It’s so clear now—as it ought to have been before—that I could never make you happy. Though I wish I had realized this before I caused you distress, it cheers me to know I have spared you, though you may not appreciate that at present. And knowing I’ve done you a favor gives me the courage—or perhaps the better word is audacity—to ask you to do me the very great kindness of giving Ripley and me your blessing. He is your friend, still, and he loves you dearly, I know. Please do not let my poor judgment destroy an old and true friendship.
With best wishes for your happiness,
Believe me yours,
Very sincerely,
Olympia
“Blessing,” he muttered. “Wants my blessing. She’s got bigger bollocks than any of ’em. Dammit, Olympia, I can’t.”
Blackwood stormed into the room. “Have you taken leave of your senses at last? You can’t truly propose to fight Ripley. The lady doesn’t want you. Leave it at that and don’t be a bloody fool.”
“Who let you in?”
“Am I barred? Have you added me to the traitors list, too?”
Ashmont drank. “Leave me alone. It’s nothing to do with you.”
“I’m your friend, you jackass.”
“Not friend enough to second me.”
“Instead you chose that blackguard Morris? I saw him as he left the house, and he told me.”
The Earl of Bartham’s son had jumped at the chance to act as Ashmont’s second, no doubt hoping to replace Ripley in Ashmont’s affections, such as they were.
“He’s done good work,” Ashmont said. “Four letters exchanged and everything settled.” He folded up Olympia’s letter. “Dawn tomorrow. Putney Heath.”
“You hope to make her a widow the day after the wedding? Do you think she’ll fancy you after that? What is wrong with you?”
“They’ll never stop laughing at me if I don’t.” Ashmont refilled his glass. “They’ll be telling the story for years. I won’t be a joke.” He drank.
“Why do you care, suddenly, what anybody thinks or says about you?”
“This is different. Between Ripley and me. I trusted him. Completely. He made a fool of me. Lied to me. ‘Come and get her,’ he wrote. Next thing I know, he’s back in London, planning a wedding. His.”
“You never gave him a chance to explain.”
“Ripley doesn’t explain.”
Blackwood shook his head. “Why did I come? Why did I think I could reason with you?”
“Because you’re afraid of your wife?”
A dangerous silence ensued.
Then Blackwood laughed. “I see. You want to fight me, too. You want to fight everybody. Sorry I can’t oblige. I’ve a wedding to attend. At seven o’clock. St. George’s, Hanover Square. For some reason, Ripley wanted to be married in church.”
He threw a note onto Ashmont’s dressing table. “Your invitation. That’s what I came for, hoping to find you less of an ass. I know it’s little use, but I’ll say it anyway: If you’ve a grain of sense left, you’ll attend. You’ll laugh and treat it like a joke and you’ll wish them well.”
He went out.
Ashmont crumpled the invitation without opening it, and threw it into the empty grate.
The gossip columns of the afternoon papers reported a fight between the Dukes of Ashmont and Ripley in St. James’s Street. None of the witnesses having ventured near enough soon enough, little of the exchange of words could be recounted, though everybody understood the cause to be His Grace of R’s disappearing from Newland House with His Grace of A’s bride on the wedding day.
However, since Their Dis-Graces had been known to resort to fisticuffs before when competing for women, and since the three dukes had left Crockford’s in a friendly mood, most people assumed His Grace of A, being in his cups as usual, had simply taken offense at something His Grace of R had said once they were out of the club. This, at any rate, was what Blackwood had told some of the bystanders.
If any gentlemen suspected that the moment of fisticuffs had not settled matters, they were unlikely to make public statements to that effect.
Duels being illegal, they were kept strictly quiet. Otherwise the police would get wind of them and turn up to spoil everything.
In any case, the world believed even Ashmont wasn’t hotheaded enough to pursue the matter in a fight to the death with his best friend.
Ripley let them believe it. He almost let himself believe it as he went about obtaining a special license and deciding what to wear to his wedding.
It was a quiet affair.
The group attending was a great deal smaller than the one at Lady Olympia’s first wedding attempt. This time the observers comprised mainly the Newlands and Gonerbys, their offspring, and a small assortment of other relatives.
For his own side, Ripley had a very small representation.
On the way to London yesterday, he’d sent a message to Aunt Julia. But that was simply to inform her. He didn’t expect her to race to London for his wedding. He’d written to Alice as well, for the same reason. He knew she couldn’t possibly arrive in time.
Blackwood was here, though. To Ripley’s surprise, he’d offered to stand up with him.
“Imagine what Alice would say if I didn’t,” Blackwood had said.
“Women don’t understand these things,” Ripley had said. “Men and honor.”
“I don’t think Ashmont understands, actually,” Blackwood said. “Think I do, though.”
Ripley made do with that cryptic remark. He hadn’t time or inclination to think too deeply about Blackwood’s ideas of women, marriage, or whatever it was. He was glad to have his friend at his side.
The only possible fly in the ointment was the chance of Lord Frederick Beckingham’s turning up—say, about the time the minister was saying, “If any man can show just cause why they might not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak.” In that case, the odds were good His Lordship would not “hereafter forever hold his peace.”
