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Chapter Twelve

Ava had an uncomfortable journey from Ravenshaw to The Castle, because, while he didn’t say a great deal, it was obvious that Rob was very angry with her. Or disappointed. Or both. She wasn’t sure, but it hurt. Sarah was kind but a little sad, and Ava felt wretched when she ought to feel happy. She was to marry Jerome, and it was what she had wanted for so long that she really couldn’t remember a time when she didn’t.

She hugged to herself the kisses he had given her in his bed, whisky flavored, hot, and devouring. It had been reminiscent of those ravishing kisses in the anteroom at Lady Bellingham’s ball last year, but less savagely angry, more loving. He had stroked her body and kissed her and thrust his hard cock against her flank and she had been ready to give herself to him then and there and damn the consequences. But he was very drunk, she realized, when he stared at her fuddled and dropped his head into her breast with a muttered “Oh Ava!” She’d stroked his dark head and a few moments later he was snoring!

Their arrival at The Castle triggered a flurry of activity, letters sent hither and yon. Robert sent letters to Haldane and Silverly, and one to The Gazette to announce her imminent marriage to Ravenshaw. Her mother and Heather were on a visit to friends in Lincoln and summoned home. Also, notes went to Hereward and Kenrick, bidding them come home for the wedding, and invitations went to Ashford and Pendrell and their wives, Robert and Jerome’s most intimate friends. He even sent for Creighton from London, along with his valet and Sarah’s and Ava’s maids.

Robert spoke with the local vicar and had the banns posted. The wedding itself would take place in the chapel on The Castle grounds, where Sarah and Robert had been married two years before.

Sarah set about ordering a dress for Ava from London and consulting with Smiggens about flowers to decorate the chapel and with Mrs. O’Neal, the cook, about food. Ava felt it was all happening around her, to her, and yet she wasn’t a part of it. It was her wedding, but she felt like an observer.

Yes, she was marrying Jerome. It should be her perfect dream, but somehow the circumstances tainted it. He had agreed to marry her because he couldn’t do anything else, given how Robert and Sarah had discovered them. But did he truly want to marry her?

He had been set to marry Isabella Mortimer. Did he care for her? Was it Isabella he had really wanted to marry? The notion tortured her with doubts and dented her normally sunny, optimistic outlook. She was conscious of a burning jealousy of the beautiful, elegant countess. She was older, more sophisticated, taller, and with an alluring, dark beauty that made Ava’s blonde, blue-eyed prettiness seem insipid and girlish. Can I compete with a woman like that?

As much as she tried to shake it off, the worries and doubts ate at her. She longed for him to arrive. Knowing he was in London—with that woman—and not knowing what was happening drove her crazy. Ava was not normally an insecure person, but she discovered that in this, she was suddenly reduced to the state of a frightened girl, worried she had pushed the man she loved into an invidious position and that whatever warm feelings he may have had for her had been destroyed by her forward behavior. After all, she had, in essence, forced him to marry her by compromising him.

To make matters worse, when Mama and Heather arrived home, she discovered that her mother was far from happy. Mama had never liked Jerome, Ava knew this, although she didn’t know why, and when she had pressed for a reason in the past, Mama had refused to discuss it, but her reaction upon learning that Ava was to marry him left Ava stunned.

Ava came down the stairs at a run to greet her mother and Heather upon their arrival to be met with, instead of the warm hugs and kisses she expected, a grim-faced dowager duchess who turned compressed lips and anguished eyes on her.

“Mama?” faltered Ava, pausing on the bottom step as the duchess removed her bonnet and refused to meet her daughter’s anxious gaze.

“Tea in the drawing room, Creighton,” she said, and stalked past Ava. Ava watched her go and cast a bewildered glance at her sister. Heather gave her an unhappy look and brushed past her to mount the stairs to her own room.

Ava followed her mother to the drawing room and shut the door slowly as she watched her mother pacing with unaccustomed agitation.

“Mama? What is it? What’s wrong?”

Her mother turned, her expression breaking into anguished sobs. “My poor baby!” She offered Ava her embrace then and Ava was drawn into a tight hug.

“Mama, what—?”

“Oh, Ava, this is not what I wanted for you! Leopards don’t change their spots, my darling. I have reason to know. You are fortunate your brother was in a position to force him to do the right thing!”

“But Mama, it wasn’t Jerome’s fault. It was mine. Didn’t Robert tell you?”

“What?” Her mother drew back and looked at her searchingly. “What are you talking about?”

“What did Rob tell you?”

“He wrote that he had been forced to agree to a marriage between you and Ravenshaw because you were compromised!”

“He didn’t tell you how—where—?”

“No.” Her mother frowned. “What have you done, Ava?”

Ava swallowed and suddenly felt like she was twelve again and being chastised for her latest scrape, only this one was far worse than any of her others.

“I followed him to Ravenshaw,” she whispered.

“You what?” The dowager duchess drew back, and it was obvious she was scandalized. “For goodness’ sake, why?”

“Because he was going to marry the countess, and I couldn’t bear it!”

“Oh, Ava!” Her mother covered her mouth and turned aside. “Who knows about this?” she asked in a stifled voice.

“N-no one except Robert, Sarah, me, and Jer—Ravenshaw.” She decided mentioning Lannister would just make the situation worse.