He grinned down at his bride. “I am a very lucky man. That’s what I was thinking.”
But Victoria wasn’t at all certain of that. Rafael could be very smooth when he wished to be, just as he was now with those glib words of his. She wondered what had passed between him and Damien, and found herself desperately wanting to know. She wasn’t granted the opportunity until after she and Rafael had dutifully toasted each other with Lucia’s finest champagne.
She said without preamble, “Rafael, why was Damien here? Surely he didn’t believe he could prevent our marriage?”
He’d hoped, of course, that Victoria wouldn’t inquire. A stupid hope. “He just had more ire and filth to spew over me. Nothing at all pertinent to anything. Now, my dear wife, I do believe it time for you to change into your traveling clothes.”
This was the first Victoria had even thought about traveling anywhere for a wedding trip. “Good heavens. Where are you taking me?”
“The marquess has very kindly offered us the use of one of his country estates in Dorset. It is called Honeycutt Cottage, near the town of Milton Abbas. Does that please you?”
“Oh, yes. Yes, it surely does.” She paused a moment, cocking her head to one side. “I forgot all about Mr. Westover, Rafael. Mustn’t we see him so that I may legally transfer half my inheritance to you, as I promised?”
“Actually, I visited with Mr. Westover yesterday afternoon. Everything was taken care of. Papers signed and all that. There is nothing you need do now.” He didn’t add that Mr. Westover had been shocked that Rafael was the baron’s twin brother, his lips a nearly invisible line when he realized that Rafael had pretended to be Baron Drago.
“I don’t understand. Since it is my inheritance, shouldn’t there be papers for me to sign?”
Well, Rafael thought, Victoria wasn’t stupid. But how to tell her that all fifty thousand pounds was in his hands? He’d instructed Mr. Westover to draw up a document for his signature, allowing a generous allowance for Victoria, to be paid by him quarterly. He said now, “No, only I needed to sign papers. I’m your husband, you know.”
“But—”
He lightly touched his fingertip to her soft mouth. “Upstairs, then, madam, but know I will drink champagne until you return.”
“I shall be quick about it. I don’t wish a weaving husband this soon in our married life.”
Rafael watched her leave the dining room with a light step. She paused a moment to say something to Frances. He saw her shake her head, laugh sweetly, and nearly skip out of the room.
She was a darling. She was his wife. He decided at that moment that he would put half her inheritance in a trust fund for their children. It was a fair solution, one that should please her. The last thing he wanted was for her to think that he’d married her for her money. Thanks to Dame Fortune, he’d amassed quite a respectable amount of money for himself during the past five years.
He turned from his thoughts to see Lucia looking at him thoughtfully. “What is it, ma’am? Have I unknowingly committed some indiscretion?”
“No, my boy. It just occurred to me that since I’m a nosy old woman, perhaps I should play stand-in for Victoria’s mother.”
He looked at her, at sea.
“Victoria is a quite charming, quite innocent girl. Perhaps I should speak to her of the more intimate side of marriage.”
“Ah,” said Rafael. What Lucia could know of that was beyond him. She’d never been married. “Trust me,” he continued in a very smooth voice, “to see to her properly. She will be all right, Lucia. I’m not a clod, you know.”
Lucia nodded. “I don’t suppose that you will tell me about that meeting with the baron?”
He stiffened. “No, ma’am. Suffice it to say that my brother is a very disappointed man, and disappointed men tend to spew nonsense in their frustration.”
Lucia saw his hands clench into fists. She would have given up reading her gothic novels for a week if she could but discover what had passed between the two brothers.
A half-hour later, Lucia watched Rafael hand Victoria into the carriage. He spoke a moment with that impudent fellow from Cornwall, Tom Merrifield, then climbed into the carriage. A dear sweet girl, Lucia thought, waving. She hoped she would be happy with Captain Carstairs. She turned at the sound of Frances’s voice.
“I think we should have at least one waltz,” the countess said. “Where is Didier?”
“Here, my lady.”
“Very well,” said Lucia, her eyes going to the marquess. “Well, old man? Do you think you are up for some jollity?”
“With the awesome Didier at the pianoforte, I shall shine and my consequence will make even you, my dear Lucia, appear a charming gazelle.”
“Good God, Father,” said Hawk. “You insult Lucia with much more creativity than you accord to me.”
“If ‘village idiot’ applies, my boy, there is no need to embellish upon it.”