But the ceremony got under way, and if Uncle Fred had secreted himself somewhere in the church, he did not suddenly appear like an avenging angel. Not that this was his style. His style was indirect and wily, i.e., the opposite of his nephew’s.
And so the minister passed that dangerous area, and went on to the Wilt thou part.
Ripley looked into his bride’s radiant face and said, “I will.”
At that moment, all the troubles of recent days, recent hours, went away, and the world stilled. For the first time since he’d begun his journey with her, he felt at peace. It was as though he’d run a long and desperate race and won.
Everything seemed so clear and inevitable and right as he took her hand and recited his vows. And when she took his hand and recited hers.
And when at last Ripley put the ring on her finger, something shifted in his mind. It shifted the world, as well.
He was a hard, reckless man whom harsh experience had taught to scorn sentiment. All the same, his heart swelled. With feelings. Too many, and too unexpected to name. Whatever they were, they were too strong to withstand. Moisture gathered in his eyes. He met her gaze—so blue now behind her spectacles—and saw tears there as well, quickly blinked away before she smiled up at him and filled the church with sunshine.
He loved her. It was as simple as that. It was as immense as that.
The rest of the ceremony was a haze of bewildering happiness. The others were background. They might have been paintings or trees or clouds. He saw her, and that was all he really saw: the daring girl who’d led him a wild chase . . . the girl he’d raced with in his invalid chair . . . the girl he’d wheeled after through the park of Camberley Place . . . and made love to, madly and stupidly, in his favorite place in the world.
She’d lead him a merry dance, and he’d like it.
Ripley had thought it was Ashmont who’d like it, that she was perfect for Ashmont.
So blind. It was Ripley who liked it, couldn’t resist it, couldn’t resist her, this spirited, passionat
e, loving girl who was his now. For always.
For as long as we both shall live.
But he was too happy to dwell on that thought.
He had now, basking in the sunlight of Olympia’s smile.
He had now, enjoying the mixture of joy and confusion in the onlookers’ faces.
All the same, as they were leaving the church, he did glance about him at the small group of attendees. He looked up into the gallery, too.
Ashmont wasn’t here.
Later that night
Ripley House’s library was nothing like the long canyon of books at Camberley Place. It wasn’t like the elaborate, two-story library that Olympia’s father pillaged from time to time.
But it was more beautiful than either, she thought. It told her the man who built it hadn’t done it for show or simply to house his vast collection. A man who truly loved reading had created a temple to literature. It was a haven, too, as a temple ought to be.
More furniture crowded this room than the library at Camberley Place. Comfortable furniture, meant for the sort of person who wanted to be lost in a book for hours on end. And though it wasn’t a hundred feet long, it supplied volumes enough to be lost in for a lifetime. Bookcases covered the walls up to the top of the doors. Above the bookcases ranged stucco-framed portraits of English literature’s greatest men.
She stood in the middle of the room, hands clasped over her bosom as she turned slowly, drinking it in. “Oh, Ripley,” she said. “If I’d known you had such a beautiful library, I should have knocked Lady Nunsthorpe out of the way and dragged you behind the curtains and kissed you until you begged for mercy.”
“The Nun?” He strolled to one of the bookshelves that filled the walls on either side of the fireplace. “What’s she got to do with anything?”
“A party. You danced with her.” She shrugged. “Some years ago.”
He turned to face her and leaned against the bookcase, arms folded. “And you remember?”
“You made a strong impression.”
“Good. As long as the impression increases your desire to kiss me. Now would be a good time.”
“You were the one who put a stop to the kissing in the carriage,” she said. “‘Not here,’ you said. ‘Too many clothes.’”
Though it wasn’t as simple as the one of Lady Charles’s that Olympia had worn to her lovely ruination, today’s bridal dress wasn’t nearly as elaborate as the one for the first wedding. It was white, yes. That part was easy. White dresses being fashionable, she had several in her trousseau. This, however, lacked the elaborate bows and cascades of lace of the original bridal ensemble. Under her mother’s and aunt’s supervision, two of the more skilled maids had fashioned a veil from segments of one of last year’s court ensembles.
The most elaborate part of her attire, the veil had ended up on the carriage seat during the drive home, before Ripley called a halt to the kissing and fondling.
“It’s our wedding night,” he said. “A hasty coupling in the carriage wasn’t what I had in mind.”
Her skin went prickly. “What had you in mind, Your Grace?”
“I thought I’d weaken your resistance first, duchess.”
She was still getting used to that form of address. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to the way he said it, his voice so low and suggestive. “As though I have any,” she said.
“You don’t know,” he said. “You don’t know what I have in mind. I’m a notorious libertine, recollect. Done shocking things. Will continue to do them.”
She wondered what could be more shocking than what they’d done in the fishing house. And what had happened in the landau, en route to London.
But what had occurred in the vehicle hadn’t been quite so . . . so . . . fulfilling. It had been more naughty than anything else, she supposed, though she was hardly qualified to judge, and no, she wouldn’t have minded continuing to the logical conclusion. But Ripley had said the coachman would know, and that wouldn’t do at all, and so she’d settled for tucking herself into Ripley’s arms. Where she fell asleep, and woke, and fell asleep again.
