Page 27 of The Marquess of Temptation
Chapter Twelve
One's wedding was supposed to be a joyous occasion, but Hestia Stockbow wore an expression more suited to a funeral, as she exchanged vows with Alex.
The girl had not spoken to him properly since that disastrous afternoon, nearly a week before, when he had roundly dismissed her suspicions that Dubois had killed her father. Alex knew that he had been right in his beliefs, but he reluctantly conceded that could have been a tad more tactful in the way he had responded. Hestia had every right to be annoyed with him, and he was longing to apologise, but the stubborn woman had steadfastly avoided being alone with him, and so he had not had the opportunity to say sorry.
That would end today though, he thought with relief, there was no way that she could continue ignoring him once they were wed.
The wedding was a simple affair; the pair exchanged vows in the morning room of Thackery House, with Phoebe, the Earl and the newlywed Lord and Lady Payne present. Hestia was resplendent in a gown of pale, butter yellow that complimented her colouring. Alex thought fondly on her old, yellow ribboned bonnet, which he had not seen for a while, and decided that the colour suited his wife to perfection. He would commission amodisteto make her a dozen dresses all in varying shades, he decided.
Once the Vicar pronounced them married, the party retired to the dining room, where a breakfast buffet was laid out. Hestia took a seat beside Alex and silently began to eat her trout and eggs, as though he were not there.
"Are you going to ignore me forever?" Alex whispered, a little aggrieved that his new bride was so obviously underwhelmed by him.
"That depends. Are you going to continue to ignore me?" she asked calmly, placing her knife and fork down. "I told you that I believed my father was murdered, and you promised to help me find the perpetrator. Then you completely dismissed me when I presented you with a suspect who had means and motive."
Means and motive? Goodness, what type of ridiculous novels was she reading?
"I dismissed your claims because I know Dubois and I know that I am right in saying he did not kill your father," Alex tried to keep his voice low. "Though perhaps I was a bit rude in the way that I explained myself. As for ignoring your suspicions that foul play was involved in your father's death, quite the opposite is true. I have arranged for us to honeymoon in Cornwall, where we can investigate the matter properly."
"We are going to Cornwall?"
Finally his new wife met his eye and he was left almost speechless by her beauty. Her huge, blue eyes were filled with hope and her plump mouth was parted as she awaited his reply. Alex had never seen her look so beautiful, and he wished that he had not promised her that he would wait until she was ready, to consummate the marriage.
"Yes, we will leave once breakfast has finished," he said casually. "I have a small estate near Penzance, though, obviously, we shall visit Truro first to begin our investigations."
"Oh, thank you, my Lord!" Hestia squealed, her face wreathed in a smile.
"For Heaven's sake, you're my wife now, call me Alex."
"Thank you, Alex," she repeated softly, offering him a shy smile that melted his heart. He had never heard a sweeter sound than his name on her lips.
Once breakfast had finished, and the newlyweds had said their goodbyes, Alex, Hestia and Henry all clambered in to the Marquess's well-sprung carriage. He tried to hide his surprise as the footman helped a fourth person inside --Hestia's flame haired lady's maid, Catherine.
His visions of he and his new wife sharing a tender moment instantly vanished; it seemed that Hestia too had realised the romantic opportunities a carriage ride might present, and had decided to put an obstacle in the way.
Catherine was a pleasant girl, if a little talkative by the usual servant's standards. She and Hestia chatted easily for the duration of the journey, sharing an easy friendship that Alex was actually quite envious of.
As darkness fell, they stopped at a Coaching Inn, just outside of Alton, to rest for the night. Their bags and Alex's trusty valet, Thomas, had followed in a carriage behind them.
The proprietor of the inn fawned over the Marquess and his new bride, showing them to what he promised was his best room. Alex tried not to visibly grimace when the door opened to reveal a rather basic, but mercifully clean, room, with a large double bed and what looked like, he hoped, a feather mattress.
"Will my Lord and Lady be taking supper?" the inn-keeper asked hopefully.
"Yes, after we freshen up," Alex said with a nod. "Please have someone bring up some hot water for my wife."
My wife; the words felt natural as they rolled off his tongue.
The inn keeper nodded, gave a ridiculously elaborate bow and hurried off to fetch the bathwater. The door closed behind him with a sharp click, and Alex gave a happy sigh; finally he was alone with Hestia.
"How do you feel after the journey?" he asked.
She was standing by the window, with her back to him, staring out into the yard below.
"Quite well," she chirped, like a startled bird. His new wife was fidgeting with the sleeve of her dress, plucking the material in an absent minded, anxious way.
She's nervous, he realised with a jolt. Of course she was nervous, he could have cursed his thoughtlessness. Hestia was but twenty years of age, a young woman who had led, by all accounts, a sheltered life. Heaven knew what she thought might happen tonight, or what grisly tales of the marriage bed she had heard.
"When I said that I would not take you, until you were ready, I meant it," he said quietly, speaking across the distance between them. "Do not fear me, I'm not about to ravish you."
