At Last Comes Love

16

MARGARET had ten days in which to prepare for her wedding and for married life. Ten days in which to have second and third and thirty-third thoughts about the wisdom of her decision to marry a stranger – who had lived with a married lady for almost five years and had had a son with her. Ten days to shop for bride clothes – sometimes with her sisters, sometimes with Lady Carling, sometimes with all three. Ten days in which to draw up a guest list and send out invitations and wait for replies and try to resist the temptation to insist upon involving herself with the planning of the wedding breakfast. That last point was one of the hardest.

She would have been content to keep the guest list short, to have no one at her wedding, in fact, except her family and Sir Graham and Lady Carling and the Marquess of Claverbrook.

Her sisters had other ideas. Of course.

So did Lady Carling. Of course. "You must invite everyone with whom you and Lord Sheringford have even a passing acquaintance," Vanessa told her. "I do agree, Meg," Katherine said. "It is what we decided to do for /my/ wedding, you will recall, and while it was something of an ordeal at the time, I have been so very glad since. A big wedding provides wonderful memories." "But no one will /come/," Margaret protested.

Her sisters looked at each other and laughed. "Meg!" Katherine exclaimed. "/Everyone/ will come. How could they possibly resist? It will be the wedding of the Season." "With only nine days' notice?" Margaret asked doubtfully. "Even if it was tomorrow," Vanessa said. "Of course everyone will come, you silly goose." It was an opinion with which Lady Carling concurred when she called at Merton House the same day. "And even if we were to invite only family," she said, "the numbers would be quite vast, Margaret. There are your brother and sisters and Mr. Constantine Huxtable. And there are Agatha, my sister, and Wilfred, and all my nieces – there are six of them, did you know? All of them are married. And on his father's side Duncan has four uncles and their wives and two aunts and their husbands. Not that they are actually uncles and aunts, since they were my late husband's cousins, but that is what Duncan always called them. And /they/ have so many children all told that I lost count years ago. There are even grandchildren who are old enough to attend a wedding without any fear that they will dash about whooping and getting under everyone's feet. If you give me paper and pen and ink, I will write down the names and addresses of all I can remember. Most of them are in London and will certainly expect invitations. Duncan was always very close to his cousins and second cousins as a boy. Except Norman, that is. He was a dear enough boy, but he was always very good and very ready to disapprove of any brothers and cousins who were /not/ good. That did not endear him to any of them, as you may imagine. And I suppose we cannot invite him to the wedding anyway, can we? Not when he is married to poor Caroline." Margaret capitulated and invited the whole world – or so it seemed.

Certainly her hand was severely cramped by the time she had finished writing all the cards.

The whole world replied within two days, and at least nine tenths of it was coming to the wedding at St. George's on Hanover Square and to the breakfast at Merton House.

The Marquess of Claverbrook was coming too. Margaret had carried through on her promise to visit him again with Stephen and her sisters, and none of them gave him any chance to say no. Of course, he did save face by declaring that he would attend only to see with his own eyes that his rogue of a grandson really did put in an appearance at his own wedding this time.

The days passed in a blur of activity. Before Margaret knew it, her wedding day had dawned and it really was too late to change her mind even if she wanted to.

She did not.

Crispin caused her more than one restless night, it was true, but she knew that she would never marry him even if she were free to do so.

There were too many things about him that disturbed her, and the leftover dregs of an old attachment were simply not enough.

He was coming to the wedding, though she suspected it was only because Sir Humphrey and Lady Dew were still in London and he did not wish to arouse their curiosity by staying away. Lady Dew was delighted by the approaching nuptials, though she did admit to a little disappointment that her small attempt at matchmaking between Margaret and Crispin had been unsuccessful. She had finally heard of the scandal concerning Lord Sheringford, but she gave it as her opinion that if a lady was foolhardy enough to leave her husband in order to run off with another man, then she must have had a very good reason to do so. For her part, she would not hold it against the earl, especially as he now had the good sense to ally himself to Margaret.

Margaret stood barefoot at the window of her bedchamber early on the morning of her wedding, gazing up at a sky that was deep blue and cloudless – a rarity so far this summer. She was not particularly enjoying the sight, though. She was fighting panic by telling herself that it was surely what every bride faced on her wedding day.

