Chapter Nineteen
Incense wafted through the air, and gray columns flanked Arthur and herself. A young priest, perhaps intimidated by Arthur and Percival’s imposing ranks, clutched his Rite of Marriage book. Cherubs perched on velvety clouds in gilded framed frescoes, and Madeline focused on determining the time when they may have been created.
Musing over art historical questions proved easier than seeing the beaming faces of Fiona and Percival. Gabriella and her parents sat a few pews back.
“Madeline,” Arthur said gently, and she gazed at him. His expression seemed more tender than she’d expected.
Music sounded, and she smiled. “When did you arrange for an organist?”
“No reason not to make this wedding as nice as possible,” he said.
Her nervousness eased as the musician’s fingers leaped over the keys to play an uplifting song.
The priest pushed his pince-nez higher on his nose and opened his book. “We are gathered today—”
Footsteps sounded, and the priest halted. He gave Arthur a questioning look
“Sorry. Excuse me,” an English voice she recognized said.
Heavens.
It was the Admiral. He’d followed them from Antibes. The man had brought along a bulky companion who had the gruff look of a man accustomed to flinging himself after the worst criminals.
She tried to think of a good reason why they were here, but the only image in her mind was the dank, dark cell in which she’d been imprisoned. Did he mean to drag her back there?
“Admiral,” Arthur said. “We’re delighted you could be here.”
Madeline wondered how the man managed to keep his voice so firm.
“So you truly are marrying,” the admiral said, and Madeline couldn’t fail to notice the slight suspicion in his voice.
“Long planned. Right, sweetheart?” Arthur took her hand, and she nodded in the direction of the admiral.
“I was surprised not to see you in Antibes. You must have left directly after I last saw you.”
“Ah,” Arthur said. “The…incident made Madeline and I eager to formalize our deep love for each other.”
“Antibes is equipped with chapels,” the admiral said.
“But not brothers,” Arthur said. “Admiral Fitzroy, I think you may know the Duke of Alfriston? The duke was in the area with his wife, the esteemed archaeologist.”
“Ah.” The admiral bowed.
“The Duchess of Alfriston is my cousin,” Madeline added. “Since my parents died, and I have no siblings, I was eager to have her be there.”
“Oh. Of course.” The austere expression on the admiral’s face dissipated somewhat and was replaced with a definite awkwardness.
“Please, take a seat.” Arthur gestured to the wooden pew on which Fiona and her husband sat. “We are so happy to have you.”
“Shall we proceed?” the priest asked.
Madeline nodded, and the marriage ceremony began. It wasn’t the first time someone had spoken the sacred vows to her, and the phrases seemed tinged with bittersweetness.
Finally the priest stopped speaking, and Madeline realized they were married.
She was a marchioness.
And much more importantly—she was Arthur’s wife.
She didn’t want to think about how happy her eighteen-year-old self would have been. Percival and Fiona applauded, and even the admiral smiled.
“Wait,” Arthur said.
Madeline blinked. Did he mean to say he’d changed his mind? Did he mean to expose her?
But it was impossible. They were already married.
She brushed her fingers over her ring just to ascertain it.
“It’s perhaps an old-fashioned custom,” Arthur said, “displayed by the more lovelorn peasants, but it’s an important one.”
He stepped toward her, and she half expected him to smash a glass all over the aisle, so that the clear shards, sparkling under the stained glass, would be a hazard to the guests’ stylish satin slippers. Wasn’t glass destruction a Mediterranean custom? Jewish?
No glass was in his hand. He continued to step nearer her, and his hands grasped hers.
“They’re still cold,” she murmured apologetically. “And wet.”
“And I don’t care,” he said smoothly.
She stiffened. His casualness must be improper. And yet despite her best efforts to resist him, the mere touch of his hands against hers sent heat rushing upward as if he were a bonfire and she mere kindling.
“A kiss,” he said.
He seemed to incline his head, and she realized he was glancing at Admiral Fitzroy.
Naturally.
This was a performance, and heaven help her, Arthur should be on the finest stage. It was a pity the Regent was not here to admire the way his eyes seemed to fill with actual emotion.
“A kiss, my darling,” he repeated.
Her limbs quivered despite her best efforts to steel herself, but her body was inclined to dissolve in his presence.
It’s not real, she reminded herself.
But Arthur’s face was decidedly tilting, and he was very much leaning toward her. His eyes flickered closed, and she stared at his exquisite chiseled features.
“Sweetheart,” he said.
The pet name soared to her heart, as clearly and splendidly as if an opera singer had declared it on stage in a rich baritone to an audience of thousands.
His head seemed to grow larger and with a start she realized he was dipping it toward her.
We’re married.
Her heart danced inside her chest, twisting and twirling, as if unsure whether to feel dread or joy.
It couldn’t be joy, she reminded herself.
She hadn’t wanted to marry.
She’d only agreed with reluctance to marry.
But somehow his dark blue eyes still seemed to shoot through her, and she still managed to be transfixed.
The man exuded handsomeness and confidence. He pulled her toward him, and with a grin he dipped his head toward hers and their lips met.
Her eyes flickered shut, and life consisted only of the feel of his lips against hers.
