Slowly, reluctantly, they released each other. For now. She stood on tiptoe – being in love had sadly not made her grow any taller – and whispered in his ear, ‘You will make me scream your name. And I will make you scream mine just as loud.’ And then,as he had done to her a short while ago, she nipped him with her teeth, where his earlobe was deliciously soft and tender. He really did have excessively nice ears. She drew it into her mouth and sucked on it, just for a moment, glorying in the jolt it sent through him, and then she stepped away, wondering if he would be able to obtain his special licence today.
53
In the end, it was agreed that Allegra and Max should marry in Surrey, in the tiny church near her father’s estate. It would be quieter and more private, less likely to attract uninvited guests, strangers who had come only to whisper and gawk.
The announcement of their betrothal had caused a great stir, coming as it did so close upon the magazine story, which all the ton had read and understood to refer to Mr Severin. Like Miss Cecilia Constantine, the ladies of the polite world considered the union the most romantic thing that had ever occurred, or at least that had occurred this Season. Handsome, agreeably exotic Mr Severin had been pining, and also yearning, unable to offer for the woman he loved because of his very creditable scruples. He could not, it was understood, ask his adored to ally herself with him and bear his children when he had not the least idea of his origins, which seemed all too likely to be shameful, possibly carrying some hereditary taint of which he was entirely ignorant. What could he have said to her father, when he offered for her hand?
Though nobody but he knew it at the time, he had fearedhimself forever doomed to a life of private misery and idle public pleasure. He had smiled, and all the while his heart had been breaking in his noticeably broad chest. There had seemed no possibility of a solution.
But his background had – providentially – been revealed to him, after he had searched fruitlessly for years. He had made his peace with his long-lost father, whose true nobility of character belied his humble origins and gave one food for serious reflection, and had laid the unvarnished truth of who and what he was at the feet of his lady. She had been pining too. The ton had thought her sulky and displeasant, treating ungraciously those few suitors she had, when instead she had been suffering anguish, hoping not to be obliged to wed another, nursing a secret love for a man who appeared to care nothing for her. No wonder she hadn’t been going about smirking like a noddy. But Mr Severin had spoken, sharing the key to his heart. And she had accepted him!
Not all the ladies of high society were so easily touched in their tenderest emotions, or even possessed of tender sensibilities that could be so affected. Lady Milton’s demeanour had grown frostier than ever over recent days – which was saying something – and she let drop some distinctly acid remarks upon the topic of Mr Severin and his so-called romance, when acquaintances of hers were incautious or mischievous enough to mention it in her presence. But it must be recalled that Lord Milton, so handsome, so eligible, so long unmarried, had been to all appearances the most favoured of Miss Constantine’s suitors until very recently. It was presumed that he had offered for her, and been rejected. Mere worldly considerations had not swayed the young lady whose affection had already been given to another. It wasdelicious, and all the more so because Lady Milton was widely regarded as a stuffy old Gorgon who had long deserved to bebrought down a peg or two. She had a razor tongue and a willingness to use it, unprovoked, and she was reaping the whirlwind now. Those who chose to laugh unkindly at her did not go to any great trouble to conceal it.
For his part, Lord Milton was widely liked, but nobody imagined that a gentleman so eternally cool, correct and self-possessed could ever have been deeply in love with Miss Constantine. He had certainly shown no signs of it, and betrayed no hint of chagrin now. So passionless a wooing was not quite the fashion at present, and besides his need for an heir had been a little too apparent in his courtship – were not Miss Constantine’s older sisters both proverbially fecund, which was no doubt why he had chosen her? It was universally agreed that there was no need to pity His Lordship too much. Acute observers thought that he would find another young woman to court before the Season was out; perhaps he already had. A name was whispered, of a well-connected but sadly impoverished lady.
Sir Harry Eager, Miss Constantine’s other suitor, was visibly downcast when he heard the news of her surprising betrothal, but after a few nights’ drinking with his cronies he appeared to recover most of his good cheer. He was irrepressible, and besides, some well-meaning person had told him that it added distinction to a fellow, to be crossed in love, like many a dashing buck and blade from history. It seemed he had taken this to heart. Rumours that he was writing poetry as a result might, it was hoped, be disregarded. Hedidwrite a very kind and surprisingly sensible letter of congratulation to his former love, to which she was able to reply with heartfelt gratitude, telling him – she hoped it didn’t sound too sickly, but she meant it – that the lady who married him one day would be lucky indeed.
A few days before her wedding, Lord Milton called to take Allegra driving in his phaeton at the fashionable hour, and thistime he set down his groom at the entrance to the park so that they might converse alone, even if under the public gaze. ‘Half the ton is watching us,’ he murmured, taking a tight corner in fine style. ‘Shall I allow a manly tear to trickle down my cheek? A slight pallor may perhaps be detected there. Am I supposed to be bereft? I really might convince myself that I am, you know. Marriage to you would have been a uniquely thrilling experience.’
‘I’d turned you down before I knew whether or not Max and I would ever have a chance to be together,’ she pointed out unhelpfully. ‘We might not have done, and I still wouldn’t have accepted your offer, I don’t think. Your very flattering offer, naturally, I forgot to say, sir.’
‘Well, it wasn’t all that flattering, was it? But you have the luxury of marrying for love, Miss Constantine. I envy you that.’
‘I know. I am sorry.’ She wondered if he’d found someone else to woo, as her mother had heard, and if he’d go through with it. Whether he’d tell everything to the girl, if so, risking so much again, and what she’d say in response. But it was none of her affair, and so she didn’t ask.
