The majority of the house party guests had left yesterday to return to London. Harriet had stood by Oliver's side as they thanked people for coming. Brookhaven was her home now. She would be the lady of the manor, so to speak. It was important for her to take her place at his side. He had kissed her hand, but that had been the extent of their contact.
Thankfully, her friends had all decided to stay. And her brother had come in from London to walk her down the aisle. Her sister and her family were also in attendance.
The maid worked on Harriet's hair, pulling it into a low gathering of her curls that knotted at the back of her head. Later they would secure the veil. She watched the women working behind her through the mirror. She didn't want to look at herself. She had already vowed that no matter what occurred today, she would not cry.
"It's your wedding day, Harriet, do try to smile," her mother said.
She did her best and gave her mother a weak grin.
"My dear, I know this is not what you imagined, but it might be how things are meant to be. Remember my story about my own marriage. I was angry going into our marriage. Mad at my parents for agreeing to it, mad at your father for asking." She smiled wistfully and squeezed Harriet's hand. "Eventually, I resigned myself to the events of the day and was able to enjoy it. I merely want the same for you."
Her mother made it sound so easy, as if all she had to do was embrace the situation and eventually she'd wake up and Oliver would love her. She didn't even know if she'd ever love him.
She couldn't deny he made her feel things. Physically. Lust, desire, carnal pleasures. He could provide that for her. It wasn't something she'd ever considered, ever thought she needed or wanted. And she'd still have the freedom to participate in her Ladies of Virtue activities. He'd also offered her financial resources.
She stood in front of the mirror while Justine and Agnes worked on the buttons at the back of her gown.
"He selected a beautiful dress," Justine said.
That she couldn't argue with. The ivory silk bodice fit her perfectly and then flared at the waist and fell into a full skirt with intricate embroidery. How had he known her measurements to order something that fit so perfectly? Perhaps he'd stolen one of her other dresses and couriered it to the dressmaker.
Agnes took the small circled band of delicate white flowers and set it atop Harriet's head. The veil hooked onto the back of the band and fell across her shoulders and down her back.
"Oh Harriet," her mother said, her voice full of emotion. "You look so beautiful, my dear."
All the girls agreed, handing out compliments as if they were a mandatory part of the day.
She was pleased they thought she looked good. Despite her feelings about her pending nuptials, she wanted Oliver to find her beautiful. It was a foolish wish, one built on the childish fantasies she'd crafted after watching her sister and brother-in-law fall in love.
She felt the prick of tears gather at the corners of her eyes, and she clenched her jaw tightly to will them away.
"He will grow to love you," her mother said.
She shook her head but said nothing.
Justine put her hand on Harriet's shoulder and gave it a slight squeeze. "I should think marrying someone who doesn't love you would be infinitely preferable to … " She paused. "To plenty of other things."
Harriet glanced at Justine's reflection in the mirror. She knew what went unsaid. They all did. Justine was in love with the man who had married her sister. Unrequited love of the worst kind.
She reached up and squeezed Justine's hand. It was time to stop feeling sorry for herself. It served no purpose. This was her lot, and she would accept it.
She stood and eyed her reflection. Ready or not, she was about to become the Marchioness of Davenport.
…
Oliver had done his level best to keep away from Harriet the last day and a half. With their mothers convinced he was in love with Harriet, he'd needed to pull back from her. He knew what he felt for her was nothing but pure, unadulterated lust. Yes, it was a desire he'd never experienced with any other woman, but that did not make it love.
Now that he knew she'd be his, keeping his hands off of her had become a significant challenge. So he'd kept to himself under the guise of making arrangements.
She stood before him at the front of their small village church. Her beauty was blinding. He'd been right in his estimating her measurements, and the gown he'd ordered fit her perfectly. For a moment, he wished they were in one of the bigger churches in London so that more people could see how stunning she was.
He'd heard some of the other girls talking, the night of their engagement ball, about Harriet's figure. The lush curves he so wanted were evidently not at the height of fashion. He suspected much of this was what lay at the bottom of Harriet's unwillingness to believe he didn't truly find her desirable.
They had the rest of their lives together for him to show her precisely how much. To the devil with the rest of those fools who couldn't see her one-of-a-kind beauty.
He looked into her eyes and repeated ancient words to love and honor her.
His bride looked up into his face and repeated her vows.
To love him.
To honor him.
Something broke loose in his chest as if her words alone could put a chink in the armor he'd built around his heart. No, not merely her words, but the expression on her face. Her eyes shimmered with something that felt dangerously close to love. And it made him hope, damn her, that she would love him.
Then he remembered his request at the party. He'd asked her to do this. Pretend so that others didn't think she was marrying a monster. He knew what people said about him. He might be crippled, but he wasn't deaf. He'd seen the way other girls looked at him, fear barely contained in their prim little faces. Not Harriet, though. She not only wasn't afraid of him, she fought back. She told him how she felt and how wrong she thought he was.
He smiled. She didn't love him any more than he loved her. That was all a bloody illusion. He certainly couldn't expect or even want her to love him knowing he couldn't return the feelings. No, he knew she wanted him, or at least her body responded to his touch. That was all he needed.
"I present to you Lord and Lady Davenport," the priest said.
The small church cheered.
She was his. Though he was ready to pull her into a closet and claim her body as his own, he knew he'd have to wait, endure the rest of the day's festivities, the people who had stayed to celebrate with them. Tonight, he'd have her. He'd take his time and explore every inch of her.
Chapter Fifteen
She had paced her bedchamber for the last half hour. Perhaps it had even been longer than that. All she knew was that her nerves were beyond frazzled. She'd never been this anxious.
He was coming to her room to consummate their marriage. He had to. This was what he'd said he wanted. Yet as she stared at the door adjoining their chambers, it did not open.
She went back and stood before the mirror again. In addition to the wedding gown he'd purchased for her, he'd evidently bought something for her to wear tonight. Though it completely covered her body from neck to toes, the gossamer fabric was as delicate as fairy wings and nearly as translucent.
This was ridiculous. He did not make all the decisions. Starting their marriage this way would give him the wrong idea. She donned her dressing gown and took a sobering breath before she opened the door between their bedchambers.
At first she thought the room might be empty, but then she heard him … grunting. She stepped farther into the room and came around the corner at the foot of the massive four-poster bed. There, hanging in the doorway, was Oliver.
He wore only his breeches, and the bold display of his body was breathtaking. As he methodically pulled his body up and then down, the muscles in his arms and shoulders shifted and bulged. She could not tear her gaze away.
Her brought his legs up to his waist, then dropped them again.
"I'm nearly done," he said.
She hadn't even realized he'd seen her yet, she'd been so absorbed watching the sinuous play.
"I'd never realized that men had those." She pointed at his stomach.
He glanced down as best he could from his dangling position. He finished his count, then dropped from the hanging bar and landed on his left leg.
"Can you hand me that?" He pointed to the towel hanging on the basin table.
She grabbed it and walked it over to him. Her eyes ate every inch of him. Perhaps if he allowed her to simply look upon him until she had her fill, she might not miss the affection of a loving husband.
He wiped his face and neck and torso, ridding his body of the sheen of perspiration. She had the ridiculous urge to follow the trail of that towel with her tongue. Her cheeks heated.
She looked up at his face and found him watching her, one brow cocked, a quirk of a grin on his lips.