An Exceptional Match- A regency inspired romance

“Confound it Georgianna. It’s not as if we are sending you to the devil. It’s your wedding day. It will cost you nothing to smile.” Lord Winton smoothed his silken waistcoat and flicked an unseen speck of dust from his immaculate sleeve as they waited in the drawing room for their barouche to be brought around.

“Papa, I have nothing to smile about.” Indeed, The Honorable Georgianna Winton could barely summon a twitch of the lips, her face as pale and immobile as an Elgin marble. Not that she had seen one, her Mama having deemed them too scandalous and improper for her impressionable young offspring.

“Oh, you surly, ungrateful baggage,” Lady Winton admonished in tones of severe and resounding disapproval. “Your Papa has contracted an exceptional match for you, and all you have done is moan and complain. I despair of you, my girl.”

“But Mama, I have yet to set eyes upon the Duke. I don’t know him.”

“Pish-tosh, my dear! He’s a Duke. What more could you possibly need to know?”

“While I suppose looks are not so incredibly important, I should like to know that my betrothed is not too hideous. I would also think it imperative that I am able to recognise him when I walk into the church.” Although Georgianna strove to maintain her composure, as a lady of good breeding should, her voice quivered.

“I cannot abide these histrionics.” Her mother despised any untoward demonstrations of excessive emotion and Georgianna pressed her lips together to prevent further outbursts. “The Duke will be the gentleman standing at the end of the aisle. As for looks, that hardly matters when you become his Duchess.”

“What if we have no interest in common? How shall we get along?”

“You do not need interests in common. Your father and I have no shared interests, and we do very well.” Lady Wintonsaid in the severest of tones, and her husband grunted, a sound that was inscrutable to his daughter. It may have been agreement, or an accidental clearing of the throat. “You only need to do your duty, and once you are with child, you needn’t be bothered by your husband for at least a year.”

“Georgianna, you should be grateful. I have secured you a very prosperous future.” Her father gave her the look, the one that usually put period to a conversation, but not this time.

“With a Scottish Duke, Papa?” Georgianna wailed. “How do I know he is not a barbarian?”

“Georgianna, these histrionics are becoming quite tiresome.” Lady Winton smoothed her gloves over her long, elegant fingers and titled her chin so that the maid could secure the ribbons of her bonnet coquettishly beneath her ear. “You are being ridiculous. I have heard that Scotland is quite civilised.”

Civilised or not, it seemed that Scottish titles could buy English heiresses to reinvigorate their crumbling coffers. Georgianna felt like a pawn in a game, or perhaps a more apt metaphor, a broodmare for a bloodline. She stared out of the barouche, grateful that the weather was mildly inclement, so the hood had been raised, shadowing her from curious onlookers. It suited her mood to huddle in the dark corner on this, her wedding day.

St Alban’s, the church that nestled snugly at the end of priory lane, was an inauspicious place for a Duke to be wed, but Georgianna was grateful she had not been required to go through the ordeal of traveling to London to be married with all pomp and ceremony at St George’s in Hannover Square. There would be just a small gathering of intimate family and friends to witness her sacrifice at the altar of societal and familial expectations. As the carriage drew to a halt, her stomach plummeted, and she was grateful that she had refused to eat at all this morning. Casting up her accounts, as her brother was want to call the malaise, would severely displease her father at this moment. His brow was like a thundercloud already as he examined her face.

“Now, I want no missishness from you, my girl. I forbid you to embarrass me and your family in front of the Duke.” Her Papa knew her well enough to know that, if given enough leeway, she would run counter to expectations.

“What if..?” She couldn’t finish the thought, there were too many ‘what if’s’ to focus upon just one, and her father’s darkening frown forbade her from continuing.

“You will do as you are told, and your life will be spectacular as a duchess.” It was hardly reassuring, but she held her misgivings close to her chest and with a bracing breath, she accepted the footman’s hand as he helped her to alight from the carriage. She could hear the gaggle of onlookers drawn to the church to gawk at the bride. She was ever so grateful for the deep brim of her bonnet that fixed her gaze forward, ignoring the curious stares and exclamations directed at her person. Everyone loved a wedding. Everyone except the bride herself.

Lady Winton had spared no expense to impress the Duke, filling the small church with a profusion of flowers. As Georgianna stepped through the west door, the air was thick with the cloying scent of roses in full, pungent bloom. Her head began to swim, and she found herself unable to attend to anything except the process of placing one foot in front of the other and drawing ample breath. Mr Bentley, who exhibited more passion that talent, valiantly pumped the small pipe organ, but Georgianna ignored the wheezing sound, as she fixated upon her own breathing.

When had her stays been tightened? she thought, as she endeavoured to fill her lungs. She did not recall Mary lacing them overmuch this morning. Each breath was a struggle, as her steady pace brought her closer and closer to her fate. She had not even looked at the Duke, standing still and ominous, waiting for her to arrive at the altar.

As her father placed her gloved hand in the Duke’s own gloved palm, Georgianna noted that the gentleman had quite possibly the shiniest hessian boots she had ever encountered. When the Vicar, Mr Jameson, intoned his welcome to those gathered here today, her gaze lifted, skittering past quite the most formidable and well-fitted pantaloons she had ever encountered. Her breath, already causing her some little discomfort, seemed to escape her altogether. By the time Mr Jameson approached the part of the ceremony where she had been instructed to give a confident and robust ‘I will’, her head was swimming. She had not even seen her bridegroom’s face, her gaze having found permanent lodging somewhere between the gentleman’s pocket watch and cravat.

