#frederick comyn

No one was as surprised as Juliana when the letter came inviting Mr and Mrs Comyn to spend the holidays at Avon Court as my Lord and Lady Vidal’s particular guest. Her lifelong acquaintance with Uncle Justin’s imperious ways and his unyielding determination to curb the worst of his scion’s intemperance caused her to marvel that the Duke should now see fit to unleash the prodigal son upon his ancestral home as he had never consented to do before.  

On reflection, however, Juliana determined that her aunt and uncle must be putting the utmost faith in their daughter-in-law’s calming influence, as indeed they had good reason to do, if Vidal’s exploits on French soil were anything to go by. It was therefore in the spirit of the liveliest curiosity that she endeavoured to persuade her husband of the desirability of such a visit; and although her dear Frederick did not evince any particular propensity to quit London at present, he was as ever prepared to indulge his wife’s ever whim – provided that it was not a wholly unreasonable one, of course.  

For her part, Juliana took enough pride in her Alastair lineage as to forbear from any mention of the dullness of her previous sojourns at Avon; she did not anticipate any greater diversion than some light-hearted ribbing at her impetuous cousin’s expenses, though she was conscious of a somewhat unbecoming inclination to display her noble connections to the best of their advantage. Still, her dear Mary would be there, and she was eager for an opportunity to be private with her friend as there had seldom been an occasion since the officiating of their respective marriages.  

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Although an Alastair by marriage now, Lady Vidal did not demonstrate any propensity for discussing the manifold perks of married life with her old school friend-turned-cousin. When Juliana laughingly accused her of being stuffy and not at all what one would expect from Dominic’s bride, Mary only raised her eyebrow in a perfect impression of Vidal’s haughtiest mien, observing that it would never do for them to compare the relative merits of their husbands when one of them was Juliana’s own cousin, and the other had once seen fit to offer her his hand in marriage – though merely from motives of the most disinterested chivalry, as Mary was prompt to reassure her before she could even think of taking umbrage at the unwelcome reminder.  

“Do you know, I did once contemplate the idea of marriage to my cousin,” Juliana said airily, casting one swift glance through her long lashes to see the effect this extraordinary proclamation achieved on her friend. Since Mary did not appear at all discomposed by this shocking disclosure, she breezed on with one graceful shrug of her shoulders. “I must have been something like twelve years of age, or perhaps thirteen, I forget. I regret to say I was a most impressionable girl back then, and Dominic was the most handsome boy I had ever had the misfortune to clap my eyes upon. I recall I pestered him for weeks for a kiss – we were cousins, after all, and surely Mamma and Aunt Léonie expected us to wed as soon as we both were of age. In the end, I think I irritated him enough that he decided to punish me by giving me exactly what I had been asking for all along – only he knew I should not like it, as I was much too young for such things, and I remember running away in tears to my Papa. I was never told the particulars – I have a notion my uncle Justin did give him quite the set-down, though Vidal never mentioned the incident again to me, or indeed to anyone else.” 

“I am happy to say I never had the occasion of soliciting Mr Comyn’s affections in any such manner,” Mary Alastair declared quite placidly, though there was a humorous glint in her steady grey eyes. “Though I have very little doubt we should have both enjoyed the attempt about as much as you did yours.” 

“I will have you know my dearest Frederick is admirably skilled in the art of bestowing his affections upon his lawfully wedded wife,” Juliana informed her with as haughty a toss of her head as would have made her mother proud, and they promptly dissolved into a bout of helpless giggles as they were each of them faced with the mental image of Mr Comyn’s acute embarrassment upon discovering himself the object of so improper a discussion.  

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It was not four days since their arrival at Avon Court that Mrs Comyn formed the resolve to provide her husband with some gentle encouragement towards resuming their nightly intimacies. For all that her ladyship had had the foresight of appointing them to adjoining bedchambers which were as far removed from the Marquis and his Marchioness’s own apartments as Juliana suspected to be possible, she was quite displeased to find her darling Frederick strangely loath to perform his husbandly duties in so grand surroundings as the Duke of Avon’s family seat.  

She had only just succeeded in the nigh on insurmountable feat of enticing him into one of the smaller salons which she believed to be quite empty when Vidal’s arrogant tones cut in to shatter the promise of a most pleasant interlude between husband and wife. “As delighted as I am to find my advice did not quite fall on deaf ears, Comyn, I should be grateful if you could restrain your ravishing of my cousin to some other part of the house.” 

Quite startled by the unexpected interruption, Juliana let out a most unladylike shriek, while Frederick’s complexion turned a rather impressing shade of crimson. “I beg your pardon, my lord, I had no idea – I have no excuse – I must beg leave to retire presently.” 

“Dominic, you horrid wretch,” his cousin accused him at once, having by then sufficiently recovered from the mortification of being caught almost in flagrante delicto. “As if you yourself did not happen to cherish quite the same intent – or perhaps had done so, and merely beat us to the actual perpetration of it.” 

“You will no doubt observe we are both entirely decent,” came Vidal’s careless reply, which was made somewhat less convincing by the fact that he could not be bothered to remove his head from its comfortable placement of his wife’s lap. “You might want to rearrange your tucker, Ju – my father’s servants are most discreet, as you may expect, but I shouldn’t like poor Comyn here to suffer an apoplectic fit while he is a guest under my own roof.” 

“Surely you mean his grace’s own roof, my lord,” Mary saw fit to correct him, as imperturbable as ever save for the rosy tinge in her cheeks. “And will you permit me to remind you it is scarcely gentlemanlike of you to make sport of your cousin-in-law’s momentary discomfiture thus?” 

