Chapter 4

The damned neckcloth was being stubborn again. Having to summon his valet to tie it for him—again—did nothing to soothe the irritation of Frederick’s mood. His mother, fortunately, had been easy to banish. She had preparations of her own to make. Lesley was another matter. He hovered, grinning and nodding like the imbecile he was and mouthing the sort of foolishness one expected of Les. Things like liking Clara, though he had met her only once and briefly the afternoon before, and liking the idea of having a sister-in-law. Damn Les.

Though nothing was Les’s fault, Frederick was forced to admit. And it was unfair to call his brother an imbecile, though he had not done so aloud. Les was slow, but he usually got where he was going eventually provided he was given time. And he was unfailingly good-natured.

No, everything was his own fault. He was the imbecile—letting himself in for a life sentence merely because of a few paltry debts. Silk knee breeches in the morning, for the love of God! He looked down at them in distaste and at his white silk stockings and leather dancing shoes. He growled when a knock sounded on the door.

Good Lord, Clara’s drawing room was going to be full to overflowing, he thought on first sight of his visitor. Was everyone and his dog coming to his wedding? And then he grinned at his friend’s expression.

“Archie!” he said. “I never thought to see you in Bath.”

Lord Archibald Vinney looked from Frederick to Lesley and back again. “Strange place, Bath,” he said, fingering the ribbon of his quizzing glass but not lifting it to his eye. “I was appointed family envoy to bring greetings to my aunt—her eightieth birthday on the horizon, you know. Or is it her ninetieth? Something like that. The old girl dragged me off to the Pump Room at some unholy hour this morning and I heard quite by chance that the Honorable Mr. Frederick Sullivan was in residence. More than in residence. Actually, you are the talk of the town, Freddie. I thought there must be some mistake. You know how gossip can twist things. But knee breeches at this time of day? And Les, too?”

Frederick grimaced. “It’s my wedding day,” he said. 

“What the devil?” his friend said, strolling into the room and raising his quizzing glass at last. “I was preparing to have a good laugh with you at the gossip, but it was all true. Who is she, Freddie my boy? The name that was mentioned meant nothing to me. I cannot even recall it now. Any beauty I know?”

“No,” Frederick said shortly. “I met her here a week ago. Look, Archie, you had better come to the wedding. I need all the moral support I can get.”

Lord Archibald whistled. “A whirlwind courtship,” he said. “It does not sound in your line, Freddie. Or marriage at all, for that matter. Badly dipped, are you? Very wealthy, is she? And you turned on that famous charm and convinced both the chit and her papa that you have conceived a violent passion for her.”

“Her father is dead,” Frederick said irritably. “And she is no chit. She is twenty-six years old, Archie. I needed only her consent.”

His friend whistled once more. “Twenty-six years old,” he said. “The devil, Freddie. An antidote, is she? My commiserations, old chap.”

Frederick’s hands curled into fists. “She is to be my wife, Archie,” he said.

Lord Archibald held up his hands defensively, palm out.

“I like her,” Lesley said, smiling and nodding and saving a tense moment from exploding.

There was no chance to converse further. There was another knock on the door. The baron and baroness were ready, apparently, and the baroness was reputedly pacing her room in dire anxiety lest they be late. Or so Lord Bellamy reported, chuckling and then turning his attention to the new arrival.

Frederick tossed a look at the ceiling. “Mothers!” he said. “There is almost an hour before the wedding service is due to begin and we have a ten-minute journey, if that.”

“Nevertheless,” his father said, “we had better be on our way, Freddie. Mothers suffer enough to bring sons into the world. It is a matter of simple courtesy for the sons and husbands to do all in their power to make that suffering seem worthwhile.”

But Frederick did not hear the words. He heard only the echo of his own. The wedding service was due to begin in less than an hour. Less than an hour. He was thankful—very thankful—that he had been unable to eat any breakfast earlier. It had been hard enough on his stomach to watch Les devour a hearty meal.