She did not turn to look at the rumpled bed behind her. The linens would be changed after she had left for her wedding. Tonight it was to be her wedding bed. They were to leave in the morning for Warwickshire, she and Lord Sheringford, but tonight Stephen had insisted they stay at Merton House while he went to Vanessa and Elliott's.

Margaret set her forehead against the cool glass of the window and closed her eyes.

How strange it would be to be married!

And how she ached for it. And for tonight. Was that a shameful, unladylike admission? But she did not really care. She had waited long enough for this. /Too/ long. Her youth was already gone. And since it /was/ gone, and with it all her youthful dreams of romance, then it was as well to turn her mind to the future with a positive wish for it to come as soon as possible.

Today and tonight she would be a bride – and she was going to enjoy every moment. Tomorrow and for the rest of her life she would be a wife. She was going to enjoy that too. It was what she had always wanted, after all, and what she had decided over the winter that she would /be/. It really did not matter that her bridegroom was neither Crispin, whom she had loved, nor the Marquess of Allingham, with whom she had enjoyed a comfortable friendship. She had made her decision to marry the Earl of Sheringford, and somehow she would make something good out of their marriage.

There would be a child to bring up. /Again/.

She smiled fleetingly.

Even before she gave birth to any of her own.

Oh, /let/ it be the right thing she was doing, she prayed to no one in particular as she lifted her forehead away from the window and moved into her dressing room to ring for her maid. /Please/, let it be the right thing.

It was fourteen days since she had collided with the Earl of Sheringford in the doorway of the Tindell ballroom. Fourteen days since he had asked her to dance and to marry him – all in one sentence. His first words to her. /Only/ fourteen days.

Weddings by special license, Duncan discovered during the ten days preceding his marriage to Margaret Huxtable, did not differ significantly from weddings by banns except that one did not have to wait the obligatory month for those banns to be read.

They were going to be married at St. George's in Hanover Square, for the love of God. It was the scene of most /ton/ weddings during the Season, it being the parish church of most of the beau monde. It was where legend had it he had left Caroline waiting tragically and in vain at the altar for his arrival five years ago. Legend erred on the side of good theater, of course, as legend often did, but even so… How foolish of him to have imagined a mere two weeks ago that he would procure a special license, bear Miss Huxtable off to the nearest church, marry her there with only the clergyman and a witness or two for company, and then make off into Warwickshire with her to live obscurely ever after.

He could do nothing but kick his heels while his wedding crept up on him with the speed and inevitability of a tortoise.

The only thing of any real significance he did during those days was to call upon Norman and Caroline. It went severely against the grain to do so. Norman had never been his favorite person. Indeed, he had probably occupied the place of very least favorite for as far back into their childhood as Duncan had conscious memories. He was a pompous ass who had behaved in typical Norm fashion at Aunt Agatha's soiree. And Caroline was no better in all essential ways than her brother. Which meant that she was a pretty rotten human being.

Nevertheless, Duncan had wronged her. Even though he had written to her before he ran off with Laura and had made sure she would receive the letter as soon as she woke up on their wedding day, abandoning her had been an admittedly dastardly thing to do.

He owed her an apology.

And perhaps he needed to hold out some sort of olive branch to Norman.

Losing Woodbine Park, when he had fully expected that it would be his in a few days' time, must be a severe disappointment to him. Though Duncan was not the one who had played cruel games with him, nevertheless he felt bad for his cousin. He had never wished Norm any real harm, even if he /had/ bloodied his nose on one occasion when they were both boys, and blackened one of his eyes on another.

So he called upon the two of them one afternoon and hoped ignominiously that they would be from home – or that they would pretend to be.

He was no more fortunate on that account than he had been when he had gone to tell Margaret Huxtable about Toby.

He was admitted to a small visitors' parlor on the ground floor and left to kick his heels there and otherwise amuse himself for almost half an hour.

Caroline arrived first, looking not a day older than eighteen and as fragile and lovely as ever, though she had had three children during the past five years, had she not?

Duncan bowed.

