Wicked Becomes You Mass market paperback - 2010 - 1st Edition

Chapter One

Fridays were not GwenâÈçs favorite; they too often rained. But in April of 1890, they turned lucky for her. On the first Friday of the month, a note arrived from an anonymous admirer, delicately sprinkled with rose-scented tears. On the second Friday, she supervised the placement of the final pagoda in the garden at Heaton Dale. And on the third Friday, beneath an unseasonably bright sun, three hundred of LondonâÈçs most fashionable citizens filed into church to witness her marriage to Viscount Pennington.

Gwen waited on her feet, in a little antechamber off the nave, a wholly unnecessary fire crackling in the hearth. The ceremony should have started half an hour ago, but (so Belinda had told her, in a brief visit to ensure that her veil still sat straight) the guests were too busy consorting to be seated. The brightest lights of society were convening, some for the first time since last season; according to one of the social columns this morning, âÈêOnly the angelic Miss Maudsley, whom everybody adores,âÈë could gather a crowd of such numbers before Whitsuntide.

Gwen took a deep breath and cast her eyes to the window above her. It was not odd, really, that she wished she were in the pews, exchanging greetings. Or outside, even. In the park. The air in here felt stifling, far too warm.

The walls seemed to be closing in.

What am I doing?

She bit her lip. Her discomfort was only the fault of the fire, of course, and the boy who fed it too much wood. And perhaps a bit of it was owed to the memory of that other time, and that other fiancÃû. It had taken months of brilliant successes to persuade the papers to describe her as anything other than âÈêthe much-beleaguered Miss MâÈ'âÈ', so dreadfully disappointed by the treacherous Lord TâÈ'âÈ'.âÈë

Still, for all that she was now a shining success set to achieve her greatest triumph, this corset was strangling the life from her. And her gown, encrusted with innumerable pearls, weighed thirty pounds at the least. One might drown in such a gown! And these heeled shoes pinched her toes awfully.

She took a deep breath. This is the happiest day of my life.

Of course it was. Her feet throbbed, regardless. The stool to her right began to beckon like a siren. An evil siren. The bustle of her train would not survive a crushing.

Giggles exploded from across the room. Four bridesmaids in pink and ivory ribbons clustered by the door, their noses pressed to the crack. âÈêOh, Lord,âÈë Katherine Percy squealed. âÈêI died! She matched peacock feathers with plaid!âÈë

âÈêThatâÈçs appalling,âÈë said Lady Anne. âÈêOne would cut her, but sheâÈçs evidently too blind to take note of it.âÈë

Gwen cleared her throat. âÈêLady Embury has arrived?âÈë

Four faces turned toward her, mouths agape. âÈêYouâÈçre a marvel,âÈë Katherine said. âÈêHow did you guess? Yes, it was she!âÈë

Gwen pressed her palm to her stomach, which was jumping so violently that it seemed a wonder her hand could not detect the commotion. She had told the baroness not to add the feathers. An entire morning they had spent designing that hat! What was the point of soliciting counsel if one refused to heed it?

âÈêOh!âÈë Lucy clutched KatherineâÈçs shoulder. âÈêLook now! Gwen, your groom is passing by!âÈë

Lady AnneâÈçs back went rigid as a poker. Gwen, meanwhile, felt a startling wave of relief. She realized that some secret part of her had been braced for another debacle like the one with Lord Trent.

Well, perhaps her nerves would settle now. This was the day sheâÈçd dreamed of for years. Surely she could manage to enjoy it!

Charlotte Everdell glanced toward her. âÈêHeâÈçs so handsome, Gwen! Why, I think the viscount is the most attractive man in London!âÈë

She managed a smile. Thomas was not so handsome. That word better fitted the angelic blondness of Mr. Cust, or, at the darker end of it, Alex Ramsey, whose blue eyes worked to such striking effect against his dark hair and angular cheekbones. But what of it? A wise woman did not place much import on looks. Mr. Cust, after all, was a mean-tempered scalawag, and Alex a notorious rogue; she rarely passed five minutes in his company before biting her tongue lest she reply to some rude quip in kind. Indeed, Alex proved the point: looks mattered little without a manner to match them.

Happily, ThomasâÈçs manner was just like his face: pleasant through and through. He lacked a chin but made up for it with a fine beard, black as the hair on his head. His green eyes were kind and his thin lips, given to smiling. And he loved her! That was most important of all. He had told her so a hundred times. In an hour at most, she would once again have a family of her ownâÈ'a real family, not just one made of friends and paid companions.

âÈêHeâÈçs gone,âÈë Katherine said. âÈêBoohoo.âÈë

âÈêUp the aisle?âÈë Gwen asked softly.

