Page 8 of A Bride for the Scottish Duke (The Gentleman’s Vow #5)

CHAPTER 8

Charity

T he following morning, Charity and Millie stood on the pavement as the Duke of Leith’s carriage rambled down the road toward them. They were both dressed in the very best that Millie’s wardrobe could provide. Charity glanced down at herself, taking in the gown she wore. It was a delicate promenade dress in soft lavender, featuring a fitted bodice with lace and a full bell-shaped skirt, supported by layers of crinoline. The long sleeves were adorned with pearl buttons, and a matching bonnet with silk ribbons framed her face.

Millie had also carefully applied her makeup in a style befitting a lady. Given that Millie—like Charity—usually had her makeup applied for her and lacked experience in doing it herself, Charity thought it looked rather well. Her face bore a light dusting of rice powder, giving her complexion a pale appearance. Her lips shimmered with red, thanks to a beeswax pomade Millie’s maid had made for her the day before in honor of the ball. Charity wasn’t certain what it was made of, but the scent of roses hinted at least one ingredient.

Unlike the day before, her hair was free of the false locks Stevens had arranged. Instead, Millie had managed to style it into a modest chignon at the nape of her neck, secured with a pearl-tipped pin. It was a far cry from the elaborate wedding coiffure she had once envisioned.

In fact, none of this was how she had imagined her wedding day.

She had dreamed of an elaborate gown, of a morning spent preparing alongside her mother and sister, of maids fluttering around her while the whole house vibrated with activity. The cooks would be busy preparing a meal, and the footmen would be setting up tables and chairs in the garden.

She pictured herself walking into the grand church near her home, filled with family and friends. At her side, her father would have beamed at her, and her walk down the aisle would have been accompanied by oohs and ahhs from those who loved her best.

She had envisioned looking out toward the altar and seeing the man she loved turning toward her, his face alight with joy, his gaze locked onto hers as he awaited her arrival at his side. He would have taken her hand, kissed it softly, and together they would have begun their life as husband and wife.

But that was not to be.

As the duke’s carriage rolled to a stop, reality settled on her. There was no chapel, no wedding flowers, no bridesmaids. Instead, she was bound for the registry office, marrying not as the daughter of nobility should, but as a commoner, as one of those unfortunate souls who could not wed within the Church of England. Her father would be rolling in his grave. Or would he? This was in part due to his actions.

The carriage soon came to a stop, and as soon as it did, the telltale sound of horse manure splattering onto the road drew her attention. One of the two stately black horses had lifted its tail and done its business in the road. The stench accompanying this sight was overwhelming, and she felt her eyes water.

Unsure if these tears were due to the horrid smell or her equally horrid situation, she pinched her nose shut while beside her, Millie chuckled.

“What a lovely welcome,” she said, smiling as though this should be amusing.

The Duke of Leith stepped down from the carriage, his fine suit impeccably tailored, his dark hair slicked back, cufflinks gleaming in the morning sun. He offered a small, polite smile before catching sight of the horse’s activity.

“Well,” he said with a smirk, “that is unfortunate.” He turned and positioned himself in such a way as to keep her from seeing the mess directly.

“Lady Charity,” he greeted her with a bow, as if to start over. “Lady Millie.”

Millie curtsied in return. “Your Grace.”

“I trust you are well this morning?” he inquired of Charity, who was just now recovering from the unfortunate assault on her nostrils.

Trust that she was well? She wanted to scoff. She was far from well. The night had been restless; Millie’s nightgown, which she had borrowed, had been too long, tangling around her feet, and Millie, in their shared bed, had been a restless sleeper, kicking in her slumber.

She ought to have taken the guest room, but they’d arrived so late that Charity hadn’t wanted to bother the maids with making up another room. Besides, she had thought it might be comforting to have her cousin beside her. And it had.

They had spoken for a long time before falling asleep, and the conversation had eased her somewhat. Alas, no comfort could chase away the dreadful anticipation of the morning ahead. When sleep finally found her, it was plagued with dreams—or rather nightmares—of what was to come. The thought that bothered her the most was how her mother would take this news.

How in the world would she explain to her that she’d married in a registry office? And how was she to explain that this marriage supposedly took place days ago?

What an impossible situation he has placed me in, and why? For my own good, as he insists on saying?

“Lady Charity,” the duke’s voice pulled her from her reverie. She blinked, realizing Millie had already stepped into the carriage.

“Allow me,” he said, proffering his hand. She hesitated before placing hers in his grasp, allowing him to assist her into the carriage. She settled beside Millie, who had taken the seat across from a young, blond-haired gentleman. He inclined his head with a pleasant smile.

“Thomas Banfield,” he introduced himself. “Marquess of Ruslip.”

She nodded, recognizing the name. His father was the Duke of —, an uncle to Eammon. The previous evening, Millie had spent hours detailing family connections, even sketching out a family tree to prepare her for the alliances she would soon be bound to.