“Dear Mary, pray hold your tongue,” Dominic retorted without the smallest hint of reproach to his tone. Her fingers were still employed in running through his dark locks – quite in the manner of someone stroking a wild creature into unwonted tameness, Juliana reflected in a sudden flash of amusement.  

“I’m sure I shall never understand how she can bear with such a fiend as you are,” she threw at him over her shoulder by way of a parting shot, and taking possession of her husband’s arm went about forcibly removing him from the premises.  

“I shall never be able to look either of them in the eye again,” Mr Comyn lamented with a somewhat dramatic shudder. “Juliana, dearest, we cannot remain here – I feel sure her ladyship would understand it if we were to depart sooner than we originally planned.” 

“What a piece of nonsense, Frederick,” she exclaimed in rather crushing accents. “You never exhibited any undue signs of agitation in consideration of your absurd elopement with Mary, nor of my cousin’s attempt at your own life – not to mention your ill-advised decision to challenge him to a duel, which is by far the stupidest thing I had ever to bear through on your account, let me tell you.” 

The look of compunction which instantly took possession of her husband’s features was quite enough to mollify her. “I see no other recourse but to apologise again for my own conduct, madame,” he humbly begged of her, clasping her hand between his own with more than his usual earnestness. “If there is any means by which I can atone for my past mistakes, you have but to name it.” 

Contrary to all expectations, Miss Juliana Marling did not leave Paris a married woman. Although her mamma had had no choice but to countenance the match, she had been quite firm in her determination that her only daughter should marry with all the pomp and ceremony as befitted Lady Fanny’s ancient lineage and her prominent position within the most fashionable circles of London society. 

Her betrothed had immediately sought to alleviate her disappointment by representing to her all the advantages of being seen to observe the proper formalities, thus preventing any hint of scandal to be attached to their name; furthermore, this would allow his family to be in attendance, something which befitted his dignity far better than a more expeditious union on French soil.  

Sir Malcolm Comyn journeyed to London a week before the appointed date expressly to make the acquaintance of his future daughter; Juliana was secretly flattered by the attention, and between herself and Aunt Léonie, they did manage to cajole Lady Fanny into the appropriate measure of civility.  

And so came the day when Miss Marling could at last fulfil her dearest wish to become Mrs Comyn. All her family was in attendance – save for Vidal and Mary, who were by then somewhere in the vicinity of Geneva – and although Uncle Rupert was seen indulging in drink more than perhaps was proper at a wedding breakfast, no major incident occurred to mar the bride and groom’s perfect happiness. 

Mr Comyn’s delicate sensibilities prevented him from offering to take his new bride into Italy, both out of consideration for his lordship’s feelings and from a somewhat less chivalrous desire to forget his ill-advised elopement with the former Miss Challoner. Juliana, for her part, had had quite enough of Paris and its delights, and declared herself amenable to spending their wedding trip in some remote corner of Gloucestershire so long as they could be quite alone and never being made to quarrel again. 

In the end, a compromise was reached, and the newlyweds were to depart for a tour of the West of England on the day immediately following the ceremony. Mr Comyn had not thought it appropriate for their wedding night to take place in so equivocal surroundings as a bedchamber bespoken at some inn along the way, something for which his Juliana was to later discover herself immensely grateful. 

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Mrs Comyn’s abigail had barely finished brushing her hair and arranging the cascade of lace upon her breast to her full satisfaction that a somewhat hesitant knock came from the connecting door to her husband’s bedchamber, and with one last appraising glance at her reflection in the mirror she dismissed the girl for the night.  

Her darling Frederick approached her with uncharacteristic hesitancy, his expression so solemn she could not refrain from comment. “I hope it is not the prospect of truly wedding your wife which has called that frown to your face, sir.” 

Mr Comyn halted at a respectable distance from his bride – a precaution entirely unnecessary now that they were finally man and wife – and regarded her with only the slightest hint of reproach. “Certainly not,” he spoke with slow conviction. “However, I will admit to some concerns in consideration of your maidenly sensibilities, and the delicacy required in the approach of a respectable young female such as yourself.” 

“Good gracious, Frederick, do you think me made of glass?” Juliana laughed, and extended her hands for him to take. “I must warn you I am not so poor a creature as to swoon at the merest suggestion of consummating our marriage.” 

Her groom cleared his throat rather pointedly. “I am informed the act comes with certain, er, disadvantages for a new bride.” 

“Yes, yes, Mamma told me all about it,” she shook her head somewhat impatiently. “Whatever my other faults may be, I hope I am not a coward.” 

“I have no desire to cause you pain,” Mr Comyn confessed at last, raising her hand to his lips. “I should not want this of all things to come between us.” 

“Are you even going to kiss me, sir, or do you intend to spend our wedding night advocating for celibacy as a remedy for female distress?” 

He did kiss her then – she had not been entirely sure he would, and she sighed happily in response – and it did not take her long to discover that for all his chivalrous resolutions, he was quite as eager for this night’s intimacies as she herself was.  

His hand upon her breast came both as a shock and a promise of greater delights; she hummed appreciatively and moved closer, until his kisses took on a rather more urgent quality, his fingers tracing a maddeningly slow path down her front. 

“You have done this before.” It was not so much an accusation as it was a plain, unadorned statement of fact. 

Mr Comyn fairly groaned – whether out of embarrassment or frustration, she was too inexperienced to tell. “Juliana, my love, this is not a subject to be discussed between husband and wife.” 

“I don’t see why not,” she observed with apparent composure, though she was desperate for more of his tender caresses. “In any case, sir, I believe you need not fear I should mistake for my cousin.” 

Frederick swallowed and averted his gaze. “Of course I – I was at Cambridge, as you must know,” he concluded somewhat haltingly, as if that was explanation enough – which she supposed it was, after a fashion. 

