Chapter 14
Chilcot gave a sudden whoop, and everyone rushed forward to congratulate them, as though overexuberance could somehow erase the awkwardness and embarrassment of that terrible moment with the ring. Thank God for Charlotte, who was a distraction in herself. Still in Hugh's arms, she let out a loud, piercing wail that shattered the din, screwing up her face and beating her fists in the air. Hugh paled. He turned desperately to Juliet, who knuckled the tears from her eyes and hurried forward to rescue the two of them from each other.
"I don't know much about babies," Hugh stammered, red-faced, as he gratefully thrust the infant into her mother's arms. "I hope I didn't upset her..."
"With a face like yours, who could blame her?" Chilcot called, laughing.
"Aye, talk about making the ladies weep!"
The Den members guffawed, and poor Hugh flushed scarlet.
"You did just fine, Sir Hugh," Juliet murmured, holding the squalling baby against her. "She just needs changing, that's all."
"Er, yes...." He made a face. "I know."
Everyone laughed. So did Gareth, pumping the vicar's hand while his friends congratulated him and clapped him heartily on the back. But his easy manner was nothing but a mask. Beneath their veil of golden-brown lashes, the eyes with which he perused his bride were sharp.
No, not his bride.
Charles's bride.
Pain wrung his heart. So, then, it was to be the same in death as it had always been in life. He concealed the bitter ache, pretending to laugh at something Chilcot was going on about. It was inevitable that during all those years they were growing up, people had compared him and Charles with each other. After all, they'd both been so close in age, so similar in looks and build. But in the eyes of those adults around them — adults who behaved as though neither child had ears nor feelings — Charles had been the golden boy — the Beloved One. Gareth's carefree, devil-may-care nature had never stood a chance against Charles's serious-minded ambition, his dogged pursuit of perfection at whatever he did. It was Charles who had the keener wit, the better brain, the more serious mind. It was Charles who'd make a magnificent MP or glittering ambassador in some faraway post, Charles who was a credit to his family, Charles, Charles, Charles — while he, Gareth ... well, God and the devil only knew what would become of poor Gareth.
Charles had never been one to gloat or rub it in. Indeed, he'd resented the inevitable comparisons far more than Gareth, who laughingly pretended to accept them and then did his best to live down to what people expected of him. And why not? He had nothing to prove, no expectations to aspire to. Besides, he hadn't envied Charles. Not really. While Charles had been groomed to succeed to the dukedom should Lucien die without issue, he, Gareth, had been having the time of his life — running wild over Berkshire, over Eton, and most recently, over Oxford. Never in his twenty-three years, had he allowed himself to feel any envy or resentment toward his perfect, incomparable older brother.
Until now — when he found himself wanting the one thing Charles had owned that he himself did not have: the love of Juliet Paige.
He looked at her now, standing off by herself with her head bent over Charlotte as she tried to soothe her. The child was screaming loudly enough to make the dead throw off their tombstones and rise up in protest, but her mother remained calm, holding the little girl against her bosom and patting her back. Gareth watched them, feeling excluded.
Charles's bride.
Charles's daughter.
God help me.
He knew he was staring at them with the desperation of one confined to hell and looking wistfully toward heaven. He thought of his wife's face when he'd taken Charles's ring off and put it on her other finger, the guilty gratitude in her eyes at this noble act of generosity that had cost him so little but had obviously meant so much to her. What could he do to deserve such a look of unabashed worship again? Why, she was looking at me as she must have looked at Charles.
She still loved his brother. Everyone had loved his brother. He could only wonder what it might take to make her love him.
But it's not me she wants. It's him. 'Sdeath. I could never compete with Charles when he was alive. How can I compete with him now?
Lucien's cold judgment of the previous morning rang in his head: You are lazy, feckless, dissolute, useless.
He took a deep breath, and stared up through the great stained glass windows.
You are an embarrassment to this family — and especially to me.
He was second-best. Second choice.
Perry was suddenly there, clapping him on the back and shaking his hand. "Congratulations, old boy!" he said loudly, before curving his arm around Gareth's shoulders and drawing him aside. He jerked his head to indicate Juliet, still standing by herself. "She all right?"
Gareth instantly recovered himself, his smile too quick, too wide, and far too bright as he tried to convince Perry that all was as it should be. "Don't be silly, of course she's all right. Bridal jitters, 'tis all. Nothing to look so damned worried about. Ours is not the first marriage of convenience, nor will it be the last. We'll work things out." He grinned and lightly punched Perry's shoulder. "Hell, maybe I'll even come to love the girl in time."
Perry only eyed him narrowly. Plucking his surtout from the pew, Gareth left him to reclaim his bride before his friend could delve deeper.
Hell, maybe I'll even come to love the girl in time.
Indeed.
The thing is, will she come to love me?