The Forgotten Marriage Read online

  It seemed too good to be true when Alicia learned that the man she had wed in haste, then lost in battle, was alive. All too soon, however, she found that it was true—but not necessarily good.

  Viscount Lucian Morley was very much alive, as he stood beside the beautiful Lady Barbara Barrington and stared at Alicia with dead, blank eyes. His life had been spared, but his memory had been destroyed, and there was no way for Alicia to escape the terrible truth that her perfect husband had become a perfect stranger.

  An even more dreadful discovery soon followed, when the Viscount made Alicia a proposal as different from his first one as night from day. The only thing that this man who once had wanted only her now wanted was his freedom—his freedom to wed another. . . .

  THE

  FORGOTTEN

  MARRIAGE

  THE

  FORGOTTEN

  MARRIAGE

  Ellen Fitzgerald

  1

  The Honorable Barbara Barrington sat at her dressing table while Jane, her abigail, put the finishing touches on her coiffure. Her hair was newly cut and the effect, she thought, extremely becoming. She stifled a small sigh. Lucian would no doubt admire it. Poor Lucian. She was feeling very sorry for her old playmate and erstwhile lover. He could not help but notice how incredibly beautiful she was looking. The horrid freckles she had acquired last summer were nearly gone. Her skin was once more alabaster white, and the slight darkness she had applied to eyebrows and eyelashes, which were, alas, the same shade as her red-gold locks, was also becoming, though Lucian might not approve of that. He was amazingly old-fashioned when it came to the use of what he insisted on calling “unnatural aids.” and equally old-fashioned in other ways, too. However, she reminded herself, his approval, or the lack of it, had ceased to matter. She stifled another sigh. It would have been easier had she not felt it incumbent upon herself to see him. Her mama had wanted her to write him a note.

  “Poor lad, he’ll be much cast down,” Lady Barrington had said. “I am sure ’twill be a painful experience for both of you, my love.”

  Barbara was quite in agreement. She had known Lucian nearly all of her life and she had been affianced to him for two years—or, more precisely, one year, eleven months, and five days. However, as her mother had said, she had been a mere child when the understanding had been reached—not quite eighteen—and Lucian ought to understand that he had not been at home in either Yorkshire or London for the last two years, save for some very brief leaves . . . and on one of these, she had not even seen him! And absence, as she had recently learned, does not always make the heart grow fonder.

  In the beginning she had loved him; she had, in fact, loved him since they had been respectively fourteen and nineteen, or thought she had until the Duke of Pryde had come calling. They had met at a rout and discovered that they both came from Yorkshire—of course, she had known that beforehand but he had not. He had been agreeably surprised and had asked her to come driving with him. Lucian, being away, she had consented; she had also accepted an invitation to a ball at Carlton House and had waltzed with him at Almack’s. By a surprising coincidence, they had met at the country estate of a friend, and as they walked through a maze in the Italian garden, she had agreed to let him kiss her, once they had reached its center. It was a sort of victory kiss for having accomplished their goal, but it had lasted longer than she had anticipated. Once they were back in London, he had taken her driving again—and her parents, naturally, were delighted. If there were a coronation in the near future—which there must be, because George III was old and ill and insane, she would have a place very near the front of the abbey. As the Duchess of Pryde, she could expect no less. Lucian’s father was only a viscount and he was not even dead yet, though he had been in poor health for years. The Duke of Pryde, on the other hand, had been in possession of his title since he was a lad of eleven. But supposing he did not come up to scratch? Barbara shivered. Though he had certainly given every indication that he might, or rather would, he had yet to speak. However, the on-dit (from unimpeachable sources) was that he was entirely infatuated with the Incomparable Barbara Barrington.

