• Chapter
One •
Scotland, September, 1816
Guy Keating straightened his spine and glanced about the blacksmith
shop he’d wager never had seen a forge. The voice of the anvil
priest rang throughout the room. “Repeat after me... I, Guy
Keating, take thee, Emily Duprey, to be my wedded wife....”
Barely able to make his mouth work, he finally responded, “I,
Guy Keating....” His words sounded like a funeral dirge.
What the devil was he doing in this place, speaking these words? The final
vow nearly caught in his throat.
“... til death do us part.”
The priest, who Guy would bet was neither priest nor blacksmith, turned
to the young woman dressed in a plain brown traveling garment, standing
on the other side of the never-used anvil. “Repeat after me,” the
anvil priest said. “I, Emily Duprey....”
The young woman answered in a soft, but clear tone, “I, Emily
Duprey...”
Guy tried to give her a smile, this woman whose appearance was as unremarkable
as her personality. She was neither short nor tall, thin nor stout. Her hair,
worn with curls framing her face, was in the popular fashion, though its
color was the same bland brown as her dress. He could never quite recall
the color of her eyes, but whatever color, her eyes did not enliven her always
composed face.
She gazed at him, almost a question in her expression, but not quite that
animated. He ought to be flogged for bringing her nearly four hundred miles,
to court scandal for them both at Gretna Green. Oh, he might tell himself
she was better off wed to him than having her fortune gambled away by her
wastrel father or plundered by one of the rakes who had lately been courting
her. Guy had a much better use for her money. Did that not make him less
reprehensible than those gentlemen ready to exploit her for their own gain?
Certainly less reprehensible than her father, Baron Duprey, who was as addicted
to the roll of dice as Guy’s own father had been.
She continued the vows in modulated tones. “... I take these
folks to witness that I declare and acknowledge Guy Keating to be
my guideman.”
Guideman, indeed. Pretender, perhaps. Deceiver? Rogue.
The anvil priest, who looked more like a prosperous merchant, come to
think of it, took both their hands and clasped them together. “Weel, the
deed is done. Y’re husband and wife.” The man laughed, jiggling
his considerable girth. “Kiss the bride, mon.”
Guy jerked up his chin. He’d forgotten about this part of the ritual.
He had kissed her once, upon proposing, because it seemed what he ought to
have done, but he’d not thought of kissing her since.
She colored and glanced shyly at him through her lashes. He leaned down and
placed his lips on hers.
God help him if her lips did not seem expectant, as though she anticipated
more than this sham of a marriage could deliver. She deserved more, after
all.
“Now shall we go on to the inn, then?” The anvil priest waggled
his brows. The inn was another of his enterprises, no doubt.
Guy swallowed. He had not forgotten they were required to consummate the
marriage. Would she be as hopeful on that score as with the kiss?
First they would have a leisurely supper and then...
He offered her his arm, “Shall we go, my dear?” What he meant
to say was I’m sorry.
He escorted her around the puddles left in the street from the afternoon’s
rains. What sunlight that appeared that day waned in the sky, slipping as
low as his confidence. He’d once thought this the wisest course, but
now he felt like the veriest blackguard.
A wide puddle of water blocked the entrance to the inn, not a problem for
his boots, but deep enough to dampen the hem of her skirt. He scooped her
up and carried her over the threshold. Her face remained subdued, but she
trustingly settled in his arms, feeling to him almost as a wife ought.
He made a vow more genuine than the ones he’d repeated after the anvil
priest. He vowed to be a good husband to her. He vowed she would never know
the truth of why he’d married her.
Their meal was a stilted affair, the two of them confined together in a private
parlor. He tried his best to be as solicitous as a new husband ought.
“Would you like some fish, my dear?” he asked. “Do you
care for another piece of tart?” “Shall I pour you another glass
of wine?
She responded with similar politeness and managed to dredge up conversation,
mainly about the food. “This tart is delicious, do you not think?...
The pastry flakes wonderfully... The raspberries are sweet, are they
not?”
And he responded as he ought. “Very delicious... very sweet.” In
truth, he could not taste the food at all, and he’d availed himself
of the innkeeper’s whiskey far more than was prudent. Surely all
their future meals together would not be so excruciatingly dull.
