The Accidental Duchess Page 7
“And Cambourne agreed to this?” I had to struggle to keep the disbelief out of my tones.
“But that’s the beauty of it!” My father was positively beaming with delight. “I never had to propose it, thank the Lord! Because Cambourne came to me! Offered to stand in for Milburn! I tell you, never had such amazing luck b’fore in m’life! Not at cards. Not at horses. Not at anything.”
“I see,” I replied, slowly, trying to sort this out. “But did he mean to stand in as a proxy? Or as himself?” I asked, finally.
“I don’t know, actually. But then, I cannot be held accountable for everything, Gwendolyn.” Father sounded huffy. “Thing is, with Milburn’s return so unpredictable, we could hardly have the banns called, so we needed a special license. And I can hardly be expected to have noticed the fact that the bishop made an error and accidentally dispensed the thing with Cambourne’s name on it, instead of Milburn’s—what with the names being so similar and all.”
“An error?” I said, quirking an eyebrow. “Accidentally? I am supposed to believe that?”
Father waved a dismissive hand. “Believe what you like. But you may certainly dispense with any pretty notions you might have about him being tricked at the altar, Gwendolyn. The fellow saw the license beforehand. Not only saw it, but said the vows, and signed the register, and you can believe that even if no one else does, he dashed well knows his own name and dashed well knew what he was doing.”
Which was perfectly clear, and yet, went no distance at all in explaining things further. “But why?” I asked, finally. “Why would he want to do that?”
“I don’t know, Gwen,” he said, with finality. “Not my business.”
I frowned. “You don’t consider it your business?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Did you even ask him?” I demanded. Father just shook his head in response, so I continued, “But why didn’t anybody even tell me that Milburn had been delayed?”
“Didn’t want you distressed,” he said. “Your mama was nattering incessantly about blotchy complexions, etcetera.” He eyed me.
“You married me off to someone else? So my complexion wouldn’t be blotchy?”
“Well, that and to save you from ruin,” he said, heavily, and I flushed.
“So where is Bertie—Milburn—now?”
“Larking around the Continent like the care-for-naught that he is, no doubt. He skipped. Or, more likely,” he added darkly, “forgot until it was too late. Now that’d be just like the fellow.”
“But, Father, suppose he is hurt, or injured, or—” I stopped. “Or worse!” I closed my eyes against the knowledge that in some dark corner of my soul, I actually hoped he was in peril enough to absolve him of his behavior.
“Nonsense,” Father said firmly. “Fellow ain’t seen a day of real war. Carrying supplies ain’t war. Mark my words: He’s right as rain. The family would’ve heard otherwise.”
“So thinking he’d skipped, or possibly, ah, forgot, you decided to marry me off to his brother without mentioning it?” I frowned at him. Surely there was more here? Because none of this—nothing—accounted for Cambourne’s apparent willing participation.
“Personally, I’d suggest you stop refining on that particular point and concentrate on the good of the situation.” Father nodded encouragingly. “Like I said, he’s—”
“I know,” I replied glumly. “A good man on Corn. That does promise to bear me comfort in my darkest hours. And anyway, perhaps Milburn is equally good,” I said with exasperation.
The look my father cast me was disgusted. “No use to me,” he said, shortly. “Frippery fellow wouldn’t recognize a parliamentary debate if it took place in his bedchamber.”
“Surely you don’t expect me to stay married to Cambourne?” I said, getting to the heart of the matter. “Since obviously the marriage was fraudulent?”
“Really, Gwendolyn,” he responded in bracing tones, and I was momentarily surprised by how much he sounded like my mother. It was not as though the two of them spent any time together. “Quite certainly we do—” he broke off. “Look,” he said, after a moment, “may I offer you a piece of advice?”
“I suppose so,” I said, with some trepidation.
“If you pursue this avenue, of the marriage being fraudulent, you’re just a foolish, ruined chit. If you don’t, you’re wife to one of the most powerful men in the country. He wants to pretend to be Milburn for a spell? I say, let ’im. It’ll pass eventually. Bound to.”