  Her mama had not approved of her being voted an “Incomparable” by the dandies of White’s, but that had not been her fault. One could not help being beautiful, nor could one help exciting admiration in the breasts of Lord Alvanley and Beau Brummell. And she had certainly not solicited the honor. She did not even know Brummell! Lady Barrington, however, did not think it an honor, and furthermore she had given it as her opinion that the Duchess of Pryde (soon to be the Dowager Duchess of Pryde) would not approve either. Barbara grimaced. She had heard that the duke’s mother was very top-lofty and not an ideal choice for a mother-in-law, but she would cross that bridge when she came to it.

  “There,” Jane said. “ ’Tis done.”

  The Incomparable Barbara started slightly. “Oh, Jane,” she said pettishly, “you are so abrupt.”

  “I am sure I did not mean to be,” Jane said. “But your ’air, it be done, ma’am.”

  “I see it is.” Barbara rose and cast a martyred look at the door. “I expect I had best go down.”

  “ ’E’s been coolin’ ’is ’eels for the last twenty minutes or more, poor young gentleman,” Jane remarked.

  “That need not concern you,” Miss Barrington reproved.

  “No ma’am, but—”

  “You may go, Jane,” her mistress interrupted coldly.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  As the abigail went out, Barbara cast a frowning look after her. Jane had been with her ever since her thirteenth birthday. Another saying arose in her mind: “Familiarity breeds contempt.”

  Jane was far too familiar. All too often she said exactly what she meant. Indeed, she presumed on her position and she would be sorry when, rather than calling her "ma’am,” her new abigail, the one she would hire directly after Pryde offered for her, would be addressing her as “your Grace.” Jane would regret her insolence, then. She might be standing in the street one day and see the ducal equipage go past carrying her Grace, the beautiful young Duchess of Pryde, and her new abigail on her way to a fitting at some mantua maker’s or to have her portrait painted for the Long Gallery at Pryde House. And Jane, watching, would wonder why she was out on the street without the references that would enable her to seek another position . . . However, she ought not to be dwelling on such matters at a time like this—not when there was poor, poor Lucian to be considered! She would have to dispose of him very tactfully, but undoubtedly, no matter what she were to tell him, his poor heart would be broken.

  She visited another lingering look upon the lovely countenance that regarded her from the depths of her glass. Her green eyes were dancing, and that would never do! And she must certainly obliterate the pleased smile that curved her perfect mouth. Or ought she to smile on Lucian . . . No, not when she must needs speak about cruel parents and a forced marriage and days and nights of agonized pleading on her part and Papa being adamant and Mama too. And what had Mama said? Ah, yes, “An alliance contracted in childhood before either of you knew your own minds.” But, of course, she must needs assure him that she, Barbara Barrington, knew her own mind—it was only the terrible, terrible pressure that Papa and Mama had exerted upon her, with Mama sending her into gales of tears by saying that one never knew whether Lucian would even come home. It would have been easier, certainly, if he had not been so very fortunate—going through two engagements in which so many, many poor young men had made the ultimate sacrifice. Lucian, it appeared, had a charmed life. She ought not to regret that, she did not regret it. She did wish him well, but it would have been better had she not been called upon to deal him what must surely be a mortal wound.
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br />   She rose, admiring the lines of her green muslin. Pryde, too, had admired the gown. What had he said? “A dryad, ma’am. You do look like a dryad.”

  One would never have thought the duke to have so poetic a tum of phrase. He did not look poetic. Barbara frowned. In looks, he was not a patch on Lucian, being short, plump, and no more than an inch or two taller than herself. His eyes were good—small but vividly blue. However, his nose and mouth were almost undistinguished, while Lucian, tall and dark . . . dearest Lucian . . . was almost too beautiful for a man. Fate was certainly cruel. Lucian ought to have been born a duke and Pryde a viscount with a living father and only the smallest chance of inheriting the title in the near future, though Lucian’s father was a martyr to the rheumatics and could not live forever. If only . . . But still, compared to a duke, a viscount must needs be put in the shade. With another glance at her speaking countenance, now properly downcast, the Incomparable Barbara Barrington glided gracefully from the room.

