Christine Merrill - The Fall of a Saint

When he had reminded her that such things took time to arrange, she had responded, without a smile, that what was needed was money. She’d smoothed a hand over her still-flat belly and reminded him that time was of the essence. And since he had promised her whatever she wanted...

It had taken bribes, bonuses and additional fees all around. But the wedding and the pomp surrounding it had been ready within a week.

It was the first step towards a brighter future, he reminded himself, and fixed his face in the distant smile that would block even his only blood relation from prying further. ‘If others ask about the circumstances of our meeting, our marriage or our future, you may tell them that it is none of their business. If they do not respect that, then tell them to come to me with their questions.’

‘They wouldn’t dare,’ said Sam with a shake of his head.

‘Exactly.’ His brother was still too new to the family to understand how best to use the power of name and rank. ‘The matter is closed.’

As long as they did not go to the duchess for the story. She might reveal the truth out of spite. She was waiting for him at the altar, watching him with a smile and a gracious nod.

Hypocrite, he wanted to shout. The loathing looks she gave him when they were alone were nothing like this one, which would seem to a bystander to be quite innocent.

In turn, he smiled back at her, playing the part of the eager bridegroom that society expected to see. He continued to smile as the bishop droned on about the sanctity of marriage and the need to procreate. The man had no idea what he was talking about. In Michael’s experience, there was nothing particularly sacred about the unions he had seen. If his father had been a faithful man, he would not have left Sam as an unacknowledged, bastard son. Mother might have been quite different, as well. Michael had often imagined what it would be like to have an actual brother. But considering the chill silence that separated his parents when they were forced into company with each other, the lack of a sibling was not so very surprising.

Did his new bride have family? He had not thought to enquire. They were not here, at any rate. Nor were there friends. Perhaps she was as alone as he, the poor thing.

His mood softened. Then she turned slightly to look up at him. From a distance, the lavender gown she wore and the flowers in her hands reminded him of a petit four: small and sweet. But as he looked closer, the image faded. Though the colour suited her, the eyes staring up into his were dark, bottomless and intimidating.

She must have been a fine governess, he thought, for she was using her quelling stare upon him. He was far too old for that trick to work. The fierceness of her was an interesting counterpoint to her delicacy. He normally favoured fair women, but this one might have changed his mind. For all her dark looks, she had a sweet face and eyes that would melt him if she tried entreaty instead of demand. The child would not be unattractive, but possibly not tall. She was slight, fine boned and, thankfully, still slim. No one would suspect a pregnancy.

For a while. He felt another possessive thrill at the thought. It would not do to advertise her condition just yet. With Parliament out of session, they could retire to the country, finishing out the term of gestation in privacy. He had no desire to visit Aldric House, for the place held nothing but bad memories. Perhaps the future there could be different. The thought of the months ahead and the reward at the end of it had him feeling as giddy as a child waiting for Christmas.

‘Your Grace.’ The bishop’s whisper hissed through the quiet of the church.

The vows. He had not been listening. Madeline glared all the more, as though he were the stupidest child in the nursery.

He smiled apologetically. ‘If you would repeat the question, your Eminence?’

The bishop did as requested and Michael turned his attention to the business at hand, answering and repeating as charged with what he hoped was a confident voice.

Madeline Rosemary Cranston’s voice was quieter, but no less steady.

Rosemary. Another omitted detail about his new wife. He would pay attention from now on. She might not enjoy his company, but he would give her no reason to fault it. When the bishop called for it, he offered the ring of braided gold that his mother had worn, watched as it was blessed, then took it back, slipped it onto her finger and promised to endow her with all his worldly goods.

There. The job was done, the knot was tied. They knelt and were prayed over.

* * *

Maddie seethed. He was the one who had wanted this wedding and he had not even been listening to the vows. To fumble over a simple ‘I do’ was a slight almost too great to bear. It was proof that he did not care about her at all. The marriage was just one more step that stood between him and his precious heir.

She calmed herself again, for it could not be good for the baby to always be so angry. The child had given her no reason for such bitterness. Its father had. But she would not blame an innocent.

The bishop was going on and on about fruitfulness and praying that God would endow her with a large family.

Her stomach twisted. One child with this man was more than she wanted. She had accepted that she was to live and die alone. The love she’d saved for the family she would not have with Richard would be doled out, a little at a time, to the charges she educated, for there would be no children of her own.

It seemed the baby she’d wanted would come after all, in a sham marriage to the stranger who had ruined her. It is not too late to stop this. The bishop had not finished the ceremony. Doctor Hastings had sworn to help her. He and Evelyn were there as witnesses. She had but to announce that she could not go on and they would take her in.

But what good would it do her to be alone to raise a bastard? The duke had made his feelings clear. He would persist until she surrendered and legitimised the child.

Now the bishop was speaking of submission, which was even worse than children. If St Aldric’s goal was to have a woman in his bed, who had promised at an altar that she would not refuse, then she had played right into his hands.

A promise given under duress was no promise at all, she reminded herself. But all the same, her thoughts wandered back to that night, to awakening with a stranger.

She had been asleep and dreaming. It had been her favourite sort of dream. Richard had returned to her, just as he had said he would so long ago. Everything would be right at last. There was no job ahead of her, no more difficult children to teach. No more sour-faced parents expecting Miss Cranston to tend to the education of offspring that they could not be bothered to spend time with. After years without hope, she would be a bride.

And yet she had hesitated. ‘I thought you dead,’ she had whispered to him. ‘In the Battle of New Orleans. There was no word of you after.’

‘I am not dead,’ he assured her. ‘Just sleeping, as you are now. I am coming back to you. We will marry, just as I always promised. But tonight, it will be as it was before I left.’

She smiled and let her phantom lover ease her back onto the mattress. There was no pain, as there had been that first time. She was ready for him. She had been waiting for so long, for the long, slow glide of his body in hers. He was lying on top of her, his warmth taking the last of the chill from the winter air.

She wrapped her arms around him, feeling the warm solidness of a man, whole and undamaged by battle. Two arms held her. Two legs tangled with hers. The lips on her throat were full and hot, the tongue tracing designs to the open neck of her nightshirt until it found her breast. If only for a little while, she was young again and happy. She sighed in relief as he entered her. She had been so lonely for so long....