Page 6 of An Arranged Marriage with a Mad Marquess (Marriage Mart Scandals #3)

There wasn’t going to be a wedding breakfast. Neil had insisted on that.

Part of him felt guilty, but truly, what was the point? He had few, if any, friends that he would want to invite, and anyway, the scandal sheets had had a lot to say about his engagement and upcoming marriage. None of it was very pleasant.

Harry had told him to leave the scandal sheets alone, to let those bitter, trouble-hungry scribblers write whatever they chose and just leave it at that, but of course Neil had never been good at making sensible choices. He’d read most of the articles containing his name. Some articles seemed to consider that Neil and Miss Marshville were as bad as each other – the Mad Marquess and the Spinster, both desperate to marry and make something of their failing lives – and others painted her as a damsel in distress, forced into marriage.

In reality, she was neither. Or so he thought, at least. Miss Marshville and he had not spoken much since that day in her father’s study. She hadn’t seemed upset or disappointed when he’d told her that, instead of a wedding breakfast, they would go straight back to his estate.

The truth was that extended periods in new places made Neil anxious. He hadn’t had too many fits lately. Three more fits were recorded in his book, which he had duly shown to Mr. Blackburn when the man visited. More remedies were prescribed, but the physician’s face was heavy with worry.

There was no need to say what everybody was thinking – things did not appear to be going well for Neil. His health seemed to worsen by the day, energy draining from him like ale from a cask.

Enough of that, he scolded himself. You are getting married today. You have already ruined Miss Marshville’s life enough; do not ruin her wedding day by looking sour and miserable.

The church was full. He did not recognize most of the guests, but it was possible that they were friends of the Marshvilles.

None of the Marshvilles were here yet, of course. Part of him wondered whether Miss Marshvillemight withdraw her initial acceptance and abandon him, succumbing to her trepidation and forsaking him at the altar. It would be humiliating, to be sure, but he would recover. Probably.

His mother sat in the front pew, with Cynthia at her side, smiling encouragingly at him. Harry stood beside him, serving as his best man. Clayton had sent Neil a note full of thinly veiled outrage at being passed over as best man for a servant .

Mean words as if Harry were not related to them both.

Clayton was not there, claiming business further north. Thomasin was there, however. His aunt sat a few pews back, not with her family. She looked regal and icy, which was probably her intention, and did not smile at anybody.

“Is she late?” Neil murmured, turning to Harry.

“Only by a few minutes. Nothing to worry about.”

“Not yet, at least.”

Harry pressed his lips together. “Have a little faith, Neil. The family wants this marriage just as much as you do.”

Neil was about to say something caustic and probably uncalled for when he heard the rumble of carriage wheels outside. He stiffened, and half of the congregation twisted around to stare at the closed chapel doors.

They heard muffled voices and footsteps. The door opened, and Lady Marshville strode in, flanked by her two youngest daughters. They kept their heads high and their gazes straight ahead and did not smile. They took their places on the front pew, opposite the one which Neil’s family had commandeered.

There was only a short pause before the door opened again, this time revealing Lord Marshville and his daughter.

To his horror, Neil’s breath caught in his throat.

She looked beautiful, so beautiful. Her ivory gown suited her perfectly, the subtle embellishments catching the light as she moved. She held no flowers, but let her free arm hang by her side, the one that wasn’t looped through her father’s elbow.

They walked quickly, not seeming to look at anyone, and before he knew it, the pair were at the top of the aisle.

Lord Marshville pressed a quick, tearful kiss to his daughter’s cheek, and then left her. Left her with Neil.

The pair glanced at each other, and he wondered, not for the first time, what Miss Marshville saw when she looked at him.

“Dearly beloved,” the rector began, voice carrying easily through the quiet chapel. “We are gathered her today to celebrate the union of this man and this woman…”

Neil turned to face the rector, trying desperately to swallow down the sudden feelings of nausea and dizziness.

Oh, no, he thought frantically. Not here. Not here!

He closed his eyes, barely listening to the rector’s sermon. When it was time to exchange the vows, he had to be prompted twice by the rector.

When the exchange of rings came, and Harry handed him the ring he was meant to put on Miss Marshville’s finger, his hand shook so badly that Neil was sure that he would drop the ring and have to spend an agonizing few moments scrabbling around for it.

Patrina’s gaze darted between his shaking hand and his face. Unexpectedly, she lifted her free hand to his wrist, steadying him.

He swallowed hard, eyes flying up to meet hers. She gave a tiny, encouraging smile. The ring slipped onto her finger, the vows were said, and it was done. They were married.

What have I done? Neil thought frantically. What have I done?

They turned to greet the congregation as husband and wife, the cheers somewhat muted. Neil saw a great many blank, stony, and disapproving faces turned towards him. He bit the inside of his cheek and tried not to care. They were only concerned about Miss Marshville, after all.