âÈêNo, not yet. Oh, Gwen, what a brilliant match. IâÈçm so happy for you!âÈë

âÈêWe all are,âÈë said Lucy. âÈêThe nicest girl in England, and the handsomest heir in the realm! Why, itâÈçs like some fairy tale.âÈë

Charlotte clapped. âÈêOh, do tell us, GwenâÈ'donâÈçt you love him awfully?âÈë

âÈêOf course she does,âÈë snapped Lady Anne. âÈêReally, what an absurd question to ask at her wedding.âÈë

Charlotte shrank. Lucy, patting her arm, sent a knowing look to Gwen.

Gwen pretended not to see it, but she took the meaning. Lady Anne had nursed a terrible crush on Thomas last season. She couldnâÈçt afford him, of course; her fatherâÈçs magnificent estates near Lincoln were as heavily mortgaged as his. But her eyes had followed him across the floor at every ball.

Gwen felt very bad for her. Only four weeks ago, sheâÈçd felt utterly wretched. But then sheâÈçd learned that Lady Anne had volunteered her to knit ten sweaters for Lady MiltonâÈçs orphanage before its spring excursion to Ramsgate. Ten sweaters in a month! Gwen was not a loom! ItâÈçs a marvelous opportunity to prove your dedication, Lady Anne had told her. But this was not the first time sheâÈçd made impossible promises on GwenâÈçs behalf. Last season, shortly after Thomas had paid his first call, it had been thirty embroidered handkerchiefs for Lady MiltonâÈçs charity bazaar, not three weeks away. It seemed clear that these sweaters were Lady AnneâÈçs latest attempt to sabotage GwenâÈçs bid for a seat on the charity committee.

All the same, Gwen had smiled and thanked her and put in an order for merino. Madness was forgivable in the heartbroken. (Why, after Lord Trent had jilted her, sheâÈçd briefly taken an interest in learning Latin!) Still, when the newspapers claimed that she was âÈêeveryoneâÈçs bosom friendâÈë on account of her âÈêinborn good cheer,âÈë they missed how much work the position actually requiredâÈ'not to mention the toll it took on her wrists.

Perhaps, she thought, she would give up knitting after marriage.

And embroidery, while she was at it.

What a thrilling notion. Did she dare?

A knock came at the door. The bridesmaids leapt back. Aunt Elma entered, smiling. When Uncle Henry appeared behind her, GwenâÈçs mouth went dry. âÈêIs it time?âÈë she whispered.

âÈêSo it is,âÈë Elma said warmly. âÈêIâÈçve come for your bridesmaids, dear.âÈë

They turned to Gwen, clapping, crying out encouragement, blowing her kisses as they hurried out.

And then the door closed, and it was only she and Uncle Henry who remained.

Silence filled the room. Without her friendsâÈç chatter to oppose it, the noise filtering through the door from the nave seemed much louder, like the roaring of the crowd at a circus. Surely three hundred people wasnâÈçt that many?

ThatâÈçs six hundred eyes.

âÈêWell,âÈë she said brightly.

Henry Beecham was not given to garrulity. He cleared his throat, nodded at her, ran a hand over his silver mustache, and then resumed his inspection of his shoes.

She smiled, remembering that the first time sheâÈçd arrived on his doorstep, heâÈçd greeted her just so, with a stroke of his mustache and a snuffle. His wife, Elma, had told him to say something lest Gwen think him a mute. âÈêAll right then,âÈë heâÈçd said, and that had been the last Gwen had heard from him for a day or two.

As a thirteen-year-old, sheâÈçd found his silence quite puzzling. Frightening, even. Now, ten years later, she would not have the first idea what to do if he began to soliloquize. Call for a doctor, maybe.

She was glad he would walk her up the aisle. Her brother had paid the Beechams to raise her, but their affection had long since grown genuine. Since RichardâÈçs death, they were the closest thing she had to family.

But not in half an hour. By noon, I will have a real family.

It would still be purchased, though.

The thought was dark and evil and skittered across her brain like a big black beetle. She shook her head to cast it outâÈ'mindful to do so carefully, lest she disturb the veil. This was not at all like the arrangement her brother had struck with the Beechams. The viscount loved her. And if she admired his station, that was only natural. His family tree was old and much distinguished, whereas hers . . . well, hers was more in the way of a very stumpy shrub. That it also happened to be gilded in goldâÈ'or the dyes her father had invented; no difference, reallyâÈ'made her more attractive to Thomas than she would have been otherwise. She knew that. Still, she was not paying him to be her husband. And as for his motives . . . well, her fortune hadnâÈçt persuaded Lord Trent to the altar, had it?

âÈêAuspicious day,âÈë Henry muttered.

âÈêYes.âÈë

He looked up sharply. âÈêBit nervous?âÈë

Her voice failed her. She nodded.

He chuckled. âÈêShouldâÈçve seen me. Shaking in my shoes. Best man had to hold my head over a chamber pot. IâÈçll tell you what he told me: âÈæSo long as you lay the cornerstone straight, Providence will build the house.âÈçâÈë

She managed a smile but found the adage ominous. Thomas had thirteen houses, all of them in terrible disrepair; another would only add to the expense.

