Deborah Hale - My Lord Protector

Long ago he had sworn never to marry again. Matrimony did not suit his solitary temperament. He and Amelia had made each other bitterly unhappy during the interminable months of their brief marriage. Edmund had never pretended it was all the fault of his frigid, ambitious late wife. What mad impulse had propelled him back to the altar after all these years?

Edmund stole another glance at Julianna as they knelt to receive the Eucharist The pallid light of an overcast morning filtered through the altar window, starkly illuminating the cruel marks that marred her delicate features—a livid welt on her cheek, dark bruises on her chin, a swollen lower lip. The sight of her—young, vulnerable and so obviously brutalized, called forth every protective instinct in his being. His hands itched to close around Jerome Skeldon’s thick neck. To wrest Julianna Ramsay from the power of that blackguard, he was even willing to thrust his head back into the matrimonial noose.

“Oh God, who hath consecrated the state of matrimony to such an excellent mystery...look mercifully upon these thy servants.”

Edmund took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. For better or worse, the deed was done. In a stroke he had secured Julianna’s safety. He would provide for her every comfort. Surely she could ask no more of him. He would resume his tranquil, well-ordered existence, and try to pretend the disquieting events of past days had never taken place.

As he rose to accept the congratulations of their small bridal party, one thought continued to trouble Edmund. If only he could be certain Crispin would approve...

Skeldon’s carriage rattled over the cobbles of Piccadilly Street, bearing Jerome, Francis and Julianna to Fitzhugh House for the bridal luncheon. Slouched in the seat opposite his stepsister, Jerome drew a flask from his coat pocket and took a long pull. He gasped appreciatively at the liquor’s potency.

With exaggerated care, he wiped the mouth of the bottle on his stock and held it out to her. “Will you join me, milady?”

Julianna arched an eyebrow in disdain, not daring to speak.

“Of course, you want nothing to cloud your experience of this special day.” Jerome sneered. “Is that not so, sister?”

As the barb of her stepbrother’s sarcasm stung, Julianna knew she had only herself to blame. The skies had suddenly opened as the wedding party emerged from the church, spewing a cascade of rain upon them. In the rush toward the carriages, she had deliberately made for Jerome’s. Much as she hated and mistrusted her stepbrother, at least she knew what to expect from him. That was more than she could say of her formidable-looking bridegroom.

Jerome thrust his flask toward Francis. “You more sociably disposed than your cousin, Underhill?”

“Not I,” Francis chirped. “I intend to slake my thirst at luncheon. Julianna’s new husband looks to be a gentleman of quality, and I mean to do justice to his hospitality.”

“Suit yourself.” Jerome shrugged and took another drink.

It had been the same ever since the carriage pulled away from St. Martin’s—Jerome baiting her with surly mock courtesy, while Francis made the most annoyingly good-humored small talk. Both grated equally on Julianna’s raw nerves.

Heavy and tight, the gold wedding band encircled her finger like a fetter. The unnatural calm that had sustained her through the wedding ceremony was rapidly slipping away. Behind that mask of composure cowered a frightened child. Could she truly be the wife of that cold, silent man? How would she survive this day and this night, let alone the days and months and years to come? Only the look of sly satisfaction in Jerome’s eyes forced Julianna to hold her head high and still her quivering lip.

The curate lurched into Edmund’s brougham, water sluicing from the rear corners of his hat. “I must apologize for my tardiness.” He gasped for breath. “While I was changing out of my surplice, the rector detained me for a quick word.”

“I beg your pardon?” Edmund wrenched his gaze back from the window. He was still puzzling over Julianna’s defection to her stepbrother’s carriage. Surprised by the sudden downpour, had she simply acted on impulse? Or had she intentionally chosen the company of that sordid brute, Skeldon, over his own?

“The rector,” the curate repeated loudly. “He asked me to tell you how sorry he was not to preside over your nuptials. If only you’d been in less haste, or if his engagement had been less pressing, I know he’d have been pleased to perform the service.”

Removing his hat, he gave it a little shake. Then he drew out a handkerchief and began to mop the moisture from his face. “A rainy wedding day. That’s considered a good omen, I believe.”

Catching a glimpse of Skeldon’s landau behind them, Edmund muttered, “In Surrey, we say, ‘happy the bride the sun shines on.’”

The curate gave a strangulated chuckle. “And speaking of the bride, where is your lovely lady?”

Was she lovely? Edmund found himself wondering as he explained about the sudden cloudburst and the wedding party’s scramble for shelter in the carriages. No, he decided at last. Not in the conventional sense. Her eyes were an odd color for one thing—the pale amber brown of clear, hot tea. Her mouth was too wide for beauty, not to mention slightly crooked. Or perhaps it was only the bruises that made it look so.

All the same, she had a fey, winsome air that touched him. Somewhere in his dispassionate, impregnable heart, Edmund shrank from the look of aversion he’d seen in his bride’s eyes.

Passing through a half wall of masonry and wrought iron, the two carriages drew to a halt before Fitzhugh House, a spacious red brick mansion with many windows. The rain had eased to a fitful spatter. As Julianna alighted from Jerome’s landau, Sir Edmund stepped forward to take her arm.

A servant in impeccable livery stood before the massive front doors. Sir Edmund nodded toward him. “Let me begin by introducing the steward of my household, Mr. Mordecai Brock.”

The man bowed stiffly. He sported an impressive set of side whiskers, together with the most severe eyebrows Julianna had ever seen. Piercing blue eyes beneath those brows shot her a look of glowering disapproval.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Brock,” she lied.

The steward threw open the doors, ushering the wedding party into a large, marble-floored entry hall. A pair of elegant staircases flanked the spacious chamber, sweeping upward to the second story. The dark wood of their balustrades gleamed.

A veritable army of servants were marshaled in the entry hall—footmen, coachmen, maids of every capacity. Sir Edmund paraded his bride before them like a visiting general inspecting his troops, while Mr. Brock introduced each member of his staff. Julianna scarcely heard him.

Though their names meant nothing to her, the servants’ facial expressions cut her at every turn—contemptuous, boldly curious. Having been on the most familiar terms with her father’s staff, she was distressed by the obvious antipathy of these people. If only she could make them understand how little she wanted to be here. As little as they wanted her, apparently.

The inspection concluded, Mr. Brock whispered a word to his master. Sir Edmund turned to Julianna. “If you’ll excuse me, there is a matter I must attend to.” He motioned to Francis. “Underhill, will you kindly deputize for me and escort my wife into luncheon?”

Francis beamed. “An honor and a pleasure, Sir Edmund.” As he took Julianna’s arm, he gave it a reassuring squeeze.

Her Welsh temper flared. How dare the fool look so outrageously pleased with himself? He was supposed to be Crispin’s best friend. Did he call this friendship—handing his comrade’s intended bride over to a stranger? Using the width of her skirts as cover, she dealt him a sharp kick in the shin. Francis flinched, blinking his mild eyes with a wounded air. She flashed him an answering glare that made no secret of her ire.