No, not Miss Marshville. She was the Marchioness of Morendale now, Lady Patrina Tidemore.

Her hand was clasped in his, and he wasn’t entirely sure when she had put it there. Or had he taken her hand? Suddenly, Neil was aware that his head was thick and pounding, and he felt dizzy.

“We have to go,” he murmured urgently to his brand-new bride. “Are you ready to leave now?”

She blinked up at him. “I… I hoped to say goodbye to my family. I thought we would go back for a cup of tea, at least. “

“No. I… I must go home.”

She pressed her lips together, barely concealing disappointment. “Very well. But I must bid them farewell, first. You can allow me that, at least.”

He flinched. “Yes. Indeed, I can allow you that.”

***

The four of them would be travelling back in one carriage, with another carriage following with Patrina’s things and her maid.

Neil shook Lord Marshville’s hand with a wan little smile, bowed to Lady Marshville and the remaining two daughters, and then climbed into the carriage. It seemed kinder to let Patrina say goodbye to her sisters and parents alone.

Although, of course, it wasn’t goodbye as such. Morendale wasn’t so very far from here. Her family could visit, surely?

Lady Emma and Cynthia were already seated in the carriage, skirts spreading out to take up most of the space. They sat opposite each other, and Neil slid onto the seat beside his mother. He thought that Miss Marshville – no, not Miss Marshville anymore! – would prefer to sit by Cynthia, rather than her new mother-in-law.

The ring, his new wedding-ring, sat coldly around his finger, clinking when he touched door handles and such. It felt unfamiliar – he never wore rings, preferring instead to keep his signet ring and seal in his pocket or on his desk, ready for when he needed it, but not weighing down his hand.

He supposed he couldn’t do the same with a wedding ring.

“You did very well, Neil,” Cynthia said suddenly, leaning forward to pat him on the knee. “And you looked very well, too. Congratulations! You’re a married man, now.”

He smiled faintly. “You say I did well, but there wasn’t much expected of me to do, I think. Besides saying I do , of course.”

He glanced out of the window, and immediately wished he hadn’t. His new wife was clung to her mother as though grasping at a cherished lifeline, her shoulders trembling with quiet sobs. Lord Marshville’s face was livid with grief, standing helplessly by with his arms dangling by his sides. Miss Agnes and Miss Gillian were dabbing their eyes with handkerchiefs.

He turned away, glad that he couldn’t hear what they were saying from inside the carriage. It was an intensely private moment, and one he ought not to be overhearing.

“It’s always difficult, leaving a happy home,” Lady Emma said suddenly, head angled away to look out of the carriage window at her side. “Miss Marshville will find it difficult to adjust, at first. That is entirely natural. But with time, she will settle into her new role, and her place. She will be happy, with time, Neil.”

“With time, with time, that’s all you keep saying,” Neil responded, words spilling out of his mouth faster than he could stop them. “Will I still be alive when she finds her happiness? Will she only find it after I’m gone? I shouldn’t have made her marry me, Mother. I wish… I wish I could undo it. She doesn’t deserve this. Look at her, she’s sobbing her heart out. Because of me. Because of me , Mother!”

Lady Emma shook her head. “You don’t understand. Miss Marshville has no prospects. None. The best she could hope for was her two younger sisters making good marriages, so that she could bounce between their homes once her parents were gone and she would have no way of supporting herself. The world is not kind to women, Neil. You are clever enough to understand that. Everybody knows that Miss Marshville had no attachments and no engagements, so why do you think that marrying you is such a terrible fate?”

“Because it’s me,” Neil responded bleakly, too tired to think much about arguing. “Because I am the one she has to marry.”

Cynthia reached out, touching his knee. “I wish you wouldn’t be like this, Neil,” she said quietly. “Sometimes I think it’s not just your condition which is draining your energy. You are doing that yourself, too.”

Before he could respond, the carriage door opened, and all three of them fell silent.

Miss Marshville climbed into the carriage; head ducked. Her mother stood in the background, with an arm wrapped around each of her remaining daughters.

Lord Marshville was the one who had just handed his daughter up into the carriage. His face was twisted with grief, and Neil had to look away.

“You’ll look after my little girl, won’t you, Lord Morendale?” he said, voice raspy.

Neil cleared his throat. “Of course, Lord Marshville. Of course. And… and you must come and visit us very soon, all of you. You can stay for as long as you like, as we have plenty of chambers.”

Lord Marshville gave a slow, tired nod. “I’ll hold you to that, my boy.”

Then he stepped back, closing the door after him. With a lurch, the carriage hurtled forward, taking them all into a new chapter of their lives.

Nobody spoke for a while.