After a spell of exceedingly awkward silence Juliana decided to take pity on him, and taking his hand in hers encouraged him to resume his attentions. Mr Comyn, however, appeared to cherish rather different plans as to the course of tonight’s events, and in an unprecedented show of ruthless manhood swept her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. 

“Oh, my dearest, dearest Frederick,” she fairly swooned, and it did not even occur to her to remonstrate for the rather rough and ready fashion in which he disposed of her nightgown. Her eyelids fluttered shut as he renewed his previous attentions, and it was not long before she was seized by a rush of pleasure so strong it left her quite breathless.  

It was some minutes before she was mistress enough of herself to open her eyes and smile up at him quite sweetly. Frederick kissed her then as if he could no longer restrain himself, and it occurred to her that it was hardly fair that she should defer his own share of this night’s pleasures much longer.  

“I see your studies at Cambridge have made you quite proficient in these arts, sir,” she teased him, and it was quite enough to obtain the desired effect. 

The double wedding at the Embassy had gone off without a hitch; although Vidal had never been particularly enamoured with the prospect of sharing the ceremony with his cousin, he discovered it was worth it for the pleasure of seeing his aunt striving to put on a brave face while she watched her disappointed hopes come to nothing before her very eyes.  

Juliana, for her part, looked radiantly happy, and the bridegroom at her side appeared more besotted than the Marquis would have believed possible of a gentleman of Mr Comyn’s staid disposition. Vidal had determined earlier on he would not make a spectacle of himself by following his bride around like a love-struck fool, but he was finding he could scarcely keep to his resolution when the lady who once was Miss Challoner walked about on his arm as quiet and dignified as if she had been born a duchess.  

“You are absolutely enchanting, my lady,” he bent down to whisper insinuatingly in her ear. “I cannot wait to have you all to myself.” 

A delicate tinge of colour touched Mary’s cheeks, and her fingers tightened a little on his arm. “Patience is a virtue, my lord,” she murmured with what an untrained observer would have easily mistaken for perfect composure. “Though one I am aware your lordship could scarcely be accused of.”  

“You little wretch.” His smile took on a distinct quality of fond amusement. “I will have you know you only have my admirable restraint to be grateful for if I do not at this very moment whisk you away to that little room over there and ravish you to my own satisfaction within earshot of all our guests.” 

He was pleased to perceive her breath coming a little faster now, though her expression never changed. “It is all very well of you to say so, my lord, but he both know you would not dare to attempt it with your father present.” 

“I wouldn’t bet on it if I were you, my sweet,” Vidal replied silkily, raising her hand to his lips. “But I have sworn it on my honour I would do nothing that could endanger your reputation, and for all my faults, I am still a man of my word.” 

“How very edifying,” his wife retorted, very much in the manner of his father. 

“It is quite clear to me you have been spending too much time with his grace,” he said reproachfully, and was not entirely surprised when Mary bowed her head, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.  

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“Oh, but it is a very sad day, this one,” Bertrand de Saint-Vire complained in overly tragic accents, even as he bowed over the hand of the lady who once was Miss Marling. “We say farewell not only to Mademoiselle Challoner, whom I have known from the first to be a young lady tres comme il faut, but to the divine Juliana also – it is enough to drive a man to despair.” 

“I am certain you will survive the disappointment, sir,” Juliana laughed, dropping him a curtsy. “But I would advise you not to bring our cousin into this jest, for I have a notion we would feel compelled to call you out.” 

The Vicomte gave an exaggerated shudder. “Ah, but Dominique is quite abominably rude, I find. He would not permit me to solicit his wife’s hand even for the space of one dance, and instead he threatened me with extreme violence if I were to do so much as to speak to her.” 

Mr Comyn’s brows rose in polite surprise. “Surely the lady would not countenance such unreasonable demands from her husband.” 

“I know not, only that I have no desire to make a scene in Monsieur le Duc’s own home,” Bertrand demurred with as much dignity as he was capable of, and there was nothing for it but for Juliana to dissolve into peals of laughter.  

“Uncle Justin would have your head for it, I swear it,” she declared at length, and promptly led her doting husband away from the Vicomte’s clutches.  

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At the far end of the room, General Challoner was catechizing his grace on the matter of Vidal’s ostensible reformation. “I do not trust the cub, Alastair – he is too much your son, after all.” 

A gleam of amusement touched the Duke’s inscrutable mien. “I am prepared to concede the allegation, my dear Sir Giles. However, I should have thought this reflection might be cause for comfort rather than anxiety.” 

For the space of a moment, the General regarded him with distinct hostility. “You will no doubt forgive me for saying so, but I do not at all care for my granddaughter to be made to bear through the boy’s scandalous affairs for the next twenty years or so.” 

His grace’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. “Oh, but you forget, my friend – it was marriage, not age, that which inspired me to reform my wicked ways. Moreover, having had the pleasure of your grandchild’s acquaintance these past few weeks, I have every confidence in her powers of management when it comes to my son’s lamentable temper.” 

Sir Giles took snuff, his frown clearing a little as he perceived the newly minted Marchioness of Vidal weaving through the crowd with as confident an air as would have made her Challoner ancestors proud. “Mary’s father was a fool, and spineless into the bargain. But I should have seen how her choice to live with her mother and sister redounded very much to her credit – she is a good child, eminently sensible, and infinitely more capable than most girls her age.” 

“She will have Vidal eating out of her hand in no time at all, and he shall thank her for it, too.” The General was not a man easily surprised, but Avon’s gentle laughter very nearly managed the feat. “I trust you have considered what is to be done to prevent your other grandchild from spoiling our plans in a fit of pique.” 

