Chapter Thirty-Three
“It’s a good day to marry a duke,” the countess said as she threw back the drapes in Daisy’s room and let in the newly risen sun. Fresh, cool air wafted in, and she breathed deeply. “It’s finally here—the day you’ve been hoping for, planning for, and waiting for.”
Daisy groaned silently. The desire to curl up and pull the covers over her head was overwhelming, but not to be. Her mother sailed in without knocking, carrying a tray of coffee, scones, and fruit.
“Morning, Your Grace-to-be,” she declared cheerily, placing the tray on the table. “What a good day to marry a duke!” With that, she ripped the covers back and rocked Daisy with insistent prodding. “Up, daughter-of-mine. You’ve a lot to do and we have to be at the church at half past ten.”
Daisy closed her eyes and groaned aloud.
“No, no.” The countess saw her retreating into a stubborn mood and joined Elizabeth by the bed, where they exchanged worried glances. “We can’t have His Grace waiting at the altar, now can we?”
The door that her mother had left open was seen as an invitation to one and all. Daisy’s sisters came barreling in, talking excitedly, squealing with awe and delight at the white satin gown hanging from the wardrobe, and climbing onto the bed with her. Her mother’s prodding was gentle by comparison to their shaking and pulling and teasing.
She finally sat up and glared at them all.
“Coffee. I need some coffee.”
“What you need is a husband,” Elizabeth declared, pouring her a cup and carrying it to the bed, where Daisy was now upright against the pillows. “And in a few hours, you’ll have one. You’ll be a wife and a duchess.”
Daisy forced a smile while groaning again inside. She hadn’t seen Ashton or Arthur since that night at the Chancery. She’d had a couple of ambiguous notes from Arthur regarding times and places. And a bouquet of stunning white roses that she’d carried on her lap all the way from London . . . making her sisters swoon at the romance of it. And that was all. Her ultimatum hadn’t been addressed and, despite her belief that the two men would take her seriously, she had a niggling fear that it still might all go arse over teakettles.
God, she was starting to think like a Brit.
They primped and powdered and curled and buttoned her—the countess teary eyed, her mother alternating between sniffling and issuing hushed advice as to how she should behave in the marital bed, and her sisters laughing and teasing her about her husband-to-be’s manly qualities. Collette soldiered on through it all, styling Daisy’s hair elegantly and buffing her nails. By the time she was fully buttoned into her wedding gown, she was half frozen with dread.
Surely Ashton would make the right choice. Surely he would step up and marry her. He did love her. She knew he did. Down deep. Surely he wouldn’t be so selfless and boneheaded a second time.
She found it hard to enjoy the fervent admiration of her family and the Betancourt staff as they gathered to watch her descend the main stairs in her trained gown and silk illusion veil. A cold hand gripped her insides as she waved and climbed into the newly acquired Betancourt coach. It was large enough for Daisy, Red, her mother, and the countess, but the girls rode behind in an open carriage rented for the occasion. At that moment, she would have gladly traded places with any one of them.
The vicar stood just outside the church doors, wearing his vestments and a nervous smile. A few latecomers stretched their necks to catch a glimpse of the bride, then scurried into the church for a seat. There weren’t many nobles present; the duke hadn’t yet made connections among the younger generation of titled folk and gentry in the neighborhood. So, there was plenty of space for tenants and ordinary folk from the village. A peek through the main doors showed the pews to be packed.
“Is he here?” she paused to quietly ask the vicar, while her mother and the countess arranged her train and fussed over her veil and bouquet.
“Oh, yes.” He seemed a bit unsettled to add: “Both of them are.”
Both? What the devil did that mean?
The countess and her sisters entered and were seated at the front. Her mother kissed both her cheeks, smiled tearfully, and entered on the arm of none other than Reynard Boulton. Daisy didn’t know whether to be pleased or alarmed that he had come from London to observe the nuptials.
As she and Red moved forward, into the small narthex, Red pulled a small flask from his breast pocket and held it out to her. Much as she wanted a pull of whiskey, she shook her head and let him finish his “snort” before moving forward to stand at the rear of the sanctuary.
Her knees went weak. At the front of the church, at the vicar’s left, stood Ashton and Arthur, both dressed to the nines, but with faces lightly swollen, cuts healing but still visible, and black eyes only now turning that sickly greenish yellow. A glance around the congregation showed that most attendees were surprised by their appearance. Over the wheezing music from the pump organ, the whispering was audible. Even the countess and her mother and sisters were confused. She could feel Red vibrating against her arm and realized he was chuckling. He found it funny! She so wanted to kick him.
The Graham men were standing equally close to the empty space before the vicar, space she would soon occupy. So which was her groom?
