The Duke of Mason's Townhouse
September 1890
"I have asked for Lord Swan's daughter's hand in marriage," Edward announced at breakfast the next day. Emmett had left for Scotland the day before, having procured his wife, and it was only Edward and his aunt and uncle at the table this morning. "He has given his consent. The wedding will take place this Sunday."
"This Sunday?" Carlisle repeated, surprised.
"You're engaged?" Esme said at the same time, wonder in her voice. "Why, you certainly are... efficient, Edward."
"You told me to go get a wife," Edward said, sounding a tiny bit defensive. "Well, I did."
"I see," Carlisle said. "You decided to marry her after what -"
"Two dances," Esme supplied. "It's all in the newspapers. You danced with Lady Isabella twice in a row - and now you're engaged! Wonders never cease to happen."
"Why the hurry?" Carlisle asked. "You didn't do anything dishonorable to the girl, did you, Edward? Because - "
"No, no. Nothing of that sort, Uncle Carlisle," Edward hurried to reassure. "The Earl and his wife are going away to Italy - next Monday."
"My goodness," Esme muttered. "And they're not bringing their daughter along, I take it - hence the hasty engagement."
"Precisely."
"Lady Isabella must feel hurt, the poor thing," Esme murmured.
"How are you getting married in such a haste?" Carlisle asked. "Who is going to marry the two of you?"
"Grand Uncle William is a bishop, isn't he? I'll go over and ask him for a special license after breakfast."
"You seem very determined to wed the girl," Carlisle observed.
"I am," Edward replied, and that was the end of the discussion.
-.-.-
The day of her wedding had arrived - or rather, the day she and her belongings were to be shipped off like cows at a barnyard sale had arrived.
Isabella's bridal gown had been fitted, sewn, and surprisingly, given the short engagement period, altered to fit her body perfectly.
"No daughter of mine will be married off without a proper wedding gown," Lady Renee had declared. Many sovereigns lighter and two seamstress later, a gown was made in three days.
This morning, Lady Renee bustled into her daughter's room before the sun was up. They had decided on an afternoon ceremony at St. Peter's chapel, courtesy of Edward's grand-uncle.
"Why are you not getting ready!" Lady Renee half-yelled, staring at her daughter, who was still bathing in a tub of steaming water and Lavender.
"I am," Isabella blinked, staring at her soapy arm. "I'm bathing at seven a.m., this is as much of getting ready as can possibly be, Maman."
"Well - " Lady Renee huffed, looking uncharacteristically flummoxed. "You have to be scrubbed clean, everywhere. Everywhere, Alice - you get my meaning? Tonight- tonight the Duke will visit your bedchambers, Isabella - and - "
Isabella flushed, watching her mother attempt to give her advice regarding the wedding night.
"And it is - it might be painful, at first - but men live for their night-time activities, so do not push your husband away even if you bleed and ache. Sometimes it gets better. Whatever you do - do not push your husband away, you are understanding me, Isabella?" Lady Renee ended, almost fiercely.
"Y-yes, Maman," Isabella muttered, raising her eyes to look at her mother, surprised. Lady Renee had never been too much of the maternal sort, and given the cold nature of her relationship with Charles Swan, no one would peg her as one to dispense of marital advice.
"You are a good girl," Lady Renee muttered, now crossing over to look out the window as Isabella stepped out of the bath. "And obedient, God knows you are. It will always be my good fortune to have you - never doubt that for a second. And as your mother, I would like to give you advice that would make your marriage different from mine. Better, a warmer marriage. But I do not know what to say."
Tears pressed at the back of Isabella's eyes. "It's alright, Maman."
Lady Renee swung around, and sat down in a high-backed chair by the fireplace. "It's not alright, Isabella. I ruined my marriage somehow - I don't know how. So, as I said - never refuse your husband in bed. I have thought for years that I shouldn't have ordered your father from the bedroom - so what if he was having an affair? I was his wife, and it is his prerogative to bed me. Perhaps if I hadn't, you would have had a brother by now - and your father wouldn't ... I was a capricious fool, Isabella. Now that I'm almost forty, I would give anything to take back those words. Don't do it, Isabella. No matter how angry you are, never let Lord Edward know."
Isabella nodded silently, the reason behind her parents cold marriage suddenly clear.
"I won't," she whispered.
Just then, Alice reappeared with a hairbrush and a small phalanx of maids.
"Begging your pardon, my lady," Alice said, curtsying in the Countess's direction, "but we are ready to start packing Lady Isabella's trunks now, and the footmen are ready to bring them outside."
Lady Renee nodded and then stood up, looking at Isabella. She ran her hand over Isabella' hair. "He cannot help but fall in love with you, Isabella. I am sure all my advice is for naught."