“This is my cousin,” the duke added before tapping his walking stick against the roof, signaling the coachman to depart. The carriage lurched forward, jostling Charity in her seat as she bumped into Millie.

“Everything is arranged,” the duke informed her. “The registrar will ensure the records reflect that we were wed three days ago, even though we are only getting married today.”

Charity’s hands folded in her lap, her fingers tightening around one another in hopes of stopping them from shaking. Alas, it was too late. The duke had already noticed and glanced down at her hands with what could only be described as a pitying look.

Oh, how she resented that pity.

She met his eyes. “So, you have had a busy morning, it seems, if it is all arranged. All of London will believe we have already been wed. But what of my mother? What am I to tell her?”

He let out a breath, his jaw tightening. “It is being handled. Your mother will meet us at the registry office, along with mine.”

Her lips parted in surprise. “What?”

“I spoke to my mother last night on my return and told her what had transpired,” he explained. “She censured me rather severely and insisted that no young lady should be wed without her mother present. She has gone to your mother this morning to explain the situation.”

Charity stared at him.

The situation.

What, exactly, was the situation? What story could the Dowager Duchess of Leith possibly weave that would make any of this seem acceptable?

The duke glanced at Charity before answering. “She will tell her that we met a week ago. We wished to keep our courtship quiet because we knew that as soon as it was known that Lady Charity was courting a duke, there would be pressure to wed. We did not wish for this, but when it became clear that Lady Pembroke had plans for Lord Markham to step in, we knew we had to do something. I proposed, and Charity accepted.”

“That does not explain why you burst into Stafford House last night and claimed me as your wife,” Charity pointed out, a bit sharper than was needed.

“Indeed, I have thought of that. I will claim that when I heard Lord Markham threatened you, I lost my temper and got ahead of myself somewhat by proclaiming us wed. Going back on it would be very unfortunate for us both; therefore, we will wed today to avoid scandal. She will understand.

“She will remind her of the close connection between my father and hers. And she will also point out that a match with a duke is far more advantageous than one with a mere viscount.” He paused. “I am certain your mother will see reason.”

Charity could not argue. Her mother would be overjoyed at the prospect of her daughter marrying a duke—so much so that she might overlook the circumstances entirely.

“My mother has already arranged a small wedding breakfast,” he continued. “It will be held at my sister’s home. Only our mothers and cousins will attend, of course.”

Charity’s stomach clenched. This was not the wedding she had dreamed of, but it was the wedding she would have.

“I shall not be able to tarry long,” his cousin said. “I must meet my father this morning, but I am glad to be of service. And may I say, you both look rather splendid indeed.”

Charity smiled at him, noting her husband to be had not made mention of how she looked. Though why should he? They were not in love. Still, it would have been polite to do so. Then again, the duke did not strike her as polite in general.

“It is my cousin’s gown, for I did not have any of my own things,” she explained, looking at the duke as if to silently convey her displeasure at all of this.

“You shall have them soon enough. Your maids are even now packing your belongings and having them brought to Hayward. Hayward House is but a thirty-minute carriage ride outside of London, so everything will be there when you arrive after the wedding breakfast.” He pulled out a golden pocket watch and casually opened it. “It is almost eleven. I should say we will be home in time for dinner.”

Dinner. Home. The words were familiar yet too peculiar, so strange for they described nothing she was familiar with, not in this new light.

“Is there anything else you may need other than your clothing and such? Of course, I imagine you will return to your mother’s townhouse to bring whatever was missed,” he said. Charity pressed her lips together.

“I see, Your Grace, you will allow me to visit my home as I please?” she said sharply. Millie sucked in air beside her while the duke’s cousin puckered his lips and looked outside. She knew this was not how a lady ought to behave, but she had all but been kidnapped into marriage. She thought some displeasure shown to this man would not go amiss.

“Of course, you are free to call on whomever you wish, whenever you wish. You are to be wed, not imprisoned in the tower as used to be the case with unwanted wives. Now. My question.”

She blinked, for she had not expected this reply. What had she expected? Truthfully, she did not know.

“Ambrose,” Millie whispered beside her and Charity turned. Then, her eyes grew wide. Ambrose. Of course. This was her chance! Ambrose, her five-year-old Shetland pony had been her dearest companion since the moment she had received him for her fourteenth birthday. The brown and white shettie had been her trusted companion since then. When she was younger, she’d ridden the little horse but now she was an adult, she mostly preferred to walk the meadow with him or brush his coat while feeding him apples and carrots.

Since leaving Pembroke, she had not been able to see the horse as they had no stable at the London home and her mother refused to rent one or use a livery stable. She did not see the use of a Shetland pony. This circumstance had almost broken her heart. But now, perhaps, she might have a chance to get her friend back.

“I would like to bring Ambrose,” she said, pulling her shoulders back to give herself a more stern, confident appearance.

