Trapped at the Altar

When he spoke, his voice was cold and distant. “Well, love has never been an essential component of matrimony, my dear. You know that as well as I do. We must manage as countless others have managed before us.” He moved so swiftly she was taken by surprise when he caught her around the waist and lifted her onto his horse. For a moment, he stood at his stirrup, a hand resting on her thigh. “I would settle for your friendship and respect, Ariadne. Whether I can give you the latter will be up to you.”

Before she could respond, he had swung onto the horse behind her, his arm circling her waist. He nudged the horse into a walk and turned him towards the gap in the cliff where the pass led down into the valley. Another nudge, and the animal broke into a canter across the meadow.

Ariadne held herself upright, feeling his body at her back but keeping herself stiffly away from him. She had rarely met this cold and distant Ivor, who spoke with such bitterness. Oh, she had fought him, seen him angry, and met him angry word for angry word. She had even hit him once or twice when they were children, and he hadn’t scrupled then to return the blow, but that had been child’s play, and they had made up as quickly as they had fallen out. But this was very different, and she didn’t know how to respond to him. Ivor was deeply hurt and bitterly angry, and she had caused that hurt. But she could not think how to put things right between them.

How could she forget Gabriel, dismiss him from her thoughts, pretend this overpowering love between them did not exist? But if she could not, then she and Ivor could not live together in anything approaching harmony.

If only she hadn’t confided in Ivor in the first place. What had seemed such a natural confidence between trusted friends had exploded in her face like a cannonball. She thought she could have pretended with Ivor if he hadn’t known the truth. She could have put a good face on this forced marriage while keeping her secrets, waiting until it was safe to make her escape. But now she was trapped by the truth.





FOUR





Ivor drew rein outside Ariadne’s stone cottage. It was in the middle of the village, close to the wooden bridge that spanned the river. She had been born in the cottage and lived there with her mother until Martha had died of typhoid fever when her daughter was eleven. Her father had lived there only nominally, most of his time being spent with the other men of the family and more often than not with one or other of the ladies of pleasure who were brought into the valley to serve its menfolk. It was the way of Daunt valley, simple and efficient.

Ari slipped to the ground before Ivor could offer a helping hand and without a word went into the house. She had nothing to say, and Ivor made no attempt to break the silence, turning his horse to the stables, his expression grim.

“Oh, where ever have you been, miss? Everyone’s been a-lookin’ for you. It’s the wake feast tonight—”

“I know that, Tilly.” Ari interrupted the girl before she could get started. In Tilly’s world, every little event was a cause for excitement and anticipation, unless it was fearful in some way. Once she wound herself up, there would be no unwinding her until she’d reached the end of the spool. “Is there any food?”

She realized she was ravenous, hardly surprising since she hadn’t eaten since just after daybreak, and it was now dusk. “There’ll be the feast in an hour,” Tilly pointed out, carefully pressing her flat iron into the intricate ruffles of a pair of lace-edged sleeves.

“Yes, I know, but I cannot wait an hour.” Ariadne began opening cupboard doors in the one room that served as kitchen and living room. “We had some cheddar, Tilly. I know we did.”

Tilly set her flat iron back on the hearth. She was a round, plump-cheeked girl, with small, merry blue eyes, a year or two younger than Ariadne. With a flourish, she lifted the lid on a cheese dome on the plain pine table, declaring, “Right afore your eyes, miss.” Then she flushed and looked abashed. “Lady Ariadne, I should say.”

“Why should you?” Ari looked askance as she cut a slice of cheese. Lady Ariadne was far too much of a ceremonial mouthful for daily use in the valley, and it was almost never used except on formal occasions in Council.

“Lord Daunt said as how we should all give you your correct title, miss. Now that you’re to be wed, you being your grandfather’s heiress.”

Ariadne frowned at the connection but then gave an internal shrug. It was the bald truth, after all. The marriage and the fact of her inheritance were inextricably entwined, so why deny it? “Well, I’d rather you didn’t when we’re private, Tilly,” she said through a mouthful of cheese. “Is there some of that pickle somewhere? The black one that goes so well with cheddar?”

Patiently, Tilly reached into a cupboard and set a jar of pickled vegetables on the table. “Where it always is, Miss Ari.” She eased off the tight lid, and the aromatic spicy fragrance filled the air.

“Forgive me, I’m not thinking straight today.” She cut another hunk of cheese and spread it with the thick, dark mixture.

Tilly nodded sagely. “No wonder, miss, so soon as it is after his lordship’s death.”

Ari agreed with a quick smile of thanks as she ate the cheese and pickle. Her makeshift meal cried out for a tankard of dark October ale, but the wine would flow too freely this evening, and she had no desire to put herself at a disadvantage she could avoid.

“You’ll be getting dressed, then, miss?” Briskly, Tilly put away the cheese and sealed the jar of pickle, clearly indicating that Ari had dallied long enough. “I’ll fetch some hot water for you.” She looked at her mistress closely. “Looks like you could do with a wash.”

Ariadne could have guessed how she looked even without Ivor’s blunt assessment earlier, but she wasn’t about to go into explanations with Tilly. She liked her, enjoyed her company, and appreciated her help, but she wouldn’t burden her with a confidence she would find hard to keep. “I was walking above and lost track of the time,” she said vaguely. “I had to run back.”

Tilly seemed to find this perfectly acceptable and went to the range to fill a bowl with hot water from the steaming kettle on the hob. She set it on the table. “I’ll fetch soap and towel. Your gown is all ready for you.”

“My thanks, Tilly.” Ariadne kicked off her slippers and sat on a stool to unroll her woolen stockings. They were torn at the heel, she noticed, and a moment came to her, vivid as if it were happening now, of digging her stockinged feet into the moss against a tree root as she moved her body in rhythm with Gabriel’s, a swift rhythm building to a glorious crescendo.

She balled them up as Tilly set soap and towel on the table beside the bowl of water. “These need darning at the heel, Tilly. They must have worn thin.” She tossed them into the wicker mending basket beside the range, then stood up to shrug off her jacket and unbutton her now less-than-pristine white shirt. Her skirt followed suit and then her chemise and petticoat. Naked, she dipped a washcloth into the basin and sponged her body, aware of how sweaty and grimy she was. She needed a full dip in the copper tub rather than this spit and polish of a wash, but there was no time for such luxury this evening.

She dried herself briskly on the rough towel before stepping into a crisply starched white cambric petticoat and then a low-necked cambric chemise edged with lace. “You’ll need another two petticoats, Miss Ari, for the gown to fall properly.” Tilly took the stiff garments from the large oak linen press in the far corner of the chamber.