After they finished the last course, no other choice remained but to climb
the stairs to the bedchamber the anvil priest/innkeeper had promised them.
Guy’s boots beat like a drum against the worn wood of the staircase,
matching the loud tattoo of his heart. He’d had his share of bedding
women. Any man in regimentals was bound to, after all, but those simple exchanges
were honest ones. How could he bed Miss Duprey—his wife, he meant—when
he’d kept the truth from her? He’d feared she would not marry
him if he had been totally honest about needing her fortune, though many
a ton marriage took place for that very reason.
The innkeeper led them down a hallway to the bedchamber where a cheerful
fire flickered in the hearth. The oak floor was covered with a figured rug,
and a large bed, its linens turned down, dominated the room. A bottle of
wine and two glasses sat on the small table next to it, and a branch of candles
further illuminated the charming scene.
Miss Duprey—his wife, he meant—wandered over to the window and
stood peeking through the gap in the curtains. She still held her hat and
gloves as if not certain of staying. “I weel leave y’, good
sir.” The innkeeper gave Guy a broad wink and grinned wide enough to
expose a gap between his teeth that had not been visible during the brief
wedding ceremony.
The thud of the closing door broke the silence, while Guy’s disordered
emotions continued to rage inside him. Miss Duprey—his wife, dammit!
he must recall—turned at the sound.
Her eyes were wide, but her countenance composed. She clutched at her hat,
crushing its ribbons.
He tried to smile. “Do you care for some wine, my dear?” “Thank
you,” she said.
He poured two glasses, wishing it were the good Scottish whiskey instead.
She glanced around and finally found a bureau upon which to place her hat
and gloves. With hands clasped like a schoolgirl, she walked over to the
bedside table. He handed her a glass and took one himself, almost raising
it to his lips before he caught himself. He ought to make a toast.
His mind raced to think of something, hoping he did not appear as witless
as he felt. Her expression conveyed no hint that she guessed his thoughts.
“To our future... ,” he managed, clinking his glass
with hers. “Yes,” she
replied in a whisper.
Their wine consumed, he stared awkwardly. She made no move. He supposed it
was his responsibility to decide how to go on.
“Do you desire me to call a maid to assist you?” he asked. “I
could step downstairs to allow you some privacy.” And consume how many
whiskeys while she readied herself for her wedding night? She shook her head.
A wave of panic rushed through him, the latest of many on this day. Would
he be able to perform his husbandly duty? How ironic. Perhaps he would provide
her the means to have the marriage annulled. One could almost laugh at the
thought.
She was a well-enough appearing female. There was nothing to object to in
her. So why could he not dredge up some modicum of desire?
Guilt prevented him, of course. Lying to her, telling her that her father
refused permission when, in truth, he’d never approached the man.
Guy had tricked her into this flight to Gretna Green, leading her to believe
there was no other way for them to wed.
He tried to conceal his emotions. “We do not have to... to
consummate our vows this night, if you do not wish to,” he said. “There
is no one to know but ourselves.”
The hint of concern flitted through her eyes. “The bed sheets?”
Ah, the bed sheets. Some chambermaid or another would be changing the
linens and noticing the lack of evidence. Would that create any difficulty?
He failed to see why any of these people would care. They’d been well paid. What’s
more, she could easily be a widow or something. He shrugged. He’d come
too far to take a risk now.
“I could contrive something.” Blood was a ready commodity,
as any soldier knew. He might pierce his arm above his sleeve, bleed on
the sheets and no one would be the wiser.
“I am willing to proceed,” she replied.
How was she able to keep her tone so temperate? She might as well be conversing
with afternoon callers, but he, on the other hand, felt his voice might crack
and fail him at any moment.
Her expression remained equally as mild as her fingers reached for the buttons
of her spencer. He watched her free each button and pull off the garment.
Placing it neatly on a chest at the end of the bed, she reached behind her
back and struggled with her laces. He closed the distance between them.
Feeling as if he were perched on the ceiling observing himself, he undid
her laces and slipped the dress off her shoulders. She remained as still
as a statue as it slid to the floor. His fingers trembled when he set about
removing her corset, but he soon had her free of that garment as well.
She turned to face him dressed only in her shift.
Perhaps if she conveyed some emotion, he might be more easy in this moment,
but she was as colorless as she ever had been. He held his breath, watching
her take the pins out of her hair and wondering how the devil he was going
to be able to perform.