She did not curtsy. "Caroline," he said, "I must thank you for receiving me." "I do not believe, Lord Sheringford," she said, "I have given you permission to make free with my given name." She spoke with the light, sweet voice that had once so enchanted him. "Mrs. Pennethorne," he said, "apologies are cheap, as I am well aware.

They cannot set right what has been done wrong. Nevertheless, sometimes an apology is all that is available. I beg you to accept mine for all the humiliation and suffering I caused you five years ago." "You flatter yourself, Lord Sheringford," she said. "What you did was release me from a connection that had grown distasteful to me, though of course good breeding would have forced me to honor it. I am grateful that you felt no such compunction. I am far happier with my dear Mr.

Pennethorne than I could ever have been with you." If she spoke the truth, he was vastly relieved. And why would it not be the truth? She must have grown as unhappy with him as he had with her when he had started trying to enlist her support to plead with her brother to put an end to Laura's sufferings. "I am happy for you," he said. "You will forgive me, then?" Delicate eyebrows arched above large hazel eyes. "Oh, you must never expect /that/ of me, Lord Sheringford," she said as the door opened again to admit Norman. "Certain actions are quite unforgivable. I can certainly be very glad that you left me free to engage in the happiest marriage in the world, but I cannot forgive your behavior. Neither could I /ever/ forgive you for tearing Randolph and Laura asunder and thus destroying a marriage that was made in heaven and that rivaled my own in happiness. Indeed, you might almost be called a murderer. She would very probably still be alive now if you had not dragged her off with you to satisfy your wicked desires." "My love," Norman said, hurrying toward her, taking her by the shoulders, and leading her to a love seat. "You ought to have remained abovestairs and left this unpleasantness to me. But you are always so foolishly brave." "I have never been a moral coward," she said, seating herself. "I even called upon Miss Huxtable at Merton House when I believed her to be the innocent dupe of a scoundrel. It seems I was mistaken in her. She will be sorry she did not listen to me one day soon, but my conscience is clear at least. And she will be getting only what she deserves." The visit went downhill from there. "Norm," Duncan said, "I am sorry about Woodbine. It was just Grandpapa being fiendish, I am afraid. He used you in order to bring me to heel.

But he ought not to have promised you something he was prepared to withdraw at a moment's notice if he succeeded. Will you feel free to visit my wife and me at Woodbine? And to bring Car – Mrs. Pennethorne and your children with you, of course." Norman fixed him with a stern stare – something he had perfected at the age of eight or so. His shirt points waited hopefully a scant inch from his eyeballs. "I am only sorry, Sheringford," he said, "that I felt compelled to admit you today under the same roof that shelters Mrs. Pennethorne and my children. I did it because I have something to say that I will say once only. I wish it were possible to slap a glove in your face and proceed to put a bullet between your eyes. It would give me the greatest satisfaction. It would, however, expose Mrs. Pennethorne to gossip again and cause her unnecessary distress. I deeply regret that my brother-in-law is too mild-mannered and peace-loving a man to challenge you himself. He is a gentleman with a conscience, and I must honor him for that even if I do not like it. I spurn your acquaintance, Sheringford. If you come here again, you will be refused admittance. If we come face-to-face, you will be ignored. If you should try speaking with Mrs. Pennethorne again, I shall punish you like the cur you are. I hesitated about moving my family to Woodbine Park because /you/ once lived there. You are mistaken if you believe I am now disappointed." Dash it all, but the man was a born orator – if one liked bombast and pomposity, that was. "And now," Norman said, "get out, Sheringford." Duncan nodded, bowed to Caroline, and took his leave.

He wondered as he did so if Caroline had ever told Norman any part of the truth of what had happened five years ago – any significant part, that was. He somehow doubted it. And that meant, of course, that Norman's righteous indignation was justified. He had every right to his anger and his fervent desire to put a period to Duncan's existence.

Caroline certainly knew the truth – the /whole/ of it. He had told her himself, and it had not come as a surprise to her. If only Laura would show more wifely loyalty to Randolph and his family, she had said plaintively, blows and bruises would be quite unnecessary. On the contrary, Randolph would love her for the rest of his life – as he already did, of course – and see to it that she had everything that could possibly make her happy. She deserved whatever she was getting instead.

