Birds of a Feather Page 14

  “Dubious?” he spat. She had no concept of the demands placed on every member of the world in which he lived.

  She speaks tru—

  No! He stifled the voice, whipping up his fury to hold it at bay. His task was difficult enough without entertaining doubts. She was raising questions he dared not consider.

  “Honor is what separates a gentleman from the masses,” he stated firmly.

  “True honor, perhaps. But the gentleman’s code you swear by is no more honorable than selling carp as lobster. Honor should not inflict misery. Can you not set aside your stubbornness long enough to admit that a moment of embarrassment is preferable to a lifetime of pain?”

  He loomed over her, fighting back the urge to strike out. What the devil was wrong with him? Again he had nearly come to blows with her despite his hatred of anyone who abused women. He needed to conclude this meeting quickly before he lost what little control remained over his temper.

  “Pack your things, Miss Patterson. I will return at two and will expect to find you ready. You needn’t bother with clothing. Mademoiselle Jeanette will wait upon you at four to fashion a decent wardrobe. We will attend the opera this evening.”

  “But—”

  “Stop fighting fate,” he growled, recognizing the very arrogance she decried, but unable to stop it. The alternative was shaking her until her teeth rattled. “I have listened to enough of your prattle. You will act the happy bride, starting now. Tomorrow you will be at home to callers. We will remain in town for the remainder of the Season, participating in all events.” He turned to leave. “Until two, my dear.”

  “If you wish anyone to believe us happy, you had best improve your own countenance,” she snapped, rising to glare at him. “You sound as if someone were forcing broken glass down your throat.”

  Sweeping out, she left him standing in the drawing room – cursing.

  * * * *

  Joanna covered her face with both hands, forcing back tears. Crying would accomplish nothing.

  Odious, arrogant beast! she fumed, pacing the floor of her bedchamber – not that it provided enough room to work off her fury. She suspected that it was usually assigned to Wicksfield’s valet. Even her space at the overcrowded vicarage had been larger.

  How could she face Society? Lord Sedgewick’s fury confirmed her inadequacy. She had nearly collapsed when he’d loomed over her; his height and breadth actually made her feel fragile. Yet knowing they would be miserable and knowing she lacked any attribute that might make her acceptable, he remained obdurate.

  Stupid man! How could he believe honor was more important than truth, duty more demanding than comfort? How could he expect to pass off a wife who lacked beauty, breeding, fortune, or charm? No one with any sense would believe him.

  His insistence had already driven nails into the coffin of this marriage. Before they had even exchanged vows, they were doomed.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Joanna walked through her wedding in a trance. Only three images remained in memory afterward – Reggie’s smile as he took his place in support of his brother, the dead tone of Lord Sedgewick’s vows, and the icy lips that had briefly touched hers at the end.

  Her dread increased when he escorted her to the office to sign the register. His arm quivered beneath her hand. He radiated a fury that nearly buckled her knees. Leaving the church alone with him was the hardest thing she had ever done.

  “My mother should return in a day or two,” he announced as they drove to Glendale House. “We will pass the remainder of the afternoon with the modiste, so now is the time to resolve any questions.”

  “Do you mean that your parents don’t even know of this?”

  “I wrote them this morning, apprising them of the facts. We will not mention them again. In six hours our tale must sound believable.”

  She blinked. “What tale is that?” She remembered little of the masquerade beyond her efforts to remain on her feet without losing control of her stomach.

  “Pay attention this time,” he snapped. “I dislike repeating myself.”

  “Then make sure your audience is attentive! I was barely conscious last evening – as you, of all people, should know.”

  He inhaled deeply, deliberately relaxing his fists. “I must beg your pardon, my dear. Snapping at you was unconscionable even without the injury. Does your head still ache?”

  “Some. But at least I am in no danger of fainting today.” Pain flashed in his eyes, bringing satisfaction. “And the nausea has lessened. As long as you refrain from forcing me into another waltz, I should be all right.”

