This looks not like a nuptial.
—William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing, IV, i
The chapel of Denforth Castle was decked in ivy and winter roses, the latter of which must have cost a fortune. But what was that to a duke’s son about to marry a duke’s daughter? Even though that duke’s son had no business marrying anyone at all.
From the doorway, Margaret stared stonily at the tall, broad-shouldered figure, splendid in his scarlet regimentals, standing alone before the altar. One last chance. Yesterday she’d tried to persuade Alicia to reconsider, or to postpone the wedding, at least. Once again, her sister had burst into tears and accused her of being jealous, and once again, Margaret had placated and soothed. They might have patched things up, but the strain was still there. And now, unless good judgment or a miracle prevailed, Alicia would become Reg’s bride in an hour’s time.
The groom had made himself scarce for the last day or so, but he could hide no longer. Raising her chin, Margaret stalked down the nave towards him.
He glanced briefly at her when she joined him, and she felt an unwilling twinge of pity at the sight of his face: pale as chalk, the handsome features fixed and rigid.
“Do you really mean to do this, Reg?” she asked without preamble.
A muscle twitched at the corner of his jaw. “I have no choice.”
“There’s always a choice!” she said sharply. “It’s not too late to call things off—for whatever reason!”
He gave an infinitesimal shake of his head, his eyes fixed on the altar before them.
Margaret gathered up all her resolve. “If you don’t put a stop to this, Reg, then I will. By telling my sister what you should have told her long ago.”
His gaze snapped over to her. “You gave your word!”
“I did, but that was before you and Alicia were betrothed! And before I knew you were all set to consign her to a lifetime of misery! If I’d known then...” With an effort, she swallowed the bitter words collecting on her tongue. Recriminations were useless. So was hindsight, for that matter. She continued more temperately, “I’ve never betrayed a confidence. I would prefer not to do so now—especially one of this magnitude—but I’ve exhausted every other option. Just think of what you’re doing to her, Reg. What you would be doing to her, by going through with this.”
“She’ll be well-provided for, and a future duchess. And God willing, there would be children someday.” Reg cleared his throat. “I am—prepared to do my duty by Alicia.”
“Duty?” Margaret echoed incredulously. “If you think that’s enough to content my sister, then you don’t know her at all! Alicia idolizes you, just as she did when she was a child! She thinks that all she has to do to overcome your resistance is be beautiful, attentive, and affectionate. That someday you’ll feel the same way she feels about you. We both know that will never happen—and why.
“And one other thing—I’m not the only one who knows your secret. Augustus has discovered it as well. And unlike me, he would feel no compunction about revealing it.”
That got his attention. “Good God, why? What could he possibly hope to gain by it?”
“Among other things, vengeance against your father—for all the times he supposedly bested our father.” She paused, remembering Augustus’s diatribe on Christmas night. “He’s no more in favor of this marriage than I am. I don’t know what he intends, but I suspect he would like nothing more to expose you in front of your entire family—just to humiliate the duke!”
She’d thought Reg was pale before; now he resembled a walking corpse as the remaining color drained from his face.
“It’s the duke, isn’t it?” she breathed, the realization almost blinding in its brilliance. “That’s why you haven’t called off the wedding!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“You can’t bear for him to know, can you?” Margaret shook her head, wondering how she could have missed something so simple. What was it about the Duke of Whitborough that he could tie his grown sons in knots like this? “Telling him the truth might be the one thing that could stop this wedding—but you won’t do it! Because, after all this time, in spite of everything you two have fought over, you still hunger for your father’s approval!”
His gaze slid away from her, and she saw his throat work convulsively. “Leave me.”
“Reg—”
“Get out, Margaret. Please.”
Wearily, Margaret made her way along the passage towards Alicia’s chamber. She’d done all she could with regard to Reg, laid every card upon the table... only time would tell if it had made a difference. And now, she must make one final attempt to reach her sister.
The door opened, disgorging the duchess and her daughters into the passage. They greeted Margaret with smiles and assurances of Alicia’s loveliness as they passed. Margaret returned their pleasantries, then, once they were out of sight, let herself into her sister’s room.
