Her female cousins had never given any thought to doing such things. They’d been reared to believe they’d always have cooks and housekeepers. Now, so would she.
How odd she’d never given a thought to marrying a peer. Although her mother was the daughter of an earl, she’d married a Scot with no aspirations but to write. They’d lived simply, and happily, in obscurity. Her mother had been content to manage their small staff of four, to spend her days caring for her father, being his audience as he read to her his latest work.
Had they ever discussed Veronica’s future? Not in specific terms. She’d known she would wed, but her mother’s commentshad been geared toward wisdom and maturity. “It isn’t always important to understand everything your husband does as much as it is to support it, Veronica.” Or, “Kindness is a virtue everyone can afford, Veronica.”
If her mother were here, what advice would she give?
Be patient, Veronica. Be understanding. Guard your words. Mind your actions.
Her mother would not have understood the visit to the Society of the Mercaii. A foolish deed performed for a good reason. She’d never had the opportunity to ask the questions she’d wanted to ask. Instead, her entire life had changed, and for the better.
Veronica stood, placed the lockbox in the bottom of her valise, already packed for her departure from her uncle’s house, and walked to the vanity. These moments were the last of her spinsterhood. In a little less than two hours, she’d be married, a wife. She would no longer be an oddity among a group, a solitary kitten amid a litter of puppies.
The knock on the door signaled Hester’s arrival. But it wasn’t the maid at all but her aunt.
“I wanted a little time with you,” Aunt Lilly said, sitting on the end of the bed and gesturing that she was to join her.
“Today begins the rest of your life, my dear,” Aunt Lilly said. “Tonight, your husband will come to your bed, and you must accept him because it is the lot of all women to do so. God has decreed that we are vessels.”
Veronica sat perched on the edge of the bed, hands folded in her lap, her eyes not quite able to meet those of her aunt.
“You must not move while it is happening, my dear. You must remain silent. Nor must you ever remonstrate to your husband for his cruelty and use of you. These things are simply what God has given woman to endure.”
She didn’t know what to say to that, so she remained mute, behavior evidently pleasing Aunt Lilly if the pat on her hand was any indication.
“You must think of more pleasant things, Veronica. The Empire. The change of seasons, our poor dear Queen.”
In her childhood imaginings, when she was dreaming of her future, she’d never thought of passion or desire. Nor had her knowledge accumulated appreciably over the years. She knew how the act was performed. She wasn’t an idiot, after all. The emotion behind it, however, was something she’d never felt from anyone.
Anguish, joy, anger, those were easy to sense with her Gift. Passion must be a little more subtle.
When her aunt was blessedly gone, leaving her to contemplate the sacrifice of marriage, she stared at herself in the mirror.
The formidable Montgomery Fairfax would be her husband.
She’d felt pain and anger from him. The anger had been easy to understand, but why was he in pain?
Now that he was going to be her husband, she’d have ample time to discover, wouldn’t she?
Montgomery Fairfax would be her husband.
How odd to watch oneself blush.
Chapter 7
The first time Montgomery saw Veronica MacLeod, he’d noticed her beauty. The circumstances of the meeting at the Society of the Mercaii had, however, overwhelmed any further observations. He’d been too intent on rescuing her to note her hair wasn’t truly brown or her eyes weren’t really green. Instead, her hair had brown and gold and red in it. Her eyes were a greenish hazel with gold flecks.
She stood quiet and still beside him, dressed in a pale blue dress that didn’t flatter her coloring. She smelled of something reminding him of spring, something womanly and fresh. Her face was too pale, however, and her lips nearly bloodless.
If he’d known her better, he would have bent and whispered something nonsensical in her ear to make her smile. He would have commented about any of the many people who crowded into the Earl of Conley’s parlor, or told her an anecdote about Virginia. Because he didn’t know her, because she was suddenly his wife when he didn’t want to marry, he merely stood silent beside her, finding himself amazed that this day had ever come.
In the last hour, they’d been married by an ancient minister who’d taken so long to perform the ceremony Montgomery thought it would never be over.
In the last day, he’d given more than a fleeting thought to returning home, thereby extricating himself from the situation. His honor, however, wouldn’t allow him to renege on his word, however grudgingly it had been given.
The parlor in which they stood was filled with bric-a-brac, nonsensical fringe, deep purple and crimson upholstery. The crimson velvet drapery defeated even the bravest sunbeam, but somehow the ferns and plants occupying every available surface were flourishing. The result was a crowded and oppressive room.
He wanted to be away from here almost as much as he wanted to be unmarried.
