Page 11 of The Cornish Lyon

She hadn’t meant to stare, but curiosity got the better of her. The man standing beside Mrs. Dove-Lyon was huge. A bear of a man, with an air of protection about him. He must surely be here only to escort his employer. She dismissed him as not being her betrothed.

Of the remaining two gentlemen, the one on the left was taller, slimmer and younger than his companion. Even standing still and staring down the aisle towards her, he had about him a masculine and decidedly military air. Surely this must be the captain? On top of that, he was smartly dressed in a black tailcoat that must surely have come from Weston’s, Papa’s favorite tailor, and his shining top boots had to be from Hoby’s. He was holding a pair of elegant kid gloves in a casual manner, and although the points of his collar were high, they were not ridiculously so. At least he was not a dandy or a fop. She could not have abided it if he had been. And, joy of joy, he was not old, although he couldn’t quite be classed as young, either. Mrs. Dove-Lyon had not lied on that score.

The second man, to whom she bestowed only the most cursory of glances, was altogether a more rough-cut individual, blue-chinned and with his hair cut so short as to almost appear shaven. He had to be this man’s servant, as he couldn’t possibly be a friend of his, could he? The tall gentleman had to be her betrothed. Didn’t he? For one terrible moment she feared she might be mistaken and this rough individual might be the man she had agreed to marry and her heart did a terrified little skip. She tightened her hold on Havers’ arm and her maid shot her a worried frown.

“It’s the tall feller,” she whispered to her mistress. Maybe she’d guessed Georgiana’s sudden fear.

Bracing herself, Georgiana began to walk slowly up the aisle, with Havers dropping back to just behind her now. And as she progressed, she studied the features of her intended (the tall feller) with interest. His dark hair was artistically arranged ‘à la Grecian’, above a pair of darkly brooding eyes and a long aquiline nose. Beneath the nose his mouth was set in a harsh line that one could almost describe as cruel. He did not look happy, but she didn’t think the cause of his unhappiness was this wedding. No. His discontent was deep-seated and of long standing.

She let a little smile of welcome hover on her lips, but he didn’t smile back. Instead, his devilishly dark brows met in a frown, as though he found her lacking. Had he been expecting someone taller, prettier…more like Fanny?

She bristled. How dare he turn his nose up at her. He might be taking on someone else’s child, but he was also getting one of the largest fortunes in London, no, in England, in return. As a man venal enough to be lured by her money, he had no leg to stand on. Drawing herself up taller, which was difficult as she stood only five feet and two inches in her boots, she stuck her chin in the air and assumed her most haughty expression. If he was going to look down his nose at her, she would return the favor.

A few more steps brought her level with him and she made a point of not dropping her gaze as a more submissive woman might have. She wanted him to know right from the start that the favor he was doing her was only equivalent to the one she was doing him in return. Possibly lesser.

The frown on his face softened, and she saw with a start that he was really most good looking, or might be if he allowed himself to smile, even if it was in a devilish manner. A rakish manner. Like most young ladies she’d always had a soft spot for a rake, which might have been why she’d succumbed so easily to Alexander. She had a feeling a smile from the captain would not be a frequent occurrence and straightaway determined that she would wheedle one out of him before too long. Just so she could see how handsome he really was.

However, deciding politeness should be adhered to from the start, she held out her hand to him. “Good morning, Captain Carlyon.” He was definitely of the military variety and not a sea captain. Good. One naval officer and the vagaries of the sea had been enough for her.

He took her hand in a firm grip and looked her in the eye. “Captain Fitzwilliam Carlyon at your service, Miss Frampton.” His voice was pleasingly deep and refined, matching his dashing appearance, and his eyes, she noted, were so dark as to be almost black. Or it could have been the poor light in the church, but she fancied not.

“Thank you,” was all she could think of in reply. The vicar must be thinking this the strangest wedding he’d ever had to officiate. Or perhaps, considering his church’s proximity to the Lyon’s Den, he was used to these hurried ceremonies.

That gentleman now stepped forward. “Captain Carlyon, Miss Frampton, if you will take your places before the altar, I will begin.”