Despite her ambivalence, she caught her breath. All brides were said to be beautiful, but Alicia was a walking dream in white satin and lace, a misty veil of tulle floating nearly to her knees. And on her face was a radiant smile, the smile of a bride seeing her dearest wish about to come true. A vision of loveliness to tempt any man... unless that man were Reginald Lyons.
She glanced towards the door as Margaret entered, and some of that radiance dimmed.
“You look beautiful, dearest.” That at least Margaret could say with total sincerity.
“Thank you.” Alicia relaxed just the slightest bit, but her eyes were wary.
Margaret steeled herself before approaching her sister. “I hoped... we might have a chance to speak privately.”
“Please, Meg, I don’t wish to quarrel anymore!” Alicia turned away in a rustle of satin. “I know you don’t approve of this marriage, but it’s what I want! You should be happy for me, not trying to spoil it!”
The quaver in her voice made Margaret’s own eyes sting, and she resented Reg and his father all the more for what they’d forced her to do. “Alicia, you know that I’d never say anything to hurt you deliberately! Please, just hear me out—five minutes, that’s all I ask!”
Alicia hesitated, her blue eyes filling. Then she turned to her maid, hovering discreetly in the background. “Berthe, would you leave us, please?”
The maid dropped a curtsy and left the chamber, closing the door behind her.
Margaret drew a shaky breath. “Thank you, dearest. I promise you won’t regret it!”
Alicia swallowed, blinking hard. “I hope that I won’t.” She dabbed at her eyes with a wispy handkerchief. “Just one thing, Meg—I forgot Mama’s prayer book in the dressing room. Would you get it for me? And then, I promise, I’ll listen to whatever you have to say.”
“Of course.” Relieved, Margaret hurried into the dressing room, her mind racing as she turned over what she had to say and how she might say it.
Then she heard the door slam shut behind her, followed by the snick of a lock.
“Alicia!” She flew to the door, wrestled with the knob, wondering furiously how she could have been so stupid. “Let me out this instant!”
“I’m sorry, Meg!” Alicia’s voice wavered between remorse and triumph. “But I can’t let you do this! I’m marrying Reg today, and you can’t stop me!”
“He won’t make you happy!” Margaret shouted through the door. “He can’t make any woman happy!”
But the sound of another door closing and the subsequent silence told her that Alicia had already flown.
Something was wrong. Gervase knew it the moment the bride floated down the stairs, her color too high, her eyes too bright... and her chief attendant—her only sister—nowhere in sight. And the dismay on Alicia’s face when she caught sight of him confirmed his suspicions.
“Where is Margaret?” he asked.
Alicia did not quite meet his eyes. “She felt too unwell to come down.”
“Unwell?” Gervase didn’t believe that for a second. “Should we summon the doctor?”
“No, no—I meant that she won’t come down!” Alicia amended hastily. “Meg doesn’t wish to attend the wedding.”
She really was the most awful liar. “Perhaps I’d better go and see which it is.”
Her eyes widened. “No, please—”
“Alicia?” Langdale, sleek as a cat in impeccable morning dress, approached with his arm outstretched. “Everyone’s waiting. Shall we go in?”
Alicia hesitated, glancing between her brother and Gervase. Then, resolutely, she stepped forward and laid a hand on Langdale’s arm. “Yes, let’s go. I can’t wait to be married to Reg!”
They swept down the passage, Alicia’s veil trailing behind them like the tail of a comet.
Instead of following, Gervase mounted the stairs as quickly as his cane would allow. Thanks to a hot bath that morning, he found it easier to move, though he doubted he was up to a footrace. Nonetheless, he crossed the Long Gallery at a speed approaching normal and was soon making his way along the passage towards Margaret’s chamber.
Long before reaching the Tower Room, however, he heard muffled pounding and a voice demanding release. From Alicia’s room, he noted without surprise—and let himself in at once.
It was the work of a moment to free Margaret. Breathless and disheveled, she all but fell out of the dressing room when he opened the door.
