She thought of the drug he had in his possession. She now had no doubt that he would use it if she again attempted to escape from him. Tears welled up and rolled unheeded down her cheeks. She turned her back to the mirror, hating herself for the weakness, but unable to stop the damnable tears.
“Give me a handkerchief.”
Julien entered just as Kate finished dabbing the tears from her face.
He turned to the maid. “You may go now, Anne. You have done very well.”
He strode to where she stood. He saw the wadded handkerchief in her hand, wet with her tears. He smiled at her gently and held out his arm to her.
“Come, it’s time. We’re expected at five o’clock.”
As she raised her pale face to his, he said, “My love, you must trust me. I do what is best, you must believe that. Please, Kate, give me, give us, a chance.”
Her expression didn’t change, and without a word she placed her hand on his arm.
They were welcomed at the English embassy with all the deference accorded a peer of the English realm. Mr. Drummond, the English divine, was properly effusive in his compliments to the bride. He was well aware that his consequence would be enhanced by officiating at the wedding of such prominent personages. He hoped the earl would remember him in the future.
As he had been led to expect, the earl of March was indeed an elegant and charming nobleman. He seemed to radiate an aura of quiet confidence. The priest wondered, however, at the pallor and unremitting silence of the bride. She appeared withdrawn, even uninterested in the proceedings, surely a very strange reaction to such a momentous event.
As Mr. Drummond reached his final words, he gave the earl a signal, and Julien turned to Kate. “Give me your hand.”
Mr. Drummond felt growing alarm as the lady hesitated for what seemed an eternity before finally extending her hand. He watched with relief as the earl withdrew a narrow gold band from his pocket and slid the ring onto her third finger. It was a very tight fit, and it took him several moments to work it over her knuckle.
With dramatic emphasis Mr. Drummond pronounced them man and wife. Julien leaned down to kiss his bride. Her lips were cold, but she was unresisting. He wondered fleetingly if such a drug as the one he had threatened her with really existed. If it did, he couldn’t imagine that it would render her any more deadly cold than she was now.
* * *
Katharine St. Clair, the countess of March, nodded silently to the footman, gathered up the train of her wedding gown, and seated herself across the table from her husband. They were in the small sitting room that adjoined Julien’s bedchamber, waiting for the sumptuous wedding dinner Julien had ordered.
The renowned chef Monsieur André, a rather startling vision all in white, was seen to follow closely behind his creative efforts. Consigning a flunky to serve less important persons, Monsieur André served the earl and his countess himself, his voluble presence preventing any conversation between them.
She observed with a feeling of vague ill-humor that Julien seemed to be enjoying himself, his fluent French blending with that of the small, dark, mustachioed chef. She didn’t particularly find favor with the innumerable references to la belle comtesse and remained silent and aloof, her lips curled disdainfully. The two men laughed. In all probability, they were exchanging ribald jokes. No, she thought quickly, Julien would never do that. Somehow she simply knew that.
When Monsieur André finally bowed himself out of the room, an undisguised knowing look in his black eyes, Kate felt the urge to fling her delicate fillet of fish with wine sauce in his face. Damned foreigner. She should have refused to eat, but she was so very hungry.
Julien looked across the table at his wife. She looked exhausted, the shadows beneath her beautiful eyes emphasized by the white satin of her wedding gown. As he savored a bit of the light, flaky fish, he said, more to himself than to her, “It would be interesting to pit Monsieur Andre’s skill against that of François.”
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