  Brussels. The city was well enough, Lucian Morley thought as he rode back to his quarters. There were a great many British thronging the streets and more arriving each day now that Napoleon was, amazingly, gaining strength in France. However, not all his countrymen were in uniform. Some, in common with the Delacre family, were here because in Brussels one could live quite well on very little money.

  He had received that information from Mr. Timothy Delacre, the son of the house where he was billeted. Young Mr. Delacre had described his father’s losses on the gaming tables of White’s, Brooks, Boodles, and a score of less distinguished hells with some bitterness. Lucian did not blame him—especially since Sir Anthony Delacre evidenced no disposition to change his profligate ways. On the few occasions he had seen the genial baronet, he was either returning from a late night at a Brussels hell or faring forth of a morning to “take the air,” which air, his daughter Alicia said bitterly, was to be found only in those heated salons frequented by cardsharps and ivory turners.

  At the thought of Miss Alicia Delacre, Lucian smiled and then frowned. He was very glad that her days of hurrying around seeing to his needs and those of Lt. Richard Seeley, his friend, also quartered in their house, was nearly at an end. He remembered the moment when he had first seen her. She had been hurrying up the stairs to the front door, carrying bundles that appeared far too heavy for her slender form— and they had been, he recalled angrily. On relieving her of them, he had found them weighty even for himself. Yet, she had actually protested his helping her, which, he discovered, was her way.

  “I am very strong, sir,” she had assured him. Her voice was beautifully modulated and surprisingly deep for one who was no more than an inch or two over five feet. She would not have even reached Barbara’s shoulder, he remembered thinking. In those days, Barbara had still dominated his thoughts. He had compared every female he met to her, and much to their detriment, this despite the cruel blow she had dealt him. However, oddly enough, aside from her lack of inches, he had found nothing in Miss Delacre’s appearance to make him wish that Barbara were standing in her place. In fact, even given his gloomy state of mind, he had been able to appreciate her bright golden hair, her startling brown eyes, her exquisite features, and her lovely shape. In fact, he had actually committed the solecism of staring at her in an amazement that had brought a blush to her face and a belated apology to his lips. The following day, he had wanted to call Dick Seeley out because he had found him laughing and talking with her.

  Now, five weeks later, he still had difficulty curtailing a tendency to stare at her, to drink in beauty that was combined with intelligence and sweetness. Indeed, to his further amazement, Miss Alicia Delacre had succeeded in banishing the Incomparable Barbara Barrington from his heart and his head as well. If he thought of her and of that moment when he had been sure she had shattered his heart and ruined his life, it was to laugh loudly at so ridiculous a notion. That his heart and head were both totally intact was emphasized by the fact that he had fallen deeply and irrevocably in love with Miss Alicia Delacre; and much to his surprise and happiness, she, listening to his halting offer of marriage, had shyly confessed that she, too, had been smitten at that first moment on the steps and, unlike him, it had also been the first time in her life that she had experienced that tender passion called love.

  His happy laughter rang out, startling a lady in a passing coach and causing Bellerophon, his own horse, to rear. In his mind’s eye, he pictured himself in Barbara’s house. He would be toasting her good fortune in snaring the Duke of Pryde and he would also be thanking her for freeing him from his long-standing obligation to herself—so that he might be married to Miss Delacre on Sunday, June 11, 1815. And Dick Seeley had agreed to be his best man. He had also agreed to say nothing about the forthcoming nuptials. “For,” as he had confided to his friend, “I want to spend every possible moment with her, and then, when the war is at an end, I will take her back to England and introduce her to everyone.”

  “Marry in haste, repent at leisure,” Timothy Delacre, broad-shouldered and a head taller than his sister, smiled at her teasingly. He added with an affection tempered by concern and a touch of regret, “I shall miss you, Licia.” He fastened eyes that were much the same shade as her own on her face.

  “I could never repent marrying Lucian,” Alicia said softly, “but I will miss you and Papa, also. I love you both so much, you know that. And you will be returning to England one day. Papa was lucky last week and at least two of our creditors are satisfied.”