She was sitting in her wheeled chair. With so many people expected and with the necessity of moving from place to place, it seemed easier. She would hate to have to be carried from one chair to another in sight of so many people. She was wearing the new white muslin gown Lady Bellamy had insisted was necessary, and she had to admit that it was beautiful and that she felt good in it. The short sleeves and hem were trimmed with a deep border of embroidered blue flowers. The silk sash beneath her bosom and her slippers were of a matching blue. Her hair, dressed higher than usual, was threaded liberally with live flowers.

“Do I look foolish?” she asked Harriet when guests had begun to arrive and she sat in solitary state in the dining room waiting to make a grand entrance just like any ordinary bride. “Flowers in the hair are for girls, aren’t they?”

Her friend’s eyes looked suspiciously moist when she bent to kiss Clara’s cheek. “You look beautiful,” she said. “You are beautiful.”

Clara laughed. “Thank you, Harriet,” she said. “I like his family, don’t you? They must all be dreadfully disappointed, but they have been very kind. Is not Mr. Lesley Sullivan a dear?”

“Yes,” Harriet said. “I like him. And Lady Bellamy is a true lady. You will be fortunate in your in-laws at least, Clara.”

Clara smiled. But not in her husband. Harriet did not need to say the words aloud. And she would not do so. Clara had been adamant enough on the point that she would hear no more criticism of Freddie.

The housekeeper came into the dining room eventually to announce that Mr. Sullivan had just arrived and that all the expected guests were now waiting in the drawing room. So was the clergyman. There were ten minutes to go before the planned start of the service.

“Then we might as well begin,” Clara said, drawing a slow and deep breath. “Will you send Mr. Whitehead in, please?” Mr. Whitehead had agreed to stand in her father’s place.

And so this was it, she thought as Harriet bent again to kiss her, one tear trickling down her cheek, and then left to take her place in the drawing room. This was it. Mr. Whitehead came into the dining room, took both her hands in a firm clasp, and bent to kiss her too. And then he was pushing the wheeled chair into the drawing room and she felt herself smiling.

It seemed bewilderingly full of people. And of flowers. And the scent of flowers. It seemed like a totally strange room. But she did not really see it or the people in it. If it had been full of strangers instead of her friends and his family, she would perhaps not have known it. For Freddie was standing before the fireplace with the clergyman, and he looked so unbelievably handsome dressed as though about to attend a formal ball that the breath caught in her throat. He was looking at her with intent, smoldering eyes and it was easy to believe in the unreality of the moment that the look meant what it said.

Mr. Whitehead pushed her chair to her bridegroom’s side and the service began. A short service, without any frills. Without any music. So short that it was over before she could calm her mind sufficiently to concentrate. Freddie had her hand in his. He had put a gold ring on her finger that looked strange there and shining and very new. And he was bending his head to kiss her firmly on the lips.

“My love,” he murmured, smiling into her eyes.

She should not have done it, she thought. Mr. Whitehead had been right. She could have found another husband, someone more like her. Freddie was dazzlingly beautiful, like someone who inhabited a different planet from her own. Harriet had been right. They could never know happiness together, she and her husband.

Her husband!

“Freddie,” she whispered back to him. She thought she was still smiling.

It seemed as if it was to be the last moment they were to have together for a long time. There was a murmuring about them and then a definite babble of voices. And a smattering of applause. And laughter. And then she was being hugged and kissed and cried over—by Harriet, by Lady Bellamy, by Mrs. Whitehead.

“My daughter, Clara, dear.” Lady Bellamy said. “I have dreamed for many years of being able to say those words.”

“Welcome to our family, my dear,” Lord Bellamy said, squeezing her hand almost painfully. “We are proud to have you as a member.”

“Clara.” Harriet hugged her tightly for a long while. “I wish you happy. Oh, I do wish you happy.”

