My Lord Protector

“Who gives this woman to be married to this man?”

“I do,” said Jerome.

To Julianna’s ears, those two short words rang with ten years’ worth of mocking triumph. Her stomach seethed as she caught a whiff of her stepbrother’s breath, putrid with stale brandy. Raising her fan, she fluttered it to disperse the fumes.

Who gives this woman? For most brides those words were a formality. In her case they could not have been more accurate. Her stepbrother was giving her away to a total stranger, with forced consent, for promises of money. Sold, like all her late father’s possessions, to the highest bidder.

“In the name of God, I, Edmund, take thee, Julianna, to my lawful wedded wife. To have and to hold from this day forward. For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health. Till death do us part.”

When her turn came to speak, Julianna’s lips moved but the words emerged scarcely audible even to herself. Looking past the looming silhouette of Sir Edmund Fitzhugh, she addressed her words to Crispin, vowing to keep her heart only unto him.

“I, Julianna, take thee, Edmund, to my wedded husband....”

Her words were barely a whisper, and Edmund had the uncomfortable conviction his bride was staring right through him.

How dare she look so woebegone at the prospect of marrying him? his Fitzhugh pride demanded. After all, this daft scheme had been hers in the first place. When she’d sent her timorous cousin around to advance the idea, he’d found himself with no honorable recourse but to fall in with their foolish plan.

“...in sickness and in health. Till death do us part.”

At that moment, the enormity of what he was doing boxed Edmund squarely in the stomach. Julianna Ramsay looked so very young in her ill-fitting black gown, her ruddy curls all but hidden by a fulsome cap. Though he was barely forty, Edmund had seen and done more than most men twice his age. Years of adventuring in the Tropics had taken their toll on his constitution. At the moment he wanted nothing more than to escape to the refuge of his library with a comfortable wing chair, a pipeful of rich tobacco and a familiar volume of Shakespeare or Marcus Aurelius.

“With this ring, I thee wed....” The words stuck in Edmund’s throat as he thrust the heavy gold circlet onto Julianna’s waxen finger. With effort, he managed to bark them out.

Long ago he had sworn never to marry again. Matrimony did not suit his solitary temperament. He and Amelia had made each other bitterly unhappy during the interminable months of their brief marriage. Edmund had never pretended it was all the fault of his frigid, ambitious late wife. What mad impulse had propelled him back to the altar after all these years?

Edmund stole another glance at Julianna as they knelt to receive the Eucharist The pallid light of an overcast morning filtered through the altar window, starkly illuminating the cruel marks that marred her delicate features—a livid welt on her cheek, dark bruises on her chin, a swollen lower lip. The sight of her—young, vulnerable and so obviously brutalized, called forth every protective instinct in his being. His hands itched to close around Jerome Skeldon’s thick neck. To wrest Julianna Ramsay from the power of that blackguard, he was even willing to thrust his head back into the matrimonial noose.

“Oh God, who hath consecrated the state of matrimony to such an excellent mystery...look mercifully upon these thy servants.”

Edmund took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. For better or worse, the deed was done. In a stroke he had secured Julianna’s safety. He would provide for her every comfort. Surely she could ask no more of him. He would resume his tranquil, well-ordered existence, and try to pretend the disquieting events of past days had never taken place.

As he rose to accept the congratulations of their small bridal party, one thought continued to trouble Edmund. If only he could be certain Crispin would approve...

Skeldon’s carriage rattled over the cobbles of Piccadilly Street, bearing Jerome, Francis and Julianna to Fitzhugh House for the bridal luncheon. Slouched in the seat opposite his stepsister, Jerome drew a flask from his coat pocket and took a long pull. He gasped appreciatively at the liquor’s potency.

With exaggerated care, he wiped the mouth of the bottle on his stock and held it out to her. “Will you join me, milady?”

Julianna arched an eyebrow in disdain, not daring to speak.

“Of course, you want nothing to cloud your experience of this special day.” Jerome sneered. “Is that not so, sister?”

As the barb of her stepbrother’s sarcasm stung, Julianna knew she had only herself to blame. The skies had suddenly opened as the wedding party emerged from the church, spewing a cascade of rain upon them. In the rush toward the carriages, she had deliberately made for Jerome’s. Much as she hated and mistrusted her stepbrother, at least she knew what to expect from him. That was more than she could say of her formidable-looking bridegroom.

Jerome thrust his flask toward Francis. “You more sociably disposed than your cousin, Underhill?”

“Not I,” Francis chirped. “I intend to slake my thirst at luncheon. Julianna’s new husband looks to be a gentleman of quality, and I mean to do justice to his hospitality.”

“Suit yourself.” Jerome shrugged and took another drink.

It had been the same ever since the carriage pulled away from St. Martin’s—Jerome baiting her with surly mock courtesy, while Francis made the most annoyingly good-humored small talk. Both grated equally on Julianna’s raw nerves.