His lips were warm and firm, qualities she was quickly associating with him. They seemed to play with hers, finding a rhythm she shouldn’t be echoing, but as his tongue swirled against hers, sucking slightly, it was more impossible for her not to echo his movements.
Coughing sounded, perhaps from one of the guests, and she stepped away, pressing her hands against her chest. That gesture seemed far too intimate, and fire seemed to settle in her cheeks.
Arthur seemed paler than before, and she averted her gaze back to the artwork that adorned the chapel.
“It’s lovely,” he said.
“Yes.”
But despite the vibrancy of the paint colors and the perfection of the composition, Arthur’s face remained etched into her mind.
*
The kiss hadn’t seemed so significant when he suggested it.
He’d only initiated it for the benefit of Admiral Fitzroy. He was damned if he was going to allow the admiral to have any excuse to haul her away.
But the sensation had been everything blissful, everything dangerous.
“Congratulations.” Percival strode toward him and patted him on his back. “So happy for you.”
“Indeed.” His brother’s wife, clapped her hands together. Auburn hair spilled from her chignon.
Lying was something he was accustomed to doing. One couldn’t be a spy without some adroitness at the task, and Arthur had excelled in his duties.
But even then, when he’d returned to his apartment in St. James Square, or even when he’d retreated to his bed in whichever faraway country he’d been stationed, he’d been secure in the knowledge that he needn’t lie.
This morning he’d stood before his brother, sister-in-law, and mentor, and lied to them. Somehow it was more difficult than normal to conjure up pride at his ability to deceive people.
“We’re just so happy you’re married,” Percival continued. “I was worried—”
“Never worry about me,” Arthur said.
“Well I certainly won’t now,” Percival said. “Lady Mulbourne—he coughed—I suppose she takes your name now, is splendid.”
“Naturally,” Arthur agreed, thankful that his voice managed to stay firm. “Let’s celebrate more.”
“We were so taken aback,” Fiona said. “And so pleased we were nearby. To think we nearly missed it.”
“Especially after missing Louisa’s wedding,” Percival mused.
“When did you even manage to fall in love?” Fiona asked.
“Oh, they’re old friends,” Percival said.
“Indeed?” Fiona blinked. “You never mentioned. We would certainly have had you over more frequently. Perhaps Madeline and I are both eager to travel, but we still do spend a great portion of time in Yorkshire.”
“Splendid,” Arthur said weakly.
The marriage had seemed like a good idea. The height of logic. But now he envisioned dozens of Christmases and birthdays. He strove to imagine all the scenarios in which he would meet his family.
Perhaps he might parade Madeline at crucial functions. Perhaps he might even explain her absence easily to others. But to his family?
It seemed less practical that her cousin was his brother’s wife.
He glanced at Madeline, but her face remained inscrutable.
“And to think you’re in such a wonderful location,” Fiona exclaimed. “So very romantic.”
“Er—yes.”
“I didn’t know you knew an admiral,” Percival said. “What good luck he was here.”
Arthur’s smile wobbled. Where on earth was the admiral and his overly muscled companion?
And then he saw him.
Speaking with the Costantinis.
Forty feet away.
“Excuse me,” he murmured to his brother.
But already Madeline was at the admiral’s side and leading him away from the Costantini family and toward Arthur.
He beamed at her.
“So adorable,” Fiona said. “Staring at Madeline even now.”
“I remembered she’d made an impression on you so many years ago,” Percival said. “I hadn’t realized how much.”
Arthur’s cheeks warmed. The back of his neck also seemed to suffer from a local heat epidemic. “I wouldn’t say that—”
“He used to speak about her so much,” Percival said.
Ever since the man married, he seemed most eager to see romance in other people’s intentions, and not in a cold analytical manner. On the contrary, the man’s enthusiasm on the state seemed perpetual.
“Is that true?” Fiona asked.
“Most certainly.” Percival elbowed Arthur. “I can speak about it now.”
“I had no idea your husband was carrying a torch for you all those years,” Fiona said to Madeline when she returned from speaking with the admiral. “Did you know?”
Madeline assessed him, and he shivered beneath her gaze. “I did not know.”
“Well. I suppose the man can keep secrets,” Fiona said.
Admiral Fitzroy joined them. “Lovely ceremony. Couldn’t quite make out all the words, but I take it the minister did his job?”
“We’re married,” Arthur said.
“Well. Very quick of you.”
“Oh, he’s been carrying a torch for her for years,” Fiona said.
“Indeed?” Admiral Fitzroy raised his eyebrows. “That is interesting.”
“What’s more interesting is the dinner,” Arthur said firmly and led his guests from the church.
“Nothing is more interesting than romance,” Percival said defiantly. “And now I know you know it too.”
Arthur tried to laugh with the others.
He was happy.
He was certain.
He’d been able to marry her, and the admiral was entirely unsuspicious.
But for some horrible reason he wondered what it would be like if he’d married her truly for love, if he didn’t have the queasy sensation in his stomach that he’d been lying to everyone about himself.
Lying about his life had long been something to which he was accustomed. Lies had been vital to his continued success as a spy. This, though, exceeded any of his previous omissions. For the first time, he looked around him at people living lives without secrets and was aware of a rare sensation…envy.