“Gervase, thank God!” Her dark eyes showed wide and panicky. “Has the wedding begun? I must get to the chapel right away!”
“They were just about to start when I left. You mean to stop it, then?”
“I must.” She thrust the combs more deeply into her slipping knot of hair, twitched her rumpled skirts straight. “Reg has no business marrying Alicia, or any woman for that matter! And if I don’t speak, someone else might, and that could be ten times worse!”
For whatever reason, she had to do this—and nothing he might say would dissuade her. Recognizing this, he stepped aside. “Choose your moment carefully, belle amie.”
She flashed a grateful smile and hurried past him in a blur of blue satin.
Hefting his cane, Gervase followed.
Despite his lingering stiffness, he found he could keep up fairly well, lagging only a few paces behind Margaret. No telling how this would turn out in the end, what unpleasant consequences might ensue, but he meant to stay as close as she would let him. She was acting out of sisterly love and concern—he would not let her suffer for that.
Her last words echoed in his head as they passed through the Long Gallery. No business marrying Alicia, or any woman for that matter! Words spoken in anger and agitation—and yet... might there be a little more to them than that?
Memories of last night niggled at him: Reg drinking brandy, gazing at the Markhams’ photographs, confiding in him about the child their father believed to be Reg’s own. Gervase had wondered at the time how Reg had fit into his friends’ unconventional union, but the picture now taking shape in his mind was drastically different from the one he’d first imagined.
Is’t possible? And if it were... it went a fair way towards explaining not only this Christmas, but the last five years as well. Possibly the last fifteen. Hal had sown his wild oats—as had Gervase, on a smaller scale. He’d assumed that Reg had done so too, only more discreetly; in all that time, there’d never been so much as a whisper about his middle brother’s ladyloves. Which argued extraordinary circumspection... or something else entirely.
He no longer questioned Margaret’s desire to stop the wedding. Lengthening his stride, he drew almost level with her as they reached the main staircase and started down.
The trouble with a small wedding, Gervase reflected as they arrived at the ground floor, was that one couldn’t depend upon pomp and circumstance to delay the proceedings. Bed-ridden as he’d been for the last few days, he had no idea how elaborate the ceremony would be, and he suspected Margaret did not know either.
The vicar’s sonorous voice floated out to them as they approached the chapel. “Not by any to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly...”
Barely in time. Pausing in the doorway, Margaret glanced back at Gervase, her face showing equal amounts of relief and apprehension. He gave her an encouraging nod that drew a faint smile from her before she turned and started down the nave.
Gervase followed, letting the tip of his cane strike the floor audibly as he walked. The faces of both families turned towards the sound, their expressions ranging from surprise to mild irritation that he was making such an uncharacteristically noisy entrance. Ignoring them all, Gervase focused on the couple standing at the altar—particularly, the groom.
Reg’s pallor was visible even in the shadowy, candle-lit chapel. As Gervase drew nearer, he could see the sheen of perspiration on his brother’s brow: he looked as though he’d rather be facing a firing squad than marrying the woman beside him.
Their eyes met and held across the diminishing distance. I know, Gervase told his brother silently. And I understand. You poor devil. It wasn’t Priya whom you loved, was it?
“Into this holy estate—” The vicar, who had presided over Madeline and Elaine’s weddings, broke off, frowning at the new arrivals. Alicia, who’d been gazing adoringly up at Reg, now turned her head as well. Even through the veil Gervase could see the mingled dread and defiance on her face when she spied Margaret approaching.
Turning back to the altar, Alicia gestured entreatingly at the vicar, who resumed, “Into this holy estate, these two persons present come now to be joined. If any man can show just cause, why they may not be lawfully joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.”
Mere steps from the altar, Margaret prepared to speak.
“No.” Half-strangled and barely audible, the voice was still recognizable as Reg’s own. He cleared his throat and repeated more clearly, “No.”
Shock rippled through the chapel, everyone staring at the pallid, sweating groom.
“Reg,” Alicia breathed, her eyes huge and beseeching. “Please.”
He swallowed, looked at her with what appeared to be genuine regret. “I’m sorry, Alicia. I can’t—I can’t do this...”