The service was short and to the point. Within less than half an hour it was over and done with, the register had been signed and witnessed and Fitz found himself walking back down the aisle with a strange young woman’s hand slipped, with diffidence, into the crook of his left arm. It wasn’t as though he was unused to the company of young women, although many were not of the sort one would introduce to one’s mother. It was just that the woman walking by his side, who seemed astonishingly composed for the condition he knew her to be in, was his wife.

His wife?

Was he in some kind of overly realistic nightmare? He glanced down at her, but her face, which he’d noticed would have been passably attractive had she not such a cold and superior expression, was mostly hidden by that infernal bonnet she’d chosen to wear. Not at all the right thing for a wedding, when a man wanted to be able to see what his bride looked like. Especially when he hadn’t laid eyes on her before the ceremony. A bit like Jacob being given Leah in place of Rachel in the Bible.

At the door, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, who had progressed down the aisle ahead of them, turned to face them, her henchman looming behind her. Impossible to tell her expression under that heavy veil. “May I offer you both my congratulations.” She sounded as if she might be smiling. No doubt she’d done well out of this transaction herself. Since her proposal of this arrangement to him, he’d found out a little more about her establishment and her propensity for organising unusual matches. If he’d known in advance, he might not have let his friends lure him there. Damn Billy Dugdale to hell and back. Perhaps. He was aware of a nagging feeling that he’d played into the Black Widow’s capable hands and been trapped into this marriage. Although…wasn’t it to his advantage? He couldn’t deny that.

Nevertheless, he bowed over Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s gloved hand and brought it to his lips. “Thank you, ma’am.” He fixed her with a jaundiced eye. “It could never have happened without your aid.”

She ignored his expression. “My congratulations to you both. I will leave you to begin your married lives together, then, as Captain and Mrs. Carlyon. May it be a long and fruitful association. You will be pleased to hear that as part of my services I have arranged a wedding breakfast for you at The Angel Inn, a most respectable establishment just a few minutes’ walk along Piccadilly.” She gave an elegant gesture in the general direction with her hand.

She’d thought of everything. Well… not quite everything. Fitz swept her a second, more elaborate, bow, aware of Miss Frampton…no, Mrs. Carlyon, performing a polite curtsey by his side.

“Thank you for all your invaluable assistance,” this young lady, his wife, said, her voice, which he’d only so far heard when she’d greeted him and in the required responses of the ceremony, almost dismissive. She, like him, must wish to be away from all the connotations of such a hurried wedding ceremony, perhaps before someone spotted them. At least they had that in common.

“A pleasure,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon purred. “But now I must return as my business does not run itself. I bid you both adieu. I trust our paths will not cross again.” And she turned away from them, her henchman keeping pace with her.

Fitz had the distinct impression her veiled gaze had been fixed on him as she spoke these final words, in the form of a threat that he should not be returning to either gamble or make use of the upstairs girls within the Den now he was a married man. He had the feeling, as well, that if he did dare to return she would not be backward in coming forward and having him forcibly ejected from her premises. Her henchman had the look of someone who could bodily evict any gentleman she took against.

Turning towards the Angel Inn, Miss Frampton – no, Mrs. Carlyon, by his side, he set off in the opposite direction to the Den. His new wife had to hurry her steps to keep up with him, but he didn’t slow down.

The Angel was an old timbered building on the north side of Piccadilly with an arched entrance to one side into the stables at its rear and a large oak door that would lead into the main part. Fitz stopped almost on the doorstep and looked down at the young lady by his side for the first time since they’d left the church.

She raised her head and looked up at him in an almost challenging fashion. Behind her glasses, gold flecks danced in her brown eyes. For someone so much in need of respectability, she had a very confident air about her. As though he were the one who had erred.

It was not like him to be tongue-tied, but right now that was the best way to describe how he felt. Probably due to the novelty of the situation. It wasn’t every day one married a young lady one had never met before. A young lady carrying someone else’s child. He swallowed. “I cannot call you Miss Frampton, obviously, and to address you as Mrs. Carlyon would be quite odd. Do you mind if I call you Georgiana?”

Those eyes twinkled up at him and he was struck for the first time by the notion that she was indeed a pretty girl and not the rather uninteresting thing he’d taken her for. Not just passably attractive, as he’d first thought, but beautiful in an out of the ordinary way, especially now she was looking at him in such a manner.

Her mouth twitched. “It is my given name.”

Was she laughing?