“My sister.” Lesley Sullivan was beaming down at her and taking both her hands in his. “I’ve always wanted a sister. I like you, Clara.”

She felt tears spring to her eyes. “Thank you, Lesley,” she said. “I like you too. And I have always dreamed of having a brother.”

“Now you have one,” he said. “A fortunate man is Freddie.”

It was Lesley she should be married to, Clara thought foolishly. He was sweet and kind and open in manner— and as unlike Freddie in looks as it was possible to be. He was fair and good-looking rather than handsome, and not very tall.

“Here is Archie come to meet you,” Lesley was saying, and she looked up to see a tall, blond-haired, aristocratic looking stranger at his side. “Lord Archibald Vinney, Clara.”

“Mrs. Sullivan,” the stranger said, taking one of her hands and raising it to his lips. ’’May I offer my congratulations, ma’am? I am your husband’s friend, newly and opportunely arrived in Bath. I hope you do not mind that he invited me to your wedding without being able to consult your wishes first.”

’’You are very welcome here, my lord,” she said. Mrs. Sullivan. Yes, she was. Clara Sullivan. How strange it sounded. But there was no time to dwell on the novelty of her new name and status. The Misses Grover were pressing about her and bending to kiss her. It was her wedding day, she told herself in some wonder. It was her wedding day.

“Les, my dear chap,” Lord Archibald was saying as they drew back from the bride and he glanced in some amusement at his poor friend, who was going to be busy enduring hugs and kisses and handshakes for some time to come, “present me to the delectable little blonde in green, if you will be so good.”

The guests began to leave in the middle of the afternoon. The Misses Grover took with them a rather tearful and anxious Harriet. Mr. and Mrs. Whitehead stayed longer, and the baron and baroness and their younger son were still at the house on the Circus when it was very close to dinnertime. So close, in fact, that Frederick began to entertain strong hopes that they intended to stay. But when Clara invited them, they rose to their feet to take their leave.

Suddenly the house seemed very empty and very quiet.

Lord, Frederick thought as he returned to the drawing room after seeing his family on their way, his face felt almost sore from the smile he had kept pasted on it all day long. And he could not let go of it even now. There was a charade to be kept up.

“Well, my love,” he said, reentering the room and smiling at his bride. She was sitting on a chaise lounge, where Mr. Whitehead had placed her after the wedding breakfast, her legs resting along it. “We can relax at last.”

Which were about the falsest words he had uttered all week, he thought. He had scarcely exchanged a word with Clara since the wedding service hours ago. He had been able to lose himself in conversation with their guests. She had appeared to be doing the same thing. He had been able almost to relax. Now he felt as taut as a bow.

“Yes,” she said. “It was kind of so many people to come, Freddie. I had pictured a wedding with only two witnesses. This was very pleasant.”

“Was it?” he asked, crossing the room to stand with his back to the fireplace. “It was not too much for your strength, Clara?”

It was hard to believe, he thought even as he spoke, that this woman was his wife. This pale, thin stranger with her pretty wedding dress, and flowers still twined in her too-thick hair. His wife. For the rest of their days.

“No,” she said. “I am not ill, Freddie.”

He stared at her. The subject had to be discussed before night came. Now was the opportune time since it had been broached already. Lord, they were married. This was their wedding day. Their wedding night was galloping up on them.

“What did happen to you?” he asked. “And in what degree of health has it left you?” He walked across the room to her and took a chair beside her.

“I was very ill for many months,” she said. “So was my mother. She died after four months. I was left weak and bedridden and had recurrences of the fever all the time my father and I remained in India. I recovered my health after our return to England.”

“But not your strength,” he said.

“No,” she said. “Papa was so afraid of losing me. I was all he had left. I believe he was exceedingly fond of my mother, though I remember her only dimly. He made sure that I never went anywhere I might take some infection.”

