A Gamble on Love (9 page)

Relia peeped at her betrothed, who was
staring straight ahead, quite as if she were not there. Even his
profile was distinguished—if, of course, such a word could be used
to describe a Cit. Fortunately, he seemed to understand his place
among the landed hierarchy of Kent—quite at the bottom of the
barrel—even though he was, alas, all too stubbornly male regarding
relations with his wife. This could be a problem, but, as Gussie
kept reminding her, she had made her bed and must now lie in
it.

A most unfortunate
thought!
Relia felt a hot blush rushing straight up
from her toes to her face. Indeed, her whole body was blushing.
Hastily, she turned her head away, hoping to hide behind the
all-too-small brim of her bonnet.

“
Which way?” Mr. Lanning inquired,
seemingly indifferent to his betrothed’s disturbed emotions. “We
are at the end of the drive. Which way do you wish to
go?”

Miss Trevor responded, soon finding herself
caught up in extolling the virtues of the many enterprises at
Pevensey Park, where, as she expected, necks craned, hands waved,
and speculative looks were quickly followed by the light of
recognition. Miss had done it, by God, and found herself a man. And
a right fine one, if looks were not deceiving.

As Miss Trevor and Mr. Lanning spoke with the
wide-eyed milkmaids at the dairy farm, the workers manning the
drying racks at the oast houses, or accepted a basket of ripe red
apples from a farmer and his wife—all of whom beamed ear to ear
upon being the recipients of Mr. Lanning’s sudden return to
bonhomie—Relia wondered once again at her betrothed’s ability to
put on different faces for different people. Outside the chaise, he
was all that was affable. Her tenants seemed to take to him
immediately. Inside, the chaise might as well have been suffused
with the icy winds of January.

Yet, was she not participating in the same
game? Smiling and gracious when playing lady of the manor; sulking
in a corner when she was not?

They were on their way back now, and Relia
knew she must assert herself. Mr. Lanning had made an almost
too-fine impression on her people. Somehow they had looked . . .
well, as relieved as she was. If not more so. Miss Trevor was not
altogether pleased. Her tenants, after all, did not have to live
with the man!

Did they realize what a sacrifice she was
making? Relia glared out the window, for once not appreciating
either the beauty or the profitability of her acres. “Mr. Lanning,”
she declared, “there is a matter we must discuss.”

“
Yes?” Though his facial features did
not change, Relia was quite certain his tone turned instantly
wary.

“
I had thought to bring this matter up
during your visit, so it should not come as a surprise. But now . .
.” Miss Trevor clasped her hands, transforming into a vulnerable,
beseeching maiden. “My father quite doted on Pevensey Park, and I
would like to keep his name alive. Therefore I wish you to assume
his name. I believe you will find Trevor-Lanning has a fine ring to
it.”

As she caught the look on his face—now very
far from blank—Relia slid back into her corner. She had been
prepared for an initial objection, but it appeared Mr. Lanning was
about to burst out in a roar that would blow her straight out of
the chaise. Yet as she watched in horrified fascination, he leaned
back, knuckled his forehead, and began to laugh. His shoulders
shook. His other hand gripped his knee. Finally, he produced a
handkerchief and wiped his streaming eyes.

“
Miss Trevor,” he said at last, “before
agreeing to our initial meeting, I had my solicitor look into the
history of Pevensey Park. The name of the owner has changed with
all but one generation for well over a hundred years. “Your request
is outrageous, but all of piece for a young woman with enough pride
and presumption to employ a solicitor to find her a husband. Oddly
enough”—Mr. Lanning sat up and looked directly at her—“oddly
enough, I admire your courage. Will I change my name? No. Will I
allow my poor children to be saddled with such an awkward mouthful
as Trevor-Lanning? No, I will not. As for our marriage . . . ?”
Thomas Lanning shook his head. “If we do not kill each other in the
first month or so, I believe we may deal well together. Certainly,
you are no niminy-piminy creature without an ounce of backbone. You
may annoy me at times, but you do not disgust me.” Unfortunately,
Mr. Lanning chose that moment to end his monologue.

Miss Trevor opened her mouth, closed it. She
did not disgust him. How utterly delightful. The temperature in the
chaise, warmed by Mr. Lanning’s laughter, plunged back to bleak
winter. Relia eyed the basket of bright red apples on the floor at
her feet and conjured dire thoughts of a Cit who could be so
charming to the lower classes and treat his betrothed as if she
were dirt beneath his feet.