Now came another knock, and Uncle Henry straightened and extended his elbow to her. She realized only belatedly, from the pain in her loosening fingers, that sheâÈçd been squeezing her hands into fists.

But he loves me, she thought. That is all that matters. He loves me, and I want this. What was all of it for, if not for this? IâÈçve wanted this forever.

And so did Mama and Papa and Richard. They wanted this for me, too. We all did.

I want this.

She cleared her throat. âÈêYes,âÈë she said. She laid her hand on HenryâÈçs arm. âÈêIâÈçm ready.âÈë

Alex arrived without warning, flustering his brotherâÈçs butler with his refusal to be announced. There was a mystery here, and in his experience, ambushes were the most expedient way to uncover the truth.

He walked toward GerardâÈçs study on legs still braced for the unsteady sway of a ship. He could smell the widowâÈçs perfume rising from his skin, and the scent compounded on his fatigue, making his stomach churn. The lady had slipped into his cabin last night after thirty days of idle flirtation, but this headache was enough to make him regret having entertained her. The attraction between them had been more the product of boredom than true interest. What harm? heâÈçd reasoned. Left to his own devices, he wouldnâÈçt have managed to sleep anyway. He barely remembered what a sound sleep felt like.

Odd to think that the insomnia had seemed a blessing, at first. So much useful time no longer squandered on unconsciousness. But after five months, the nights were beginning to stretch into dry-eyed eternities. The widowâÈçs company had not made the time pass more quickly for him.

At least her perfume would lend him the illusion of having bathed.

As he turned the corner, he willed himself to focus on the task at hand. It would be convenient to find an obvious explanation for his brotherâÈçs actions, but nothing in the house spoke of want. The threadbare Aubussons had not been replaced by newer, plusher, cheaper rugs. The wallpaper bore no darkened patches where frames had been removed. In the box stalls in the mews, which he had checked upon arrival, a new pair of chestnuts now gave company to the matched grays. The carriages showed no signs of neglect. Everything looked exactly the same, which made GerryâÈçs decision all the more baffling.

The door to the study stood open. For an uncanny second, as Alex paused in the doorway, he had a sense of looking onto a scene long dead: his father, sitting ramrod-straight at his desk, industriously scrutinizing the household accounts. With the dÃûjà vu came other, equally dead impulsesâÈ'to stay quiet; to walk on by; to avoid a fight that could not be won. The weariness that touched him was not all from the insomnia, nor the long journey either. As a boy, heâÈçd had to work very hard to believe in possibilities.

He exhaled. It was only Gerard at the desk, of course. His older brother was the picture of the Earl of Weston before him, lantern-jawed and stocky, as well-fleshed as a bull. Came home more frequently in the evenings, though. And there were other small differencesâÈ'such as the fact that their father would have shot himself before surrendering any title to family land.

Of course, it would have been a waste of a bullet, in AlexâÈçs view. He had no interest in the patrimony. It wasnâÈçt his, anyway.

Why the bloody hell am I here, then?

He sighed. He was heartily sick of this question, having asked it of himself all the way from Gibraltar. Little else to do in the early hours before dawn. Best answer: his sisters had asked it of him. It would be his favor to them, thenâÈ'enough to purchase twelve monthsâÈç freedom from additional pestering. âÈêCheers,âÈë he said from the doorway.

Gerard looked up. âÈêWhatâÈ'Alex!âÈë He started to rise, then caught himself. âÈêYouâÈçre back! We had no idea!âÈë

âÈêNeither did I,âÈë said Alex. âÈêA sudden decision when I reached Gibraltar. The whole place reeks of blood puddingâÈ'brought the motherland to mind.âÈë

In fact, heâÈçd received several telegrams during his stop there: two outraged screeds from his sisters, and a half-dozen cautions from friends who had seen Christopher Monsanto dining in Buenos Aires with the Peruvian trade minister. It seemed that the Yank now had his overbearing eye on AlexâÈçs contracts with the Peruvian government.

The thought seemed to add weight to his exhaustion. He would probably regret not having turned back for Lima at once.

âÈêWell.âÈë Gerry was making a swift, critical inspection, his gaze raking Alex from head to toe. âÈêI must say, this is a splendid surprise.âÈë

As always, the inspection grated. As always, Alex produced a smile. âÈêWill I live?âÈë he asked. âÈêOr does the deathbed draw nigh?âÈë

His brother had the grace to redden. âÈêYou look whole enough. Do sit, then.âÈë

Alex picked up an armchair on his way across the carpet.

âÈêCareful,âÈë Gerry said sharply. âÈêThatâÈçs heavy.âÈë

Sweet Christ. Alex dropped the chair in front of the desk and took his seat. âÈêIt weighs no more than a ten year old,âÈë he said. âÈêReally, Gerry, has it escaped your notice that I outstrip you by a head?âÈë Since his fourteenth birthday, heâÈçd been outrunning and outfighting his brother in any number of arenas. But if he picked up a toy poodle, Gerry would probably feel the need to call out a warning.