Heavy and tight, the gold wedding band encircled her finger like a fetter. The unnatural calm that had sustained her through the wedding ceremony was rapidly slipping away. Behind that mask of composure cowered a frightened child. Could she truly be the wife of that cold, silent man? How would she survive this day and this night, let alone the days and months and years to come? Only the look of sly satisfaction in Jerome’s eyes forced Julianna to hold her head high and still her quivering lip.

The curate lurched into Edmund’s brougham, water sluicing from the rear corners of his hat. “I must apologize for my tardiness.” He gasped for breath. “While I was changing out of my surplice, the rector detained me for a quick word.”

“I beg your pardon?” Edmund wrenched his gaze back from the window. He was still puzzling over Julianna’s defection to her stepbrother’s carriage. Surprised by the sudden downpour, had she simply acted on impulse? Or had she intentionally chosen the company of that sordid brute, Skeldon, over his own?

“The rector,” the curate repeated loudly. “He asked me to tell you how sorry he was not to preside over your nuptials. If only you’d been in less haste, or if his engagement had been less pressing, I know he’d have been pleased to perform the service.”

Removing his hat, he gave it a little shake. Then he drew out a handkerchief and began to mop the moisture from his face. “A rainy wedding day. That’s considered a good omen, I believe.”

Catching a glimpse of Skeldon’s landau behind them, Edmund muttered, “In Surrey, we say, ‘happy the bride the sun shines on.’”

The curate gave a strangulated chuckle. “And speaking of the bride, where is your lovely lady?”

Was she lovely? Edmund found himself wondering as he explained about the sudden cloudburst and the wedding party’s scramble for shelter in the carriages. No, he decided at last. Not in the conventional sense. Her eyes were an odd color for one thing—the pale amber brown of clear, hot tea. Her mouth was too wide for beauty, not to mention slightly crooked. Or perhaps it was only the bruises that made it look so.

All the same, she had a fey, winsome air that touched him. Somewhere in his dispassionate, impregnable heart, Edmund shrank from the look of aversion he’d seen in his bride’s eyes.

Passing through a half wall of masonry and wrought iron, the two carriages drew to a halt before Fitzhugh House, a spacious red brick mansion with many windows. The rain had eased to a fitful spatter. As Julianna alighted from Jerome’s landau, Sir Edmund stepped forward to take her arm.

A servant in impeccable livery stood before the massive front doors. Sir Edmund nodded toward him. “Let me begin by introducing the steward of my household, Mr. Mordecai Brock.”

The man bowed stiffly. He sported an impressive set of side whiskers, together with the most severe eyebrows Julianna had ever seen. Piercing blue eyes beneath those brows shot her a look of glowering disapproval.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Brock,” she lied.

The steward threw open the doors, ushering the wedding party into a large, marble-floored entry hall. A pair of elegant staircases flanked the spacious chamber, sweeping upward to the second story. The dark wood of their balustrades gleamed.

A veritable army of servants were marshaled in the entry hall—footmen, coachmen, maids of every capacity. Sir Edmund paraded his bride before them like a visiting general inspecting his troops, while Mr. Brock introduced each member of his staff. Julianna scarcely heard him.

Though their names meant nothing to her, the servants’ facial expressions cut her at every turn—contemptuous, boldly curious. Having been on the most familiar terms with her father’s staff, she was distressed by the obvious antipathy of these people. If only she could make them understand how little she wanted to be here. As little as they wanted her, apparently.

The inspection concluded, Mr. Brock whispered a word to his master. Sir Edmund turned to Julianna. “If you’ll excuse me, there is a matter I must attend to.” He motioned to Francis. “Underhill, will you kindly deputize for me and escort my wife into luncheon?”

Francis beamed. “An honor and a pleasure, Sir Edmund.” As he took Julianna’s arm, he gave it a reassuring squeeze.

Her Welsh temper flared. How dare the fool look so outrageously pleased with himself? He was supposed to be Crispin’s best friend. Did he call this friendship—handing his comrade’s intended bride over to a stranger? Using the width of her skirts as cover, she dealt him a sharp kick in the shin. Francis flinched, blinking his mild eyes with a wounded air. She flashed him an answering glare that made no secret of her ire.

As the dining room door swung open, the curate uttered a gasp of delight. Bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, Sir Edmund’s service of silver, crystal and gilded china made the table glitter like an open treasure chest.

“Sir Edmund is a very generous host,” said the curate.

“If not a particularly genial one,” Jerome muttered. Strolling over to the sideboard, he made a great show of inspecting the wines.

Francis held a chair for Julianna. “This is certainly the feast I envisaged. Your father was always reckoned to set a good table, my dear. But this surpasses even the best of his board.”

Looking up from his scrutiny of the wine, Jerome sniffed. “Father squandered his substance entertaining every ne’er-do-well in London. If he’d paid more attention to his business than to his salons, his estate wouldn’t be in such bad pass now.”