Isabella smiled at that, but after Renee left the room and the maids started bustling around, combing and moisturizing and tugging, she sat, thinking. Her mother was right, Isabella thought. I must never say no to Edward. Never.
-.-.-
Renee Swan felt a warm glow of satisfaction in the pit of her stomach as she looked discreetly over the mass of gentlefolk occupying St. Peter's Chapel at three o'clock. She had rummaged up every single relation the Earl and herself could lay claim to, as had in essence, done the same with Edward's family. Given that it consisted of one uncle and aunt, and the Bishop conducting the ceremony, they were understandably few in number. But however few of them there were, they were all prominently in view.
"Stop peering, Renee," Esme Cullen told her, mildly amused.
Lady Renee looked towards the front of the church. Edward looked imperturbable, standing up there with his uncle. The two Cullen men stood like rocks, steady and large. Lady Renee hoped Edward was as dependable as he looked - Lord knew that Isabella needed someone like that. Someone dependable, consistent, gentle. Someone unlike her parents.
Just then, the hush and hum that always precedes the entrance of a bride fell over the chapel. Isabella appeared in the recessed columns at the side, her hand resting lightly on her father's sleeve.
As Isabella walked quietly beside her father - the first time in her entire life her father had bothered to hold her - her gown gleamed palely in the late afternoon light. She looked innocent, fragile, otherworldly. No one would dream of a scandal, despite the extremely short engagement. Isabella's hair spilled down her back in a flood of chocolate and mahogany, adorned only by two diamond clips on either side. She was the snow princess from a Russian folk tale, Renee thought.
Her dress was made of pearly ivory satin, caught up under the bodice and laid over with a shimmering overdress that extended into a train. The sleeves were short, the bodice modest, and Isabella wore high satin gloves. Golden Brussels lace from her father's manufacturing company were added on the bodice, to the line of overskirt as it fell from her bosom, to the border of the shorter gown and the train. The lace caressed Isabella's creamy skin and emphasized the curve of her breasts and the length of her slim legs.
And Lord, but Isabella looked enthralling, even if the lace was there to advertise her father's company.
Edward's breath caught in his throat as Isabella moved towards him without meeting his gaze. She raised her eyes only after she and the Earl had reached the altar. Then, for a brief second - for the second time in her life - Isabella's eyes met Edward, and she blushed, looking down at the roses in her hand. Edward smiled, the edge of his eyes crinkling, even as the intent, languorous heat rising from his body stifled his impulse to grin with abandon and swing his bride around.
Bishop Cullen cast his grandnephew an admonishing look from under bushy eyebrows. He'd agreed to lead the service out of respect for Edward's dead father. Lord knew that such a short engagement was as scandalous as it could possibly be.
Well, there wasn't time to think about that - he had a ceremony to get on with.
"Dearly beloved," the bishop intoned, "We are gathered her together in the sight of God..."
Isabella began to tremble, as the bishop's voice jerked her out of a dreamlike state. She could sense her father standing behind her, and she had to stifle the urge to run and hide from him. She wanted to run and hide from it all, for that matter - but propriety made her stand in position.
As the bishop wound through the familiar words of the service, he noted that the bride was looking uncharacteristically frightened. He puzzled over it for a moment - but brushed it aside as nerves. Perhaps there wasn't actually much scandal in this wedding, just an impatient thirty-year old who had other things in life to get on with, and the bride was simply nervous for the wedding night.
Finally, he turned to Isabella with the command, "Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together..."
Edward looked at Isabella, as did the entire congregation.
Isabella swallowed. "I will," she said, her voice barely a whisper.
Yes, the bishop thought, at least the bride seemed to be virginal and pure. He, for one, approved of Isabella's white face and trembling fingers as she swore on the prayer book. Brides should be meek and small. Yes, small and meek, those were the best sort of bride. Edward's granduncle clapped the prayer book shut, suddenly realizing that he'd drone his way through the entire service. "I pronounce that they be Man and Wife together," he finally said. "You may kiss the bride," he told Edward.
Edward turned Isabella to face him, pride swelling in his breast. He was very pleased with himself, very pleased indeed. The whole transaction felt right. He had the same feeling when he purchased a ship from that new American company. Sure enough, the ship had weathered a hurricane off the coast of Africa and was on her fifth voyage now. He was almost half a million pounds richer, thanks to that exchange.
Edward drew Isabella towards him, and lowered his head. His lips captured hers; his breeches tightened, and cell in his body wanted to ravish her there and then. But of course, Edward didn't. By the sheer willpower of his soul, Edward kept the kiss chaste and appropriate.
As they drew apart, husband and wife looked at each other for a moment, before walking back down the aisle.
