September 1816, Scotland
Guy Keating straightened his spine and glanced about the
blacksmith shop that he'd wager had never seen a forge.
The voice of the anvil priest rang throughout the
room. "Repeat after me...I, Guy Keating, take thee, Emily
Duprey, to be my wedded wife..."
Barely able to make his mouth work, he finally
responded, "I, Guy Keating..." His words sounded like a
funeral dirge.
What the devil was he doing in this place, speaking these
words? The final vow nearly caught in his throat.
"...'til death do us part."
The priest, who Guy would hazard was neither priest nor
blacksmith, turned to the young woman dressed in a plain
brown travelling garment, standing on the other side of
the never-used anvil. "Repeat after me," the anvil priest
said. "I, Emily Duprey..."
The young woman answered in a soft, but clear tone, "I,
Emily Duprey..."
Guy tried to give her a smile, this woman whose appearance
was as unremarkable as her personality. She was neither
short nor tall, thin nor stout. Her hair, worn with curls
framing her face, was in the popular fashion, though its
colour was the same bland brown as her dress. He could
never quite recall the colour of her eyes, but whatever
they were, her eyes did not enliven her always-composed
face.
She gazed at him, almost a question in her expression, but
not quite that animated. He ought to be flogged for
bringing her nearly four hundred miles, to court scandal
for them both at Gretna Green. Oh, he might tell himself
she was better off wed to him than having her fortune
gambled away by her wastrel father or plundered by one of
the rakes who had lately been courting her. Guy had a much
better use for her money. Did that not make him less
reprehensible than those gentlemen ready to exploit her
for their own gain? Certainly less reprehensible than her
father, Baron Duprey, who was as addicted to the roll of
dice as Guy's own father had been.
She continued the vows in modulated tones. "I take these
folks to witness that I declare and acknowledge Guy
Keating to be my guideman."
Guideman, indeed. Pretender, perhaps. Deceiver? Rogue.
The anvil priest, who looked more like a prosperous
merchant, come to think of it, took both their hands and
clasped them together. "Weel, the deed is done. Y're
husband and wife." The man laughed, jiggling his
considerable girth. "Kiss the bride, mon."
Guy jerked up his chin. He'd forgotten about this part of
the ritual. He had kissed her once, upon proposing,
because it seemed what he ought to have done, but he'd not
thought of kissing her since.
She coloured and glanced shyly at him through her lashes.
He leaned down and placed his lips on hers.
God help him if her lips did not seem expectant, as though
she anticipated more than this sham of a marriage could
deliver. She deserved more, after all.
"Now shall we go on to the inn, then?" The anvil priest
raised his brows. The inn was another of his enterprises,
no doubt.
Guy swallowed. He had not forgotten they were required to
consummate the marriage. Would she be as hopeful on that
score as with the kiss? First they would have a leisurely
supper and then... He offered her his arm. "Shall we go,
my dear?" What he meant to say was I'm sorry.
He escorted her around the puddles left in the street from
the afternoon's rains. What sunlight there had been that
day waned in the sky, slipping as low as his confidence.
He'd once thought this the wisest course, but now he felt
like the veriest blackguard.
A wide puddle of water blocked the entrance to the inn,
not a problem for his boots, but deep enough to dampen the
hem of her skirt. He scooped her up and carried her over
the threshold. Her face remained subdued, but she
trustingly settled in his arms, feeling to him almost as a
wife ought.
He made a vow more genuine than the ones he'd repeated
after the anvil priest. He vowed to be a good husband to
her. He vowed she would never know the truth of why he'd
married her.
Their meal was a stilted affair, the two of them confined
together in a private parlour. He tried his best to be as
solicitous as a new husband ought.
"Would you like some fish, my dear?" he asked. "Do you
care for another piece of tart?" 'Shall I pour you another
glass of wine?
She responded with similar politeness and managed to
dredge up conversation, mainly about the food.
"This tart is delicious, do you not think?...The pastry
flakes wonderfully...The raspberries are sweet, are they
not?"
And he responded as he ought. "Very delicious...very
sweet." In truth, he could not taste the food at all, and
he'd availed himself of the innkeeper's whisky far more
than was prudent. Surely all their future meals together
would not be so excruciatingly dull.
After they finished the last course, no other choice
remained but to climb the stairs to the bedchamber the
anvil priest/innkeeper had promised them.
Guy's boots beat like a drum against the worn wood of the
staircase, matching the loud tattoo of his heart. He'd
bedded his share of women. Any man in regimentals was
bound to, after all, but those simple exchanges were
honest ones. How could he bed Miss Duprey — his wife, he
meant — when he'd kept the truth from her? He'd feared she
would not marry him if he had been totally honest about
needing her fortune, though many a ton marriage took place
for that very reason.
The innkeeper led them down a hallway to the bed-chamber
where a cheerful fire flickered in the hearth. The oak
floor was covered with a figured rug, and a large bed, its
linens turned down, dominated the room. A bottle of wine
and two glasses sat on the small table next to it, and a
branch of candles further illuminated the charming scene.