  He flinched. “Very well. Our history is quite simple. We formed a deep and lasting attachment from the moment Reggie introduced us. Carried away by the romantic atmosphere at Lady Warburton’s masquerade, I impulsively begged for your hand rather than waiting to call upon you in the usual manner. You accepted. When Mrs. Drummond-Burrell’s innuendo offered an excuse to wed immediately, we jumped at the chance. We are both well beyond the age of consent, and gathering our respective families would have caused intolerable delay.”

  “How impetuous of us.”

  “You aren’t the only one suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Lady Sedgewick.” Flat gray eyes bored into hers, proving she had pushed him too far. “If we have any hope of carrying this off, you must cease baiting me. At the moment, anything that hurts me reflects badly on you, and vice versa. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, my lord.” But his quote startled her. He rarely relaxed his facade enough to expose even a basic education. Reggie claimed that he let down his guard only with close friends and family. Despite the farcical ceremony so recently concluded, she fit neither category, so his fury was clearly getting the best of him.

  He turned away. “You need explain nothing further. Our private life is of no concern to others.”

  “But why would anyone believe such rubbish?” she asked, honestly perplexed. “You look like death walking, and I cannot appear much better.”

  “By the time we reach the opera house, we must both contrive the proper expression. Whether people believe the tale is irrelevant. They will accept whatever image we display. By next year, they will have forgotten anything else.”

  He spoke the truth, as she knew all too well. Public persona rarely matched real character, but Society cared only for surface appearances, accepting shallow posturings as truth and ignoring the double standard that implied. Many clung to that surface, needing its safety to frame their world. With enough repetition, people would believe anything – even that Lord Sedgewick’s judgment surpassed everyone else’s.

  “Very well. I will try not to embarrass you, but you know how pressure affects me.”

  He shuddered. “We must contrive a way to cure that, but for now, we have arrived. Smile. Gossips like Lady Beatrice learn much of their news from modistes and servants, so watch your tongue.”

  Glendale House was the largest in Grosvenor Square, occupying the same frontage as five average houses. She tried not to stare at the marble walls and Corinthian columns decorating its opulent hall. A magnificent split staircase provided access to two wings. What had she gotten into? This grandeur was more typical of country estates. The Glendale wealth must be greater than she had imagined.

  Lord Sedgewick introduced the butler and housekeeper, but spared her a formal welcome from the rest of the staff.

  She felt more out of place with every step as he led her upstairs. Each new feature was more elegant than the last, overwhelming her senses. Intricately carved banisters, ornate ceiling, a life-size statue of Zeus on the landing, smaller sculptures in exquisite niches… Marble flowed into painted paneling as they continued up a second flight. By the time they reached the upper floor, she was trembling so badly that she stumbled, knocking a Chinese vase from a table.

  “Oh, no!” Shattering glass nearly drowned her exclamation.

  “Are you hurt?” Lord Sedgewick’s hold kept her upright.

  Tears
threatened to fall. “Forgive me, my lord.”

  He stared for what felt like hours, but was probably only an instant, then tucked her arm firmly through his own. “Of course. This has been a difficult day, and you are not yet recovered from your fall.”

  “That is not what I m-meant. I should have warned you that I am prone to c-clumsiness,” she admitted, wishing she had thought to reveal that failing earlier. Perhaps it would have convinced him to forgo this disaster.

  His arm stiffened, but his voice remained calm. “We will contrive to cope.” He inhaled deeply several times, then opened a door. “This will be your bedchamber, with your dressing room through here.”

  She flushed, for his words raised the specter of marriage duties.

  He continued without pause. “On this side is our sitting room. My room lies beyond. The modiste awaits us in the sitting room. Are you ready?”

  She managed a nod. He was outwardly ignoring her confession, though his intensity had increased. Or perhaps he was merely postponing a confrontation until the modiste left.

  Mademoiselle Jeanette had brought three assistants and what seemed like mountains of fabric.