The snuffbox was shut with a sharp click. “I shall have to procure a private tutor for Sophia, and perhaps a family companion. Once she is cured from the worst of her ignorance and her frivolous manners, I will see to it that she is married respectably to some gentleman of suitable estate and disposition.” 

“I compliment your admirable prudence, my dear,” said his grace of Avon, and bowed.  

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Madame de Charbonne had been bending her cousin’s ear about Frederick Comyn’s manifold virtues for quite some time, and that estimable lady was beginning to feel quite near end of her forbearance.  

“A young gentleman so amiable, and always so correct in manners,” Elizabeth droned on, quite unaware of her cousin’s dilemma. “I felicitate you, my dear Fanny.” 

“Indeed,” Lady Fanny replied with awful politeness. She might have come to accept that Vidal would make a devil of a husband – by his own admission, too, though she could not say she had ever seen her nephew so close to being tamed as he was now on his bride’s arm – but it did not follow that she could not have arranged a brilliant match for Juliana, had it not been for Avon’s fanciful notions of approving Mr Comyn’s pretentions. She was sure Justin had elected to countenance the alliance merely to be disagreeable, and would have so dearly wished to give him a piece of her mind, had she not stood so much in awe of her brother.  

“Faith, I swear the young man is as dull as poor Marling,” Lord Rupert interposed jovially, throwing down the last of his champagne. “Upon my soul, he should be devilish glad to see his daughter married to a gentleman so much after his own heart.” 

That was enough to give Lady Fanny some pause, and she surreptitiously dabbed at her eyes. “Do you really think so, Rupert? My dear, dear Edward – he was always so very good to me, it breaks my heart that he is not here to see Juliana married.” 

“If the chit is anything like you were at her age, Fan, young Comyn will soon discover he has his work cut out to keep her in check,” Lord Rupert laughed quite ungentlemanly, and sauntered away in search of refreshment.  

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That evening Mr Timms retired to the servants’ quarters with as much of an air of offended dignity as Mr Fletcher had ever seen on him. 

“His lordship does not wish to be disturbed until it pleases him to request our services,” Mr Timms announced in dissatisfied tones, and poured himself a cup of coffee. 

“That was to have been expected,” Mr Fletcher ventured to observe, though he had a very good notion as to the precise cause of Mr Timms’ displeasure.  

“I do not think it unreasonable of a gentleman’s gentleman to have the ordering of his master’s disrobing,” Mr Timms said curtly. 

Mr Fletcher regarded him quite impassively. “I have every faith in her ladyship’s capabilities,” he rejoined without betraying any undue signs of amusement when Mr Timms nearly choked on his coffee. 

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No sooner had Gaston retired from his master’s bedchamber that the Duchess of Avon slipped in through the connecting door, an enchanting vision in foaming lace and white silk.  

“There you are, my love,” his grace welcomed her with the soft, unguarded smile he kept for her only. “I trust everything about this day was to your satisfaction?” 

“Mais bien sûr,” she twinkled, and went at once to sit at his feet. “Voyons, I am so very happy.” 

“I am glad of it,” stated the Duke, his fingers reaching to stroke her copper curls out of long habit. Her grace gave a contented sigh and turned her head, pressing her lips to her husband’s palm very much in the manner of Léon the page.  

“I was afraid Dominique would never become quite respectable,” she told him confidingly. “But I see now that la petite has everything well in hand, and he would no more dare to give her cause of distress than you did me, Justin.” 

“You flatter me, child,” he said gravely, and was met with the same irrepressible dimple which had been his constant companion these past twenty-four years.  

“But no, Monseigneur – it is the truth, and you know it,” his wife sought to contradict him, peeping up at him through her long lashes. “Though I think perhaps Dominique is more like me, and Mary is his – seigneur.” 

“What a distressing thought, ma mie,” his grace observed in mildly amused tones.  

“I do not see why,” said Léonie, and without much preamble climbed onto the bed at his side.  

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“You are not to leave this chamber until I am quite done with you, my lady,” the Marquis of Vidal remonstrated with his bride who had only just made known her intention of summoning her abigail to dress her. “I forbid it.” 

“You cannot stop me, my lord,” Mary informed him archly, though she could not resist the temptation of kissing his pouting lips. 

“The devil I cannot,” Vidal shot back immediately, seizing her by the waist. “As one impertinent female once pointed out to me, I have only to remove your clothes.” 

“If you are minded to induce your wife to make a spectacle of herself before your father’s servants, sir, you need only say so.” 

He could not but laugh heartily. “You would never dare, my girl, and we both know it.” 

“I could always shoot you again,” Mary observed somewhat thoughtfully, and although she deemed conceding to the exigencies of force majeure as quite beneath herself, she submitted to the Marquis’s renewed efforts to ravish her with admirable forbearance. 

“Dearest Mary, you perceive now the wisdom of abiding by your husband’s commands,” he addressed her after a lengthy pause, during which they were both employed in catching their breath while exchanging soft, languorous kisses.  

“I apprehend no such thing.” She would not give him the satisfaction, not even after all that had just transpired between them. A slow, amused smile curled his lips, and with theatrical impatience made a show of pushing her back against the pillows.  

“You ungrateful wretch,” he scolded her, though she could hear the laughter in his voice. “I should have let you marry Comyn, if only to see how well you liked it.” 

“I find no reason why you should bring Mr Comyn into this, Dominic,” she said calmly, and pressing a quick kiss to his palm went on to remove his hand from her person. “Nevertheless, I shall endeavour to assuage your qualms by assuring you I am perfectly content with my choice of a husband.” 

“Yet you appear intent on quitting my presence.” 