  “And the good Lord knows when he will be so fortunate again,” Timothy said bitterly. “You ought to have marriage settlements instead of going dowerless to Lucian.” He strode across the small parlor and stared out of the window, a habit of his when he did not want his distress to be viewed.

  “I wish so, too,” Alicia said regretfully. “But Lucian has laughed at the idea of ‘paying for a bride,’ as he calls it. Oh, Timothy, I never imagined I could be so happy. There are times when I think ’tis all a dream from which I will awaken and find myself ...”

  “Here with us,” her brother finished dryly.

  “Not that at all,” she cried indignantly. “Yet, I did think ’twould be difficult ...” Her voice dropped and she said a little gruffly, “Portions, you know.”

  “Any man who gets you can consider himself far richer than he deserves to be.” Timothy crossed back to her and smiled down at her fondly.

  “You were just mentioning marriage settlements,” his sister reminded him.

  “Only because of the convention. My damnable family pride, you understand.” Timothy flushed. “I expect I ought not always to be looking backward to a tree that has ceased to flourish. But a Delacre did fight at the Battle of Hastings and another followed Henry the Fifth to—”

  “Agincourt,” Alicia finished. “The fact that we no longer possess a fortune cannot dim those exploits, my love, and once your books are published, you will add new luster to our crown or rather greener leaves to the tree.”

  “If they are ever published,” he said gloomily.

  “They must be,” Alicia declared. “I vow they are as good as Mr. Walter Scott’s Guy Mannering, which made such a stir in February.”

  “You are my sister,” Timothy sighed.

  “Mr. Creevey has said that they have literary merit, and sure he ought to know,” she insisted. “Furthermore, he has promised that when he returns to England, he will take some of your manuscripts with him. But I need hardly remind you of that.”

  “Again, my love, you are my sister.”

  “And Mr. Thomas Creevey is no relation to you at all. He is a very important man. He knows everybody in London and everybody knows him. That does not always follow, as I am sure you are aware. I am also sure that you can believe him when he says he will help you, and if he does not, I will, once we are settled in London.” Her eyes gleamed. “Oh, Timothy, I do wish Sunday would hurry up and arrive.”

  He looked down into her lovely face and kissed her ligh
tly on the cheek. “It should for you, Alicia. You will make a most beautiful bride.” He frowned. “Lucian’s damned fortunate, to my way of thinking.”

  Alicia raised concerned brown eyes to his face. “There are times when I feel you do not quite like Lucian,” she said unhappily.

  “I do. I swear I do. Only ...”

  “Only!” she pounced. “There! You see, you do have . . . may I call them qualms?”

  “I expect you may.” He nodded. “ ’Tis the swiftness with which everything happened, I expect. And the fact that the ceremony will be conducted in such secrecy.”

  “You know his reasons for that, and they are mine as well. As for the swiftness of our nuptials. Kitty Valant, for instance, was wed within—”

  “I know,” he interrupted. “That was because of the war.” Alicia flushed. “I do not think it is only the war, Timothy. Lucian says that until he met me, he did not know what love was, and sure ’twas the same with me.”

  A sound of trumpets caused Alicia to clap her hand over both ears. “Oh, dear,” she murmured. “If only . . .”

  Her brother turned troubled eyes on her face. “I beg you will not think of it, my love.”

  “That Napoleon,” Alicia murmured resentfully. “I wonder that he can be called a man like other men. Remember Papa describing that idol they have in India, the Juggernaut with its cart, which they roll out for the faithful to cast themselves under it, to crush themselves to death? Five hundred and thirty thousand French soldiers perished in Russia alone. And how many more thousands and thousands have died because of Napoleon’s passion for conquest? He is a juggernaut!”

  “Oh, my dear.” Timothy regarded her concernedly and, at the same time, helplessly. Words of comfort were of little value when faced with the reality of soldiers pouring into Brussels at a rate that far exceeded that of the ton, who had come to enjoy a limited version of that grand tour denied the sprigs of fashion since Napoleon had had himself invested with an imperial crown.