“I was what? Fourteen? Fifteen years old? I thought myself a heroic fellow too.”
How things had changed. He remembered the day that dog had chased Minette about the garden because she was covered in sticky sweets. She had quickly gone hysterical at its jumping and licking, and when August lifted her up, she’d sobbed in relief and clung to his neck. His own sisters were older and treated him like a paltry young knob. At that age it had pricked him to madness, and here had been a young, defenseless cherub whom he could rescue and protect. He’d envied Warren his little sister for years, until Minette grew up and started mooning over him in her determined fashion. Then things had become decidedly awkward, since he couldn’t think about her in any romantic way.
Even now, as he looked down at her delicate hand on his arm, and her blonde curls peeking from beneath her bonnet, he thought, What the devil am I going to do?
The answer to that was nothing. He would do nothing. He and Minette would have a marriage in name only, until and unless the day arrived that he could see her as something more than an innocent child. It didn’t help that she was back to chattering about baby ducklings.
“Why don’t we sit down?” he asked, steering her toward a weathered wooden bench. He brushed away the leaves, and then they sat together, rather closer than they’d ever sat before.
“And then,” said Minette, “well, you would never believe it but this little duckling nipped its brother on the tail, or perhaps it was his sister, it’s impossible to know, and the other turned around and gave a hilarious, tiny sort of snarl. I’m telling you, I’d never heard a noise like it. And it was the cutest little duck, all fuzzy and furry, you know, just before its feathers had come in. And Lady Julia and I just watched and laughed, wondering if a full row would break out. It didn’t, you’ll be pleased to know, but we still talk about that snarling little duck. Why, perhaps it was rabid.”
August gazed into her eyes in what he hoped was a lovelorn fashion. “Perhaps it had only had enough of the other duck poking at it.”
“You know something I learned recently? I forget who told me, some gentleman, but he warned me in no uncertain terms that swans were unpleasant creatures and that one should never approach them if one can help it. No matter how pleasant and graceful they look, he said they could be excessively violent if they were in that mood. Which is sad, because I always thought it great fun to feed bits of food to the swans when we visited Lansing Grange. They had black and white swans, and even these sort of grayish in-between swans.” She thought a moment, putting the tip of a finger to her chin. “Although perhaps they were only white swans in need of a good scrubbing.”
“Minette.” He took her hand, surprised to find it shaking. “Let’s not talk about geese anymore, or ducks, or swans, or anything else to do with water fowl.”
She looked down at her lap, then looked back at him. “Of course, if you prefer not to. What else would you like to talk about?”
“Did I hurt you?” he blurted in a rough voice.
He hadn’t meant to ask it. He had meant to bring up some safe and offhand topic, but Minette’s fingers were trembling, and he couldn’t bear to think why.
“Do you mean...?”
“Last night. Did I hurt you? I want you to know that I won’t— That we needn’t—” He sighed. “If I hurt you, I swear I didn’t mean to, and I won’t do any such thing again.”
“I know you didn’t mean to,” she said. Her hand had gone limp in his. She opened her fan to flutter an insect away. “The thing about swans, whether they be black, or white, or—”
“Minette.”
“I was going to say that I wanted swans at my wedding for the longest time, but I don’t anymore. Warren says you’re going to get a special license and marry me next week. So there won’t be any time for swans, or a great deal of planning. But now that I know more about swans and their unpleasant dispositions, I don’t want them at the wedding anyway.”
August sighed. “If you want swans, you shall have them.”
“I don’t,” she said, looking up at him. “I’m absolutely sure that some pretty flowers and music shall be quite enough. I’d hate for anything to ruin our day, particularly swans, because they aren’t as sweet and romantic as everyone thinks.”
He looked away first, but not before he saw the anxiety in her gaze. “Doves would be nice at a wedding,” he said. “They’re very peaceful.”
He was not surprised when Minette launched into an animated monologue about her many adventures involving doves. If it eased her fears to chatter about inane things, August was happy to let her talk, although he couldn’t remember conversing about birds for such an extended period at any point in his life before now.
