Married to the Rogue (Season of Scandal #3) - Mary Lancaster Page 0,16

seemed to blind her. She walked on, blinking rapidly, and then Christopher stood in front of her, tall, solid, and handsome in smart morning dress. Her heart thundered as he took her hand and led her to Mr. May.

In sudden panic, she looked over her shoulder to see her mother and the children taking their seats in the front pew. Lucy stood still beside Deborah. The vicar’s voice drew her attention back, but his words seemed to float over her head. Christopher was removing her glove, holding her hand in his. Life and sense seemed to zing suddenly back. Her fingers curled convulsively around his and then loosened. But she could not look at him.

Mr. May was speaking to her. She responded, making her vows before God and man.

And then, they were man and wife.

*

Christopher seemed quite content to breakfast at the inn. Sir Edmund joined them, though his family did not.

Neither did the Copsleys, although Mrs. Copsley embraced Deborah, murmuring, “If you need anything, anything at all, come to me.”

“Thank you,” Deborah said politely, appreciating the kindness while having little clue about the meaning.

Mrs. Briggs greeted them at the inn’s front door with huge smiles, having played her part in bringing the happy couple together. They were shown into the private parlor and presented with an array of her best dishes.

“If you have your things packed and ready, we can take them up to the hall with us this afternoon,” Christopher suggested as they neared the end.

“Very well.”

“Anything else can be sent up later.”

“Can we come this afternoon?” Stephen asked eagerly.

“Not this afternoon,” their mother said firmly.

“Tomorrow, if you wish?” Christopher offered. “Arrange it with Deborah, but you are welcome at any time.”

“Are you not going on a wedding trip?” Lucy asked in astonishment.

Christopher’s eyebrows flew up. “Do you know, I never thought of it? Do you care for such a thing, Deborah?”

Deborah, who had been longing to travel abroad for as long as she could remember, and who had walked into the princess’s house that fateful evening convinced it was about to happen at last, smiled and shook her head.

“Perhaps we can take a few weeks once everything is under way,” Christopher said carelessly.

“We shall see,” Deborah murmured.

*

Until last night, Deborah had only ever seen Gosmere Hall from a distance, for without a horse or carriage, it was a long walk from the village. In her mind’s eye was a large, gloomy house shuttered and faceless. Blundering up there in the dark and the rain had done little to dispel the memory. And in daylight, her first glimpse of it through the trees seemed to confirm everything. However, as they grew closer, she saw that the shutters had been thrown open, that apart from a tangle of ivy, it was not really overgrown. And yet the impression of darkness, of eeriness remained, no doubt the product of her imagination.

“The building is old,” Christopher said apologetically. “But it is in decent repair. However, we’ll probably want to make changes to the inside. Ask Mrs. Dawson to help find tradesmen to do whatever you want to the place.”

“Who is Mrs. Dawson?”

“The housekeeper. She and Hunter, the butler, have been there since before my maternal grandfather died. They’ve kept the place going for years, maintaining a handful of rooms for unexpected visits by my grandfather—Hawfield, I mean—or me. But we’ll need more servants to open the place up completely. Gardeners, too, probably.” He glanced at her with a quick smile. “Am I overwhelming you?”

“I’m not used to running a large establishment.”

“But you’ll find your way,” he said comfortably. “And it’s not so very large. I like the house. I think we’ll be comfortable here.”

We. He was her husband, her family, now. But as the carriage rumbled up the sweeping drive to the front of the house, she couldn’t imagine ever being comfortable in the big, rambling hall.

Christopher jumped down unaided and let down the carriage steps for her. As he handed her down, she saw the meager staff had assembled like a guard of honor down each side of the steps to the portico. At the front stood a tall, thin, balding man who held his head tilted slightly, perhaps to look down at the rest of the world more easily. And a rigid, plump woman with thin lips and a disapproving expression. Her heart sank.

“This is Hunter and Mrs. Dawson,” Christopher said casually, and the pair bowed and curtseyed, respectively. “Mrs. Halland is now your mistress. Have them take up