Chapter Twelve
One's wedding was supposed to be a joyous occasion, but Hestia Stockbow wore an expression more suited to a funeral, as she exchanged vows with Alex.
The girl had not spoken to him properly since that disastrous afternoon, nearly a week before, when he had roundly dismissed her suspicions that Dubois had killed her father. Alex knew that he had been right in his beliefs, but he reluctantly conceded that could have been a tad more tactful in the way he had responded. Hestia had every right to be annoyed with him, and he was longing to apologise, but the stubborn woman had steadfastly avoided being alone with him, and so he had not had the opportunity to say sorry.
That would end today though, he thought with relief, there was no way that she could continue ignoring him once they were wed.
The wedding was a simple affair; the pair exchanged vows in the morning room of Thackery House, with Phoebe, the Earl and the newlywed Lord and Lady Payne present. Hestia was resplendent in a gown of pale, butter yellow that complimented her colouring. Alex thought fondly on her old, yellow ribboned bonnet, which he had not seen for a while, and decided that the colour suited his wife to perfection. He would commission a modiste to make her a dozen dresses all in varying shades, he decided.
Once the Vicar pronounced them married, the party retired to the dining room, where a breakfast buffet was laid out. Hestia took a seat beside Alex and silently began to eat her trout and eggs, as though he were not there.
"Are you going to ignore me forever?" Alex whispered, a little aggrieved that his new bride was so obviously underwhelmed by him.
"That depends. Are you going to continue to ignore me?" she asked calmly, placing her knife and fork down. "I told you that I believed my father was murdered, and you promised to help me find the perpetrator. Then you completely dismissed me when I presented you with a suspect who had means and motive."
Means and motive? Goodness, what type of ridiculous novels was she reading?
"I dismissed your claims because I know Dubois and I know that I am right in saying he did not kill your father," Alex tried to keep his voice low. "Though perhaps I was a bit rude in the way that I explained myself. As for ignoring your suspicions that foul play was involved in your father's death, quite the opposite is true. I have arranged for us to honeymoon in Cornwall, where we can investigate the matter properly."
"We are going to Cornwall?"
Finally his new wife met his eye and he was left almost speechless by her beauty. Her huge, blue eyes were filled with hope and her plump mouth was parted as she awaited his reply. Alex had never seen her look so beautiful, and he wished that he had not promised her that he would wait until she was ready, to consummate the marriage.
"Yes, we will leave once breakfast has finished," he said casually. "I have a small estate near Penzance, though, obviously, we shall visit Truro first to begin our investigations."
"Oh, thank you, my Lord!" Hestia squealed, her face wreathed in a smile.
"For Heaven's sake, you're my wife now, call me Alex."
"Thank you, Alex," she repeated softly, offering him a shy smile that melted his heart. He had never heard a sweeter sound than his name on her lips.
Once breakfast had finished, and the newlyweds had said their goodbyes, Alex, Hestia and Henry all clambered in to the Marquess's well-sprung carriage. He tried to hide his surprise as the footman helped a fourth person inside --Hestia's flame haired lady's maid, Catherine.
His visions of he and his new wife sharing a tender moment instantly vanished; it seemed that Hestia too had realised the romantic opportunities a carriage ride might present, and had decided to put an obstacle in the way.
Catherine was a pleasant girl, if a little talkative by the usual servant's standards. She and Hestia chatted easily for the duration of the journey, sharing an easy friendship that Alex was actually quite envious of.
As darkness fell, they stopped at a Coaching Inn, just outside of Alton, to rest for the night. Their bags and Alex's trusty valet, Thomas, had followed in a carriage behind them.
The proprietor of the inn fawned over the Marquess and his new bride, showing them to what he promised was his best room. Alex tried not to visibly grimace when the door opened to reveal a rather basic, but mercifully clean, room, with a large double bed and what looked like, he hoped, a feather mattress.
"Will my Lord and Lady be taking supper?" the inn-keeper asked hopefully.
"Yes, after we freshen up," Alex said with a nod. "Please have someone bring up some hot water for my wife."
My wife; the words felt natural as they rolled off his tongue.
The inn keeper nodded, gave a ridiculously elaborate bow and hurried off to fetch the bathwater. The door closed behind him with a sharp click, and Alex gave a happy sigh; finally he was alone with Hestia.
"How do you feel after the journey?" he asked.
She was standing by the window, with her back to him, staring out into the yard below.
"Quite well," she chirped, like a startled bird. His new wife was fidgeting with the sleeve of her dress, plucking the material in an absent minded, anxious way.
She's nervous, he realised with a jolt. Of course she was nervous, he could have cursed his thoughtlessness. Hestia was but twenty years of age, a young woman who had led, by all accounts, a sheltered life. Heaven knew what she thought might happen tonight, or what grisly tales of the marriage bed she had heard.
"When I said that I would not take you, until you were ready, I meant it," he said quietly, speaking across the distance between them. "Do not fear me, I'm not about to ravish you."
Never had he witnessed a woman flush so quickly; Hestia's cheeks were so red that if he had touched them, he thought they might scald him.