At a change in the music, she and Red started down the aisle, which made the congregation turn and stare. She heard the comments: “lovely,” “a stunning gown,” and “pretty as a picture,” but her gaze was fixed on Ashton’s battered face. He broke into a smile as warm as summer.
Unfortunately, Arthur smiled, too.
When she paused before the vicar and he said a few words that sounded like “gurgle, toggle, waggle, waddle” to her, Red abandoned her to take a seat at the front, by the countess. Daisy panicked, standing there, facing the two of them. Arthur stepped forward to take her hand and she swayed, halfway to a full-blown swoon.
Then he turned to Ashton with a broad smile and placed her hand in his brother’s.
Ashton’s warm hand closed over her icy one and he stepped up to steady her. Reeling, all she could think was, You’re going to pay for this.
“Daisy Bumgarten, I’m here to declare my enduring love and devotion to you. You’re my heart of hearts, the light of my soul, the foundation of my hope, my dreams, and my future.” He sank onto one knee and reached into his pocket for a gold ring set with a sizeable cut diamond. He held it up to her and asked, “Will you be my wife?”
There was not a breath taken in the silence that followed. Every eye was focused on her response. She swallowed hard, searching for the love-me-forever in his battered eyes, and melted inside.
“Took you long enough. Of course I’ll marry you,” she said, tears running down her face as she opened her arms and he shot to his feet to fill them. She held on to him, breathing in the reality of him, absorbing the fact of his strong arms around her, dimly aware of the confusion that broke out and of the frantic fanning and smelling-salts-sharing in her family pew.
Arthur addressed the congregation, arms raised to signal for quiet.
“For years, my beloved brother, Ashton, has been my rock and my anchor. It may seem strange, the way this wedding has changed, but it is with the deepest love and the highest pleasure that I acknowledge his choice of the smartest, sweetest, strongest woman I know to be his wife.” He turned to Daisy and Ashton with a broad smile that probably cost him a little pain, then looked to the stunned vicar. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”
“B-but the banns—”
“A special license,” Arthur said, producing a document from his pocket and handing it over, “courtesy of my new friend the bishop. I think you’ll find it all in order.”
A bit of stammering and some raised eyebrows later, the vicar did indeed get on with it. There were a few very fervent prayers, some vows, some music from the lovely Claire Bumgarten’s marvelous violin, and then Ashton was placing the ring on Daisy’s finger.
There was hardly a dry eye in the church. Even sentiment-shunning Reynard Boulton was effected. Then he looked over to find one of the Bumgarten girls staring fixedly at him and jerked his gaze away in horror.
Oh, no. Not him. No one would catch him voluntarily putting a ring through his nose.
Music from the wheezing organ escorted the newlyweds down the aisle and out into the sunshine. They kissed lovingly and were congratulated by everyone, including Arthur and the Baron Kettering. After signing the church register, they were showered with rose petals as they ran to their carriage.
On the way back to Betancourt and the wedding breakfast, Daisy looked down at the sparkling ring on her finger and then up at her husband.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” she asked.
“Are you kidding?” he answered, pulling her into his arms and tenderly stroking her cheek. “It’s what I’ve wanted since . . . I’m fairly sure it was the calf pulling that sank me. From that moment on, I kept trying to talk you out of marrying Arthur, but what I really should have been doing was talking you into marrying me.”
“Yes, you should have. Selflessness and sacrifice are noble and have their place . . . but their place is not in bed beside me at night.”
“I’ll remember that.” He chuckled and kissed her with purely scandalous intent . . . a promise of the joys of the nights to come.
* * *
Betancourt hadn’t seen such a celebration in generations. The front doors were thrown open to welcome invited guests, tenants, and villagers, but the meal was served at long tables in the side yard overlooking the garden. Music was provided by a trio of local musicians, and into the afternoon, Claire joined them to strike up a vigorous country dance. Barrels of ale and casks of wine had been hauled out of the cellars, and before long spirit-and-ale warmed camaraderie spread through the guests, both great and small.
Elizabeth helped her daughter remove her veil and pin up her train, then hugged her again and searched her face. “You’re really happy with him?”
“I am,” Daisy said, sensing a sadness in her mother. “I know he’s not a duke, but he is entitled to be called Lord Ashton.”
“Oh, Daisy, I’m not disappointed. I won’t say I wasn’t surprised, even shocked—but not disappointed. I was afraid I had pushed you to marry someone you didn’t care for just to make amends.” Elizabeth stroked her hair and let her hand settle on her daughter’s shoulder. “I’ve had a lot of time to think, and I am so sorry for the misery I put you through in Nevada. I was trying to do what was right and I ended up hurting everyone involved. If only your father had been there to help me see the right, I probably would have made different choices. He was always so deep-seeing and sensible.”