Mary shook her head and rose. “Your mother is no doubt expecting us to join her for luncheon, since we were both so inconsiderate as to desert the breakfast table.” 

“I admire your discretion in refraining from ascribing any undue desire to see me to my father,” he laughed once more, and finally consented to getting out of bed. “We shall now see if we did succeed in offending Mr Timms’ sensibilities so thoroughly as to induce him to resign from my service.” 

Having spent the morning in selecting a suitable gift for his bride-to-be, the Marquis of Vidal now found himself in need of an occupation to stave off the boredom. He had been ushered out of the Hôtel Avon immediately after breakfast by his mother, and had been enjoined not to show his face again until the fitting of Miss Challoner’s bride clothes was completed to her grace’s satisfaction.  

He briefly considered finding his uncle Rupert, then just as quickly discarded the notion. His lordship’s company was scarcely conducive to the sobriety of conduct he was striving to achieve in anticipation of his marriage, and if he knew anything about his uncle, he would find that gentleman still abed after losing a small fortune at the latest gaming-hell. 

An idea suddenly occurred to him, and he readily betook himself to the Hôtel de Charbonne where he knew he would find his aunt and cousin. If he remembered correctly, Mr Comyn was engaged to dine there this day, and he knew well enough Tante Elizabeth would make no demur at welcoming her favourite cousin to share her table.  

Upon being admitted into the house he was treated with a most unladylike shriek by Miss Marling, who immediately took possession of both of his hands and begged him to talk her dear mamma out of one of her fits of the vapours. From Juliana’s somewhat incoherent discourse, Vidal could only surmise that the worthy lady had finally managed to extract the better part of her truth from her unsuspecting cousin, and that the only circumstance preventing her from withdrawing her consent to the marriage was his grace’s presence in Paris.  

“Never fret, Ju,” he shrugged somewhat impatiently. “My father would never countenance any such thing, as I feel sure Aunt Fanny knows well enough. Now, Comyn, I want a word with you – in private, if you please.” 

His cousin eyed him with distinct suspicion, though he elected to pay it no heed. From his place by the window Mr Comyn bowed very properly and declared himself at his lordship’s disposal, narrowly avoiding being forcibly escorted out of the room by an exasperated Marquis who would have liked nothing better at this moment than to kick his prospective relative out of his exasperating fastidiousness in manners and address.  

“What is it that you wish to say to me, my lord?” Comyn ventured to enquire once they were safely ensconced in one of the smaller parlours at the back of the house with a bottle of excellent port courtesy of Tante’s ever generous hospitality. Although Vidal was endeavouring to curtail his drinking habits these days, this was not the sort of conversation he cared to have completely sober; he poured out two glasses, and handed one to Mr Comyn. 

“It has come to my attention that a gentleman so mindful of the proprieties such as you are might find himself in need of – shall we say, advice? – on the management of the more delicate aspects of marriage. I am prepared to offer my not inconsiderable wisdom on the matter – for my cousin’s sake, you understand, since I do happen to have a fondness for the chit.” 

“My lord,” Mr Comyn gasped, jumping to his feet almost at once. “This is not at all the sort of discourse a gentleman of breeding ought to engage in.” 

“Fiddle,” the Marquis said crushingly. “I could give you the names of several high-born gentlemen who would ask for nothing better than to enlarge on this subject for days on end. It is quite a long list, believe me.” 

“Nevertheless,” Mr Comyn replied with more than his usual primness. “I have no wish to disrespect my future wife thus, and I must humbly beg to take my leave.” 

Vidal tossed down his wine and pushed the glass to one side. “Upon my word, Comyn, you are way too easily shocked for a gentleman who wishes to ally himself into my family. Sit down – you won’t regret it, I promise.” 

Mr Comyn looked more affronted than ever before, his colour heightened to quite an alarming degree. “My lord, I will have you know I am not so untrained in the art of – of pleasing a female as you seem intent on believing me.” 

The Marquis of Vidal regarded his soon-to-be cousin with something like amused sympathy. “My dear fellow, my lamentable reputation must undoubtedly be well known to you by now. What I propose is that we should compare notes – and if you do indeed find that you do not require my advice, then I shall make you my compliments.” 

By the time they emerged from their private conference, the ladies had already taken their place at the dinner table. Lady Fanny’s eyebrows rose considerably as her prospective son-in-law made his way to his seat, his face tinged with crimson and looking more discomposed than she had no doubt ever seen him before.  

Vidal met his aunt’s doubtful gaze with perfect tranquillity, only to be elbowed in the ribs by his ungrateful cousin who happened to be seated at his right. “Dominic, you abominable creature,” she addressed him in an urgent whisper. “What in the world have you done to my Frederick?” 

“What do you take me for, Ju? I have done nothing to your precious Frederick, except give him my wedding present for you.” 

Miss Marling’s eyes sparkled with sudden delight, her lively concern for her betrothed’s wellbeing momentarily forgotten. “You have a present for me? Dearest, dearest Dominic – oh, but what is it? You must tell me at once!” 

“Patience, Ju,” his lordship admonished her with a swift smile. “You will find out soon enough. All I can say is that I have every reason to believe it shall prove to be very much to your liking.” 

He met Mr Comyn’s eyes across the table, and was not a little amused when the gentleman in question discovered himself unable to support his gaze. Conscious of his duties as a guest under his cousin’s roof, he turned to end of the table where Tante Elizabeth was sitting and engaged that admirable lady in pleasant converse until the sweetmeats were brought out. 

.

