The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh (The Cavanaughs 3)

She widened her eyes at him. “What?”

“That we marry as soon as possible—by special license.”

Something like panic fluttered in her chest; she’d assumed they’d have an engagement that ran for months. “Why?”

Because I want my ring on your finger before you have a chance to change your mind. Frederick knew better than to utter those words. Instead, he advanced another equally valid reason. “Because once the ton—let alone our families—hear of us setting a date, we won’t be allowed a moment’s peace.”

Chapter 13

Six days later, Frederick stood facing the altar in St. George’s Church in Hanover Square, praying that Stacie hadn’t changed her mind and wishing the ceremony, at least, was over.

Unfortunately, it had yet to start. To his right stood Percy, with George beyond him, and at his back were ranged the select few who had been invited to witness this most restricted of ton events.

The wedding of Lady Eustacia Cavanaugh and Frederick, Marquess of Albury, was destined to set a new record for the smallest of haut ton weddings, much to the relief of both principal participants.

Six days of what Frederick mentally termed “fuss” were about to reach their culmination. Impatience of an unfamiliar sort pricked and prodded; he accepted the absolute necessity of the event, yet wanted it over and done with.

From the moment Stacie had walked into his mother’s drawing room and into his life, she’d flung challenges his way, intentionally or otherwise. First, it had been luring him into performing once again before the ton, then she herself had become the source of subsequent challenges—to protect her reputation after they’d been discovered in a compromising situation, then to learn the secret of why she refused to marry, and ultimately, to persuade her to accept that they were a well-nigh perfect match and agree to marry him.

Now, to cap it all, she’d presented him with the challenge to beat all challenges—to overcome her irrational fear of him loving her before she realized he already did.

When she’d demanded he promise not to fall in love with her, it had been impossible to ignore the reality that, at some point over the previous weeks, he’d fallen victim to Cupid’s bow. Without a whimper, without any real resistance; Stacie had woven a web of enthrallment, and he’d willingly succumbed.

At least, courtesy of her stipulation, he now had what he suspected was a reasonably accurate understanding of the root cause of her resistance to marriage, and to his mind, the implications weren’t all bad.

Once he’d had a chance to reflect on her apparent aversion to him loving her, it hadn’t required any huge deductive leap to guess that her father had loved her mother and that her mother had betrayed that love, causing her father untold pain. He’d confirmed with Ryder and Rand that Stacie had been devoted to her father, that he and she had been especially close. Put that together with the constant refrain that most likely had filled Stacie’s ears ever since she could comprehend speech, namely that she was an exact replica of her mother, and the demand Stacie had made of him no longer seemed so strange.

The aspect of that which had given him most heart was that making such a demand of him was the equivalent of seeking to protect him. Stacie cared for him at least that much—enough to take steps to ensure that, by her reasoning, she wouldn’t be able to cause him the same hurt her mother had visited on her father.

To his mind, that was a very large step in a positive direction—one he could work with and build upon. Now all he had to do was untangle her thinking and convince her that, despite the physical similarity, inside, in her character and in her heart, she wasn’t and never would become a reincarnation of her mother.

Even if he loved her.

If he’d read what Stacie had revealed correctly, she saw him loving her as some sort of catalyst that would draw forth and feed the darkness of spirit that had characterized her mother. It would, therefore, be necessary to hide the true nature of his feelings until he’d convinced her that there was no danger in him loving her—until he’d overwritten and erased her mistaken belief that she would ever transform into a malignant harpy.

Luckily, hiding all softer emotions—more or less pretending not to love—was virtually a stock-in-trade for gentlemen like him. Indeed, in that regard, his late father had provided an exemplary role model; Frederick had never doubted his father had loved his mother, and his mother hadn’t, either, yet no one viewing Frederick’s father in public would have described his feelings toward his marchioness as noticeably warm.

Beside Frederick, Percy shifted, then whispered, “I haven’t forgotten the ring.”

Frederick nodded. It was the second time Percy had told him that; his friends were more nervous than he was. He was the first of their number to marry; no more than he had they played these roles before, and the last days had been enough to make anyone’s head whirl.

It had been Wednesday morning when Stacie had come to see him, and after she’d agreed to marry him, they’d gone straight to Raventhorne House, where their news had been greeted with great elation and with very pointed congratulations directed his way. He’d left Stacie surrounded by her family and gone to the Old Deanery in the City to call on his distant connection, Charles Blomfield, currently the Bishop of London. Subsequently, armed with a special license, he and Stacie had visited the Rector of St. George’s, Reverend Hodgson, and settled on the date and time. After that, they’d returned to Albury House and broken the news of their impending nuptials to his mother—who hadn’t known whether to be thrilled that he would be married so soon or miffed for the same reason.

Thereafter, the family matriarchs—his mother and Mary—had taken over proceedings and dictated how things would be. He’d left Stacie to her sisters-in-law’s devices, called on Percy and George and enlisted their support, then gone on to Moreton in Savile Row. The tailor had been quietly thrilled to receive Frederick’s order of a new dove-gray morning suit and had assured him it would be delivered on Monday.

Frederick’s next stop had been Aspreys; after finalizing his purchases there—the ruby parure and a worked gold band the same size as the ruby ring—he’d deemed his preparations complete and had retreated to his study at Albury House.

He felt sure Stacie’s preparations had been a great deal more complex and harried—he’d known better than to inquire about her gown—yet although his mother and Mary had insisted on celebratory family dinners on Friday and Saturday evenings, those had merely replaced the events he and Stacie had had scheduled. That had suited him and Stacie both, and with Sunday being a day of rest even among the ton, and no one expecting them to attend events yesterday, the lead-up to the wedding had been not just swift but also largely out of sight of society.

Given that Stacie had specifically requested a small, intimate, family wedding, and Frederick had wanted the knot tied as quickly as possible, they had both managed to get what they’d wanted.

Frederick had been idly listening to the organ, critically noting the organist’s shortcomings, when the music paused, then resumed with the opening chords of Mendelssohn’s wedding march. Frederick had chosen the piece; he’d felt it fitting to have Stacie walk down the nave to him to the music of one of his favorite composers.

The change in tune meant that she was on her way. A sudden sense of teetering on some precipice seized him. He hauled in a slow breath, steeled himself, and turned.

All he could see was her—a slender yet curvaceous vision in ivory, pearls, and lace, with the finest of lace veils draped over her face and her glossy dark hair. Tiny seed pearls were liberally sprinkled over her bodice and gleamed from the folds of her ski

rt, while larger pearls circled her throat, bobbed at her ear lobes, and anchored the veil in her hair.