“It’s all right, Mama.” Daisy put her hand over her mother’s. “It worked out fine in the end. I’m married to a wonderful man and I’m going to have a good life. Please don’t be sad.”
Elizabeth sighed. “If I’m sad, Daize, it’s because your father isn’t here to see the woman you’ve become. He always had great faith in you. I should have remembered that.” Tears collected in her eyes. “He would be very proud of you, but no prouder than I am.”
She hugged Daisy, and for the first time in years Daisy felt her mother’s love, freely given, warming her heart.
As the day wore on, she showed her sisters the “jewel” Ashton had given her. “It was a ring given to his mother at her wedding. He said he and Arthur retrieved it from a bank vault in London last week.”
“Oooh, and he’s not even a duke!” Sarah said with an acquisitive gleam in her eye. Daisy laughed; they were going to have to watch that one.
Later she watched Ashton with her uncle and Reynard and a couple of the local squires, tilting cups and laughing. Even beaten, bruised, and still recovering, her husband was the most handsome man present. Handsome beyond bearing. She felt a delicious stirring in her body as she watched, and realized that for the first time in her life she was free to have sensual pleasure with no holds barred, nothing held back. She swayed on her seat and took another big swallow of champagne.
Eyes sparkling, she joined her sisters and a group of young people dancing in the grass near the duck pond. They joined hands and stepped to a pattern easy to follow. She was soon flushed and breathing hard.
The minute the music stopped, the dancers fell out of their circle in exhaustion. A hand grabbed hers and she found Ashton leading her toward the house. Even inside, people were strolling, staring at paintings, portraits, and the worn but still impressive entry hall.
He pulled her down the rear hallway to a niche, clamped arms around her, and kissed her like he was a starving man and she was manna. She responded with everything in her and was soon pressed hard against him, undulating, inviting greater response. They were both panting when he broke the kiss.
“I saw you dancing,” he murmured thickly, kissing her temple, then sliding down to nibble the side of her neck.
“I saw you watching me,” she answered. “I was dancing for you.”
“Sweet Jesus.” He drew a ragged breath, then he straightened and pulled her out into the hall. She barely kept up as she tried to smooth her hair and gown. He surprised her by leading her up a narrow, little used set of stairs to the next floor.
“I didn’t know these were here,” she said, looking around.
“Servant stairs,” he whispered with a wink. “Very useful.”
She had an idea where they were headed and licked her well-primed lips in anticipation. He waved to the doors they passed and said, “Which is yours?” She darted ahead and led him to her room. Once inside, he turned the key to lock out the rest of the world and pulled her between him and the door.
She opened to his kiss, eager and buoyant—all out of patience, circumspection, and self-control. She wanted to feel his body, to see him, taste him, hear him hum with pleasure as she nibbled her way up and down his—
“I love you, Ashton Graham,” she said between deep, ravishing kisses that went on and on. Her body was so hot that her bones seemed to be melting.
“And I love you, Daisy Bumgarten. Lady Daisy. My luscious, maddening, inventive temptress of a wife. And if I don’t get this coat off, I’m going to burn to a cinder.”
He straightened enough to wrestle his coat from his shoulders and started on his vest . . . while she stepped away and twisted frantically back and forth, trying to reach the long row of silk-covered buttons that fastened her wedding gown. It was impossible—there were a million buttons and she couldn’t reach more than a handful. With a growl, she tugged at the lace-covered satin and found it the equal of her strength and impatience. She bent and twisted and tried to make at least part of the gown slide around to the front so she could reach the cursed fastenings.
Her dance of frustration brought a husky laugh from him. He stood clad in his shirt and trousers with his legs spread, arms crossed, and a heart stopping I-want-you-naked look on his handsome face. She stilled and stared back, with a make-me tilt to her chin.
“You need help, I see.” He approached, running a hot, appreciative gaze over her every curve and feature, then doing it again with his hands, covering her body in naked adoration. He turned her and began to undo the small, silk-covered buttons that streamed down her back. For every one he dispatched, he laid a kiss on her bared flesh. Goose bumps rose all over her and she shivered and pulled what she could of her gown off her shoulders. More, she wanted more.
“This, I believe, is how it all began,” he said, running into undergarments and having to tug them up and aside to reach bare skin.
“What is how it began?” She could barely stand, much less think.
“Buttons,” he said. “In Mountjoy’s library. Who would have guessed it would come to this?”
She managed to slip her corset cover up and off as her gown loosened, then her front-fastening corselet. Moments later she raised her skirts and dropped her petticoats and knickers. By the time her gown was fully undone, she was naked underneath. The heavy satin and lace creation drooped delectably over her breasts, bringing to mind another early encounter.