Almost at the same time this scene was taking place, the Duchess of Avon had only just dismissed the small army of dressmakers and milliners employed in putting the finishing touches to Miss Challoner’s bridal gown and bonnet. Mary, for her part, was beginning to consider the merits of her betrothed’s first impetuous resolve to have Mr Hammond marry them at once while they were still in Dijon, and could not refrain from voicing some doubts as to the grandness of her apparel when she herself was nothing beyond the common in both estate and figure.  

“Oh, but you shall be ravissante, petite,” her grace immediately sought to reassure her, clasping one of her hands between her own. “It will make Dominique very happy, I think, and it is quite convenable for you to dress à la mode since you are to be an Alastair.” 

Miss Challoner regarded the Duchess’s youthful figure with the same kind of rueful admiration with which she was wont to look upon Sophy’s loveliness. “I make no doubt your grace was excessively charming as a bride,” she said with a smile, and reached for the strings of her bonnet.  

The roguish dimple she had often observed over the past few days made an appearance. “Sans doute you are picturing me as a smartly dressed lady in a very grand setting, n’est-ce pas? Oh, but you are quite mistaken, ma fille – when Monseigneur came to find me in Anjou, I had nothing but the clothes I was standing in, and still he did wed me with only the Curé present and two of the villagers acting as witnesses. Then he took me to the inn and – tiens, I had quite forgotten!” At this point, her grace’s eyes began to twinkle in the liveliest of manners. “Ma chère, I shall have to apprise you immediately of all there is to being a married lady, for I do not at all credit that mother of yours has been sensible enough to tell you.” 

Miss Challoner, who had been listening to the Duchess’s account of her marriage with great interest, visibly recoiled at the last part of her speech. “That will not be at all necessary, your grace, I can assure you. I have every reason to believe your son knows quite well what he is about, and I do trust him to take charge of the proceedings.” 

Her grace flung out her hands in one of her eloquent gestures. “Ah, bah – it is not at all convenable that a lady should know nothing about these things, I find. Me, I knew some of it, and Monseigneur taught me the rest – but Dominique is still quite young, and you, you are way too respectable to know much of anything, I suspect.” 

Mary’s countenance was quite flushed by this time, and she felt compelled to remonstrate in somewhat strangled accents. “But madame, I could not possibly – not when it is your own son we are speaking of.” 

The Duchess regarded her in not inconsiderable surprise. “Oh, but that is nothing. I do not at all mind, and I much desire that my son’s wife should enjoy a happy marriage. Now we shall sit here, and I will tell you all that I know about it; then later we will go down and have some luncheon, for it is never wise to have much to think of on an empty stomach.” 

Feeling quite overpowered, Miss Challoner could see no other recourse but to submit. By the time her grace was finished with her lecture, Mary’s cheeks were fairly burning with shame and some other emotion she dared not put a name to; it was a small mercy, she thought, that his grace was dining out, leaving no one beside the Duchess to bear witness to her perturbation – unusual in someone so ordinarily calm and composed. 

She did not touch the sweetmeats, and was just about to beg her grace to order the coach so that she might be allowed to repair to her grandfather’s residence at once when the Marquis of Vidal made his entrance in quite the leisurely fashion. Miss Challoner turned an impressive shade of red and reached for her glass, only narrowly escaping choking on its contents as she studiously avoided meeting his lordship’s eye. 

“What the devil ails you now, my sweet?” Dominic demanded to know – rather peremptorily, it must be said – and was immediately rebuffed by his mother. “Dominique, that is not at all the way to address the lady who is to be your wife,” she scolded him, and despite her very real discomfiture Miss Challoner could not but laugh a little.  

“My deepest apologies, Maman, Mary,” he bowed to each lady in turn, and turned to survey Miss Challoner’s subdued countenance more closely. “I was hoping for a few minutes’ private conference with my betrothed, but perhaps now is not so a good time after all.” 

Miss Challoner discovered her hand going out to him across the table almost of its own accord. “I see no difficulty in acceding to your request, my lord – should her grace be so good as to accord us her permission, that is to say.” 

“But of course, mes enfants,” the Duchess nodded with a little knowing smile of her own. “Only you must promise you shall be on your best behaviour, Dominique.” 

“That I can safely promise you, ma mère,” her son replied gravely, though the twinkle in his eye suggested quite otherwise. “My love,” he proffered his arm, which Mary promptly took, and the pair of them repaired to the withdrawing room at the other end of the corridor.  

“Let me have it, if you please,” his lordship commanded with a glint of humour, not unmarred by the veriest hint of apprehension. “Have you finally come to your senses, Miss Challoner, and decided you shall not have me after all?” 

“Rather the opposite, my lord,” Mary stated in as demure a fashion as she felt herself able to achieve, though she knew to be blushing quite spectacularly. 

“Indeed,” the Marquis remarked after a few moments’ shocked silence. His lips curled in one of his slow, pleased smiles, and Miss Challoner experienced the overwhelming need for a fan in a desperate bid to rid herself of the feverish heat in her cheeks. Much to her surprise, he made no move to reach for her, but his eyes lingered on her lips in a manner she found most disconcerting – though not unpleasantly so, she would readily admit.  

“I am quite relieved to hear you say so, my dear,” he went on, reaching into the pocket of his greatcoat. “For I have on me at this very moment what I had hoped you might be persuaded to regard in the light of a wedding present.” 

He presented her with a flat wooden case elegantly finished, which she readily accepted. Inside, she found a mother-of-pearl mounted pistol, small enough for her to hold quite comfortably, and a sudden startled laugh bubbled out of her unbidden.  

“How very thoughtful of you, my love,” she said appreciatively, and there was much tenderness in her voice. “Though I am reliably informed I am not a good enough shot.” 

“I shall teach you,” Dominic promised – rather recklessly, she thought, and smiled up at him.  