“Miss Georgianna?” Mr Jameson enquired in an undertone. “It is your cue to speak.”

Georgianna glanced at her fingers cradled in large gloved hands, then at the Vicar, whose brow creased with concern. Finally, her gaze lifted to the man, the stranger before her. He was not hideous. Perhaps more vibrant and weather worn than was fashionable. His piercing blue eyes studied her with concern under heavy brows, a shade or two darker than his auburn sideburns and artfully tousled hair.

“I… I…” Georgianna’s voice was barely audible as her entire world commenced a slow spiral that narrowed alarmingly into one point of light.

***

Fortunately, Douglas Murray, the Duke Glencolm, had reflexes honed by years of pandering to wilting ladies. His mother refused to go anywhere without smelling salts at hand. So, at the first betraying flutter of her lashes, he grasped Georgianna around the waist, drawing her body close to him as she collapsed in a swoon that appeared quite legitimate to his discerning eye. Ignoring the startled gasps of the congregation, he scooped the young lady, his bride, he reminded himself, into his arms and demanded the Vicar lead the way to the vestry.

It didn’t bode well for his future to have a persistently swooning woman as his Duchess. He’d been assured that The Honourable Georgianna Winton was as robust as the hills, her father’s very words. She didn’t appear robust as he lay her on the hastily cleared mahogany settee that adorned one wall of the vestry. She seemed quite delicate, the fine porcelain-smooth skin as pale as milk. Her long lashes fanned out over cheeks that did not even hint at a blush.

The young lady’s eyes fluttered as and those long lashes swept up to reveal startling green eyes that widened with alarm as they rested upon his face.

“What in God’s name are you about, young lady?” came a shrill cry from the doorway. Georgianna’s startled eyes widened even further, as Lady Winton bustled into the room, ignoring the Vicar’s protest at both her language and her tone.

“I could not breathe, Mama,” Georgianna protested in a voice that trembled. “My stays are too tight.”

“Hush child! Anyone would think I have raised a heathen. Do not speak of such things in mixed company.”

“And the roses. There was too much perfume, Mama. You know how the scent makes my head pound.”

“I know no such thing,” Lady Winton said with a dismissive wave. “If this was a ploy to humiliate your father, well, you may consider it successful. I have never seen him so discomposed. He shall never forgive you, nor see you again. God help me, for I will never see you again either.”

“Mama!” The distress in Georgianna’s cry was palpable.

“You have ruined yourself with your fit of missishness. I’ll not be moved by your pleas now.”

“Excuse me, madam. But I believe you should step aside. I will not tolerate anyone speaking to my betrothed in such a manner, not even her own mother.” Sometimes Douglas enjoyed the consequence his title afforded him. He’d never enjoyed it more than at this moment, when he stared down his nose at Lady Winston.

“Surely… I mean, after that disastrous display, you cannot still expect to marry the girl?”

“If you would please be so kind as to step out of the room, that is exactly what I mean to ascertain.”

“That would be improper.”

Douglas raised an imperious eyebrow. “Then leave the door ajar.”

When the older woman retreated with the Vicar to the other side of the vestry door, Douglas sat at one end of the settee, facing his betrothed.

“Are you much recovered?” At her nod, he continued. “It would be remiss not to use this time to introduce ourselves, would you not agree?” Once again she nodded, and her teeth worried her lower lip in a most distracting manner. “I should have liked to have made your acquaintance prior to the ceremony, but your father assured me that there was no need. I can only assume he feared that something in your manner would cause me concern, or that something about my person would cause you to cry off.”

“I…” Douglas watched in fascination as the flush began in her cheeks and spread to her décolletage. “I can assure you that I do not break my word, however, as papa well knows, my word was never pledged at all. My papa decided he would speak for me, and he does not want to be embarrassed by my forthrightness and decided that once we were legally wed, there would be no alternative for us than to muddle through.”

“Forthright. Hmm, it’s not a bad virtue to possess. I call upon your frankness to answer honestly. Would you consider marriage to me, since both of your parents have declared they will never see you again?”

“Would you beat me?”

“Would you deserve it?”

“Most undoubtedly, according to my papa, but still, I should not like it.”

“I do not generally condone beating as a form of punishment for children, dogs or wives. So no, I shall not beat you, even should you deserve it.”

“Do you have a first name, and shall I call you by it if we marry? Or must I always address you as Your Grace, even in private?”

“My name is Douglas Murray, and I would appreciate not being ‘You Graced’ in private, or indeed in public. To answer your question, if we marry, I would expect to call you Georgianna and for you to address me as Douglas.”

An impish smile caused a dimple to form in her cheeks as she asked, “Not Doug, or Dougie?”

“Only if I am allowed to call you Georgie.”

“I prefer Georgie.”

“Then Georgie, it is.” He slipped to one knee before her. “Georgie, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife and duchess today?”

“Dougie, I think I would enjoy that.”

“You are a saucy baggage!” he laughed as he drew her to him. “Shall we seal our betrothal with a kiss?”

Georgianna gasped. “My mother would be horrified.”

“Your mother need never know,” he whispered conspiratorially.

“You are a bad influence, Your Grace.”

He silenced her impudence with his lips.