It was peculiar watching a stranger become more of a person before his eyes. She had had a sad and sickly childhood. Someone had loved her to distraction. She had been everything in the world to her father, this plain, thin woman whom he had married without any regard to her personhood.

“Are you paralyzed?” he asked her. Her cheekbones were high and finely sculpted, he noticed as his eyes roamed over her face. She might have been almost lovely if she had had more flesh and more color.

She shook her head. “Only totally without strength,” she said. “Papa would never let me exert myself in any way or go outdoors a great deal. He was afraid the illness would come back. But I think perhaps it was just the climate of India that did not agree with me.”

God! he thought. “There is no pain?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “Only aches and pains if I sit or lie in one position for too long. You do not have a sickly wife, Freddie. Only one whose body does not work for her as other people’s do.” She smiled.

Lord. He had his answer. He reached for her hand, held it with both of his, and raised it to hold against his cheek. “I am so glad, my love,” he said, gazing intently into her eyes. “I would suffer too if you had to suffer. You look very lovely today. I have not had a chance to tell you that, have I?”

“And you look very splendid, Freddie,” she said.

They were interrupted at that moment by the arrival of the housekeeper, who had come to announce that dinner was ready. A burly manservant stepped past her.

“Robin always carries me to the dining room,” Clara explained.

Frederick got to his feet. “Thank you, Robin. That will be all,” he said. “I will take Mrs. Sullivan in this evening.” He turned to smile down at her after the servants had withdrawn. “How many husbands have this chance to get so close to their wives outside their private apartments, after all.”

He lifted her up into his arms while she twined an arm about his neck. She weighed nothing at all. God, she felt as fragile as a piece of fine porcelain. It was no wonder that a man who had loved her had feared constantly for her health and her very life. He carried her through to the dining room and set her down gently on her chair. She had indicated a chair at the side of the table, adjacent to its head, he noticed. And then she indicated that he was to sit at the head of the table—where he had sat at the wedding breakfast, while she had sat at the foot.

“Has this always been your place?” he asked her.

“It was my father’s before his death,” she said. “Now it is yours.”

He set himself to charm her while they ate. He told her about London, with which she was not at all familiar, and recounted lively and humorous stories from his experience—ones that were suitable for the ear of a gently nurtured woman. They both laughed a great deal.

He wondered if she was in love with him. She had claimed to have some regard for him, nothing more, on the day when he had made his offer. It seemed like half a century ago. He hoped she did not love him. He would not hurt her for worlds. He wanted to show her kindness as far as he could. After all, she had already done him a great service. Once he had got past all this strange tension of a wedding day, he was going to feel enormous relief at the knowledge that soon he would be debt-free. It was going to feel as if a heavy load had been removed from his back. He owed that feeling to her.

He was going to be kind to her. Because he wanted to be. Because he owed it to her. Because perhaps it would soothe his conscience somewhat. His conscience had been badly battered recently, what with that business with Jule and this deception with Clara.

And he needed to be kind to her. His mother and father would expect it of him. And he needed to prove to that tight-lipped little ice maiden of a companion that he was no ogre. And there was Archie. He had said nothing, of course, but there had been a look in his eyes after the wedding—part amusement, part sympathy—that had told Frederick that he understood perfectly. Sympathy! No, he did not need anyone’s sympathy. Sympathy for him meant insult to Clara.

He would let no one insult Clara. She was his wife. He would prove to everyone that he knew how to care for a wife, even a plain and crippled one.

“Shall I have Robin summoned to take me back to the drawing room?” she asked when they had finished eating. “I used to leave Papa to enjoy his port alone.”

“Not tonight,” he said, setting a hand over hers and curling his fingers beneath it. “This is our wedding day.”

And so he carried her back to the drawing room and sat beside her on a sofa, her hand in his, telling her more stories at her request until the gaps between them became longer and he could feel her growing agitation and his own. It was still early. But there was no point in torturing themselves for another hour or two. This was something he wanted to get over with. A wedding night should be something eagerly anticipated, he knew, especially if it was to be with a woman he had not had before. But not this particular wedding night.