“But why,” I asked, trying in my desperation for one last valiant grab at enlightenment, “does he want to do that? Pass himself off as Milburn?”
“Don’t know, Gwendolyn. Again, not my business. What I do know is that, why, were things left to Abernathy, every child and tenant farmer could sell corn for whatever price they wished. Cattle’d practically eat for free!” he said heatedly.
“How tragic,” I murmured. “But to return to the topic at hand: When were you going to tell me?” I don’t know why, but I really wanted to know that.
“Well,” he said, studying the fine, if somewhat risqué, Laguerre mural on the wall behind me. “Wanted to, of course, but, well, things got a bit hectic at the last minute. Saw no need to distress you with petty details. Meant to have when he had to leave the wedding breakfast, but”—he shrugged—“never quite got round to it.”
“I see,” I said slowly, much afraid that I did. “Wanted to save my complexion and all that?”
“Precisely.” He nodded, looking very pleased by my grasp of the situation.
“But he just might have been under the impression that you had told me?”
“Possibly,” my father allowed.
I studied his face. “You are advising me not to dispute the legality of this marriage?” I thought at this point we might as well dispense with the niceties. “Is that correct?”
“Doubt you could,” he mumbled.
“Well, the marriage has not been consummated,” I said, resolutely refusing to lower my gaze.
He, however, did not quail. “Zounds! Then I’d advise you to take care of that as soon as possible. Sooner! Lud, don’t want your mama getting wind of that! She and the Worth woman’ll no doubt want to preside over the event!” he said as he leaned over, took my sherry out of my hand, and drained the remainder. “They want consummation. And when your mama wants something, it’s well nigh inevitable. Now is there more?” he wanted to know. “Because I really could do with a spot of a nap.”
7
In which Cambourne returns
I more or less stormed out of the interview with my father. My marriage was a complete sham, and were that not bad enough, I had nowhere to go. Neither of my parents had explicitly said that I was unwelcome to return to their bosom, but then the actual words were hardly necessary.
It was clear now—even if nothing else was—that Cambourne knew. Not only knew, but was willing. And the one thing that kept going through my mind was, why? Why, why, why, on this earth would the Earl of Cambourne, future Duke of Winfell, willingly marry me? Step in to save me from disgrace, yes. I could see that very easily. But actually marry me, as in do it under his own name and then try to consummate it? Not at all. As I stood, debating this question, Ladimer appeared, followed by Cambourne himself.
The traitorous twin.
My husband.
At the sight of him, the memory of last night, my stomach plummeted to my knees. I steadied myself against the wall and forced my lungs to pull in a deep breath. And then a new thought hit me. I assumed him to be Cambourne, but given the events of yesterday, I was taking nothing for granted. I narrowed my eyes at him.
He smiled easily and said, “I am Cambourne.”
“I suppose you are certain of that?” I replied, snappishly. But he only glanced down at his flawlessly shined Hessians, and when he looked up again there was a glint in his eyes. “Quite certain,” he said. “My feet are bigger.”
“They are?” I was not entirely sur
e whether he was teasing me. “Than Milburn’s?”
He nodded. “Yes. They always have been.”
“Oh,” I said. I studied his face for some indication of what he was thinking. His expression was pleasant, but he did not, I noted, look particularly rested. Where had he spent the night?
“I took another room at the Clarendon,” Cambourne said, and I almost flinched at how easily he had read me.
“I see.”
“It wasn’t difficult, you know—”
What wasn’t? Why was I always the one a step behind?
“—to guess what you were thinking.” He glanced at Ladimer, who was busily straightening an already perfectly aligned portrait of Grandmama’s favorite lapdog, and then at me.
“And yet, I’d hazard a guess that you’ve no idea what I’m thinking now,” I said. “If you did, you’d likely be running for the door.”
Behind us, Ladimer apparently lost his grip on the painting. It hit the marble floor, the ornate frame causing an echoing crash.