Just as Margaret Huxtable did in marrying him.

Duncan did /not/ call upon Randolph Turner or hold out any sort of olive branch to him. Caroline had been right about one thing. Certain actions /were/ unforgivable. Or if that was not strictly true, then it /was/ true of a man who had never shown any remorse for his unspeakably wicked and cruel actions.

Apart from that one visit, Duncan spent the nine days before his wedding simply avoiding the madness associated with it as much as he was able. A grand wedding was necessary, his mother explained to him at great length the day she arrived home from Merton House with the news that Margaret Huxtable was sending out more than two hundred invitations – or perhaps not quite as many as that since some people were in couples and only one invitation was necessary, it being a foolish waste of paper and ink and time and energy to send two.

He did not argue the point with her in the hope that she would not feel the necessity to share any more of the details with him.

Vain hope! "A grand wedding is very necessary, my love," she went on to explain with her own particular form of logic. "Anyone who attends it can hardly give you the cut direct afterward, as you will realize very clearly for yourself if you stop to think about it. You may still not be society's favorite son, but you will be firmly back in the fold, and that is what really matters." "Society," he said, "can go hang for all I care, Mama." "Oh, men can be so foolish," she said. "But even if you do not care for its regard on your own account, Duncan, you must remember that you are going to be a married man. You are going to have a /wife/ to consider, and if society snubs you, it will snub her too. You owe it to Margaret to do all in your power to ingratiate yourself with the /ton/ again." He sighed audibly. She was quite right, of course.

Dash it all! "Anyway" he said, "I daresay no one will accept the invitation – except a few of the uncles and cousins, perhaps." Another vain hope – as he had explained to Maggie a few days before.

His mother clucked her tongue. /"Men!"/ she said with the utmost scorn and a glance tossed at the ceiling. "They have /no idea/ how people think. /Of course/ everyone will accept the invitation. /Everyone/! No one would miss it for any consideration." It was an opinion that was corroborated on the gossip page in the next morning's paper. The upcoming event was heralded there as the wedding of the Season – /if/, that was, the Earl of Sheringford did not run off on the day and leave Miss Huxtable standing at the altar alone.

He was in for a grand wedding, then, Duncan realized, as surely as a condemned man was in for an appointment with the gallows.

He dressed on the fateful morning with the full awareness that he was going to be on display more than he had yet been since his return to London.

Which was saying something! "Not so tight," he half growled at Smith as his valet tied his neckcloth in a knot that was not too simple, not too elaborate. It was perfect in all ways but one, in fact. "Are you trying to throttle me?" "I think it is the occasion that is doing that, m'lord," Smith said without tampering further with the neckcloth. "You don't want it swinging about from one shoulder to the other, now, do you? And even if you do, I will not have it. I would never be able to hold up my head again among my fellow valets. Stand up and let me give that coat a final brush. You have a positive gift for picking up bits of lint, though for the life of me I don't know where you find them." Duncan finally escaped the clutches of tyranny and went downstairs, where a small group awaited him in the hall. Carling looked resigned to a day of boredom that would, nevertheless, release him of the charge of housing and feeding his stepson. His mother declared that she would not hug him lest she crush her new dress and crease his coat, and that she would not weep lest she ruin her face – she would not mention cosmetics, but they were there in full, colorful evidence. But she did blow him kisses before leaving for the church, and she did dart at him at the last moment for a quick hug, and she did dab at a stray tear with a large white handkerchief she pulled from one of Carling's pockets before she preceded him from the house.

Duncan turned to Con Huxtable, who had agreed to be his best man. They both raised their eyebrows. "Sherry," Con said, "I have no idea what happened five years ago. But if you should take it into your head to bolt between here and St. George's, you are going to have to bolt through me." "I am not going to run," Duncan assured him irritably.

