Page 22 of A Bride for the Scottish Duke (The Gentleman’s Vow #5)

CHAPTER 22

Eammon

O nce the curtain was drawn up over the carriage, he turned to her. “The gentleman you beheld was Mr. Clyde Morris. He is employed by me. He regularly oversees affairs in the city when I am absent. He has informed me that, evidently, Markham has made inquiries at the registry office, striving to prove that our union is not legitimate.”

“Charity grows cold,” she queried. “What dost thou mean? Charity has grown cold. How can he attempt to demonstrate that our marriage lacks validity? We are wed. We exchanged our vows. How can he claim it to be invalid?”

“He does not believe we were ever married. Of course we were, and there exists documentation to attest to it; that, however, is not the crux of the matter. The man who united us is someone who owes me a debt of gratitude. He would never betray us, for to do so would endanger his own position.”

“Ah, so the papers we possess assert that we were wed on the day we claim, not on the actual date,” she replied in confirmation.

“Indeed. They cannot issue paperwork to just any random soul who requests it,” he explained, “but that is not the principal concern. The main issue is that the registry office has confirmed our marriage, albeit not the specific date, which is perfectly within their rights to do.”

The carriage jolted into motion, propelling them onward. “Forgive me, but I fail to see the problem.”

He adjusted his collar, seemingly attempting to allow for a breath of fresh air to reach his skin, to soothe his body. “The trouble is that once Markham learned of the existence of a marriage license on record, he began to tell his acquaintances and companions that you were coerced into this marriage. That it was not of your choosing, and that I compelled you to wed me.”

“When did you compel me?” she countered, but the moment the words escaped her lips, she noticed his eyes widen, and he cast a glance behind him. “Charity, unless you wish to become the talk of Markham, you must cease to voice such sentiments aloud.”

“Evidently, Markham has resolved to prove to the world that our marriage is built on false pretenses, and that you did not wish it, which could first ignite a scandal on both our heads and second…well, the scandal could compel us to dissolve the marriage, meaning you would be required to wed again. If he can convince individuals at the registry office that you were forced into this marriage, there may be inquiries. Many inquiries. People may delve into the particulars of our union, into our tale. Even if it does not lead to any scandal, the fallout could be such that our entire narrative is laid bare. It will become known that we misled the registry office, and our marriage could be declared null and void.”

“And then what?” she asked. “Would we be obliged to wait once more?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head as he regarded her as one would a na?ve child. “If Markham can establish that we falsified our wedding date, then our marriage is indeed void. There would be a thorough inquiry, and maybe charges brought against me. The days when nobles could evade accountability, as they did two decades past, are long gone.”

“So I am in peril of being wed to Markham after all?”

“Nobody can compel you to wed Markham,” he rejoined.

She wished to point out that she had been made to marry him , but her previous venture down that path had earned her such disapproval from him that she would not tread there again.

“So if Markham perseveres on this course, he may indeed uncover something? But you claimed that the man who wed us is loyal to you.”

“He is, and he shall remain steadfast. I possess certainty on that matter. But Markham could make inquiries as to our courtship. Regarding when we claimed to have met, contacting those who witnessed our vows, even speaking to our mothers, perchance.”

“Is it possible?” she inquired.

“I cannot tell you how probable it is. I doubt such a thing has ever transpired before, and I know not of anyone so determined to prove a marriage as false. In truth, never have I encountered anything like this.”

She glanced out the window, catching sight of the little village of Worcester fading from view, while Hector and Ambrose commenced their walk back to their abode.

The landscape transformed, replacing the quaint cottages that had surrounded them for hours with vast fields and groves of trees in the distance.

“What does Markham desire? I cannot comprehend this. All of this, and for what? To force a marriage he knows I do not want? Even if he could demonstrate that I was forced into this union, I did not wish to marry him either.”

Eammon clenched his jaw as he gazed out the window. Now he understood why, yet he held his tongue. Why?

“Tell me the truth,” she implored.

“Markham is a dreadful man. You questioned whether I was after your fortune. I was not. Yet he very well could be. He covets all that your father possessed. We must ensure that such a fate does not befall us.”

To Charity, this sounded but half the truth. There was certainly more hidden. Her father was not a wealthy gentleman, and what was her husband concealing? The mere notion that he harbored secrets stung her deeply, for she had believed they had reached an understanding, an agreement. Had it all been naught but an illusion?

Nevertheless, she knew there was nothing she could say or do to unravel his silence. For the moment, all that mattered was their mutual protection. But how?

As if he had divined her thoughts, he inhaled deeply. “What we must do is mimic what we have accomplished here today. We were here today as duke and duchess, presenting ourselves before all who reside on our lands, demonstrating that we are a contented couple, dedicated to our futures and to those of our subjects. We must do the same at our next gathering. There is a ball, Charity, to be held this very weekend. We should attend together.”

“Present ourselves as duke and duchess,” she agreed. “Show everyone that we are indeed a happy couple, delighted to be wed, so that we may quell all attempts by Markham to disparage us.”

A small smile flickered across his face. “I once thought you young and na?ve, Charity, but now I see you possess understanding far beyond that which I credited you. You are a woman of great fortitude, far more formidable than I had ever surmised.”

