certainly have not! Very well, Milburn, I shall just have to trust you for now,” I said. And then added, “I warn you, however, that should I learn that the urgent business is a prime blood at Tatt’s, or a length of silk at your tailor’s, I shall be most put out with you.”

  His eyes crinkled with amusement, but his tone was solemn. “I can assure you,” he said, as, his eyes never leaving mine, he picked up my hand, and my skin seemed to come aware of itself beneath the glove, “that I can say with complete honesty that I am compelled to leave for a time.” He turned so he was facing me, and slid his hands up the length of my French kid gloves. And for just a moment, his gloved hands brushed over the skin, above where my gloves ended and my sleeves began. “Lady Worth had it exactly—albeit somewhat crudely—correct, Gwen: I’m that eager,” he said, looking down into my eyes with a rather astonis
hing intensity.

  I was completely unable to tear my gaze from his. At his words, an alien heat had washed over me, and I rather wished I’d had a fan as part of my wedding ensemble.

  “Can you truly believe that anything frivolous could summon me away at this moment?”

  I blinked. “I suppose not.”

  “And mine?” he whispered, the words flowing over me like silk.

  “Ah, your what?” I replied, thinking that I could hardly fail to impress with my intelligent conversation. Although, honestly, intelligent conversation had never exactly been Milburn’s forte.

  “My side,” he said, leaning in, slightly closer and offering me a slow smile. “Tell me,” he suggested, something in those words making my face grow even hotter, and I was suddenly much alarmed these little lurches of excitement might after all be those wanton feelings that Mama had warned me against, “what it would take to drag you from my side at this moment.”

  “Um, urgent business on your part. Apparently,” I said, recovering something of my wits. “Or possibly a new length of silk.”

  At this he laughed. A real laugh, and I flushed, with the pleasure of having elicited it.

  “It would have to be a truly excellent silk, though,” I added.

  “Ah,” he said, drily, “Now you threaten to unman me.” And then he leaned over and kissed me, briefly. More of a brush across my lips with his, really, that left me breathless in its wake. “And surely no man can expect to rate over and above a truly excellent silk!”

  I laughed. “Well, the excellent stuff, you must know, is quite scarce.”

  I expected him to laugh also, but he surprised me. His expression was serious as he said, just out of nowhere, “You bring me to my knees, Gwen.”

  And my stomach seemed to plummet in a way that squeezed my midriff even more. Surely I had never brought Milburn, or anyone, come to think of it, to his knees before? “I do?” I managed to croak. And then I frowned. “Is that a good thing?”