She needed him. Pevensey Park needed him. But
as soon as Lord Hubert and his family were chased away and Squire
Stanton realized her acres would never be added to his . . . and
William Tubbs understood he was to follow her orders, then Mr.
Lanning could go back to his precious City. She would be rid of him
and mistress of the Park once again. For this—as she had concluded
long since—marriage was a sacrifice she could make. After all, it
was not as if Mr. Thomas Lanning were going to be under foot for
more than a minimal amount of time.

“
Ah, yes, I nearly forgot,” said Mr.
Lanning, as if just remembering a vail for the postboys, “I have
something for you.” Reaching inside his jacket, he produced a small
white plush box. “It seems Rundell & Bridges had your size in
their records, so it should fit.” To Miss Trevor’s complete
chagrin, he flipped open the box to reveal a brilliant sapphire
surrounded by a ring of diamonds. “I believe a ring is the expected
confirmation of a betrothal.” He removed the ring from the box,
holding it between his thumb and forefinger, waiting . .
.challenging . . .

Anxiety clutched Relia’s throat, sending
sharp spears of pain through her chest. They were actually making
this perfectly horrid, cold-blooded match. She was lowering herself
to marry a Cit. A Cit who was far too bold and domineering.

Yet he had remembered to buy her a ring.
Thomas Lanning was, in fact, sitting there offering her the most
beautiful ring she had ever seen.

Relia thought she might be ill.

Slowly, fearfully, Miss Trevor extended her
left hand. Mr. Lanning was right—the ring was a perfect fit.

If only their marriage could be such an
exemplary match.

Shivers ran up Relia’s spine. There could be
no doubt. She had just made a disastrous mistake.

~ * ~

Seldom has a wedding been marked by so many
inimical countenances. Seated in the Trevor pew—with its high back,
ornately carved door, and kneelers done up in petitpoint by
Aurelia’s dynamic great-grandmother—were Lady Hubert and her son,
looking for all the world as if they were attending the funeral of
their nearest and dearest. Behind them were Squire Stanton, his
good wife Margaret, and their stair-step children—Harry, the hope
of the family and three of his four younger sisters and brothers.
The squire and his wife might have been riding a tumbril to the
guillotine for all the enjoyment they seemed to be deriving from
the wedding of Miss Aurelia Trevor and Mr. Thomas Lanning. Young
Harry’s mood seemed to swing wildly from belligerent indignation to
brow-wiping relief. Miss Chloe Stanton, age eighteen, was not
seated in the Stanton pew as she was to be the bride’s sole
attendant. The three youngest Stantons, however, were so intrigued
by the hostile undercurrents filling the modest church that they
peeked, eyes dancing, across the aisle of the old stone church to
see if the groom—a Cit, imagine that!—had any friends at all.

Apparently, he did not. That side of
the church was empty, while various townspeople, including the
mayor of Lower Peven, upper servants from Pevensey Park, and a
number of Miss Trevor’s tenants squeezed in behind the Stantons.
Everyone looked solemn. Glad they might be to see Miss Trevor
married, but a man of the City was not at all what they had
imagined for Miss Aurelia.
Time would
tell
was the general consensus, while an occasional
dire muttering could be heard here and there.

Since white was an accepted mourning color
under special circumstances, Miss Trevor was wearing a gown of
stark white velvet. It did not become her any more than deep black.
Instead of a radiant bride, the congregation saw a young woman
looking nearly as pale as her gown, a washed-out wraith who, some
said, looked as if she would run for it if she only had the
strength. And Lord Hubert? Well, there wasn’t a soul who didn’t
know what he thought of these proceedings. Cut out, he was, and not
liking it one little bit. Instead of the organ playing in the loft,
a body could almost hear drums beating a deadly tattoo to a
hanging. Old Gloomy Guts, that’s what he was. ‘Twas a wonder Miss
had gotten him to escort her down the aisle.

Briefly, the Stantons allowed their frozen
expressions to thaw as their Chloe walked by, looking demurely
lovely in peach silk with amber mums woven into her blonde hair. A
fine sight, all agreed. But the congregation soon shifted its
fascinated attention to Miss Aurelia Trevor and her uncle, as they
paced solemnly toward the altar. Who knew?—m’lord might drop into
an apoplexy at any moment.