Cambourne smiled at me. “Do you think?”
“Oh, I do,” I assured him.
“Gwen,” he said, almost tenderly, as he put his hand on the side of my face, just as the door to the library flew open.
Father hurtled through the door. “Ladimer! What the deuce is—Cambourne!” he said, coming to a precipitous halt. “Beg pardon. I meant, Milburn, of course.” He laughed, heartily. “You and your brother, Cambourne, look so dashed alike, it’s deuced difficult to tell you apart.”
Cambourne dropped his hand from my face. “Good morning, sir,” he said.
“Not particularly,” Father said. “Devil of a morning, if you ask me.”
Cambourne looked at me. It was back, that glint of amusement. “I don’t suppose you shall have any disagreement from me on that,” he said.
Ladimer was engaged in supervising as two footmen hefted the portrait back on the wall. “Please tell me that Gascon’s likeness was not harmed,” Father begged.
“No, my lord, Gascon is quite well,” Ladimer replied.
My father sighed his relief. “Lady Axton would have an apoplexy if anything happened to that demmed picture of that demmed dog of her dem—of her esteemed mama’s, and thankfully, I mean, regrettably, yes, regrettably, the foul thing is dead and can’t sit for another. Come along, Cambourne.” He glanced at Ladimer, and added, “I mean, come along, Milburn.”
I slewed my glance to Ladimer, who of course knew everything. Well, if not everything, a darn sight more than my father, as a general rule.
“Come along. We’ve things to discuss, Milburn,” Father said, practically dragging Cambourne into his study. Cambourne’s eyes caught mine in the instant before the door clicked shut. He looked so determinedly pleasant that I presumed him to be absolutely furious. Some of my irritation with him dissipated at the notion that he was about to endure an extremely unpleasant interlude likely revolving around the subject of the lack of consummation of our marriage.
After a moment, I dismissed Ladimer and the footmen, too. No sooner had they departed, but I went about my newfound means of eliciting information: applying my ear to the door. The problem, though, was that the men’s voices lacked the carrying quality of Mama’s and Violetta’s.
“—mumble mumble the very devil to pay, should mumble Lady Axton mumble business accomplished mumble soon as possible,” was what I heard my father say.
Cambourne must have been nearer the door, because his tones were clearer when he said, “Are you suggesting that I force myself on your daughter, sir?” His tones were equable.
“Of course mumble. No such thing. Mumble mumble.”
I pressed my ear closer, wishing they’d left the door open just a crack.
“… relieved to hear it, sir … fact remains … unwilling … discovered … was not Milburn.” Cambourne must have been really angry, because his voice was at a level that I could hear clearly now. “Which information, by the by, I was under the mistaken impression you had already imparted to her. Had you done so as you led me to believe, I might have salvaged the situation. As things stand, what would you have me do, sir?”
“Convince ’er.” Father was growing louder. “Shouldn’t be beyond your abilities to seduce your own wife. Least, not to judge by the tales of your exploits—”
“While your confidence in my abilities is gratifying,” I heard Cambourne say in dry tones, “the fact remains that forcing myself on an unwilling bride is not to my taste.”
“Which is why you need to see that she is willing,” Father informed him. “Hear me, son,” he began, “and hear me well—”
I almost recoiled from the door in surprise. Whatever the impetus that had brought Cambourne to this marriage, it must have been strong indeed: It quite simply was not done to speak thusly to the future Duke of Winfell.
He was silent, though, and my father continued, “—I only care about one thing. Lady Axton wants Gwendolyn married. To you. If Lady Axton wants a thing, I want it. I shan’t know a moment free of torment until she gets it. Believe me, son, you’d do demmed well to turn this into a marriage in fact as well as name. Bugger your overnice scruples; just get the job done. I trust you take my meaning?”
“Allow me clarification on one point, sir: You are willing to sacrifice your daughter’s happiness for your own comfort?”
“Yes,” was my father’s unfortunately succinct reply.