  “This is Lady Sedgewick,” he announced, leading her into the center of the room. “She needs a complete wardrobe.”

  “Oui, my lord. We will start with the most urgent.” Her snapping fingers sent an assistant scurrying. “An afternoon gown, a walking dress, and an evening gown for the opera.”

  Joanna nearly gasped at the splendid clothing produced for his approval – no one asked her opinion, but that hardly surprised her. The lemon afternoon gown was of finer fabric than anything Harriet owned. Guessing the cost made her cringe. The sprigged muslin walking dress included a matching green pelisse. But the rose silk opera gown left her speechless. Delicate embroidery traced the low-cut bodice before flowing across the skirt and around the flounce. It was as elegant as anything she had seen.

  “Excellent,” said Lord Sedgewick. “Lucy can manage the fittings while we check your pattern cards.”

  Lucy dragged Joanna into her room and stripped her.

  “Mais oui,” she exclaimed when Joanna stood numbly before her clad only in a corset and shift. “I feared that we would need to do much alteration. But that other gown, it did not show you to advantage. I should have known the monsieur would never misjudge size.”

  Michelle’s cough closed her mouth on further discourse. Only then did Joanna realize that Mademoiselle Jeanette must also have outfitted Sedgewick’s mistresses. She stifled the memory of Mary’s costume. Sometime during the wee hours of the morning, she had realized Mary’s position. It explained her furious denial and also why she had never brought her family to Cavuscul Hill. They were probably figments of her imagination. Had her marriage also been false, or had her husband abandoned her? But how typical of Mary to hide her failure, even if doing so meant cutting off the very people who loved her most.

  She banished Mary from her mind.

  How had Sedgewick known her measurements? Her clothing was shapeless. Yet he had held her more than once. She doubted that he had noticed her figure last night, but there had been that first meeting. He had jerked her out of harm’s way so quickly that she had been pressed against his body for several seconds. But why would he remember the encounter so clearly? She couldn’t have made a favorable impression, especially since she was so much taller than Mary. If that was the sort of companion he preferred, she was in bigger trouble than she’d thought.

  She stifled Mary’s image yet again, concentrating on her own size and weight. She was not petite, so their encounters had revealed Sedgewick’s unexpected strength. How had he managed to lift her?

  Lucy flung the afternoon gown over her head, recalling her to the present. She must practice appearing content.

  “It is beautiful,” she said, trying to keep the awe from her voice.

  “Merci, but it needs adjusting.” She tucked and pinned, then whipped the gown off and handed it to Michelle, who immediately sat down to make the alterations.

  Ten minutes later, they had disposed of the other two, and Lucy began the interminable process of measuring her in every conceivable direction. She then threw a wrapper around her and ordered her back to the sitting room. Lucy remained to work on the opera gown.

  “There you are, my dear,” said Lord Sedgewick, smiling warmly when she appeared in the doorway. “Tell me what you think of these designs.”

  She nearly stumbled at the affection in his voice. Any man who could act this well belonged on a stage. Only his gray eyes revealed the truth.

  “This should do for tomorrow’s ball,” he continued. “It is not as elegant as some, but it will be easy to make up.”

  “Lovely,” she said, surprised that he considered Jeanette’s problems. “Perhaps in a willow green silk.”

  That startled a genuine smile from him – and a flash of twinkling blue that closed her throat. “Perfect. With lace edging the neckline and hem.”

  She nodded.

  “Excellent. Now for the other ball gowns…” He picked up a dozen cards.

  Joanna bit back a protest. The Season was so advanced, she could hardly need all this.

  But the comment died unspoken. The ultimate arbiter of fashion would care more for appearance than anyone else. Never would he allow his wife to appear in anything but the best. As he had reminded her only an hour ago, any lack in her appearance or behavior would reflect poorly on him.

  Shivers raised the hair on her arms. She knew little of the nuances of fashion. How was she to manage without embarrassing him? She hardly knew what to wear for which event. Harriet’s maid had dressed the girl. Her own choices had been among three gowns that varied only in color.