âÈêBulk, not height,âÈë Gerry said critically. âÈêBulk is what matters.âÈë

Alex eyed his brotherâÈçs ever-expanding gut. âÈêYes, I suppose thatâÈçs one view of it.âÈë

âÈêYou look as if you could use a meal. And some sleep.âÈë

He made a one-shouldered shrug. âÈêWriting something, were you?âÈë

âÈêAh . . . yes.âÈë Gerard fingered the corner of the page. âÈêSpeech for tomorrow. This nonsense with the Boers . . .âÈë He sighed. âÈêHalf the Lords wants a war.âÈë

âÈêHow novel.âÈë

Frowning, his brother peered at him. âÈêActually, Alex, we fought in the Transvaal in âÈç81.âÈë

Gerry had never had an ear for irony. âÈêDid we? Never a dull moment, then.âÈë

The frown was slow to clear. âÈêMm, yes. When did you arrive, then? Have you seen the twins yet?âÈë

Had Alex not been listening for it, he might have missed the note of anxiety flavoring this last question. Gerry did not know, then, that the twins had already informed him about the Cornwall estate. âÈêNot yet, no.âÈë

âÈêTheyâÈçll be over the moon to see you, then. Worry about you terribly.âÈë

âÈêStill?âÈë HeâÈçd hoped that having children would redirect their focus, but his siblings seemed to have a marvelous capacity for multidirectional anxiety.

He reached out and retrieved GerryâÈçs pen, flipping it through his fingers. The tortoiseshell was second rate, a poor imitation of Chinese loggerhead, probably from Mauritius. It was exactly the sort of product that Monsanto, until now, had specialized in trading.

From the periphery of his vision, he saw GerryâÈçs fingertips come together into a steeple. This was the sign of imminent moralizing. Alex set down the pen and smiled.

âÈêYou canâÈçt blame them,âÈë his brother said. âÈêYou would not believe the rumors we hear about you.âÈë

âÈêOh, I might,âÈë said Alex.

Gerry took no note of this comment. âÈêListen, hell,âÈë he continued in disgust. âÈêRead, more like. The bloody newspapers are full of it! Dreck masquerading as financial news. And what do you expect? That spectacle with the showgirlâÈ'IâÈçm surprised you werenâÈçt prosecuted.âÈë

Showgirl? Dimly, Alex recalled an acquaintance in New York twitting him over something along these lines. Bizarre. Some of these stories he started himself; his notoriety usefully eliminated most of the tedious social obligations to which he otherwise would be bound. But the showgirl belonged to that sizeable group of rumors that other people were kind enough to fabricate for him. Had he paid these faceless benefactors, they could not have served him better.

âÈêDisgraced her, did I?âÈë He was curious despite himself.

âÈêI donâÈçt know how else to describe such behavior in public!âÈë

In public, no less. That did not sound impressive so much as stupid. How typical of Gerard to believe it of him. âÈêYes, well, the lung power,âÈë Alex said with a shrug. âÈêFoolish of me to underestimate her. She said she was a contralto, but to be honest with you, I think her range goes higher. Perhaps sheâÈçd lacked the proper . . . tutelage.âÈë

Gerard made a scornful noise. âÈêIs that meant to shock me?âÈë

âÈêNo. If my aim was to entertain people, IâÈçd have gone into the theater.âÈë

No doubt GerardâÈçs glare made his soft, wheezing opposition in the Lords cower and tremble. Once or twice, in their childhood, it had made Alex tremble, too. Then Alex had mastered it himself. In his experience, it also worked well on foreign trade boards and corporate men desperate for investment. Paired with a smile, women fell before it like dominosâÈ'although, alas, heâÈçd never tried it on a showgirl. They generally preferred coins to smiles, whereas Alex used money to buy goods; he did not buy people.

At any rate, the glare was useful. It also strained the eyes. âÈêYouâÈçre going to give yourself an aneurysm,âÈë he said mildly.

Gerard reached up to rub his brow. âÈêTell me this. Do you really think I waste my breath out of priggishness?âÈë

The silence wanted an answer. Christ. Did they have to do this every time he came home? âÈêNo,âÈë Alex said. âÈêI think you waste it out of stubbornness.âÈë Had it fallen to his family, Alex would have joined the church. The world was changing; grain from the Americas, meats and wools from the Continent, had sliced into the profitability of English agriculture. But the Ramseys still fared very well, and no son of Lord Weston, his father had often informed him, would dirty his hands in trade. In other words: the Ramseys would cling to the past and ignore the present so long as they could afford it.

Even as a boy, Alex had found this philosophy absurd. HeâÈçd spent his entire childhood buried in the countryâÈ'for his own good, theyâÈçd said; for the sake of his health. HeâÈçd had no intention of hiding from the world as a man.