Margaret hurried forward to steady her swaying sister. Alicia clutched at her supporting arm, but managed to remain upright, though her face was as white as her gown.
“Vicar,” Gervase pitched his voice to carry over the growing murmurs of dismay and disbelief. “I think, before anything else, my brother and Lady Alicia need to talk—privately.”
Shaking his head, the vicar gestured wordlessly towards the small antechamber just off the chapel. Hardly the first time a Lyons wedding had deprived the officiant of speech, Gervase reflected wryly. Reg threw him a quick, grateful glance as he guided Alicia gently towards seclusion—and the conversation they should have had years ago.
“What the hell just happened?” the Duke of Whitborough demanded with a fine disregard for their present surroundings.
“Well, for a start, our son just called off his own wedding,” his wife replied astringently.
His face set in obstinate lines. “Weddings can be held again.”
“Not this one,” Gervase spoke up firmly. “Let it go, Father.”
The duke glowered at him. “Why should I? Just because your brother has cold feet—”
“It goes far beyond that, sir. It always has.” Gervase paused, then added with careful deliberation, “Formosum pastor Corydon ardebat Alexin.”
“What the devil do you m—” His father stopped abruptly as the words sank in. No one could call the Duke of Whitborough slow; he’d been a fine scholar in his youth, with a quick ear and tongue for languages. He could hardly fail to recognize one of Virgil’s most notorious opening lines, nor—ultimately—its significance.
The shepherd Corydon burned with love for the handsome Alexis.
“How very apt.” Langdale remarked, his amusement as obvious as it was annoying. “I commend your gift for quotation, Lord Gervase.”
Ignoring him, Gervase watched the emotions crossing his father’s face in rapid succession: anger, disbelief, denial, and finally, a gradual—but by no means happy—acceptance. Harold Lyons was too worldly and experienced to bury his head in the sand, though learning such a thing about his heir must come as an unwelcome surprise to a man who placed so much importance on the continuance of his line.
Gervase could sympathize with him, but he was more concerned about Reg. This secret could cost his brother dearly, if it ever became public knowledge: his reputation, his career, even his freedom might be at stake.
“Ger’s right, you know.” Hugo spoke up from the pew where he and Madeline were sitting. “About Reg not... being the marrying kind.”
“You knew?” Madeline demanded of her husband, who shrugged uncomfortably.
“You can’t attend public school and not pick up on that sort of thing. Not that it’s completely obvious in Reg’s case,” he added hastily. “But one learns to recognize certain signs.”
Gervase glanced at his other siblings, absorbing this revelation about their brother in stunned silence; even Jason seemed subdued. And his mother...
“Did you know, Helene?” the duke asked in a low voice.
The duchess gave a short, sharp sigh. “I... suspected. And in time, I think Reg came to realize as much. But we did not speak of it.” She met her husband’s gaze squarely. “It made no difference to me, Harold—he is my heir still. He is my son—our son—still, and it would be cruel to force him into a role he can never play. And this line,” her golden gaze swept over her children, “will go on. It already does.”
The duke exhaled, looking every day of his fifty-six years. “No word of this is to go beyond the chapel,” he ordered. “I expect that promise, from all of you.”
Murmurs of assent immediately followed—with one exception.
“You are not the head of my family, Whitborough,” Langdale reminded him silkily. “Nor have you the legal authority to silence me.” Malice sparkled in his eyes, and Gervase understood why Margaret was so disgusted with her brother. “Indeed, a number of my acquaintances would be fascinated to learn of today’s occurrences. However... I could be persuaded to give my word—on certain conditions.”
The duke favored him with a cool stare. “No doubt you could, Langdale. Well, then, we can discuss that elsewhere, at some other time.”
A door opened, and they glanced toward the sound. Reg and Alicia were reentering the chapel. Margaret, who’d been sitting slightly apart from the rest of them, leaned forward in her pew, all her attention on her sister.
