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“Then at least I will feel as if my family is there,” she replied softly, looking up into his kind face. Perhaps Smitty was right. Perhaps Drake really did care. Perhaps …
“Smitty! Where the hell are you?” Drake’s drunken shout from La Belle Illusion shattered the silence around them. “We have a lot to do—load the timber, drink ourselves into oblivion. After all, it’s not every day a man gets married, you know.” A pause, during which Alex could picture him gulping down another drink. “Well, Smitty, what do you say?” the uneven raving continued. “Can you just
picture my family’s reaction when I arrive home with Lady Alexandria Cassel as my wife? That should certainly cause an uproar, now shouldn’t it?”
Smitty winced, reaching a protective hand out to Alex. But she shrugged it away, stepping back, her chin held high.
“So much for your theory on Captain Barrett’s loving nature, Smitty,” she said in a shaky voice. “Well, you can give him a message from me. He may put a ring on my finger, but I will never, never go back to England with him as his wife. I’ll see him in hell first!” With that, she lifted her skirts and ran from the beach.
Smitty stared after her, his expression sad. “He is already in hell, my lady,” he murmured to himself. “Now it is up to you to lead him out.”
Chapter 13
DAWN ARRIVED. RAIN EXPLODED from the heavens in hard, battering pelts, that drenched the streets of York with merciless intensity. Then, suddenly, just after ten o’clock, the storm ceased, making way for a soft June breeze, trilling birds, and a warm afterglow of sunshine. Sparkling rain droplets shimmered on the trees, and a spectacularly vivid, multihued rainbow arched gracefully in the deepening blue sky.
It was Alex’s wedding day.
Her moods were as changeable as the weather. One moment she was filled with impotent anger, trapped like a bird in a cage. The next moment she was overcome with tingly anticipation, wondering what it would be like to be Drake’s wife. Most of all, she was terrified, for despite her bravado with Smitty, Alex was well aware of a husband’s rights. What if Drake forced her to return to England as his wife and to perform all her duties as Mrs. Drake Barrett?
She was more terrified that he would leave her behind.
Since a fortnight ago in her father’s study, Alex had barely seen Drake. Her days were filled with dress fittings, her nights with doubts and worries. And now that the day was here, apprehension and confusion seemed to converge, inundating her with a fear that was suffocating.
Wrapping her robe more tightly around her, she went to the bedchamber window and pressed her face to the glass, trying to calm her frazzled nerves. Before she could make any progress, there was a firm knock on her bedchamber door.
She jumped. “Come in.”
Geoffrey Cassel opened the door and walked in, immaculately dressed and dreadfully ill at ease. His tone, however, was customarily brusque.
“I see you are awake, Alexandria.”
“I haven’t slept,” was the pointed response.
He ignored the meaning behind her words and crossed the room to the small settee beside the window where Alex stood. “Sit down, Alexandria.” It was an order. “Today you are to be married, and it is time for us to talk.”
Alex suspected that his talk would not be the soothing, caring chat she needed but rather another issuance of rules and expectations for her to live up to. So be it. She sat and waited.
Satisfied with her action, Geoffrey continued. “If your mother were here right now she would be having this talk with you. Since you have made that an impossibility”—he scowled briefly, letting Alex see his disapproval once more—“the task has fallen to me. I want to assure myself that you are prepared for your duties and obligations as a wife.”
Alex gave him an incredulous look. She hadn’t the faintest notion why her father was so concerned. After all, the numerous rules that applied to being the most gracious of hostesses, the most versatile of conversationalists, the very paragon of London society, would hardly be put to the test in a cramped cabin of a merchant ship. Fascinated, she waited for him to continue.
“I recognize only too clearly that the words ‘obey’ and ‘submit to’ are not as yet in your vocabulary. You have precisely two hours to change that. Defiance and rebelliousness are not desirable traits in a wife.” He took a deep breath. “Especially to a man like Drake Barrett, who is used to others doing his bidding. He will expect certain things of you as his wife, some of which may seem rather … distasteful.” He cleared his throat, unable to meet her wide-eyed stare. “Do you understand what I am telling you?”
“You’re telling me that I must relinquish every independent thought and opinion that I possess,” she summed up.
Geoffrey did not smile. “Not only your thoughts. You must relinquish everything, Alexandria. Now do I make myself clear?”
Alex was torn between laughter and tears. “Are we discussing my wedding night now, Father?” she asked boldly.
He was taken aback by her forthright question. At last he nodded. “I presume you know what to expect?”
She had a very good idea, but there were so many questions she wanted answered, so much reassurance that she needed. Looking at her father’s granite-set face, she knew that none of it would be forthcoming. “Yes, Father, I have been told what to expect.”
His relief was evident. “Good. Bear in mind that your submission is necessary in order to produce an heir for your husband.”
An heir. The one thing that her poor mother had never been able to provide Geoffrey, despite her repeated “submissions.” Well, in this case, it didn’t matter. There was no title or land to pass on. The only thing Drake’s child would inherit was La Belle Illusion. Hardly a sizable fortune worth losing sleep over.
Submission. Alex allowed herself a brief reflection on her limited physical intimacies with Drake. The memories were vivid and bone-melting. Instinct told her that Drake would be bored to tears with the sort of wife Geoffrey was describing—the sort of wife she could never be. She understood enough about the chemistry that existed between herself and her husband-to-be to recognize that she could either violently resist him or go up in smoke with him. But submit to him? Never.