She ought to have a husband who greeted this moment with joy instead of obligation.
She ought to run from him now and deny there had ever been a wedding. Bribe
the avaricious anvil priest to destroy the marks in the register and hire
the fastest post chaise back to Bath.
Such spirit, he could not blame. He might even admire it, but her compliance
made him feel like a cad.
Taking a deep breath, he sat down on the bed to remove his boots.
Emily stood by the bed, watching her husband as she smoothed her hair neatly
behind her shoulders. She could not recall ever seeing a man remove his boots,
even her father and brother, but certainly they would not have done so with
the same masculine grace as Guy Keating.
Her heart fluttered at this intimate sight of him. He was by no means the
tallest of gentlemen, only perhaps five or six inches above her own height,
but there was such an air of compact energy about him that he seemed to take
up more space.
That first glimpse of him came back to mind, in the Pump Room, her eyes
drawn to him almost of their own accord. He had been leaning down to speak
to two elderly ladies whom she now knew were his mother’s aunts, an expression
of acute tenderness on his face. That look alone had disarmed her. When he’d
picked up one lady’s shawl and wrapped it lovingly around her shoulders,
Emily had thought she would weep for the sweetness of the sight.
Later that week at the Assembly he had walked up to her at her brother’s
side, having begged an introduction. To her.
Emily still marveled at it.
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American Edition or the UK edition
During
the English Regency (1810-1821) gambling was a popular pastime. Cards were
played in the family parlor, at parties, balls, gentlemen’s clubs, and
in gaming hells, those dens of iniquity where huge fortunes could be won and
lost at the toss of a card or roll of the dice. I wanted to set a story in
a London gaming hell and that is how The Wagering Widow came about.
There was only one small problem. I didn’t know how to play the
games played during Regency times.
My research revealed that there were several card games popular during that
time period. Whist was perhaps the most popular, a game played by four players,
similar to Bridge but without the bidding. Whist worked well for many scenes
in The Wagering Widow, but I also needed a card game for two players (read
The Wagering Widow for this racy scene!) Piquet fit the bill perfectly. Unlike
Whist, where the rules are fairly simple, Piquet is complex. The player must
remember a complex set of points, keep track of both runs, sets, and the
cards that have already been played. I read the rules, but I still could
not understand how to play.
Searching on the internet for one more website that might explain how
to play Piquet, I came across meggiesoftgames.com.
Meggie Soft Games offered a demo version of computer card games, and one
of their games was Piquet! I downloaded the game and with the helpful hints
provided, I was soon able to play. I enjoyed the game so much, I ordered
it. What’s more, they also had a game called German Whist, a two-handed
version of Whist, also fun to play and similar enough to the four-handed
version to get a real flavor of it. When I needed to write about a specific
game of Piquet, the types of hands Emily and Guy held, I simply based it
on a hand from the computer game. The MeggieSoft Games can be played with
online players, but I never tried that option, not wanting interaction with
unknown people and their computers. Besides, playing against the computer
had been challenging enough.
You have to assign yourself a name when you play the computer games. The
name I chose, and still use, is Emily, the name of the heroine of The Wagering
Widow.
:: back to top ::
:: “...
refreshingly unconventional...a fabulously entertaining romance.” — Donna
Seaman, Booklist
:: “This delightful tale will charm
traditional Regency readers as the engaging characters learn that love is
far more valuable than money.” — Kathe Robin,
Romantic Times (read the whole
review)
:: “...another
beautifully subtle yet powerfully emotional romance...quietly compelling
story of a marriage of convenience that quickly turns into something much
more passionate.” — John
Charles, Booklist
:: “Diane Gaston’s books are
always page-turners...If you don’t normally buy Regency books, but
love historicals you must not miss The Wagering Widow.” — Naomi,
Fallen Angel Reviews (read the whole
review)
:: “...very different, very original
and always very recommendable story...Diane Gaston not only bends the rules,
she breaks them...” — Kris Alice, A Romance
Review (read the whole
review)
:: “The
Wagering Widow is one
superbly written book...With a plot that instantly grabs your attention
and characters that will have you laughing and surprised.” — Tangela Williams, My
Shelf (read the whole
review)
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