And then every eye was riveted on the man
stepping forward to greet his bride, with what must be yet another
Cit at his side. Well, a man had to have at least one friend, did
he not? That the friend was almost as tall as the groom, with an
open countenance marked by a shock of blond hair and seemingly
sincere blue eyes, did Mr. Lanning no discredit. Those in the
congregation who had seen Mr. Lanning before nodded, a few poking
their neighbors in the ribs. See—not so bad . . . for a Cit, that
is. Of course, if’n she’d had more time, Miss Aurelia c’d o’ done
better. Bad thing, her pa and old Yelverton sticking their spoons
in the wall at near the same time. Heads nodded sagely.

Weren’t weddings supposed to be joyous? Relia
clutched her bouquet of white and gold mums until the stems dug
into the palms of her hands. Somehow she stopped where she was
supposed to stop. Someone tall loomed up beside her. An
intimidating stranger. Never mind that brief meeting in London,
their drive around Pevensey Park, or the past two days in which
Thomas Lanning and his solicitor Charles Saunders had spent most of
their time closeted with Lord Hubert and Lord Ralph’s solicitor,
pouring over documents in meetings that were occasionally
punctuated by Lord Hubert’s bull-like roars of protest.

Proper settlements or no, she was about to be
married to someone she barely knew.

You started it!
her conscience chided.

Dear God, she had.

“
Dearly beloved . . .” The vicar,
taking his cue from the somber faces around him, did not offer the
benign smile with which he usually began the wedding
service.

The whole thing passed in a blur. Relia heard
herself say the words, heard strong repetitions from Thomas
Lanning, but could not distinguish, or ever recall, any individual
words. Except . . .

“
You may kiss the bride.”

Kiss the bride?
But the moment was over before she could protest. Mr. Lanning
bent his lips to a brush of her cheek, and then they were turning,
facing the congregation, moving so fast down the aisle Relia had to
rush to keep up. If this was how the miserable man planned to
control her life . . .

He did. They rode back to Pevensey Park in an
open landau, with Mr. Lanning constantly urging her to smile and
wave, for all the world as if he were the owner and she the bride
newly arrived in Lower Peven. And then she remembered he was
exactly that. For all he had doubled her generous quarterly
allowance and granted equally munificent dower rights, Thomas
Lanning now owned Pevensey Park. Blast the man! She was totally
dependent upon his keeping to the spirit, as well as the
legalities, of the trust and marriage settlements.

The wedding breakfast—attended only by the
wedding party and their relatives, plus the mayor and his wife—was
sumptuous but over rather quickly, with only Mr. Saunders and the
mayor offering toasts. In all too short a time the new Mrs. Thomas
Lanning found herself being divested of the ghostly white velvet
and inserted into a silver gray traveling ensemble with spencer and
bonnet trimmed in vertical rows of pin-tucking. And then they were
in the well-appointed Trevor coach and Mr. Saunders was assuring
her husband that he would “take care of everything.” If that meant
dislodging Lord Hubert and his family, perhaps this nightmare
wedding had been worth it, Aurelia grumbled to herself as she sat
bolt upright on the edge of the blue velvet squabs, refusing to be
comfortable. Refusing to relax her guard in Thomas Lanning’s
presence.

With a sigh of relief that their charade of a
wedding was over, Thomas leaned into the coach’s luxurious
upholstery—and discovered he was gazing at the back of his wife’s
bonnet. Good God, if the chit planned to sit like that, he should
ready himself for a lapful of female at the first deep rut in the
road. Undoubtedly, she was expressing her displeasure about
something. Again. Though what he had done this time . . .

Not
what he had
done, Thomas amended. It was more likely what he had
not
done that rankled. Taming Lord
and Lady Hubert and The Terrible Twyford without leaving his
betrothed bereft of relatives at the altar had taken all of his
diplomatic skills; while, during the same past two days, his head
for business had concentrated on protecting Miss Trevor’s
interests, his own interests, and the future of Pevensey Park,
again without completely alienating the Hubert Trevors. Settlements
had been made—from his own monies—of which his bride knew nothing.
And would not have believed, even if he had told her.