-.-.-
Nearing Castle McCarthy
September, 1890
It was a castle. A huge castle made of dark gray granite, with overhanging windows and little turrets and even what appeared to be a formal pond out front. They had been driving all morning, and after the energetic and acrobatic nights with Emmett in different inns, Rosalie was feeling rather sore in unmentionable places. She was more than ready to get out of the bouncing carriage. Judging from Emmett's large wandering hand that was stroking her legs over her skirts, he too was more than ready to get out of the carriage and into his bedroom in his castle - for different reasons.
They rounded a bend in the road, finally, the castle came into view, shimmering in a pink mist left from a quick rainstorm.
"That's the forest," Emmett said, pointing out the trees behind the castle. "A river runs that way, behind the castle. We pipe it in through pipes my father installed - I put a plunge bath behind the kitchen."
"A plunge bath?" Rosalie intoned. "How wonderful!"
"Indeed," Emmett grinned. "I also had a proper heated bath put into the master bedroom a few years ago. Of course - since I haven't been back - I can't say if it works any good. But you'll find out," he decided happily.
Rosalie nodded. She was going to be the Duchess of the gigantic castle - it seemed like a humongous task, and she wasn't sure that she was up to it. When Rosalie was younger, she used to dream of living in a castle. Now that she was going to live in one, she wasn't sure how she felt.
She looked back at the castle below, and the outriders played a piping call on the trumpet.
"What on earth is that," Emmett muttered, at the same time Rosalie jumped in her seat. "I assure you that I do not generally announce myself like a king with billowing trumpets - all these is very new to me, too."
"I'm sure," Rosalie said drily. Of course there were no trumpets in Africa, she thought.
The carriage seemed to pick up speed, rushing down the hill, and now Rosalie could see that the great front doors were open, and there were a group of people lining themselves up left and right in rows.
Emmett was grinning down at the castle, his brown eyes sparkling. The coach drew up with a great rattle of gravel flying from the wheels, and Emmett stepped out, offering his hand to Rosalie.
"Welcome, to Castle McCarthy."
The servants grinned and curtseyed and bowed as Emmett's butler took charge and introduced each one, by rank and position. In all, Emmett had eight footmen, three kitchen maids, a housekeeper, five castle maids, a cook, a gardener, two stable managers, and several other men in charge of little things that Rosalie didn't manage to keep track of.
Emmett managed to greet almost all his staff by name. "Not much change, huh?" he said cheerfully. "Shall we go in?" he turned to Rosalie, who took his arm.
"Of course," she said, looking slightly overwhelmed.
The castle had great doors hewn from oak that swung open to reveal a vast antechamber, large enough to receive a king and all of his court. The ceiling arched far above them, the stones looking ancient and solid, though clean. The stone floor was clean, though bare.
"Your Grace," the butler started. "We cleaned the castle from top to bottom in awaiting for your arrival. However - the decorations - " the butler struggled for words here, and Rosalie could understand why. The castle was certainly clean and sparkling, though bare and lacking of any artistic intent.
A small vase of freshly plucked flowers on an ancient stand in the corner provided the only bit of color in the room.
"No matter," Emmett said happily. "Lady Rosalie - the Duchess will handle all that now, wouldn't you, Rosie? I've brought fabric and furniture and sculptures back from Africa and Greece, we'll have the castle looking ... looking lived-in in no time."
The butler and maids looked fairly cheered at that thought, and Rosalie blinked. She knew practically nothing about interior design, and as Emmett led her through the empty halls and rooms, she realized that Castle McCarthy had quite a bit of interior to it.
Finally, they came to the master bedchamber.
The master bedchamber was dominated by a gigantic bed, shaped like a sled.
"It's lovely," Rosalie said, awed.
"My parents brought it back from their wedding trip to Italy," Emmett said. "Shall we travel to celebrate our wedding? Perhaps to the Americas?"
There was a teasing lilt in his voice, but Rosalie made a face. "No. No. I'm not travelling to the middle of nowhere with you."
He laughed, opening the door to the bathroom.
Rosalie sighed, and walked into the bathroom. She stopped still in surprise. The walls were tiled blue and white, with hand painted fishes on the tiles. The bath itself was made of white marble, finer than gems.
"My parents had it sent from Italy," Emmett said. "I do believe it is large enough for two." There was a hint of laughter in his voice. Beyond that was pure desperation, a hunger that Rosalie couldn't refuse. So when he reached around her and undid the buttons at the back of her gown, she didn't protest. Instead, she shrugged out of her dress, undid the ribbons that held her chemise close, and helped him with his breeches.
When they finally made it out of the bathroom, the sun had set and it was way past supper time.
Rosalie's maid was fretting about outside the door in the bedroom, holding up two gowns for her mistress when Emmett and Rosalie re-emerged.