Alicia had folded her veil back from her face, which showed traces of tears but was otherwise composed. She walked a little ahead of her betrothed, carrying herself with a dignity befitting a duke’s daughter. Reg looked drained to the point of exhaustion, yet strangely at peace, as though the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders.
Unexpectedly, Alicia spoke first, her voice low but clear and perfectly steady. “Reg and I... have agreed that we do not suit. I hereby release him from our engagement.”
The now-deserted chapel smelled of wilting evergreens and melting beeswax—the aroma of disappointed hopes? Margaret wondered, then dismissed the fancy. It might have been the smell of relief—that a secret responsible for so much anxiety and fear had finally been exposed to the light. True, things would never be the same... but some things might be better, with time.
Retrieving what she’d sought, she turned to go—and encountered Gervase coming down the nave towards her.
“Mama’s prayer book,” she explained, holding it up. “Alicia left it in the anteroom.”
“Fortunate you came back for it, then. I was hoping to find you, but I thought you might still be with your sister.”
“Berthe’s tending to her now. Making her eat something, and then rest.”
“Will she be all right?”
If she hadn’t already loved him, that would have tipped her over the edge: that, with his family undergoing yet another dramatic upheaval, he could express genuine concern for Alicia. “I think so, in time. She’s had a shock, of course—it can’t be easy discovering that the man you’ve idolized since girlhood is incapable of ever returning your affections. Mainly because his... preferences are for another sex entirely.”
“For which Alicia herself is not to blame. Perhaps she can take comfort from that.”
“Yes,” Margaret acknowledged with a sigh. “Reg told her as much, though it might take her a while to believe it. Still, it’s best that she knows, and from Reg himself. I was prepared to tell her, if he did not, but I don’t know if she’d have believed me.”
“Probably not,” he agreed. “She locked you in the dressing room rather than hear what you were trying to say.”
“Thank you for letting me out, by the way.”
“I knew something was afoot when she came to the chapel without you. Even before she began making such lame excuses for your absence.”
“And how is Reg?” she asked, as they left the chapel together.
“He’ll be all right too, eventually. He had a long talk with our parents, trying to clear the air, and now Hugo and Alasdair are plying him with strong drink.”
Margaret found it possible to smile. “The typical masculine remedy!”
“What else? He may feel worse tomorrow than he does today.” Gervase paused, then resumed more seriously, “Margaret, when you ran away from Denforth five Christmases ago... I thought it was because you knew Father was hoping to arrange a match between you and Reg.”
“That was part of it,” she admitted. “And that was also the night I discovered his secret. That he preferred men to women. I found him and Captain Hastings together in the library.”
“When you eloped, you kept all the attention on yourself,” he mused. “Everyone was so busy reacting to what you’d done that no one thought to look to Reg for answers.”
“Reg had nothing to do with my marrying Alex,” Margaret pointed out. “But even if Alex hadn’t been a factor, I still wouldn’t have consented to your father’s scheme.”
“I know. I’m merely saying that your elopement made it easier for Reg to hide what he was. Continue to hide, I should say.”
And the hiding was over now—from the family, anyway. “Did you truly never guess?”
Gervase gave her a wry smile. “I wish I could say that I did, but, no, I only put the pieces together before the ceremony. It’s easy to say, in hindsight, that the signs were there. That Reg never showed any partiality for a woman, that he seemed happiest and more at ease in the company of men, but I’ve known men who were like that while growing up and went on to marry contentedly enough. I even thought he might have a mistress. In any case, telling our parents about his true inclinations might be the bravest thing Reg has ever done. I’ll be sure to tell him so.” He paused. “It can’t be easy—hiding your true self from the world.”
And he’d still have to, especially in England, Margaret reflected somberly. “Do you think he’ll remain unmarried?”
“Who can say? He might decide to take a wife eventually, if only to do his dynastic duty. But it would be a marriage of convenience, I suspect—to a woman who expects nothing more. Unlike your sister.”
“If he doesn’t marry, you could be the duke one day.”
“The same could be said of Jason,” he reminded her. “But I’ve given up living my life according to what might happen someday. Life in the here and now tends to be more satisfying—and the rewards more immediate.”