âÈêYou may call it whatever you like,âÈë Gerard said. âÈêStubbornness or stupid optimism, I donâÈçt even know. But I am certain of one thing: you keep leading this bohemian lifestyle, youâÈçre bound to pay for it one day. Cross the wrong man and youâÈçll have a bullet in your brain. And in the meantime, itâÈçs damned embarrassing for us.âÈë

Alex rubbed his eyes. Dry as sand. Perhaps, in the first years out of Oxford, heâÈçd derived an idle amusement in scandalizing stuffed shirtsâÈ'but even then, heâÈçd done it only by happy accident, never as a deliberate goal. âÈêThe bit about the showgirl is rubbish,âÈë he said. âÈêI donâÈçt misbehave in public, Gerry. ItâÈçs bad for business.âÈë

Gerard snorted. âÈêOh, indeed, God save the profit margin. And even if itâÈçs rubbish, what of it? Do you think it matters, now, whether these stories are true or not? The way you live, who can tell? WhoâÈçs even bothered to wonder? Either way, itâÈçs we who pay the price!âÈë

Alex nodded and reached inside his jacket.

âÈêYes? A nod? Is that all you have to say for yourself?âÈë

Alex laid the bank draft atop the desk.

Gerard leaned forward to examine the draft, then looked up, scowling. âÈêWhatâÈçs the meaning of this?âÈë

âÈêYou need money, donâÈçt you?âÈë

âÈêAccording to whom?âÈë

Alex sat back and kicked out his legs, crossing them comfortably at the ankle. âÈêThe trade winds.âÈë He glanced around the room. HeâÈçd been gone for seven months, first in the United States and then in Peru and Argentina. In that time, his sister-in-law had redecorated. The bust of some dead Roman now glared blankly from one corner. An entire wall had been consumed by an oil of some eighteenth-century massacre, replete with gleaming swords, anguished grimaces, and riderless horses, wild-eyed. âÈêNew painting,âÈë he remarked.

A pause. âÈêYes,âÈë Gerry said gruffly. âÈêPicked it up from auction. I expect you donâÈçt like it.âÈë

âÈêNo, itâÈçs quite impressive.âÈë

âÈêI know what you prefer.âÈë

âÈêSo you do. ChildrenâÈçs scribbles, I believe youâÈçve called it.âÈë

Gerry tried out a smile. âÈêWell, you have to admit it, Alex. Very little talent required.âÈë

Alex shrugged. What modern art required was an imagination drawn to possibilities, rather than braced by smug presumptions. Certainly the work of Gaugin did nothing to flatter a British imperialistâÈçs vision of his role in the world. âÈêBut I meant it,âÈë he said. âÈêThe painting is striking. I particularly admire the discreet pools of blood. Came cheaply, I assume?âÈë

GerardâÈçs jaw firmed. âÈêI can well afford the purchase, but clearly you think otherwise. IâÈçll thank you to tell me whoâÈçs maligning my name.âÈë

âÈêYour sisters. You mustnâÈçt blame them. It was a natural assumption, upon learning that youâÈçd sold the Cornwall estate to Rollo Barrington.âÈë

Gerry slowly lowered his hand. âÈêOh.âÈë

Alex waited, but that seemed to be the extent of GerryâÈçs reaction, which in itself seemed significant. His brother so rarely declined an opportunity to hear his own voice. Requirement of a nobleman, that healthy self-regard. âÈêInteresting man, Barrington,âÈë he said casually. âÈêNever met, but IâÈçve seen him in passing. Heard a good deal as well. HeâÈçs making quite the reputation with these purchases of English land. Curious thing, though: nobody can say where he gets the money for it.âÈë

Silence.

âÈêWhat puzzles me,âÈë Alex said, âÈêis why you didnâÈçt come to me first.âÈë

His brother flushed. âÈêBecause I donâÈçt require your help.âÈë

He laughed softly. If Gerry were dying of thirst and spotted Alex two feet from a well, he still would not think he required his younger brotherâÈçs help. It simply would never occur to him that Alex might be able to provide it. âÈêRight. So you sold it for, what . . . a lark?âÈë

âÈêThat estate was an albatross round my neck, and well you know it. Rent rolls falling for five years straight. There was barely a household left to me by the end.âÈë

âÈêTrue.âÈë But since when had Gerard cared for financial wisdom? He was a creaking anachronism who spent his free time in musty gentlemenâÈçs clubs, raging against the nationâÈçs decline into capitalist barbarism. His only comfort, he often opined, was that most of EnglandâÈçs soil still rested in civilized hands. That he had sold a good deal of this sacrosanct substance suggested a variety of possibilities, but nothing so rational as a sound economic decision.