The important thing was that the people across the lake at the tea party saw him holding her hand, and gazing into her eyes like a dazzled fellow who was falling in love.
Chapter Five: The Worst Wedding Night Ever
In deference to her brother’s wishes, Lord August married her the following week, just after the house party ended. They recited their vows in the picturesque chapel at Marble Grove, a sleepy village bordering the Warren estate. Many Oxfordshire families attended, but others stayed away, most notably the Coltons and their set. Lord Barrymore, August’s father, did not attend either due to illness. Minette wondered if that was true, or only an excuse.
Minette studied August throughout the ceremony and the small wedding breakfast at Warren Manor, trying to discern if these absences upset him. He smiled when he ought to smile, and held her hand, and conversed with the guests like a pleased bridegroom, but there was some tension underneath, some simmering darkness. Minette did her best to maintain a merry mood, although she bawled like a child when she said goodbye to Warren and Josephine and Mrs. Everly afterward. Even worse, she had to share the coach to Barrymore Park with her new mother-in-law, who frowned at her the entire way.
Oh, there was nothing for it. Her wedding day had been a disaster, nothing like the sort of day she’d hoped.
Now she was Wilhelmina Anne Randolph, the Countess of Augustine, married to Method Edwin Randolph, which was such a strange name for a person they’d always called August. Method? A method for what? Who would name their child such a thing? At least she knew Barrymore Park well, having been there on more than a few occasions with her brother. It wasn’t really August’s house, but his parents’. Lady Barrymore introduced her to the housekeeper as Lady Augustine and both the women’s noses seemed to pinch in distaste. Minette was then ensconced in a rather distant wing, pending refurbishments, Lady Barrymore said. When they nearly “forgot” to fetch her for dinner, Minette had the lowering suspicion she’d been placed in the distant wing by design.
Do not lose your nerve now, she chided herself. You must be a pleasant, amiable wife, like Josephine is with Warren, or Aurelia with Townsend. You must smile and bring happiness to your husband’s home and your husband’s world.
And yes, she would go to bed with him, even if the process puzzled her. Even if it hurt. She waited in her prettiest night dress for him to come to her after dinner, but the hours ticked on into evening and then nighttime, and he didn’t come.
&nbs
p; Perhaps he imagined she wouldn’t welcome him, after their awkward encounter Hallowe’en night. Perhaps he’d gotten lost on the way to her rooms, as she was so far removed from the main areas of the house. Well, she had never been one to shrink about and allow matters to go awry. They were married now. At the very least they ought to say good night to one another, and if there were other words that must be said, Minette was not afraid to say them.
She pulled a robe over her night dress and proceeded into the hall. A footman stood just down from her door. “Will you take me to my husband?” she asked. “Lord Augustine,” she clarified hastily, in case the servant was not well informed.
They began the great trek back toward the main house, and once they arrived, the footman took her downstairs to the library. Why, it was nearly eleven o’clock, but Lord August was there, laboring over correspondence. “Lady Augustine,” the footman announced, before turning on his heel and shutting the door.
Goodness, these haughty servants. She turned to August with a smile. “Are you working tonight, on your wedding night?”
“I had a few matters to attend to.” His face revealed new lines in the lamplight. He did not put down his pen.
Minette tried to think of something to say that might soften the tension around his eyes. She found her voice had left her for the first time in a while.
“How are your rooms?” he asked.
Distant, she thought. Like your expression. “They are very well, for temporary rooms,” she said aloud.
“Yes, temporary. We’ll find you something better. There were plans for refurbishments, but no wedding was expected until next year.”
“Oh.” She swallowed hard. “I want to thank you for...for your sacrifice today. In marrying me.”
“Let’s not call it a sacrifice, as that sounds rather grim. I married you out of duty, and respect for your honor. And so your brother wouldn’t kill me,” he added as an afterthought. “We shall attempt to make the best of things.”