“Ambrose? Is he a favored servant?” the duke asked.

“He is my horse. He is a Shetland pony whom I adore,” she said, clenching her hands because suddenly, the need to have Ambrose was so urgent she feared he might say no.

“A Shetland pony?” he said, his eyebrows rising. Then, he broke into a smile. “My mother has a Shetland pony also who resides at Hayward. It will be good for Hector to have a companion,” he said. Charity’s eyes widened. There was a shettie at Hayward? Her new mother-in-law liked them? How…peculiar, and yet how wonderful. For the first time since her father had passed she felt a sense of relief, of lightness.

“So, Your Grace does not mind?”

“Not at all. Although I should prefer that when we are among friends, you call me Eammon. Thomas does as should you. And, I suppose you should do so as well, Lady Millie, since the four of us are in a confederacy of sorts and now hold this secret.”

“Very well,” Millie replied and winked at Charity, as if this was all some grand win.

“Where is this horse now?” he inquired.

“At my family’s country estate in Hartford,” Millie replied, and the duke nodded.

“Very well, it is settled. Ambrose shall be brought to reside with us at Hayward. Now, we cannot tarry; we have arrived,” he declared, rapping on the carriage roof to command it to a halt.

Charity sat in silence, uncertain of what to say or how to comprehend what she had just heard. She harbored a deep loathing for this man—she truly did. For now, in addition to compelling her to marry him without her consent, he pretended to be benevolent.

She ought perhaps to be grateful for Ambrose’s company, for she had sorely missed him, but she despised the notion of being further indebted to the duke. Eammon. He already acted as if she should be thankful for the forced marriage, but she remained perplexed.

There was no more time to ponder, however, as the carriage drew to a stop before Somerset House, the general registry office. She awaited the coachman to open the carriage door, and then the duke alighted. He extended his hand once more, and she accepted it. The sensation was strange; at once, she felt the strength in his grip. He held her hand firmly yet somewhat gently. She swallowed hard. She had been assisted out of carriages before, yet this action had never incited such a visceral response in her.

The fury this man stirred within her lingered, but the feeling of his hand around hers was not entirely displeasing.

Goodness gracious, what am I thinking? I loathe him. I truly loathe him. He is ruining my life! I must not dwell on how strong his grip is!

She inhaled sharply and moved past him as he helped Millie from the carriage. She needed to cease her thoughts entirely. She required an utterly empty mind to endure this ordeal. She had to press on, as her father often said.

“How magnificent!” Millie exclaimed as she joined her. “I have never before visited Somerset House, though I ought to have.”

Charity blinked, and on absorbing her cousin’s words, she glanced around to see that, indeed, Somerset House was quite grand. The complex was magnificent and irregular, with edifices and wings that spanned various eras. Some were in the Tudor style, others appeared newer, yet all were distinct and imposing.

The River Thames flowed behind them, the shouts of those rowing ripping through the air.

“Are you cold?” the duke’s warm voice reached her ear. She turned to him and caught her reflection in his eyes. She appeared pitiful and diminutive. No wonder, for she had always been small, standing at just five feet. Yet it was not merely her stature. She resembled someone who had withdrawn into herself. Again, she perceived a softness in his eyes. She had scarcely thought this possible, as the night before he had been brimming with arrogance and resolve. Yet he stood here, perhaps filled with a hint of regret for his actions.

“I am as well as you would expect,” she managed, pulling her shoulders back. “Yet I do wonder: is there no other recourse? We could declare ourselves mistaken, that we believed we were wed but that the man who performed the ceremony was not a proper registrar?”

The softness in his gaze vanished, and his jaw tightened. “Lady Charity, I cannot protect you if you will not allow me.”

“Protect me from what?” she asked, her tone taking on a note of desperation.

“This debate is fruitless and I will not waste my time on it; we must proceed,” he barked, striding toward the building. Millie and his cousin had already gone ahead, and the carriage had driven away to some unknown destination. Charity puffed up her cheeks and let her shoulders

sag. It was futile. She was to be wed, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it.

The interior of the registry office buzzed with activity. Clerks bustled about, all immaculately attired, while people moved up and down the halls. She realized that weddings were not the sole occurrence at Somerset House, for half of London seemed to be present. She trailed behind her betrothed and their party, feeling akin to a dog following its master without a lead.

Thoughts swirled once more. Could she make her escape? She might easily dash out of the registry office again. No one was holding her prisoner, after all; she was not yet his wife. Yet as she pondered, she recognized it was not a prudent idea. Where would she go? Would she make her way to Hartford, fetch Ambrose, and ride to—where? Besides, she was no longer able to mount the Shetland pony. She was small, at barely five feet, but ponies were not meant for adult riders.

Then, to her dismay, she saw something that extinguished all foolish thoughts of running away.

Her mother. And Eleanor.