Gerard was growing redder. âÈêWhat do you lot care, anyway? The twins never spent a night there. And God knows IâÈçve never heard you speak fondly of the place.âÈë

âÈêNo, IâÈçve no particular love of Heverley End.âÈë It had been little more than a prison to Alex as a childâÈ'the echoing house to which heâÈçd been banished for months on end when his lungs had grown contrary. âÈêBut you must admit, the decision seems peculiar. Moreover, Bel and Caro had to learn of it from the gossips. If you wish to discuss awkwardness, I imagine that gave the showgirl a run for her money.âÈë

Gerard looked back to his half-finished speech, his stubby fingers linking together atop the page, then separating again and clenching into fists. He pulled them abruptly into his lap, out of AlexâÈçs sight, like secrets to be hidden.

The gesture raised some unpleasant feeling that Alex did not want to examine. If Gerry required his pity, he did not want to know the cause. Unlike his siblings, he did not enjoy worrying. It was a pointless exercise by which nothing was gained. âÈêTell me the problem,âÈë he said flatly. âÈêIâÈçll fix it.âÈë This, after all, was the reason heâÈçd come when he should have been halfway around the world, attending to his own business.

âÈêListen to me: you will let it alone.âÈë

âÈêIf only I could. Alas, IâÈçve promised the twins to buy back the land.âÈë And he was determined not to have made this trip for nothing.

His brother gazed stonily up toward the painting.

Alex took a breath, leashing his impatience. âÈêBarrington stands to make quite a profit by selling to me,âÈë he said evenly. âÈêMy last bid was double what he paid you. Yet he proves remarkably difficult to contact. Four letters IâÈçve sent now, and IâÈçve still to receive a reply. I was hoping you might facilitate our acquaintance.âÈë

âÈêAlex.âÈë Gerard looked into his eyes. âÈêI said, let it alone.âÈë

What the hell was going on here? âÈêPerhaps I will,âÈë he said with a shrug. âÈêLazy by nature, you know.âÈë At his brotherâÈçs snort, he gave up a lopsided smile. âÈêOnly give me a reason for it, Ger.âÈë

GerardâÈçs snort flattened into a sneerâÈ'that same damned sneer inherited by every firstborn brat Alex had ever had the misfortune to meet. âÈêIt seems I must remind you of a very basic fact,âÈë he said through his teeth. âÈêI do not explain myself to youâÈ'âÈë

âÈêThank God for that,âÈë said Alex. âÈêIâÈçve little enough time as it is.âÈë

GerryâÈçs palm slammed onto the desktop. âÈêAmusing,âÈë he bit out. âÈêYou are very amusing, Alex, never doubt it. A veritable family clown. But much as it pains you, I am the head of this family. The land is mine to dispose of. You may remind the twins of that, if you please. And you may interfere in my business the same day you hand me the reins of your little business.âÈë He gave a nasty little laugh, sounding, for a moment, exactly like the schoolyard bully heâÈçd once been. âÈêGod knows, that would be rich. Bilking Chinamen of their tea. Wheedling teak from coolies in India! Christ, but you do the family proud.âÈë

Alex inclined his head. âÈêNo prouder than you do in the Lords. Fine show, shaking your fists at the Boers for daring to take land that youâÈçd prefer to steal yourself.âÈë He rose. âÈêShall I find lodgings, then?âÈë

Gerry eyed him, clearly struggling to remember the less autocratic obligations of the head of the family. âÈêDonâÈçt be an idiot,âÈë he said finally, gruffly. âÈêYouâÈçre always welcome to stay here.âÈë

It was a marked sign of AlexâÈçs fatigue that he almost found this statement touching. âÈêAnd it would look rather awkward for you if I didnâÈçt,âÈë he said dryly. Well, heâÈçd take a week to poke around in GerryâÈçs files, see what he could uncover. The mystery would irritate him now until he solved it.

His brother tried out an unsuccessful smile. Or perhaps he had a momentâÈçs pain from indigestion. The twist of his mouth supported either hypothesis. âÈêHow long are we blessed with your company?âÈë

âÈêNot long.âÈë Never long. Anywhere. Be restful, and rest will come: so spake the doctor in Buenos Aires. Very easy advice to give, a nice play on words, and as medical advice, useless. Alex took a breath. âÈêIâÈçve a few showgirls waiting on the Continent, in fact.âÈë An acquaintance in Gibraltar had mentioned that Barrington favored springtime in Paris. He glanced toward the clock. âÈêLuncheon is still at half past?âÈë

âÈêYes, but not today, of course.âÈë Gerard rose. âÈêOr do you intend to miss the wedding? If youâÈçre in town, you might as well come.âÈë

It took a moment to recover his smile. âÈêAh, yes. My brilliant timing.âÈë HeâÈçd known mystics in India whoâÈçd predicted destinies based on the pull of the moon on the tide. Had his ship only met with an opposing current or a fractious wind, he would not be here. A mere hourâÈçs delay into port this morning, and he still would have been in Southampton, free to miss this auspicious event.