Ahead of them in the passage, two people emerged from the shadows. The duke and duchess, arms linked, heads close together, speaking in voices too low for anyone else to hear.
“Do you think they’ll reconcile?” Margaret asked in a low voice, watching as Their Graces ascended the main staircase and vanished from sight.
Gervase shrugged. “Who knows? I’ve likewise given up trying to predict anything at all where my Aged Parents are concerned. Still,” he added reflectively, “I think they are on better terms now than they’ve been in years. That’s something to be thankful for, this Christmas.”
Margaret nodded, thinking of everything else there was to be thankful for. Like this man standing beside her: friend, companion, and lover. With the brilliant mind he exercised freely and the generous heart he guarded from all but those he loved most: his family—and her. The man she could not do without. “They value you more now. Your parents.”
“Perhaps,” he conceded with a faint smile. “And I won’t deny that pleases me. Although, strange as it sounds, I find I no longer mind not being his favorite. Or hers.”
Margaret slipped her hand through the crook of his arm. “You’re my favorite.”
“Then what more could I ask?”
“Quite a lot, actually. And you’ve a better than average chance of getting it.”
He raised quizzical brows. “I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”
She took a breath, preparing to leap the chasm between past and future. Their future. “You maddening, infuriating, brilliant, stupid man... will you marry me?”
His own breath caught, his body tensing like a wound spring. “If I said anything other than ‘yes,’ I would deserve the epithet of ‘stupid.’”
“And heaven knows we can’t have that,” Margaret teased.
His eyes glinted as he pulled her to him. “For God’s sake, hold your tongue and let me love,” he murmured, and proceeded to kiss her breathless.
Upstairs in her chamber, they made love with leisurely sweetness, mindful of Gervase’s healing injuries. Not that those affected the quality of his performance, Margaret reflected with hazy contentment.
She traced a fading bruise with a gentle finger. “I do love nothing in the world so well as you. Is not that strange?”
He smiled lazily, his eyes half-lidded. “As strange as the thing I know not.” His hand trailed over her back in a lingering caress. “But strange or no, I can only rejoice that you do.”
Margaret pillowed her head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “Talking of rejoicing, where should we have the wedding? It seems a shame to let your family chapel go to waste.”
“Convenient though that is, I think it would be bad luck to marry in a place where the last wedding failed to come off,” he pointed out. “How about the Minster instead?”
“That would be lovely,” she approved. “And how soon can we be married?”
“Unless you’d prefer a more fashionable time like spring or summer, as soon as I’m rid of that thrice-blasted cane! I don’t want to be hobbling up the nave like the Ancient of Days!”
“A very reasonable concession,” Margaret said demurely.
“To say nothing of maintaining the tradition of carrying my bride over the threshold,” he added. “I flatly refuse to allow you to carry me.”
She stifled a giggle against his chest. “Well, I don’t care about being fashionable. I just want to be married to you as quickly as possible!”
His arms tightened around her. “My sentiments exactly. But let’s have ourselves a splendid wedding anyway, because you deserve one.”
“We deserve one,” she corrected, snuggling closer to him. “Though our wedding could hardly fail to be splendid, with our families in attendance.”
His eyes took on a reminiscent gleam. “A Whitborough-Langdale marriage at last! That should please Father—in spite of the groom being a mere younger son.”
“Mere, forsooth!” Margaret waved a hand airily. “As far as I’m concerned, I’m marrying the best of the Lyons boys!”
The dimples deepened about his mouth. “Merci du compliment, ma mie! Although, given how your brother feels about my father, he might not approve of our marriage.”
“Augustus has nothing to say about it, now or ever. Shall I enrage him by laying claim to Moorhaven?” she suggested. “It was originally part of my dowry when I was engaged to Hal.”
“I understand the temptation, but let him have his victory. It matters little enough to us.”
“You don’t mind giving up possible shares in a silver mine?”
He shook his head. “My treasure happens to be above ground—and God willing, shall remain so for the next forty years at least. For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings—”
“That then I scorn to change my state with kings,” Margaret finished triumphantly, and kissed him.