Mr Comyn spared a quick glance at the clock on the mantlepiece, and wondered how much longer it would take for his grace of Avon to come. “If you could be induced to play a hand of piquet with me, my lord, I assure you the wait would prove to be more bearable. I may not be the most stimulating of adversaries, but my skill with the cards is believed to be quite tolerable, or so I am told.” 

“Good god, Comyn, do you suppose I care a fig about cards in a moment like this?” my Lord Vidal threw over his shoulder, and went back to pacing the length of the room like he had been doing for the past half hour.  

Mr Comyn poured himself another glass of claret, all the time desperately wracking his brain as to what could possibly be done to divert his lordship’s attention from the extenuating slowness of the proceedings. He was about to go against his wife’s express orders and call for more wine when a muffled wail came from the next room, disastrously audible in the silence that had once more fallen between the two gentlemen.  

“That’s it,” Vidal uttered through clenched teeth. “I’m going in.” 

“My lord, if you please,” Mr Comyn protested, quite heroically stepping in to bar the way. Having recently had the dubious pleasure of not only crossing swords with the Marquis, but of coming alarmingly close to having the life choked out of him at his lordship’s hands also, he could not doubt he stood very little chance against his exceedingly short-tempered cousin-in-law; still, he had made a promise to his dear Juliana, and even the threat of extreme physical violence could not induce him to back out without a fight. 

“Stand aside, Comyn,” my Lord Vidal commanded in a voice as imperious as it was dangerous. “You don’t want Juliana to be made a widow so soon, believe me.” 

“It does not befit a gentleman,” Mr Comyn began with as much dignity as he could muster, only to be thrown aside quite unceremoniously as his lordship sought to force his way into the one room in the whole house he was at present barred from.  

“Dominique!” his mother scolded him at once, taking him by the arm as if she supposed she could thus stop his progress. “I have told you many, many times – this is no place for you, and it is very bad of you to distress la petite at such a time. Go back outside, mon fils – I shall take care of everything, I promise you.” 

“Maman, I will not be sent away from Mary’s side, not even by you,” the Marquis glared down at her, and did not hesitate to push past her to reach his intended goal. Upon hearing her husband’s impatient tones, Mary raised her head from where she had been resting it upon Juliana’s breast, and addressed a rather tremulous smile at him. 

“Vidal, you’re a brute,” Juliana informed her cousin, and made a move to cover up her unfortunate cousin-in-law.  

“Go to the devil, Ju,” he brushed her aside without the slightest consideration for her feelings, and clasped his wife’s hand between his own. “Oh, my precious girl, what have I done to you?” 

“It is all quite well, my love,” Mary told him with a moderately more convincing attempt at a smile; and since his lordship’s countenance had turned several shades paler in the brief space since he had entered the room, she patted his hand rather encouragingly and added: “Your mother has everything well in hand, I believe. I shall see you when it is done – you need only exert a little more patience, that is all.” 

Looking a trifle discomposed and more than a little shamefaced, Vidal at last relented and allowed himself to be shown out. Juliana deposited him once more with her husband; Mr Comyn was informed he had his wife’s permission to shoot her beast of a cousin if he so much as dared come in the vicinity of the door again, and was left to stare warily at his lordship’s haggard mien.  

“Brandy, my lord?” he ventured to ask, and was rewarded with as grateful a look as he had ever received from his lordship. 

“You’re a good man, Comyn.” The Marquis downed the contents of his glass at once, then paused, a heavy frown creasing his brow. “I trust I need not request you to forget what a poor showing I made of it just now.” 

Mr Comyn permitted the hint of an amused smile to show on his face. “My lips are sealed, my lord. And since I fully expect to find myself in your lordship’s exceedingly trying situation sooner rather than later, it would be quite unwise of me to hazard any comment on it.” 

Vidal’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Juliana hasn’t breathed a word of it to me. By gad, I wonder how she has the stomach to stand in there – but I must congratulate you, I believe.” 

“I thank you, my lord. My wife and I were both in agreement to delay a formal announcement until my Lady Vidal is safely delivered of her child.” 

“Mighty good of you,” the Marquis bowed, and reached for the brandy. “Does Aunt Fanny know?” 

“In point of fact, she does,” Mr Comyn’s smile grew rather wry. “It turns out the prospect of a grandchild is nearly enough to make her ladyship reconsider her disappointment in finding herself saddled with a nobody for a son-in-law.” 

My Lord Vidal dismissed the thought of his aunt with an elegant shrug of his shoulders. “She’ll come round soon enough – she always does.” 

“One might allow a mother the very natural dissatisfaction of seeing her most cherished hopes for an alliance with someone infinitely better situated in life turn to nothing.” 

“Devil a bit,” laughed the Marquis, though rather flatly, Mr Comyn noticed. “I was never going to marry my cousin, as I believe I had the pleasure of informing my aunt several times over.” 

“A circumstance for which I find myself extremely obliged to your lordship,” Mr Comyn bowed politely, and raised his glass to drink to his new cousin’s health.  

The Marquis of Vidal stared into the fire for a long moment before he spoke again, this time in a startingly subdued tone. “Did you know that my mother very nearly died when she was brought to bed with me? I believe my father still hasn’t forgotten me the offence.” 

“Always with this lamentable passion for the dramatics, my son,” a soft, drawling voice came from the doorway, and his grace of Avon made his entrance at last. Mr Comyn drew a breath of relief, and even Vidal brightened up at once despite his lingering irritation at being thus addressed outside the circle of his immediate family.  