Miss Duprey — his wife — wandered over to the window and
stood peeking through the gap in the curtains. She still
held her hat and gloves as if not certain of staying.
"I weel leave y', good sir." The innkeeper gave Guy a
broad wink and grinned wide enough to expose the gap
between his teeth that had not been visible during the
brief wedding ceremony.
The thud of the closing door broke the silence, while
Guy's disordered emotions continued to rage inside him.
Miss Duprey — his wife, dammit! he must recall — turned at
the sound.
Her eyes were wide, but her countenance composed. She
clutched at her hat, crushing its ribbons.
He tried to smile. "Do you care for some wine, my dear?"
"Thank you," she said.
He poured two glasses, wishing it were the good Scottish
whisky instead. She glanced around and finally found a
bureau upon which to place her hat and gloves. With hands
clasped like a schoolgirl, she walked over to the bedside
table. He handed her a glass and took one himself, almost
raising it to his lips before he caught himself. He ought
to make a toast.
His mind raced to think of something, hoping he did not
appear as witless as he felt. Her expression conveyed no
hint that she guessed his thoughts.
"To our future..." he managed, clinking his glass with
hers.
"Yes," she replied in a whisper.
Their wine consumed, he stared awkwardly. She made no
move. He supposed it was his responsibility to decide how
to go on.
"Do you desire me to call a maid to assist you?" he
asked. "I could step downstairs to allow you some
privacy." And consume how many whiskys while she readied
herself for her wedding night?
She shook her head.
A wave of panic rushed through him, the latest of many on
this day. Would he be able to perform his husbandly duty?
How ironic. If he could not perform, he would provide her
the means to have the marriage annulled. One could almost
laugh at the thought.
She was a well-enough appearing female. There was nothing
to object to in her. So why could he not dredge up some
modicum of desire?
Guilt prevented him, of course. Lying to her, telling her
that her father had refused permission when, in truth,
he'd never approached the man. Guy had tricked her into
this flight to Gretna Green, leading her to believe there
was no other way for them to wed.
He tried to conceal his emotions. "We do not have to...to
consummate our vows this night, if you do not wish to," he
said. "There is no one to know but ourselves."
The hint of concern flitted through her eyes. "The bed
sheets?"
Ah, the bed sheets. Some chambermaid or another would be
changing the linens and might notice the lack of evidence.
Would that create any difficulty? He failed to see why any
of these people would care. They'd been well paid. What's
more, she could easily be a widow or something. He
shrugged. He'd come too far to take a risk now.
"I could contrive something." Blood was a ready commodity,
as any soldier knew. He might pierce his arm above his
sleeve, bleed on the sheets and no one would be the wiser.
"I am willing to proceed," she replied. How was she able
to keep her tone so temperate? She might as well be
conversing with afternoon callers, but he, on the other
hand, felt his voice might crack and fail him at any
moment.
Her expression remained equally as mild as her fingers
reached for the buttons of her spencer. He watched her
free each button and pull off the garment. Placing it
neatly on a chest at the end of the bed, she reached
behind her back and struggled with her laces. He closed
the distance between them.
Feeling as if he were perched on the ceiling observing
himself, he undid her laces and slipped the dress off her
shoulders. She remained as still as a statue as it slid to
the floor. His fingers trembled when he set about removing
her corset, but he soon had her free of that garment as
well.
She turned to face him dressed only in her shift. Perhaps
if she conveyed some emotion, he might be more easy in
this moment, but she was as colourless as she ever had
been. He held his breath, watching her take the pins out
of her hair and wondering how the devil he was going to be
able to perform.
She ought to have a husband who greeted this moment with
joy instead of obligation. She ought to run from him now
and deny there had ever been a wedding. Bribe the
avaricious anvil priest to destroy the marks in the
register and hire the fastest post chaise back to Bath.
Such spirit, he would not blame — he might even admire it —
but her compliance made him feel like a cad.
Taking a deep breath, he sat down on the bed to remove his
boots.
Emily stood by, watching her husband as she smoothed her
hair neatly behind her shoulders. She could not recall
ever seeing a man remove his boots, even her father and
brother, but certainly they would not have done so with
the same masculine grace as Guy Keating.
Her heart fluttered at this intimate sight of him. He was
by no means the tallest of gentlemen, only perhaps five or
six inches above her own height, but there was such an air
of compact energy about him that he seemed to take up more
space.
That first glimpse of him came back to mind, in the Pump
Room, her eyes drawn to him almost of their own accord. He
had been leaning down to speak to two elderly ladies whom
she now knew were his mother's aunts, an expression of
acute tenderness on his face. That look alone had disarmed
her. When he'd picked up one lady's shawl and wrapped it
lovingly around her shoulders, Emily had thought she would
weep for the sweetness of the sight.
Later that week at the Assembly he had walked up to her at
her brother's side, having begged an introduction. To her.