  This was another aspect of her changed status that she had not considered, though it was too late to back out. Had he deliberately rushed her into marriage before she could develop even colder feet?

  His touch broke through her abstraction. She had been murmuring agreement to every question without taking in anything he said. But now he leaned forward to reach another stack of cards, setting his hand on her shoulder.

  “Do you ride?” he whispered into her ear.

  “Yes.”

  “Cross-country?”

  She nodded.

  “You will want two or three habits,” he said aloud. “These for use in town, and this for the country.” Again he dove into details with Jeanette.

  Blinking, she realized that an enormous mound of fabric had been set aside, along with dozens of pattern cards. Jeanette’s order book was rapidly filling as she noted details.

  “Nightrails.” He lifted another stack of cards.

  Joanna blushed.

  On and on it went. She was ready to collapse by the time Lucy returned with the completed gowns. Whipping off the wrapper, the girl flung the opera gown over her head. Only the fact that Sedgewick was bent over yet another pattern card kept her from swooning.

  “Magnifique, Lady Sedgewick,” exclaimed Jeanette as Lucy fastened the last pin. “I love dressing beautiful women.”

  Joanna nearly protested, but Sedgewick’s stunned expression stopped her. It was his most honest face yet. His eyes were actually blue – brilliant blue; heart-stopping blue; the warmest blue she had ever seen.

  “As usual, you have outdone yourself, Jeanette,” he drawled. “I believe we have accomplished enough for today. Will eleven be suitable for delivering the ball gown?”

  “Oui.”

  Joanna held her tongue until Jeanette and her assistants had gone. Then she turned on her husband. “You expect her to make up a ball gown by morning?”

  His voice froze her marrow now that they were alone. No trace of blue remained. “It is a simple design, and she will have half a dozen women working on it. We have no choice, as you would realize if you took a moment to think. You must have a ball gown by tomorrow night. Since you must also be at home to callers, morning is the only time you can schedule a fitting. And you had best
be prepared for a crowd. Nearly everyone in town will call tomorrow. We will drive out for the fashionable hour, then dine here before attending Lady Jersey’s rout and the Stafford ball.”

  “So much.”

  “And all of it essential.” He paused as if searching for words, finally shaking his head. “It grows late. Morton will be waiting to dress your hair. We dine in half an hour.”

  “Morton?” Somehow she got the question out. It would be fatal to let him cow her, for allowing him to play the dictator would eliminate any hope of a comfortable future.

  “Your maid.” He left. But at least this solved the problem of choosing proper dress.

  * * * *

  Sedge stared blindly at the stage, deaf to Mozart’s Cóssi Fan Tutte. Duty, honor, and determination had carried him through the last twenty-four hours, helped by the numbness that had descended at Mrs. Drummond-Burrell’s first gasp of shock. But the numbness was wearing off.

  How was he to survive this disaster?

  There were a few bright spots, of course. She cleaned up quite nicely, her body even more delectable than he had surmised. But thinking about that would only lead to frustration. He had felt a burst of healthy lust when Lucy first called attention to the fit of this gown. It hugged her bosom to bare an enticing swell of breast, then swirled teasingly around long legs. The effect was now enhanced by an elegant hairstyle and the pearls he had presented before dinner.

  A shiver had shaken her shoulders as he’d fastened the clasp. Desire? Or regret that he was not Reggie?

  The question doused his own desire in a cold bucket of memories – laughter erasing ten years of care from Reggie’s face; the love and concern blazing from Reggie’s eyes when she fell; her own eyes locked on Reggie’s soulful gaze as they twirled around Lady Warburton’s ballroom. It was the first time Reggie had waltzed all Season. But the most painful image of all was their wedding. She had looked at Reggie during the entire ceremony.

  So her desirability sliced new pain through his heart, though at least her appearance made his tale seem believable. But he could not bear intimacy with a woman who should have wed his brother. Nor could he bed a woman who wished him out of her life.