His hands trembled as he pulled the gown from her grasp bit by bit. She made no move to stop it and soon stood naked in a pile of satin and frothy lace. He ran his hands over her bare shoulders, down her tingling breasts, and over her waist. His voice was soft with feeling.
“You are so beautiful, Daisy. I can’t believe that you’re mine.”
For a moment she felt her eyes pricking, then she shook it off and grinned at him. “Off with them, husband!” She attacked his clothes and in a much shorter time, he stood naked as his birthing day, seeming a little embarrassed. Fading yellowed bruises on his ribs and a massive one that was still blue-green on his left hip made her gasp.
“Oh, Ash, I had no idea they hurt you so badly.” She stepped over their clothes and went to him, brushing his injuries and wrapping him gently in her arms.
“Nothing critical to a wedding night was damaged, I promise.” He pulled her hard against him in demonstration and tilted her chin.
“Thank Heaven. I’ve been waiting for this night for . . . forever.”
Their lips glided and tongues danced, enjoying, exploring as they moved with a single mind toward the bed. Soon they were throwing back covers and falling together into the welcoming softness.
He lay beside her, kissing, nibbling his way down her bare body, finding the places that made her gasp, sigh, or squirm. He licked and suckled her nipples, spread searing kisses over her belly, and nuzzled the curls that covered her woman’s flesh. By the time he was through, she was hot-eyed and determined to have her fill of his body, too.
She rolled him onto his back and, careful to avoid his bruises, kissed her way across his chest and up his throat, to nibble his ears. He moaned as she started down again, pausing at the base of his throat, then licking his nipples in slow, hypnotizing circles.
“Oh, God, Daisy . . . you’re . . . where did you ever learn to . . .”
Her leg slid over his and she pressed her body against him, rotating her hips to let him feel her wet heat. “See what you do to me?” she whispered.
In a heartbeat she was on her back with him above her, kissing her, and settling between her thighs. She rocked against him, wanting, inviting, even as her fingers dug into his shoulders and she tasted his salty skin.
When they began to join, she stilled and looked up into his hot bronzed eyes, wanting to see his passion there, wanting him to see the rich response it produced in her. But moments later his eyes closed, as did hers. Their bodies pressed and strained and thrust until they reached the limits of sensation. She gave a soft, throaty cry and tensed around him, locking her legs, riding a wave of pleasure as she pulled him deeper into her.
He buried his face in her neck and soon went rigid and quaking with a climax. It seemed to go on and on . . . thinning the boundaries between them until she couldn’t tell where her responses ended and his began. They were one in this pleasure, in this life, in this future.
When he slid to the bed beside her she curled against him with a dreamy smile that made him grin.
“You look like a kitten with a belly full of cream,” he said, stoking her face with his fingertips.
“I’ve never felt so happy, so complete in my life.” She ran her palm over the plane of his stomach and up the mounds of his chest. “I wish everyone could feel this way.” She looked up at him. “I wish Arthur could.”
“He may. Someday.” He turned and propped up on his arm to face her. He stroked her arm and the curve of her waist. “I have to tell you something.”
“That sounds serious.”
“We won’t be going to New York right away.”
“Oh?”
“I know you have your heart set on showing me off to the ‘hundred’ or whatever, but we’ll have to postpone that for a while.”
“Why? What’s happened?” She thrust up onto one arm, facing him.
“Arthur . . . won’t be here . . . and I’ve agreed to stay on at Betancourt and take care of the place.”
“You and me, you mean. Why won’t Arthur be here?”
“He’s going to travel. He told me he needs to see the world before he settles down . . . if he settles down. He signed documents when we were in London making me his heir and abdicating the title to me if something should happen”—he watched her taking it in—“or if he doesn’t return in five years, I become duke in his stead.
“Are you all right? I know it’s a bit to take in.”
“So you two just cooked this up between you? Without a word to me?”
“You had already talked with Arthur. He said you encouraged him to travel and see something of the world.” He stroked her cheek. “I didn’t think you’d mind. You’ll be the duchess here in all but name.”
“And you’ll be the duke.” She saw the irony in it. “Are you sure this is what you want? I don’t think you owe Arthur anything more. Don’t you want to travel yourself? Go to Nevada. See New York?”
“I’ve already traveled and seen the continent.” He looked thoughtful for a minute. “Somehow . . . I feel that things aren’t quite finished for me here. Would you mind staying and helping me put Betancourt to rights?”
The hope in his eyes, the love in her heart—how could she say no?
“With one condition.” She lay down and snuggled against him. “The minute I’m pregnant, we make plans to sail for New York. I want my children born in the U.S. of A.”
He laughed and pulled her close, breathing in the scent of her hair.
“I think that can be arranged.”