"Lady Rosalie," her maid was saying, "you only have two gowns with long-sleeves, and there is a chill in the air - "
"You could go down to dinner naked," Emmett suggested, eyeing Rosalie's form clad in a thin dressing robe. "There's only the two of us."
"And the footmen, and the cook, and the housekeeper," Rosalie reminded him, rolling her eyes before turning back to her maid Kate and accepting the first gown Kate held up. "I'll dress in private, if you don't mind," Rosalie said, looking at Emmett, her fingers on the ribbon that tied the robe shut.
"As long as I get to undress you in private later," Emmett winked, before hopping out the room.
Rosalie blushed, avoiding her maid's eye as she dressed her mistress and brushed her hair dry.
The dining room was cavernous, and dubiously heated by fireplaces at either end.
"Technically, you should be seated there," Emmett said, pointing to the far end of the dining table. "I remember my parents dining so, as if they were marooned on separate islands. But it makes no sense having only the two of us, so I've asked the footmen to seat us all at one end."
Beautiful old china was set for Emmett and Rosalie, two seats out of a whole forty. "But this table is surely meant for a whole clan," Rosalie exclaimed, taking her seat. "Why haven't you replaced it with a smaller one?"
"I wasn't around to realize my family had shrunken till all that was left was me - and now you," Emmett muttered, helping himself to a generous serving of lamb.
-.-.-
On the way to the Duke of Mason's Townhouse
September 1890
They had danced again at the reception ball after the ceremony, and if they had little to be said between them, the crackling chemistry and almost palpable desire coming off from Edward was more than enough to convince their relatives that it was a love-match.
"Just look at the way he looks at her," one relative whispered loudly to another. "He's positively hungry."
Indeed, Edward's green eyes seemed to glare a hole in every other men's back when they danced with Isabella. His fingers itched to snatch his wife away from those men, and only when she was safely back in his arms did he relax. Even then, his eyes looked upon her so intensely that the Duke almost looked like cat hunting for his prey.
Finally, the time came for the newlyweds to leave.
"Time to go, Isabella," Edward said, coming up behind his wife while she was talking to his grand-uncle, the Bishop. He slid his hands up from her hips to her waist, and Isabella felt a jolt of something she wasn't able to place.
"Go?" Isabella jumped, her eyes wide.
Edward grinned.
Isabella felt her heart beat double-time. "Y-yes, Lord Cullen - "
"Edward," Edward said, guiding her out the reception hall to say good-bye to the guests. "I'm Edward now, your husband."
"Y-yes, Lo- Edward," Isabella hurriedly amended, her eyes falling to the ground at her mistake. She'd nearly flinched away from him at her slip of tongue, expecting a fist to come her way as was the way with her father, but there was none. Only the steady pressure of Edward's large palm in the small of her back, guiding her.
Isabella's parents were waiting for them at the ballroom door, and Isabella curtseyed. Lady Renee looked at the small head bowed before hers, and her eyes swam with tears. The daughter she never managed to protect; never did stand up for. And now, she was getting married to a man she'd met once. Never before had Lady Renee felt her failure as a mother as acutely as this moment.
"Oh, Isabella," Lady Renee said, swallowing her tears. "Ma fille," she said, pulling Isabella into her arms before lapsing into French. "Sois heureuse, ma chere! Je te souhaite tout le mieux pour ta vie mariee..."
Isabella swallowed her own tears. "I will be happy, Maman," she promised.
Charles nodded gruffly at Isabella, and shook Edward's hand. "Take care of Isabella," he said. Charles looked a little strained around the eyes, but otherwise he was as jovial and nonchalant as if he'd just closed a magnificent business deal.
Edward nodded, and together, the pair walked off down the aisle, and into the awaiting ducal carriage.
-.-.-
Isabella had known that this day was coming for all of a week, since her father had announced the engagement. Her trunks had been hauled out that morning, and Alice had been relocated to the Cullen's townhouse together with her belongings. But somehow, Isabella hadn't pictured actually leaving the reception. Getting into a carriage alone with Edward. Getting into a bed!
And here she was, seated side by side with her husband of all of three hours.
And he was speaking to her in low, dulcet tones.
"I'm sorry I wasn't able to plan for a wedding trip," Edward told Isabella apologetically, his large hand covering hers. "Parliament has convened; I was unable to take time away. But we will plan a trip for the summer - do you fancy France? Or Wales? Or perhaps Scotland, I have an estate there."
Isabella startled, and looked up into Edward's eyes. She was genuinely surprised, for no one had asked for her opinion before.
"I am sure whatever you choose will be delightful, Edward," she said, carefully.
Edward beamed, and squeezed her hand.
Underneath his larger palm, Isabella felt strangely safe.
-.-.-