He was the sort of man who could shrug elegantly and drive a high-perch phaeton to an inch at the same time. ‘That sentimental story I read – is it true?’ he asked abruptly.
‘About Max’s father? Substantially. Perhaps it wasn’t quite so neat as the writer made it. But he has met him, and they… took comfort from each other, I suppose. It hasn’t been easy for either of them. Max said he was a good man, and had done his best, in difficult circumstances. There’s no bitterness there.’
‘It struck me,’ he told her quietly. ‘Men and their sons, when I have recently been… seriously contemplating the prospect of marriage and fatherhood. I wondered, if any man – if I – had the chance to meet his son for the first time as an adult, with no childhood attachment to cloud the matter, what would they say to each other? Or would one or the other of them indeed choose just to walk away?’
These were deep waters. ‘I know Max doesn’t regret the meeting. I don’t think his father does either, even if it’s never repeated. They don’t owe each other anything; if they remain in contact, it will be because they have chosen freely to do so.’
‘Your betrothed seems to be a forgiving sort of a man. I find that admirable, and rather surprising. I know the story said his father was constrained to abandon him. But still. We can do things with all the justification in the world, or so we tell ourselves, and still find that we are deserving of reproach when it is far too late to mend matters.’
‘Maybe his tolerance will rub off on me. Maybe it has already. I find myself looking quite kindly on my mother these days, even,’ she said, striving for a lighter note.
‘I wish I could say the same. Poor Mama. Perhaps suffering will temper her – she isn’t having a particularly pleasant time at the moment. Don’t ask if she blames you for it; you have met her. I’m going to send you a very handsome wedding present, Allegra Constantine.’
She could only thank him and wish him well. She had clothes to buy, a ceremony to arrange – with her mother’s help, and a great deal of decidedly unhelpful interference from her sisters – and a very short time in which to do it.
54
It was not the custom to invite great numbers of people to celebrations of marriage. These were considered close family matters, not vulgar occasions on which to go running about the lanes and byways dragging out distant cousins and disagreeable old aunts. Mr Severin had as few relatives in England as anyone could wish for: essentially none – his blood father had now taken ship, and while his adoptive father had had cousins, they’d never forgiven Max for walking off with a fortune and an estate that they’d counted on as theirs, and so they were hardly on visiting terms. He was to be allowed a friend or two, in compensation, or the pews on his side of the aisle of the small Norman church would be empty. But there were an awful lot of Constantines.
Most of them were bridesmaids, it seemed. He understood from Allegra that there hadn’t been time to make up matching gowns for them, which Max feared might become a long-lasting source of grievance. He’d taken their measure already; these people liked toargue. Even the smallest sister, Bianca, had a great number of startling opinions, and was not slow to express them. Mr Constantine was vague and benevolent, as he knew already,and the oldest sister, Sabrina, was lovely in her tranquillity, which was probably just as well because she was the most heavily pregnant woman he’d ever seen. Her husband, Da Costa, seemed an amiable sort of fellow too. It was hard to say, really; the rest of them hardly gave him a chance to speak. There were an indeterminate number of small Da Costas, probably boys – in his defence, he was unfamiliar with small children, though that seemed set to change, and they were still in short petticoats, so it was difficult to tell – who spoke constantly, loudly and precociously, or screamed if they were too small for that. It was sheer anarchy, unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. He loved it.
It had been a puzzle to choose whether Gil or Tom should be his best man; they’d always been a trio, ever since Oxford. They tossed for it, and Tom won, so Gil had the responsibility. He lost the ring, as might have been expected, but found it again just in time. It all passed in a blur. That didn’t matter, because there was Allegra at his side, and they claimed each other. Either the children had stopped yelling, or he couldn’t hear them any more, which seemed a useful skill to develop.
They celebrated with a lavish wedding breakfast at Mr Constantine’s small Tudor manor house, but soon enough Allegra and Max caught each other’s gaze, and made surreptitious moves to slip away. It seemed quite likely that nobody would notice their departure; there was some sort of family altercation in progress, with flushed faces and raised voices, or perhaps they always behaved like that when together. He might ask later, or he might not.
Kent and Surrey were, of course, adjacent, and his own estate was not so very far away, as the crow flew, but the roads left something to be desired, if one chose a direct route along the coast. It was wiser, though further in terms of miles, to headinland until one struck the better-maintained London Road for Dover.
Some men would have chosen to drive themselves, seeking speed, in a travelling curricle with frequent stops to change the exhausted horses. These men were fools. Max contemplated the prospect of several hours with his bride in a closed carriage with the blinds drawn down, and found it good. It was a luxurious modern vehicle, shiny, wonderfully sprung and only just delivered from the coachmaker. He’d consulted her, of course, and she’d agreed. He’d known she would. She’d said with a wicked glint in her eyes that it would be the next best thing to the kitchen table.
‘This is a wonderful coach,’ she said now, sitting back in her corner, smiling invitingly at him. They’d left her father’s land, there was no one to wave to, not a Constantine or an old retainer in sight, and as he’d drawn down the blinds on his side, she had done the same on hers. Her fingers were busy with her bonnet strings, and then with the buttons of her raspberry-pink pelisse. He had his coat off, and was working on his waistcoat. Next would be his cravat.
‘You have no idea, my dear Mrs Severin. It’s very ingeniously designed. The seats pull out with the greatest ease and join securely with those opposite. Effectively, the coach is one big bed.’