Gwen noticed nothing on her walk down the aisle, so absorbed was she in negotiating the flagstones in her spindly, pinching heels. The altar seemed to leap up out of nowhere. Uncle Henry abandoned her with no ceremony, which rattled her; sheâÈçd expected a kiss on the cheek or, at the least, the press of his hand on her arm. Thomas was smiling at her and taking her hand, and for a moment she couldnâÈçt breathe; the corset had tightened further and was about to finish her off. And then she saw her brotherâÈçs ring shining on ThomasâÈçs finger, her betrothal gift to him.

The breath returned to her lungs. Of course she wanted this. Who would not want this? Everybody liked him. He was handsome and well-born and always joking. He was the nicest man she knew.

She stepped forward. The minister began to speak.

Gwen tried to attend, but an itch started in her nose. How maddening! If she wrinkled her nose it would go, maybeâÈ'but she didnâÈçt dare.

The itch intensified.

Thomas glanced away toward the audience, and she took that as permission to do so as well. Do not wrinkle. Do not. What a profusion of flowers Elma had ordered! Roses over the chancel, orchids dangling from the rafters, lilies overflowing the baptismal fontâÈ'good heavens, no wonder she wanted to sneeze! LondonâÈçs bushes must have been stripped bare. It was a pity that people proved so ferociously single-minded about flowers; sprigs of pine and honeysuckle would have looked just as lovely, but of course nobody would have been impressed, since tree boughs came for free.

She turned her attention back to RichardâÈçs ring, staring so hard at it that it began to blur. I will not sneeze, she thought, and risked puffing a small bit of air out through her nostrils. It didnâÈçt help. What a monstrous collection; no garden in nature would ever contain such an overpowering combination of scents.

The minister droned onward. She forced herself to think of something, anything but the itch. ThomasâÈçs hair was such a handsome, true black. She hoped it would overpower her own contribution. While her hair was acceptably close to auburn, Richard and her mother had looked like torches on fire. She did not want her children to accrue nicknames like âÈêCarrot-top.âÈë

Oh, stars above. If she sneezed, Aunt Elma would never forgive her.

Why did Thomas keep looking off to the side?

Gwen followed his glance again. Candlelight flickered over jeweled hat pins, skipping in flashes and gleams across the shifting rainbow of satins. She had the vague impression of smiles, of tears being dabbed discreetly. Warmth flushed through her, and the urge to sneeze subsided. All these dear, dear people! They had come today to rejoice for her. How she loved them for it!

She glanced back to Thomas. He looked very solemn now. But his hand turned under her palm so their fingers could thread together.

She found herself blinking back tears. She would be so good to him, better even than he dreamed. He could have anything he liked; she would not withhold a penny, no matter what her solicitors had advised.

âÈêDo you, Thomas John Whyllson Arundell, take Gwendolyn Elizabeth MaudsleyâÈ'âÈë

A door closed at the back of the church. ThomasâÈçs glance flickered away again.

âÈêâÈ'to protect her and cherish herâÈ'âÈë

His face went white. She darted a glance toward the back of the church but saw nothing.

âÈêâÈ'as long as you both shall live?âÈë

He opened his mouth.

His mouth closed.

But he hadnâÈçt spoken. Had he?

Surely she hadnâÈçt . . . missed it somehow?

She peered at his lips. They twitched and compressed, forming a flat, hard seal. His fingers began to slip free.

She tightened her grip and looked an urgent question at him.

His eyes slid away.

At ThomasâÈçs elbow, Mr. Shrimpton, the best man, was now frowning. Her heart quickened. The oddity of this pause was not in her imagination, then.

The minister cleared his throat. âÈêSir?âÈë

A faint wheeze whistled through ThomasâÈçs nose.

Heavens above. The flowers. Of course! They must have been affecting him, too.

She sent a pleading glance to the minister. Give him a chance to breathe, she willed him.

The minister, ignoring her, sent a puzzled look toward the best man.

Mr. ShrimptonâÈçs shoulders squared. He stepped forward, shoes squeaking in the pin-drop silence, to lean near ThomasâÈçs ear.

He spoke too softly for Gwen to hear, but Thomas closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, his throat working in an effort to swallow. Oh, the poor man! How awful for him! Would he faint?

A whisper rose from the audience. Her heartbeat escalating, Gwen directed a bright smile toward the crowd. ItâÈçs all fine, she thought. Should she say it aloud? Really, itâÈçs nothing. Only the flowers.

An abortive movement yanked her attention back to Thomas. His shoulders jerked, and she almost laughed from relief. Goodness, he was only gathering himself to speak, overcoming a brief bout of allergies. What an amusing story this would be to tell at dinner parties! We were both battling a sneeze, you see . . .

Then she realized the source of his movement: the best man had planted his fist in ThomasâÈçs back.

This isnâÈçt happening.

Over ThomasâÈçs shoulder, Henry Shrimpton flashed her a panicked, horrified look. âÈêSay it,âÈë he whispered to Thomas.

I am dreaming.

âÈêSir,âÈë said the minister.

