After fifteen years of being fobbed off on different relatives, she could not wait to have a real home of her own, at last.
Though a small bud of hopeful excitement was slowly unfurling in her heart at the prospect of having a settled place forever where she really belonged, her optimism mingled with ever-growing apprehension about her wedding night.
Now that sharing a bed with him was a certainty, only a matter of time, she found herself gnawed by countless fears over all the diverse ways he might react to the revelation that he had married a nonvirgin.
What if he turned out not to be as understanding as she hoped?
Indeed, what if he was furious? He was a warrior. What if he became violent? He could kill her as easily as a gnat. Very well, he probably wouldn’t kill her, she admitted. But what if he threw her out? Annulled the match? Divorced her? Shamed her in front of all the world?
Frightening specters of this sort kept her awake those three nights before the wedding day, tossing and turning in her bed.
She dared not tell him ahead of time. Then he might back out of the match, and the rumors had already begun to percolate in Society, all because Cousin Araminta had leaked the news to her best friend. The rumor clock was ticking. It was like some infectious fever that took a certain number of hours to gather strength before the full sickness exploded in the host.
Maybe she should strive to fake her way through her wedding night, she pondered, staring at the ceiling. Just somehow try to brazen it through.
Not all girls bled their first time, after all. Aunt Jo had told her so when they had first had that excruciatingly awkward Talk.
But could she ever fake innocence well enough to trick a spy, a man who’d had more women than a sultan with his harem?
And did she really want to start their marriage by deceiving him? He was only marrying her in the first place because he didn’t trust her to stay silent about the Order.
On the other hand, if she chose honesty and told him all, then he might decide he had married a woman he’d never be able to trust and simply shut her out.
But he can trust me, her heart insisted as she lay awake that night. Her fall had been naught but girlish gullibility. Was it really so important to dredge up all that unpleasantness?
And good Lord, as a spy, what might he do to Roger Benton if she recounted her sad tale of how she had been seduced? Not that she cared if Beau rearranged the poet’s face, but she did not intend to send her new husband off immediately into another duel.
Oh, come, she reasoned with herself. Why did she really have to bring it up at all? It was in the past. Everyone had secrets, and she was quite sure Beauchamp was never going to tell her all of his.
Her worries persisted into the next day as she finished packing the last trunk to be sent over to her new home. She pressed down its contents to make it all fit, then fastened the brass latches.
Dusting off her hands, she called for the footman to take the last trunk down to the carriage.
Just as he took it out, Aunt Denbury bustled in, back from her wedding-related errands. The cake from Gunther’s had been ordered. She had procured the services of a harp-and-flute duet to play for the ceremony. A few flower bouquets would also be ready for tomorrow—with only one problem. With barely twenty-four hours to go, they still did not know where the wedding would take place.
Then, that evening, Uncle Denbury marched in wearing a rare, broad smile, the sort that said he had just saved the day. He called them together and announced to his family and the bride that he had pulled some strings, then he awed them with his news. Thanks to a sizable donation, they had just been granted permission to hold the wedding in no less a magnificent spot than the Lady Chapel inside Westminster Abbey. This was his wedding gift to them.
Carissa hugged him for his kindness, but was still in shock over everything when the next day
Though a small bud of hopeful excitement was slowly unfurling in her heart at the prospect of having a settled place forever where she really belonged, her optimism mingled with ever-growing apprehension about her wedding night.
Now that sharing a bed with him was a certainty, only a matter of time, she found herself gnawed by countless fears over all the diverse ways he might react to the revelation that he had married a nonvirgin.
What if he turned out not to be as understanding as she hoped?
Indeed, what if he was furious? He was a warrior. What if he became violent? He could kill her as easily as a gnat. Very well, he probably wouldn’t kill her, she admitted. But what if he threw her out? Annulled the match? Divorced her? Shamed her in front of all the world?
Frightening specters of this sort kept her awake those three nights before the wedding day, tossing and turning in her bed.
She dared not tell him ahead of time. Then he might back out of the match, and the rumors had already begun to percolate in Society, all because Cousin Araminta had leaked the news to her best friend. The rumor clock was ticking. It was like some infectious fever that took a certain number of hours to gather strength before the full sickness exploded in the host.
Maybe she should strive to fake her way through her wedding night, she pondered, staring at the ceiling. Just somehow try to brazen it through.
Not all girls bled their first time, after all. Aunt Jo had told her so when they had first had that excruciatingly awkward Talk.
But could she ever fake innocence well enough to trick a spy, a man who’d had more women than a sultan with his harem?
And did she really want to start their marriage by deceiving him? He was only marrying her in the first place because he didn’t trust her to stay silent about the Order.
On the other hand, if she chose honesty and told him all, then he might decide he had married a woman he’d never be able to trust and simply shut her out.
But he can trust me, her heart insisted as she lay awake that night. Her fall had been naught but girlish gullibility. Was it really so important to dredge up all that unpleasantness?
And good Lord, as a spy, what might he do to Roger Benton if she recounted her sad tale of how she had been seduced? Not that she cared if Beau rearranged the poet’s face, but she did not intend to send her new husband off immediately into another duel.
Oh, come, she reasoned with herself. Why did she really have to bring it up at all? It was in the past. Everyone had secrets, and she was quite sure Beauchamp was never going to tell her all of his.
Her worries persisted into the next day as she finished packing the last trunk to be sent over to her new home. She pressed down its contents to make it all fit, then fastened the brass latches.
Dusting off her hands, she called for the footman to take the last trunk down to the carriage.
Just as he took it out, Aunt Denbury bustled in, back from her wedding-related errands. The cake from Gunther’s had been ordered. She had procured the services of a harp-and-flute duet to play for the ceremony. A few flower bouquets would also be ready for tomorrow—with only one problem. With barely twenty-four hours to go, they still did not know where the wedding would take place.
Then, that evening, Uncle Denbury marched in wearing a rare, broad smile, the sort that said he had just saved the day. He called them together and announced to his family and the bride that he had pulled some strings, then he awed them with his news. Thanks to a sizable donation, they had just been granted permission to hold the wedding in no less a magnificent spot than the Lady Chapel inside Westminster Abbey. This was his wedding gift to them.
Carissa hugged him for his kindness, but was still in shock over everything when the next day
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