“Would you like me to carry you up to your room, my love?” he asked gently when she had failed to respond to one of his funnier stories.

She turned her head sharply and looked up at him.

“I shall summon your maid when we get there and leave you to her services,” he said. “Is that how it is usually done?”

“Yes, ” she said.

“Clara.” He raised her hand to his lips. “I must know. Do you wish this to be a normal marriage, my dear, or one in name only? It must be as you wish. I do not want to distress you.”

For once there was color in her cheeks. A whole arsenal of roses. “I am your wife, Freddie,” she said.

He searched her eyes and nodded, Ah, so she wanted it, then. She had not married him for the mere respectability of marriage. He just hoped... Oh, God, he hoped she was not in love with him. He would feel a worse blackguard than he already felt, if that were possible.

“You will become my wife fully this night, Clara, my love,” he said, intensifying his look before getting to his feet in order to take her up into his arms again. He could not quite imagine himself making love to this thin and apparently frail body. “It has come at last. I have thought in the past few days that time had transformed itself into a snail just in order to torture me.”

She set her head on the arm she had wound about his neck and laughed.

She lay on her bed after her maid had left, staring upward, trying to breathe steadily and slowly, wondering how long it would be before he returned. Half an hour, he had said after setting her down on the chair in her dressing room and summoning her maid. Half an hour. That must have almost passed already.

She should have had her hair braided, she thought. There was far too much of it to lie loose over her shoulders and down her back. Her father had never allowed her to cut it. Perhaps he had thought that as with Samson in the Bible the little strength she had lay in her hair. She smiled at the thought. She should have braided her hair, except that braids seemed very juvenile and virginal.

Virginal. Her cheeks grew hot at the thought.

It would be strange to have a man in this room. In this bed. This had been her room ever since Papa had started bringing her to Bath after their return from India.

It had been a wonderful day. She had not expected the day itself to be wonderful, only the fact of her marriage. But it had been lovely. Everyone had been warm and kind. Everyone had seemed genuinely happy for her. Lord Bellamy had welcomed her into his family. He had said they were proud to have her as a member. She had believed him. Lesley—dear Lesley—had told her that he liked her. He had called her his sister. And Freddie had been charming—even after they were married and after all their guests had left and it might have been expected that he would lower his mask and put an end to the charade.

She had very much enjoyed dinner, despite the feeling of near-panic she had felt when his parents had refused her invitation to dinner and had left. Freddie had been charming and amusing and interesting. She liked his laugh. It was an amused chuckle.

She wondered how long he would continue to be charming. Until the morning perhaps? Until after the marriage had been consummated? Her stomach performed something of a somersault.

He had given her the chance to avoid this. Perhaps he had thought her health would make a normal marriage impossible. Perhaps he had welcomed the thought. Perhaps he had no wish to make a proper marriage out of it. But she would not be able to bear that. This was why she had married him. It was perhaps a shameful admission to make even in the privacy of her own heart. No lady surely would admit as much. But she had not married him just for the sake of being able to say she was a married woman. She had married him because she wanted him. Because she wanted a man. A strong and virile man.

She had paid dearly for Freddie. Twenty thousand pounds, and perhaps more in the future. Perhaps he would drain away large portions of her fortune if she found herself unable to refuse him. And she knew what it was she had paid for. It was this. This that was about to happen to her. As a man might pay dearly for an extraordinarily beautiful courtesan. She did not expect that he would continue to charm her or to keep up the facade of calling her his love. She did not really expect his friendship or much of his company. Just this, occasionally.

Yes, it was a shameful admission. But it was the truth, and she had been alone with herself long enough to know that only the truth to herself was comfortable to live with. She had bought Freddie’s beauty and strength and virility.

There was a tap on the door. It opened before she could gather herself together sufficiently to call to him to come in.