I will wake now.

âÈêSpeak,âÈë Mr. Shrimpton hissed.

Thomas made a choking noise.

âÈêNicest girl in town,âÈë someone murmured, and something cold welled up in the pit of GwenâÈçs stomach. A million times she had heard herself described so, but never in a voice full of pity.

She looked out to the crowd, but it was impossible to find the source of the remark. All of a sudden, a great many other people were whispering, too, their soft remarks and speculative rustling blending into a mounting hum.

Good heavens. Gwen swallowed. She recognized this noise in her bonesâÈ'had encountered it in her nightmaresâÈ'but sheâÈçd never thought to hear it in truth. Not this time. Not when the groom had actually shown up!

She glanced back to Thomas. âÈêSir,âÈë she whispered. âÈêTheyâÈ'they think that youâÈçreâÈ'âÈë

But her throat closed. A chill danced over her spine. She could not finish that statement. She could not put it into words. Surely he must know what they thought!

He gave her a desperate, pop-eyed look. She could not interpret it. She shook her headâÈ'helplessly, frantically.

His bloodshot eyes rolled again toward the crowd.

What was he looking at? She tracked his stare but could see nothing remarkable, save a sea of gaping mouths that sharpened and dimmed in time to the roar in her head. Her eye landed on the second-to-last row, and the sight of four brown heads, the Ramseys, briefly penetrated her panicâÈ'Caroline hiding her face against BelindaâÈçs neck; Belinda, bright red, twisting away to speak into her husbandâÈçs ear (oh, she had no patience for shenanigans, she would not forgive Thomas for this); Lord Weston scowling; and in the aisle seat, Alex, lifting his hand to disguise a yawn.

The sight jolted her. Alex was back in London?

He was yawning?

Was he bored by this?

Their eyes met. His hand dropped. He gave her a slight, one-shouldered shrug, as if to say, What of it?

Her thoughts jumbled. Did he mean that gesture to be comforting?

Why, no, he did not. He simply looked sleepy. Did nothing surprise him? Her brother had always claimed so. Unaccountably, Richard had loved him precisely for thatâÈ'his unflappable, inhuman cool.

He transferred his gaze to Thomas. His mouth curled.

She drew a startled breath. The sight of his scorn acted like ice water on her sleeping wits. BecauseâÈ'really, why shouldnâÈçt he sneer? The buzz was mounting to a clamor. Thomas was having cold feet at the altar.

What sort of woman let this happen to her twice?

She pivoted back to Thomas. Sandy hair and a ruddy complexion grown ruddier for his sudden, slack-jawed madness. âÈêI will,âÈë she hissed. âÈêSay I will.âÈë

His lashes fluttered rapidly. Someone in the audience called out, âÈêSay it!âÈë

From the audience! It was beyond humiliating; their wedding had turned into a sideshow! Yet all he did was stand there like some gawking chicken!

She cleared her throat. Her knees were trembling. âÈêViscount,âÈë she managed. Oh dear Lord only make him say it and I will knit a hundred sweaters! And never again sleep till noon, or think a single unkind thought about anyoneâÈ'âÈêWill you not answer the vow?âÈë

Thomas stumbled back a pace. âÈêForgive me,âÈë he choked, and turned on his heel. TurnedâÈ'away from her.

Mr. Shrimpton made a lunge for his arm, but Thomas shoved free and bolted past his groomsmen, then leapt the rail into the nave.

The crowd rose amidst a great communal shriek. âÈêSwine!âÈë someone shouted, and âÈêCatch the cad!âÈë

Thomas sprinted across the nave and cut a sharp left toward the arcade. Someone made a grab for him; he ducked into a somersaulting roll, shot to his feet, and bounded out of sight behind a row of pillars.

At her side, Mr. Shrimpton gave a low whistle. She turned, the world trailing sluggishly past her eyes, to look at him.

His brows were at his hairline. âÈêHad no idea he could run like that,âÈë he said.

Vises clamped onto her arms. She glanced down. Hands, they wereâÈ'pale, slim fingers, wrists bound in fluttering ribbons and white tea roses. Oh, she thought. Her bridesmaids were trying to draw her away from the altar. Again.

God above. It had happened again.

He actually let me walk up the aisle.

Even Lord Trent didnâÈçt do that.

âÈêOh,âÈë she said, and the sound startled her. âÈêOh,âÈë she whispered, as she tripped over her train and the candles seemed to brighten and the scent of flowers sharpened, pricking her eyes and making her nose run. She shook off the grasping hands. This was new; it really was. At least Lord Trent had the decency to have jilted her before the wedding day, to let her cry off the betrothal. A terrible mess, informing four hundred guests that their attendance would not be required; the number of notes sheâÈçd penned had left her hand cramped for weeks. But this?

Oh, this was quite different. Twice, now.

She stumbled back a pace, and then another.

The altar began to recede.

There could be no recovery from this.

Âû 2010 Meredith McGuire