“I trust you had a pleasant journey, sir,” the Marquis bowed quite formally, but there was very real welcome in his voice – as if he could not quite shake the entirely irrational conviction that with his father present not even the devil himself would dare to do so much as touch a hair on his dearest Mary’s head.  

“Quite tolerable,” his grace nodded in his usual bored manner, accepting Mr Comyn’s offer of claret. Vidal went back to pacing, only to desist as soon as his father raised a mildly disapproving eyebrow; he let himself fall into a chair and did not stir again until her grace burst into the room a couple of hours later, her eyes twinkling with the brightest of smiles as she for once forewent a greeting to her husband in favour of throwing herself into Dominic’s waiting arms. 

“You have a son, mon petit,” she announced quite proudly, and kissed him. “Mary is very well, also.” 

His grace of Avon rose calmly from his seat, and in an uncommon display of fatherly affection permitted himself to rest his hand on the Marquis’s shoulder. “I beg you will accept my congratulations, Vidal. I shall of course present my respects to Mary as soon as she is able to receive me.” 

If Mr Comyn ever noticed the hint of tears in his lordship’s eyes, he was gentleman enough to pretend not to. Feeling rather de troup all at once, he discreetly betook himself to the adjoining salon, where Juliana came to find him not ten minutes later. 

“Oh, Frederick,” she flung herself at him, and he caught her willingly. “Mary is the bravest creature I have ever met, I swear it. And the child is the very spit of my cousin – why, I believe he even has Vidal’s black frown, though he ceased crying as soon as he was put into his mother’s arms.” 

Always the conscientious gentleman, Mr Comyn had determined to approach his new bride with the utmost care and consideration on their wedding night. Unfortunately, the unnerving wait for his upcoming nuptials proved to be too much for his composure; by the time he and the lady who was Miss Marling were safely wed and within the privacy afforded by their bedchamber, he was in a fair way to being completely overcome by his passions, all good intentions swiftly forgotten in his rapture over his fair Juliana’s manifold perfections.  

Some time later, having regained a modicum of sense, he apologised profusely, humbly begging his wife’s pardon for treating her in so beastly a manner; Juliana regarded him incredulously for all of two minutes, then interrupted the flow of penitent words to desire her husband to resume his attentions at once. Mr Comyn turned a prodigious shade of red, and was forced to inform his bride that it was quite impossible for a gentleman to engage in marital congress so soon after finding his release; however, being a young man of considerable resources and nowhere near as staid as the world had been led to suppose, he applied himself diligently to the task, and was understandably pleased with the result of his efforts.  

Mrs Comyn, who had not been at all ashamed to express her delight in as vocal a manner as was possible for a female of her delicate sensibilities, promptly declared herself the happiest of women, and once more congratulated herself in securing her dearest Frederick as a husband. It mattered very little that her mamma was still in a rage over what she persisted in regarding as a dreadful mésalliance; the marriage had Uncle Justin’s full support, and Lady Fanny was too much in awe of her brother to ever dare to voice her disappointment beyond the occasional line of complaint in the letters she addressed to her daughter.  

Back in England, Juliana barely waited a fortnight before descending upon her cousin’s residence; Vidal made a show of rolling his eyes and promptly took himself out, giving the two ladies full leave to compare the merits of their respective husbands. Mary, for her part, mostly lent a sympathetic ear to Juliana’s raptures; Mr Comyn, she had long since determined, would do very well for a young lady of Juliana’s disposition, just as she felt sure they would have bored each other within the week, had they been successful in carrying out the purpose of their foolish elopement to Dijon.  

Juliana’s only regret, it seemed, was that she was not yet blessed despite having been married for nearly as long as Mary – though she allowed it did not signify in the least, as it was still very early in their marriage, and she could not even begin to imagine how she was supposed to bear the separation from her darling Frederick once she found herself carrying his child.  

Mary, who would not dream of being parted from Dominic for anything in the world, looked down demurely and sought to hide a reminiscent smile behind her cup of chocolate. Only this morning, poor Mr Timms had thought it incumbent upon himself to remonstrate with his master; for, although he must compliment her ladyship’s efforts in learning how to properly tie a cravat, he still had his reputation as a gentleman’s gentleman to think of, and he would much rather be called upon to perform his services as many times as was required than to let his master go about his day less than impeccably attired. My lord Vidal had stared down at his personal valet with as black a frown as would have made any lesser man quake in his boots; Mr Timms, however, had held his ground quite admirably, and had therefore been commanded to attend to his master within the hour. Mary had laughed and called her husband a fiend and a brute as he whisked her away to their chambers for the second time that morning, and set about discarding their respective garments in as careless a manner as could be contrived. It was perhaps fortunate, Mary reflected, that Dominic’s familiarity with a lady’s attire spared her the necessity to have the same conversation with her own abigail, for she feared that the damsel would die of mortification if she ever found out just how much her mistress enjoyed having her husband play lady’s maid in her stead.  

A fairly unladylike shriek broke into this pleasant reverie, and forced her attention back to the present. “Mary, you impossible creature,” Juliana ejaculated in laughing incredulity. “Oh, but what of the baby? Will it not be harmed?” 

Mary met her friend’s gaze with her quiet composure. “I have it on good authority that it is perfectly safe for a woman in my condition to share her husband’s bed until much closer to her confinement. You need not concern yourself overmuch on that count, my dear cousin.” 

She was conscious of Juliana eyeing her growing midsection with equal parts perplexity and fascination, and was saved from a barrage of questions by a footman scratching at the door to announce her grace of Avon.  

“Ah, ma fille, I find you very well, I perceive,” the Duchess greeted her with her usual buoyancy, and kissed her on both cheeks. “And Juliana, too – ma pauvre, I come from your dear mamma’s house, she is not at all pleased with you, I find.”