Con nodded. "I do not understand how all this came about either," he said. "Margaret has always seemed to me like a sensible lady. However, it /has/ happened, or will have when I have dragged you to the church and prevented you from bolting. You will treat her right, Sherry." It was not a question. "There are many things we do not understand," Duncan said. "I don't understand, for example, why Miss Huxtable's happiness is important to you, when her family moved into Warren Hall five years ago and pushed you out." Con's dark eyes were immediately hooded. "/Circumstances/ pushed me out," he said. "My father's death, and then Jon's. It is easy to rush into hatred, Sherry, and to wallow in it for a lifetime. I /did/ so rush. I /did/ hate them – or Merton, anyway. But sometimes one needs to stop to ask oneself if a certain person really deserves to be hated. Merton and his sisters were innocent – and they are pretty hard to hate. And one needs to ask who is most hurt by hatred. Do we need to be having this talk at this precise moment?" "We do not," Duncan said, resisting the urge to pull at his neckcloth. "We need to get to the church. Under the circumstances, it would be more than usually calamitous if I were late." "Off we go, then," Con said cheerfully.

Because it was a lovely day and society weddings always attracted a large crowd anyway, Stephen's coachman had to maneuver the carriage carefully before St. George's in order not to run over some of the people who had spilled over from the pavement onto the roadway.

There was a noticeable "Oooh" from the crowd as Stephen descended and turned to hand Margaret out – almost as if they thought /he/ was the bridegroom. But of course, Stephen always looked remarkably handsome even when he was not dressed in formal black and white attire as he was this morning.

Margaret set a gloved hand in his and stepped down to join him, smiling at him as he smiled back. He had actually shed tears back at the house after Vanessa and Katherine had left with Elliott and Jasper – and had turned his back hastily in the obvious hope that she had not noticed.

But he had turned to her again without drying his eyes. "Meg," he had said. "Oh, Meg, you have always been the most wonderful sister any boy or man could ever ask for. I had no idea today would be so painful – or so happy at the same time. He is a good man. I am convinced of that. And I think you are fond of him, even though you have known him for such a short time." He had taken both her hands in his and squeezed them tightly. "/Are/ you fond of him?" But she had been on the edge of tears herself and had merely nodded. "And he is of you too," he had said. "I am sure he is. He will love you, Meg. I can safely promise that. How can anyone know you and not love you?" "You are not biased by any chance, are you?" she had asked, smiling. "Ah, Stephen, I have loved you all dearly. I still do and always will.

But forgive me if I want to go to my wedding now and not be late." He had chuckled, turned to pick up his hat, and offered his arm.

The crowd outside the church let out a collective "Aahh!" as she stepped down from the carriage. And indeed she did believe she was looking her best. She had resisted all the brightly colored garments Lady Carling had thought appropriate for the occasion and had chosen a cream-colored dress of satin and lace, which was high-waisted and simple in design but that had been expertly cut so that it molded her figure to perfection.

She wore a new straw hat trimmed with white rosebuds.

Jasper had told her it was a good thing she was the bride or no one would even spare a glance for the poor woman. And then he had turned and grinned and winked at Kate.

Stephen offered his arm now, and they made their way into the church.

Margaret was assailed suddenly by the panic that had grabbed her earlier. What if he was not here? What if he was not even late? What if he was not coming at all?

But it was an ignominious fear. She trusted him better than to believe he would abandon her now. She pushed the terror aside even before they stepped inside the church doors and she realized that the church was full to capacity and that no one looked worried or unduly agitated. What seemed like scores of heads turned in her direction, and at the end of the nave the clergyman gave a signal with one hand and two gentlemen stood. They both turned to see her.

One of them was Constantine. The other was the Earl of Sheringford.

Her bridegroom.

Margaret swallowed and fixed her eyes on him as Stephen bent to straighten the hem of her dress at the back and then gave her his arm.

She saw no one else. All the trappings of the wedding were quite unimportant despite Kate's protestations about the importance of memories. It did not matter if there were a dozen people here or two hundred. She was getting married and her bridegroom was here, at the front of the church, turned toward her and watching her as she approached.

And he was the bridegroom she wanted, she realized with great clarity.

She felt an upsurge of happiness and smiled at him.

He smiled back, and for the first time it struck her that he was really quite handsome after all – tall and dark and lean with intense eyes and features that were rugged rather than classically sculpted.