She felt a flush rise to her cheeks at the compliment, yet swallowed the lump that formed in her throat.

“Well,” she said, “thank you. And yes, I shall accompany you to the ball. We will prove to all that our marriage is indeed authentic and silence all doubt.”

To her astonishment, he leaned over and briefly placed his hand atop hers, squeezing gently. She had not thought to don her gloves after their stroll, and thus felt the warmth of his palm pressing against the back of her hand. The brief connection was electrifying—a sensation she found thrilling yet unsettling.

She glanced downward at their hands, and on noticing her gaze, he quickly withdrew his hand and returned it to his own knee.

Yes, she resolved internally, they would dispel any uncertainty regarding their union. They would extinguish the doubt that was growing within her own heart that she wished would dissipate alongside it…

* * *

That Sunday, Eammon and Charity made their way to the ball at the Earl of Arlington’s grand Mayfair residence. The noble gentleman, Eammon’s maternal uncle, was known for his reclusive tendencies and seldom graced social affairs with his presence. Yet, the Arlington Ball was the singular event to which he invariably adhered, an engagement largely orchestrated by Eammon’s aunt, Louisa, though his rare attendance was deemed a triumph in their social circles.

“The Earl of Arlington is your uncle?” Charity inquired as their carriage rolled leisurely along the gaslit London streets, the rhythmic clatter of hooves echoing off the cobbled roads.

“Indeed. My mother Lydia’s younger sister, Louisa, is wed to him.”

“I see,” she murmured, musing on this revelation. “You possess such an extensive and illustrious family; it is quite the endeavor to keep account of them all. I can scarce imagine what it must be like, to be surrounded by so many relations.”

Eammon forced a smile, though within him stirred an unease, for she yet remained ignorant of the whole truth. He adjusted the cuffs of his coat, the fine wool stretching over his broad shoulders, before gazing out at the passing streetlamps flickering against the evening mist. The fine tailoring of his attire, a rich midnight blue tailcoat trimmed with silver thread, seemed to anchor him to the world of society—yet all the while, he felt the weight of his deception bearing down on him like an invisible cloak. His boots, polished to a gleaming shine, clicked against the wooden floor of the carriage with each turn of the wheels, a rhythmic sound that offered no comfort.

Their rapport had altered, grown easier. Once stilted dinners had softened into engaging discourse of literature, theatre, and society’s diversions. There was pleasure—true pleasure—in their exchanges. And yet, he knew such contentment was precarious, built on Charity’s mistaken belief that she had unraveled his secret. She remained under the illusion, albeit with some hesitation, that he had married her to conceal his supposed ignominious Irish Catholic ancestry. She knew naught of the reality. She was oblivious to the fact that her husband was an impostor. Markham’s investigation was no mere inconvenience—it threatened to shatter the fragile facade Eammon had so painstakingly constructed. Should Markham persist, he would unearth not only that Eammon had sought Charity’s hand to gain access to her father’s ledger of confidences, but that Eammon himself was no rightful heir. For, in truth, there was no legitimate heir to the dukedom…

The thought sent a cold shiver down his spine. The aristocracy did not take kindly to deception, and his carefully woven web of lies was beginning to fray at the edges. What recourse had he? He exhaled slowly, composing himself. There was but one path forward—to persist in the deception, to present a seamless front to the ton, and to silence Markham’s insidious inquiries before they laid him bare.

The carriage drew to a halt before Arlington House, a stately mansion that had stood sentinel over Mayfair for three centuries. The gilded windows shimmered with candlelight, illuminating the fine carvings and intricate masonry that adorned the grand facade. Liveried footmen hurried to their carriage, one lowering the step while another opened the door. Eammon stepped out first, his gloved hand extended to assist Charity. She descended with grace, her gown of deep sapphire satin catching the golden glow of carriage lamps, its rich fabric pooling elegantly about her feet. The delicate lace at her sleeves and neckline lent her an air of refined beauty, while the candlelight from within flickered against the subtle shimmer of the satin.

She lifted her chin as she surveyed the scene, her gloved fingers tightening slightly around his arm. “What a magnificent home,” she murmured, her gaze sweeping across the towering marble columns and the classical statues that adorned the grand vestibule. “I thought your sister’s house, where we dined on our wedding morn, was grand—but this…” She trailed off, admiration evident in her tone. Her sparkling sapphire eyes caught the gleam of the mansion’s expansive hall, the glimmer of the chandeliers casting soft halos on the marble floors. The tapestries that lined the walls seemed almost alive, their deep reds and golds swirling like forgotten tales from long ago.

He chuckled, though his thoughts were elsewhere. “Arlington House has stood for generations. My aunt has ensured that its grandeur has remained untarnished.”

As they ascended the marble steps, the vastness of the house enveloped them, the air filled with an air of grandeur and wealth. A long line of guests awaited their entrance inside, and the unmistakable sound of string instruments floated down the hallway from the ballroom. Charity’s dress, a masterpiece of blue satin, trailed behind her, a reflection of the evening’s elegance. She looked every bit the duchess, even though her title rested on a bed of lies.