“I see,” was Cambourne’s chilly one. With that last, his voice was becoming more distinct, so I sprang away from the door. When he exited a moment later, I was busily browsing through the calling cards on the tray on the piecrust table in the entry.
“Hullo, Cambourne,” I replied, with a deal of sangfroid. “Did you realize that Walter Arbuckle was in Town? I vow, I have not seen his face in—”
He smiled at me, looking completely unruffled by the interview. “Listening at the door, were you?” he asked, lightly.
“—oh, a year, at least.” I debated lying. “Yes,” I said. “I was. You would be quite surprised by the amount of intelligence to be gained that way,” I informed him. “I’ve only just discovered it as a technique today, and yet, I am already positively swimming in information.”
“Swimming,” he said, with a raised brow. “Are you really?”
I nodded. “Oh yes,” I said, airily. “Let me see. I know that you knew what you were doing. I know that my parents bribed the Reverend Twigge to do the thing, and now I know that my mother wants this consummated, and now. In fact, I’ve had numerous conversations this morning, and yet, the only real information I’ve had has come from listening at doors.”
He folded his arms, and leaned against the doorframe. “In that case, I suppose I shall leave you to it. Since you’ve found it so fruitful, of course.”
“Perhaps we should talk,” I allowed. “Provided, of course, that it would not be keeping you from any of those exploits my father was so keen on discussing?”
“Actually, I had quite cleared my schedule for this morning.” He smiled, quickly, and God help me, my stomach lurched. Why, despite everything, did I feel such a strong pull to him? “On account of having assumed I would be occupied.”
“We all make miscalculations at times,” I said. “You likely forgot to include an unwilling and duped bride in yours.”
“Apparently,” he replied. “Amazing, is it not, how the smallest thing can throw off the equation?”
“Are you living at Milburn’s house?” I asked, to change the topic, and when he nodded, added, “The staff all believe you to be Milburn?”
“Although I’m having a deuced hard time keeping Sever, his valet, from becoming suspicious. It’s the size of the feet, you see.”
And that was when my attention went fully to his clothing, for the first time. I let my eyes roam over his heavily embroidered waistcoat and bottle-green jacket. I lingered at the spectacular falls of lace at his throat and wrists. “Oh, my,” I said. “Those garments belong to Milburn?”
“Are you concerned,” he asked, looking down at me, intently, “that you endanger your reputation as a woman of good sense by being seen with me in this getup?”
I eyed him. “Certainly my judgment will be called into question.”
He tilted my chin up. “Perhaps you can take comfort in the knowledge that it is widely known not to be a love match,” he suggested drily.
My laugh died on my lips as I looked at him, feeling unaccountably deflated by his reminder. “You are right, of course,” I said, turning my chin out of his hand.
He bent closer, and I held my breath. Surely he was not about to kiss me? I would not allow that, of course! I went up on my toes, closing the slight distance between us further. He straightened and I let the breath out.
“Perhaps returning to the Clarendon would be preferable to Milburn House for the moment. Because, then,” he said, dropping his voice, and I found myself leaning slightly toward him, again, wondering what was to come, “I could at least divest myself of this jacket.”
I hesitated. “You shall not,” I began, and could think of no way to finish delicately, so decided to be out with it, “be pressing to, ah, get the job done? As my father put it?”
“I can assure you that I am fully able to master any baser impulses,” he said drily, and I knew a moment of flaring disappointment. “Can you say the same?”
“Of course,” I said repressively. “And gently bred females do not have baser impulses.”
“Oh?” he said lightly, and I nodded.
He took a step closer. Just one step, but he suddenly seemed to fill my vision. His eyes glittered above his ridiculous frills, and he looked almost angry. My back was against the wall and the floor seemed to tilt under me. I let my fingertips brush against the rough silk fabric covering the wall to remind myself that I was in the safety of my parents’ entry hall. He reached out and traced his finger down my jaw, letting it slide down to my neck. Heat flashed through me, catching me by surprise, and I sucked in my breath. He dropped his hand, but his eyes held mine.