Page 20 of An Inconvenient Vow

Nothing would then do, but she had to recount what they had been served, course by course. Sabina did not admit that they had eaten in the confines of her husband’s bedchamber, for she did not want to give the impression she had been cowering there, too afraid to face the De Crecy family.

She thought from the look on Isemay’s face that her sister guessed she had not been a guest of honor at the duke’s table. Their mother though, despite regretting the fact she had missed the banquet, seemed to derive some satisfaction from the idea of her daughter presiding over a grand wedding feast. Sabina saw no reason to disillusion her.

Stepping down off the chair she had been balanced on to hang the curtains from the ceiling canopy, Sabina looked about the bedchamber. She could not help but reflect how shabby and bare Sir Jeffree would consider the space in contrast with his own magnificent rooms at Ganford Chase. As though guessing her thoughts, her mother directed Isemay to fetch the small table and chairs from the guest bedchamber.

“For you know, he may find a use for them when he is taking off his boots,” their mother said vaguely.

Sabina gave her a forced smile. “Yes, mayhap,” she agreed. Her mother beamed back at her, completely oblivious of any underlying tension. Sabina tarried a while, tidying her things away as her mother watched with approval, clearly under the impression she was seeking to please her new spouse with a neat room.

Sabina sighed, she supposed she did want to get on Jeffree’s good side momentarily. If he had one. If he would only agree to support her in the effort to reclaim Morecotte, then she felt she could overlook even his worst character flaws. Being trotted out once in a while to play the role of dutiful spouse would be tolerable if she had her own bolthole to retreat to when it was over. Morecotte was not large, but there were rooms enough for them to have separate sleeping arrangements.

When Isemay tried to have any further private words with her, their mother prevented it by sending her youngest daughter to pick flowers for the room. “I won’t say your sister has not every right to be disappointed,” Thora Burrell admitted once Isemay had departed, a look of frustration on her lovely face. “But she could have married Bethencourt yesterday if she had not been so scrupulous in her manners.”

Sabina looked up curiously at her mother’s chagrined tone. “You surely do not think exchanging vows in such an atmosphere would have been ideal?”

“Why should they not?” her mother demanded indignantly. “You did, did you not? And on this occasion at least, I think you have acted with a good deal more sense than your sister.”

Sabina gazed back at her, not knowing what to say. “I—it is not really the same thing, Mother. Our circumstances are quite different,” she managed after a moment’s awkwardness.

“I do not see how it is not entirely the same thing,” Thora Burrell sniffed. “His Grace the duke could scarce have refused to honor his vow, all things considered, same as Sir Jeffree could not. But there! Isemay would not hear of it and now the opportunity is squandered.” She shook her head mournfully. “I doubt they will ever be wed now!” she concluded bitterly.

Sabina was startled. She closed the cabinet door and turned around to face her mother. “Why do you say so? Did Bethencourt say something to indicate he had changed his mind?”

Her mother’s eyes avoided hers. “The Duke of Bethencourt said everything that was expected of him,” her mother said. “But you mark my words, it will all come naught. Under such circumstances as your sister’s, it is better for the groom to know as little as possible about the bride’s character.”

Sabina blinked. “What circumstances might those be?”

Her mother smoothed her skirts. “Marriage to a fussy old bachelor,” she answered frankly.

“Mother!”

“I speak nothing but the truth, Sabina,” the older woman replied sagely. “Isemay has a perfect form and face. She plays the lute and sings like a regular songbird. His Grace has admired her from afar and set her on a pedestal.” They moved toward the door together and Thora Burrell indicated for her daughter to go before her. As they started toward the stairs, she linked arms with Sabina. “Under such a courtship, over-familiarity is fatal. It shatters the illusion of perfection.”

Sabina winced. “I think Isemay’s character is far more laudable than her face and form.”

Thora Burrel snorted. “You are alone in that opinion!”

“Mother!”

“Isemay is growing sadly willful!” her mother complained as they started down the staircase. “She listens to me less and less as she gets older. Now she is no longer dazzled by Bethencourt’s title and wealth, it will all fall by the wayside. You will see.”

Sabina remembered her own burning indignation at the duke’s seeming inability to defend his bride-to-be, the way he had wallowed in self-pity in the aftermath. She bit her lip. “If there is no affection between them, or even true respect, then perhaps it would be for the better if they were not joined in matrimony.”

Her mother gave her a pointed look. “As you love and respect your own husband, I suppose?” she asked skeptically.

Sabina turned a dull shade of red. “We had our hands forced, Mother. Our circumstances were different, whatever you may think.” In all honesty, she was so stunned by her mother’s shrewd words about Bethencourt that she was not as vehement as she might have been. For all her effusive praise of the duke, it seemed Thora Burrell had been all too aware of his flaws.

“Oh well!” her mother concluded, throwing up her hands as they reached the bottom step. “The duke has slipped through our fingers. But never fear daughter, for you have secured the next best thing in his heir. I daresay Bethencourt will never marry now, and I will live to see one of my daughters a duchess still.”

Sabina had just opened her mouth to rebuke her mother’s words when she noticed with horror that the door leading to the sitting room was wide open. Looking up, her gaze focused on the upright figure stood rigid and gazing out at her with hard, angry eyes. Closing her own briefly, Sabina uttered a silent curse and almost missed her footing. She would have slipped, were her mother’s arm not entwined with her own.

“Have a care, Sabina!” her mother scolded. “You will have the both of us over!”

Perhaps it was no surprise that the rest of the afternoon was constrained. Wilfred Burrell offered to show Jeffree about the house and grounds and was accepted, albeit rather stiffly. Not caring to be further cornered by either her sister or her mother, Sabina tagged along like a dutiful wife, an action her father clearly approved of, for he patted her on the shoulder twice.

“I think you will do well with him,” her father whispered when they returned to the house. “He may be reserved, but when he does speak, he talks sense.”

As she had only seen Sir Jeffree address one question and a handful of rather critical remarks to her father, Sabina thought he was being wildly optimistic. Still, it could have been worse, she reflected. In any case, both her parents had been thoroughly charmed by her first husband who had turned out to be an untrustworthy scoundrel.