At the head of the receiving line stood the Earl and Countess of Arlington. His aunt, Louisa, bestowed on them a warm smile, her silk gown a deep burgundy, her neck adorned with pearls. Her warm, soft hands reached out to take Charity’s.

“Eammon, what a delight it is to see you.”

“And you, Aunt Louisa,” he returned, before turning to his uncle. “Uncle Cecil.” Then, indicating Charity, he continued, “May I present my wife, Charity Hayward, Duchess of Leith?”

Charity instinctively dipped into a curtsey but arrested herself at the last moment, recalling that she outranked both the earl and countess. Instead, she inclined her head, awaiting their deference in accordance with propriety.

It was a peculiar thing—to have two individuals of such advanced years bow and curtsey before her—but such was the nature of society’s rigid order. Eammon felt his own discomfort shift to Charity, watching her navigate the unfamiliar territory of high society with grace and dignity, though there was a slight hesitation in her eyes.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she said with composure. “Eammon has spoken of your family.”

“Has he?” the earl inquired, arching a skeptical brow. “The Haywards are not known for indulging in personal discourse.”

“What unfounded nonsense you speak, Cecil,” Louisa chastised with a gentle shake of her head. “She is family now.” She turned to Charity with a conspiratorial smile. “You must forgive my husband. He is an incorrigible curmudgeon, preferring his own company above all else.”

“I intended no slight,” the earl muttered, though his manner remained gruff. “It is an honor to welcome so lovely a young lady into our family.” He inclined his head towards Charity in formal acknowledgment.

She accepted the sentiment with a demure smile before allowing Eammon to lead her into the ballroom.

It was a more intimate gathering than the grand spectacles at Stapleton House, yet no less splendid. Only those expressly invited by the earl and countess were in attendance. Still, Eammon had been informed through reliable sources that Markham had secured an invitation as a guest of one of his cousins.

“Charity!” a familiar voice called.

Her cousin Millie bounded toward them, her auburn curls bouncing with each step, her earrings swaying in a glittering dance. She halted before them and executed a swift curtsey.

“Forgive me—I quite forgot I must now curtsey to you.”

“Think nothing of it,” Charity replied with a light laugh. “I very nearly curtsied to the countess myself. It is the strangest thing—to be curtsied to rather than offering one.”

“That is the privilege of a duchess,” Eammon interjected smoothly. “Respect is afforded to one of your station.”

And yet, the notion sat uncomfortably with him, for he knew it was but an illusion. If the truth of his past came to light, their titles would be forfeit. But until then, appearances must be maintained. His thoughts veered toward Markham, and his stomach churned.

“It is good to see you, Your Grace,” Millie said, adopting a more formal tone in deference to their surroundings. “I saw your cousin—Lord Marcus—is here.”

Eammon’s smile tightened. “Indeed. Many of my family are present this evening.” His gaze traversed the room and alighted on his aunt and uncle, Hannah and Edwin, engaged in conversation with Thomas across the way.

“Lady Millie, you will excuse me if I steal away my wife for a moment? There are introductions yet to be made.”

“Of course,” Millie said, squeezing Charity’s arm. “We shall speak later.”

Eammon’s gaze sharpened. Speak later? What could they have to discuss? Was Charity unwittingly stumbling on the threads of his deception? No—he must not yield to paranoia. Millie and Charity were dear friends; it was only natural they should have much to say to one another.

Suppressing his unease, he led Charity across the room to where his uncle Thomas brightened at their approach. He was a man of stately figure, wearing a midnight coat trimmed in silver brocade that sparkled faintly in the candlelight.

“Your Grace,” Thomas greeted, bowing slightly. “A picture of beauty and grace.”

Charity blushed at the effusive compliment. “I thank you, my lord.

Eammon turned to introduce his other relatives. “This is my uncle, the Duke of Ashburn, and his wife, my Aunt Hannah, the Duchess of Ashburn.”

His aunt smiled warmly, laughter lines crinkling the corners of her eyes, a reflection of years of kindness.

“Please,” she said, “call me Hannah when we are in private. I am your aunt by marriage, after all.”

“And I am Edwin,” his uncle added. “It is lovely to see that Eammon has found his match.” He chuckled. “And so swiftly, too.”

But Eammon hardly heard him. His thoughts churned. His aunt and uncle knew the truth of his parentage, but not the deception he had since woven. The entire affair was spinning out of control, faster than those terrible storms his cousin David had written about in America.

The sensation was almost like that of a tornado—its fury building up in his chest, a storm of anxiety swirling, threatening to break everything he had carefully built. Eammon’s pulse quickened, his throat tightening as the walls seemed to close in. He could no longer ignore the impending collapse. If Markham succeeded in exposing him, all would be lost. Every falsehood would come crashing down.

Beads of sweat formed at his brow. His chest tightened, his breath coming short. He had to get away—now.

“Excuse me,” he murmured. “I feel a cough coming on. Where are the refreshments?”

With a nod from his uncle toward the smoking room, Eammon strode away, his pulse hammering as though he were being chased by the very truth itself.