"Excuse my directness," he continued with an amused laugh at her obvious embarrassment, "We are married now, we can speak to each other openly about such things."
"Do you mind?" she ventured, turning to look at him, "Waiting?"
"I can't say I'll enjoy it," he grumbled in good-natured way, "But I won't be waiting too long...believe me."
Her eyes narrowed and the corners of her mouth quirked at his assured statement, he knew her well enough now, to know that she would try to resist the challenge --if only to prove him wrong.
"Pray tell, husband dear, how can you be so confident?"
"Your eyes give your true feelings away," he replied easily, crossing the room in three long strides so that he was standing before her. He cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her face up, so that she had nowhere to look but at him.
"You can't hide desire, Hestia," he whispered softly, "Not with eyes as expressive as yours."
Before she had a chance to protest that she felt no such thing, Alex dropped his lips to hers in a soft, tender kiss. The moment their lips connected, she melted against him, thus proving his point perfectly. His lips, which were still on hers, curled into a triumphant smile, which she seemed to feel, for she pulled away defiantly.
"That's not fair," she protested, thwacking his chest with her hand. "You took me by surprise, and besides, you have far more experience than I at this!"
"And that's the way it shall stay," he whispered possessively, "You won't be gaining experience with anyone but me."
His lips claimed hers again in a kiss that was far more passionate than the last, perhaps it would have progressed further but a knock on the door jolted them apart.
"I shall call for Catherine to assist you," Alex said, in voice that was hoarse with desire, as a chamber-maid carried a steaming bucket of water inside. He ran a distracted hand through his hair and went in search of Hestia's lady's maid. His wife was right when she had said that he had far more experience than she, though he had never experienced a passion like this in all his life.
"Tell me about the night your father died," Alex said, later that evening when they had finished dining. They were seated in a small parlour of the inn, which afforded them the privacy needed to discuss David Stockbow's apparent murder.
In a halting voice, that occasionally shook with emotion, Hestia laid out the facts of the matter.
"Have you any idea who the blonde haired man, that your father saw, might be?" Alex asked, once his wife had finished speaking.
"I'm rather inclined to think it was Dubois," she answered tartly, casting him a defiant look.
"And, as I have told you, I'm rather inclined to think that it wasn't," he dead-panned, scratching his chin thoughtfully.
"Your father made many enemies over his lifetime, all infinitely more dangerous than Pierre Dubois," he continued gently. "Can you think of anything else he might have stolen, that would cause someone to murder him in cold blood?"
"He always brought back things of value," Hestia replied with a shrug, reaching down to scoop Henry up into her lap. "Furs, jewels --things that could be pawned easily. There was never that much left by the time he reached England. I'm wont to think that in his latter years, he wasn't that adept at piracy."
"The world changed," Alex shrugged, "The Navy became better equipped during the war. Your father would have been a foolish man to try and take on any of Wellington's ships."
Indeed, toward the middle of the war, David Stockbow seemed to have disappeared from the seas, from what Alex knew. Captain Black, the young man to whom Stockbow had left his sword, had alluded that the pirate was engaged in other activities, but had point blank refused to divulge any more information when Alex had pressed him. It all left Alex feeling rather uncomfortable, for if Stockbow had been engaged in espionage for the French and it all came to light, then his new wife's reputation would never recover. She would be shunned completely by a society that had only just reluctantly accepted her.
"We will reach Truro by nightfall tomorrow," Alex said, as the inn-keeper brought him a tankard of ale. "I can have Thomas check the local taverns, to see if he can discover anything. People will be far more willing to talk to him than I."
That was because the people Thomas would be speaking to, would be thieves and ruffians, who had a natural mistrust of the aristocracy --though Alex wasn't about to tell his new bride that.
Once his pint was finished, the new bride and groom repaired to their bedroom. Alex gritted his teeth against the well wishes of the inn-keeper, who gave him a subtle, saucy wink as he passed. The man naturally believed that the Marquess was retiring to consummate his marriage, when the opposite was in fact true.
Hestia changed behind the screen, in the corner of the room, whilst Alex undressed easily by the wash-basin. She shuffled out, wearing a petrified look and a nightshift that fell to the floor.
"Don't look so frightened," Alex grumbled, as he quickly washed his chest with the cool water in the basin. "Did we not discuss tonight's activities earlier?"
"We did," Hestia nibbled her plump lip nervously, in a way that made Alex want to groan. "Though you did not mention activities at the time..."
"Well, my main activity will involve making a bed in the corner, that is comfortable enough to sleep on," Alex smiled, walking toward the actual bed and removing several woollen blankets. "Whilst yours will involved making yourself as cosy as possible on the feather mattress."
The look of relief on her face tugged at his heartstrings; his wife was not ready to become him, and despite his confident assurances to her that she would soon relent, doubt was starting to creep in.
"Goodnight Hestia," he said solemnly, as he threw his blankets over the armchair by the fireplace.
"Goodnight Alex," came her sleepy reply.
At least she was calling him by his given name, he thought as he settled himself down for the night, that was an improvement of sorts.