Chapter Twenty
He was a stranger.
And worse, he was a stranger who struggled to tolerate her.
His jaw was set, and his face, which often flickered with emotion, was fixed into a scowl once she joined him. His expression couldn’t seem more unwavering, if a sculpture had carved him from stone.
He’d spent the rest of the wedding reception chatting with his brother and sister-in-law, inquiring about their journey, his brother’s leg, and his sister-in-law’s archaeological career.
The only thing his topics had in common was that they did not touch upon the wedding or on Madeline.
The raindrops ceased their relentless descent and stopped splattering onto the cobbled square. Even the clouds floated away, and the waves turned blue under the now cerulean sky. Light scattered over the ocean, and the waters seemed to calm. Ships no longer bobbed in the water, and they seemed to sit regally as their crew raised their sails.
“How beautiful,” Fiona said. “What a good sign for the start of your marriage.”
Madeline gave her a tight smile. The appropriate response was likely a demurral, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak.
She missed the baron. Her late husband might have had his faults, but he always had a jovial smile for her. The baron had always told everyone he was lucky to have a pretty wife, appreciating her role as hostess. He’d never demanded respect or deference as some men might, and remained grateful that she’d kept his secret. He’d laughed at any sarcastic comments she might have on those less imbued with fashion sense, enjoying discussions on fabric cuts and table placements more than her cousins.
It hadn’t been a romance, but it had been a friendship, and that was more than she would ever have with Arthur.
By marrying her, Arthur had given up any hopes he might have for happiness. When he inquired about his brothers’ children, it would be with the understanding that he would not have any of his own.
Her stomach tensed.
Or perhaps he did intend to bed her. He likely would have no inability to display his masculine prowess. Likely he excelled in that activity as he did in everything else.
In fact. She knew he excelled in it. She’d heard the rumors.
And he’ll learn…
She wrapped her arms together.
Fiona gave her a worried look, and she dropped her arms to her side and attempted to laugh.
Unfortunately the sound seemed devoid of confidence, and Fiona strode toward her.
Madeline closed her eyes. She adored her cousin. But she wasn’t going to admit to her that she was anything else except happy.
She still remembered when she’d viewed Fiona with suspicion. She’d tried to warn Fiona to take more care of herself. Fiona had seemed to live in a dream world, one that left her dresses curiously always muddy and which sent her scattering whenever a man of means appeared. Fiona had seemed to view her as the harbinger of duty and all things unpleasant.
Thankfully those days were past.
That said, the thought of confessing her fears to her cousin… She shook her head. The thought was impossible.
“Is there anything you would like to speak about?” Fiona asked.
“No.”
“You’re happy?”
“Naturally?” Madeline squeaked. “Who wouldn’t be?”
Fiona’s expression remained grave.
“I’m a marchioness, after all,” Madeline continued. “Not quite a duchess, like you, but awfully grand.”
Fiona nodded. “Your parents would have been proud.”
“Indeed,” Madeline chirped.
“But that’s not the only reason you married him, is it? You do love him?”
Love.
The word was the sort that poets mulled over, usually before they started some stanzas on a peaches-and-cream complexion.
Arthur didn’t have a peaches-and-cream complexion. Those seemed reserved for milkmaids, but he was more handsome than any man Madeline had ever met.
She’d thought so when she was eighteen and on her first season.
“I never told you why I didn’t spend more time with you when we debuted.”
Fiona stiffened. “We-we needn’t speak about it.”
“I think we should. I’m sorry. You’re right, I should have made certain you were happier.”
“You seemed to have had no trouble then.”
“I was confident—overly so. I had met somebody. Arthur.”
Fiona blinked.
“You might not remember him. He wasn’t a marquess back then. Just Arthur Carmichael.”
“You loved him back then,” Fiona breathed.
Madeline glanced to see where Arthur was. He was deep in discussion with his older brother, his back turned to them.
Madeline nodded. “I did.”
Her heart trembled. She shouldn’t be admitting this, especially not to herself. It was hopeless.
Arthur would always remember her as a thief. He’d always remember her as the woman who forced him from the comforts of bachelorhood.
And yet—
Of course she loved him.
She always had.
She loved his appearance, his quick wit, and the kindness that had made him not hesitate to tell Admiral Fitzroy and the comte that he would marry her—
Heavens, she did love that about him.
The man seemed to have an ability to send butterflies flittering through her stomach and chest.
She forced herself to smile. “I’m sorry if I’m acting strangely. I—I just never expected this to happen.”
That much is true.
“I was worried when you were late to the wedding.”
“Too many canals,” she lied. “Quite a maze. The gondolier was stuck because of the rising waters, and I was so foolish and thought I could find my way to the chapel myself.”
“Oh,” Fiona said.
“Silly me.” Madeline beamed, hoping the words did not come off as being overly forced.
“I wonder why you didn’t have a large London wedding.”
“I already had one,” Madeline said. “It wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“But if you really wanted one—”
“I don’t,” Madeline said hastily. “Too much fuss. I’m no longer a doe-eyed debutante.”
Fiona smiled. “I doubt you ever were a doe-eyed debutante.”
“Darling,” Fiona said. “Let me tell Percival that we should go. He’s been occupying your dear husband dreadfully.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Madeline exclaimed.
“Of course I do,” Fiona said. “It’s your wedding night.”
Was Fiona possibly winking? But then her cousin turned around and sauntered to her husband, leaving Madeline with a hard feeling in her stomach.