***

Lucy settled herself in the corner of the carriage, stretching out with a sigh of satisfaction. She was quite happy to ride by herself for the rest of the journey, with only Miss Patrina’s bags and boxes to keep her company. She had much rather ride by herself than squeeze into the finer carriage, the one with the severe-looking Dowager and her haughty daughter. She thought that Patrina would do well enough – she was clever enough to stand up for herself.

The day had not been a long one – it was scarcely past luncheon, and already Miss Patrina was married and off to her new home – but it had been draining. Lucy wondered briefly whether she would spend the journey reading her book or taking a nap. She supposed she could do both. She had just watched Miss Patrina climb into the carriage with the rest of them, so she imagined that they would be leaving soon.

And the opposite carriage door opened, and a red-headed man climbed in. A familiar red-head man.

“Mr. Westbrook,” she managed, hiding her surprise. “What are you… why are you here?”

“Well, there wasn’t really room for me in the main carriage,” Harry said, grinning at her and settling in the opposite seat, “so Neil suggested that I should ride along behind. I hope you don’t mind. I shan’t bother you, I promise. I did tell him that you and I had already met, which I suppose was a bit of a liberty.”

“No, no, it’s quite all right,” Lucy said, recovering. The truth was that her heart was hammering at the sight of him again. She had thought of Harry Westbrook a great deal since their last meeting. She had found herself looking at him during the wedding ceremony, and once or twice even caught him staring her way, if that meant anything at all.

She cleared her throat, shifting her position and trying to think of something clever to say. Lucy did not consider herself particularly clever. Oh, she was good at some things – she could manage linen, get any stain out of any material, manage a budget and a house and cook a complex meal, and manage half a dozen tasks at once, but what did that really matter, when you got down to it? She shot a glance up at Harry through her eyelashes.

I bet he’s clever as anything. I bet he knows Latin and can do the sort of arithmetic which requires letters and shapes.

She was saved from having to come up with a clever comment by the carriage lurching forward, nearly tipping her out of her seat. She steadied herself, and Harry rapped on the roof of the carriage.

“Have a care, man!” he shouted. “There is a lady present who would prefer not to be rendered into a state of disarray by the time we reach our destination.”

He shot her an apologetic look, and Lucy bit back on a thrilled smile.

A lady in here. He thinks I’m a lady.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” he said suddenly, nodding at the bag beside her, “but what are you reading?”

She hesitated, then pulled out the slim, battered old tome.

“It’s poetry,” she confessed, handing over the book. “I don’t have much time to read, but Miss Patrina highly recommends reading as much as I can. Although, I suppose she isn’t Miss Patrina anymore,” she added, as an afterthought.

“No, she’s the Marchioness of Morendale,” Harry chuckled, flicking through the pages. “Oh, it’s Shakespeare. You’re fond of his sonnets, then?”

“I am, I confess. Poetry… it just makes sense , you know. I like some of Lord Byron’s works, even though it is very shocking. Miss P… that is, Lady Morendale prefers novels. She likes Mrs. Radcliff.”

“Oh, the infamous Ann Radcliff! Indeed, a fine choice. We have some of Mrs. Radcliff’s works in our library. I must mention them to Lady Morendale.”

He flicked through the rest of the pages, and Lucy saw how he paused on the sonnets which she had marked with a pencilled X at the upper corner. Some passages were underlined, others had comments written in the margins, and so on. She had read the book of sonnets before, and it was one of her favourite possessions. At last, Harry handed the book back, with a sort of reverence.

“It was the first book I ever bought for myself,” Lucy admitted, lovingly smoothing out the well-worn old cover. “I saved up my wages until I had enough, then bought this copy from a bookseller’s. He had several copies of Shakespeare’s sonnets, some more expensive, some wrapped in leather, and that sort of thing, but this was the one I wanted. Even if it hadn’t been cheaper, I think I still would have wanted it.”

She glanced up, wondering if she had said too much, and found Harry smiling faintly at her, his expression distant. When their eyes met, he blushed and glanced away.

“I like Shakespeare myself,” he said at last, “but I prefer his plays.”

“Oh? I’ve only read a few of those. Which is your favourite?”

“I have to say that Much Ado About Nothing is my favourite, although I have not read them all . In fact, let me show you,” he paused, diving into his pockets, and came up with a thin volume, just as battered as Lucy’s book of sonnets. “Here, this is what I am reading at the moment.”

“Coriolanus,” she read, and broke into a smile. “Ah, now, that one I have read. I confess that I have not read Much Ado About Nothing .”

“Oh! Well, I must tell you all about it. First, though, I should like to hear the significance of those pencilled passages in your book of sonnets, if you’d care to tell me?”

She smiled. “I should love to.”

Perhaps the journey would be just as relaxing with Harry as it would be by herself. And once they got to Morendale Manor… well, perhaps living there might not be so bad, after all.