He did not smile often, did he? The expression imparted kindness to his face. He must /be/ a kind man. A poor abused lady had confided in him when she had confided in no one else. It was to him she had run when she was in real trouble. He loved his young son first of anyone else in his life because the child needed him and the affection and security he had to offer.

It was a strange moment for such a revelation.

She was marrying a kind man, Margaret realized.

And it was enough. She moved toward him with hope.

A short while later Stephen placed her hand in Lord Sheringford's, and together they turned to face the clergyman.

The church was hushed.

Half the /ton/ was in the pews behind them, Margaret realized. More important, so were their families. But it did not really matter. She was where she chose to be, and she was with the bridegroom she wished to marry. He might be a near stranger, she might have known him for only two weeks, but it did not matter.

Somehow this felt right.

Please, please let it /be/ right. "Dearly beloved," the clergyman began.

It was all so terribly public. Although they stood with their backs to the congregation through most of the nuptial service, Duncan could /feel/ them there – avidly curious about this strange wedding of their most notorious member to one of the most respectable.

They would all wait as avidly afterward for something to go wrong.

Margaret Huxtable believed this was fate, and he had had the strange thought himself that perhaps the whole course of his life had been directed to that moment when they had collided in a ballroom doorway.

But he did not know her.

He had no idea how he would make her happy.

He was marrying her for Toby's sake. He would not be doing this if it were not for the child, would he? He would be out somewhere far from London, searching for employment. He would not have set foot in London to beg for Woodbine to be restored to him if he had had only himself to consider. "I pronounce that they be man and wife together, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen," the clergyman was saying, and it was all over.

Somehow he had missed his own nuptial service. But it did not matter. He was a married man anyway. He was married to Margaret Huxtable – Margaret Pennethorne, Countess of Sheringford.

Ah, Tobe.

And a few minutes later, having signed the register, they were walking back up the nave of the church together, acknowledging the smiles – and tears – of their relatives and the more curious stares of other guests.

The only persons Duncan really saw were his mother, her eyes shining with tears, and his grandfather in the second pew, frowning ferociously at him, but in just the way he had always used to frown as he searched his pockets for a shilling.

And then they were stepping out into sunshine and a cheering crowd and church bells just beginning a joyful peal.

As if a wedding had taken place. As indeed one had.

His own.

He looked down at his bride on his arm. It seemed that every time he saw her she looked more beautiful than the time before, but on this occasion she definitely did. "Well, Maggie," he said. "Well, Lord Sheringford." "We are going to have to correct that," he said. "You cannot be forever Lord Sheringfording me now that we are married." "Duncan," she said. "Come," he said, and led her toward an open barouche his grandfather had sent for the occasion.

It was only as they approached it that he saw it had been decorated with gaily colored ribbons and bows – and with a couple of old boots to drag behind. And there were the perpetrators, mingling, grinning, with the crowd and clutching handfuls of flower petals, which they hurled with great glee as the bride and groom passed.

A horde of his cousins – partners in crime and other mayhem from his childhood and youth.

He was really back in the fold, then, was he?

Strangely and ignominiously, his throat ached is if he were about to weep.

His bride was laughing as he handed her into the barouche and she settled among the garish ribbons and turned her face to him as he settled beside her. Her hat and dress were dotted with petals. He reached for the pouch of coins tucked into the side of his seat and tossed them by handfuls into the crowd.

The carriage rocked on its springs and drew away from the curb – with a great clattering from the boots – as the congregation was spilling into the outdoors.

Maggie tucked a hand into his without any apparent self-consciousness. "Duncan," she said. "Oh, Duncan, was it not all /wonderful/?" He squeezed her hand.

If it had been wonderful for her, then wonderful it was. He owed her that. He owed her a great deal. "It was indeed," he said as the cousins and other members of the crowd whistled and cheered and there was no abatement in the noise the boots were making – someone must have hammered nails all over them. "I suppose we had better give them all back there something to /really/ talk about.

Something juicy for tomorrow's gossip column." And he leaned toward her and kissed her on the lips – a lingering kiss that she made no attempt either to avoid or to end. Her lips clung to his and pressed warmly back against them.

The whistles behind them grew more piercing.