In any case, it seemed her education was about to be broadened.
“The difference is, I shall do it all with you,” he went on. “Promised, didn’t I? ‘Forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her.’”
“I promised, too,” she said.
“So you did. Time to make a beginning, madam. With the kissing. I placed myself here, in front of a number of rare tomes—some possibly worm-eaten—to make myself more alluring to you.”
“Oh, Ripley.” She crossed to him and put the palm of her hand against his cheek.
“My plan seems to be working.” He turned his face to kiss the palm of her hand. Then his tongue was there, making little circles in the palm of her hand. Tingling shocks went up and down her backbone and spread out from there.
Then he released her hand to cup her face, as gently as though he held a bird in his hands.
“Blue,” he said. “Your eyes are blue at this moment. I like your eyes in all their colors.”
“My shortsighted eyes.”
“You saw me well enough,” he said. “You saw something in me you deemed worth having.”
“I saw you standing naked in a basin,” she said. “I’m not sure I was capable of deeming anything after that.”
He laughed and kissed her, but not as he’d done before, in the carriage, with so much pent-up . . . passion. Certainly it had felt like passion. It must have been. It was the same powerful feeling that had crushed her brain in the fishing house.
They had that. Desire. They gave each other pleasure.
Now she found something more. He kissed her this time with a tenderness so shocking, it left her trembling inside.
It made her heart ache, too.
She answered tenderly, sliding her hands up to clasp his arms, so powerful, yet so gentle. She’d watched him lift a man straight up off the ground. She’d seen the leashed violence in him.
Not a tame man.
But he could be tender. To her.
She remembered the way he’d smiled down at her as they said their vows. Seeing it through the mist of her tears, she’d felt that, whatever wrong they’d done, it had somehow come out to something that had to be right.
She kissed him, following his lead, learning how a kiss could be passionate yet tender and how the feel of his mouth and the taste of him could make a powerful blend of emotions, as though her insides were laughing and crying at the same time.
When he drew back, she was still dizzy, and she said, “There is more to this business of kissing than I could have supposed.”
“There’s more to kissing you than I could have supposed,” he said. “It’s a good thing I’ve had some practice.”
“More than your fair share is my estimate,” she said.
“Ah, but all the rest is for you, duchess,” he said. His green eyes wore their sleepy wolf look. “Every wicked idea . . . every devilish plan . . .” His voice lowered to a whisper. “Ah, the things I’m imagining . . . Probably not legal.”
She looked up into his eyes and, though she still couldn’t read them, quite, saw something that warmed and excited her. “I suppose it’s too late to run away now.”
“Definitely too late.”
“I’ve made my bed,” she said. “And now I must—”
“Yes. Bed. Better idea this night. We’ll save the library for later.”
He offered his hand. She took it. His long fingers closed about hers. His hand was warm but it was more than simple physical warmth. She felt it wrap about her heart.
And she thought, I am in a very bad way.
And, I’m glad, she thought as he led her out of the library.
Better to feel like this, to feel so strongly, and to have hope.
She went with him up the magnificent grand staircase and up farther still, to the second floor where the private apartments lay.
And of all the tumultuous feelings, the on
e she didn’t feel was the smallest urge to run away.
Ripley gave her time to prepare. She would bathe and her maid would pamper her, as was right.
This bedding must not be rushed. Her deflowering, passionate as it was, and as gentle as he was able to make it, had not been what it ought to have been. He needed to make amends this night.
He needed time, as well.
He had a letter to write to her.
He’d be gone in the morning, long before she awoke.
Usually, he scrawled his letters in haste, and his patience for the process rarely extended past a single page. He wouldn’t let himself make an exception this time. He was no poet. In any case, length could only lead to excessive sentiment, and the last thing he wanted was to be mawkish.
No, the last thing he wanted was for the letter to be necessary. It would be a particularly unamusing irony if the Duke of Ripley should finally find what he’d been missing for all his adult life, then not live to enjoy it.
In that case, he had nobody to blame but himself.
He hadn’t played fair, with Olympia or with Ashmont.
He took out the messages he’d received from Ashmont. They were politely worded, as etiquette dictated. Ashmont had received and sent enough missives of this kind to write them without having to tax his mind about it, and even he wouldn’t stoop to rudeness, let alone abuse, in a letter of challenge.
It was one of the things a gentleman, even one of Their Dis-Graces, didn’t do. Like cheat at cards . . . or despoil his friend’s affianced bride.
With Blackwood wisely refusing to second either of them, Ripley had enlisted Lord Pershore, from whom he’d bought more than one fine horse, and whose discretion he could trust. He’d answered Ashmont’s letter of challenge with matching politeness.
The seconds had met and attempted to prevent the duel. As Ripley had expected, they failed. There was no other way to wipe away the public humiliation. No apology Ripley could honestly offer would suffice.
He was sorry he’d wronged his friend. He was sorry he’d cheated. He wasn’t sorry for taking Olympia away from Ashmont. Ripley would have been truly, irreparably sorry if he hadn’t.