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*THE WEDDING NIGHT*

*Barbara Dawson Smith*

St. Martin's Paperbacks

ISBN: 0-312-98230-5

*Prologue*

20th February 1816

London

Dear Diary,

Tonight is my wedding night, on what was to have been the happiest day of my life. But I have known

the most wretched, mortifying turn of events. Oh, how foolish and naive I have been about the ways of

men!

Only a week ago, I was sitting at a dull geography lesson in Chiltern Palace when the letter arrived

from my father. He had arranged a marriage for me and commanded my presence in London at once.

The news stunned me, yet I reveled at the prospect of leaving the schoolroom and setting off on an

exciting adventure. Had I but known what lay in store for me, I should have run far, far away instead!

I spent the long journey from Lancashire lost in imaginings of my mysterious bridegroom. He would be

a gallant hero who would sweep me away on his white steed. We would fall madly in love and live

happily ever after.

Those wildly romantic notions did not prepare me for the tall, darkly handsome older man I met only

yesterday. Mr. Samuel Firth was aloof and forbidding, and I was too awed to utter a single word. My

father explained that Mr. Firth is a wealthy merchant who would pay off our considerable debts in

exchange for my hand. The cold bargain daunted me, yet I was certain that marriage would soften my

husband's stern countenance and reveal the compassionate man beneath the cold mask.

How wrong I was! How I misjudged his character! Mr. Firth is neither kind nor considerate -- and

certainly no gentleman!

I found out that truth when he entered my bedchamber this evening, clad in his dressing gown. His

presence startled me, setting my heart aflutter. I thought -- I hoped! -- he would take me in his arms and

bestow a gentle kiss upon my lips, as he bade me good night. Instead, he made indecent advances on my

person! When I shied away, he told me of my duties in the marriage bed. The shock of it caused me to

burst into a torrent of weeping.

All the while, he watched me with those icy blue eyes, never once attempting to console me. Then he

announced his intention to depart on a long journey around the world. He withdrew from my chamber

before I could so much as dry my tears or gather my composure.

I must confess, I am as much appalled by his expectations of a wife as I am by the thought of being

abandoned so swiftly. Oh, why did I ever consent to this dreadful marriage?

-- from the diary of Lady Cassandra,

daughter of the Duke of Chiltern

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

The golden light of a hundred candles lit the ballroom, and the lovely music of a waltz drifted through

the air. The guests in their evening finery looked like butterflies flitting to and fro. But I could not be

happy in their midst, for my guardian, Victor Montcliff, was nowhere to be seen.

--The Black Swan

*Chapter 1*

THE SECRET MESSAGE

March 1820 (four years later)

Lady Cassandra Firth was dressing for the theater when the letter arrived in the evening post.

Cassie was in a mad rush, having been at her desk, engrossed in her writings, all afternoon. The

footman had delivered the mail a few moments ago, and she could see the letters from the doorway of

the dressing room, sitting in a tantalizing pile atop her desk. She did so hope to find a message from her

publisher with news on when her first book, The Black Swan, would be printed.

Ruefully, she regarded the ink that smudged the fingers of her right hand. "These stains are quite

hopeless," she told her abigail, a thin, birdlike woman with kind brown eyes and a brusque manner. "I did

scrub them."

"A good soak in lemon water should do the trick," Gladys said. "I'll nip down to the kitchen and fetch

it."

"I'm afraid there's no time. Walt will be arriving at any moment, and you know how he dislikes being

kept waiting."

Picking up a white glove from the dressing table, Cassie wriggled her fingers into the tight fabric.

Gladys clucked her tongue. "Do have a care, dear. And turn around lest you go off with your buttons

undone like a hoyden."

Cassie dutifully swiveled and presented her back to the maid. While Gladys fastened the blue muslin

gown, Cassie stepped into the matching slippers that Gladys had laid out for her. She glanced at the

ormolu clock atop the mahogany chest of drawers. Maybe she'd have a few minutes in which to read

over her daily pages. And to look through those letters...

Someone rapped on the outer door, and Cassie sighed. "There's the footman announcing Walt. Oh,

why is my cousin never late?"

"Promptness is a virtue," Gladys said, a severe look on her plain sparrow face. "One you would do

well to learn."

Cassie opened her mouth to grumble, but the maidservant had already left the dressing room. She

returned in a moment with the news that His Grace was indeed waiting downstairs.

While Gladys went to the wardrobe to fetch a pelisse, Cassie stole out into the bedchamber and

glanced furtively through the letters. No one but her closest friend Flora knew about her recent literary

sale, not even Gladys, who had served Cassie these past four years.

To her disappointment, though, most of the mail appeared to be invitations that she would politely

decline. The daughter of a duke, Cassie was invariably asked to the best parties, yet she seldom

attended, having little desire to make stilted conversation with strangers. She had never felt comfortable in

the exclusive world of the ton, where fashion and frivolity ruled, where women were expected to be

pretty ornaments who flirted and flattered men. Cassie had more important things to do with her life.

Then the letter on the bottom of the stack caught her attention. She might have set it aside with the

others if not for two facts. First, it was printed in block letters rather than handwritten. Second, it bore an

outmoded form of address: "Lady Cassandra Grey."

Cassie hadn't used the name Grey since her marriage four years ago to a man she hadn't seen since

their wedding night. She stared down at the letter clutched in her gloved hands. Though she had come to

terms with her husband's absence, a painful longing wrenched her. If only she could be Lady Cassandra

Grey again. If only she could return to the innocent girl she had once been.

Senseless, impossible thought.

She broke the wafer that sealed the note, unfolded the paper, and saw that the brief message also was

printed rather than penned in cursive.

My dearest Lady Cassandra,

No longer am I able to keep silent the love that burns in my heart. Pray know that you are held in the

highest esteem by one who adores you. Whatever may happen, I shall always watch over you.

A chill touched Cassie, raising gooseflesh on her arms. There was no signature. Who had sent the

note?

Though the firm, neat letters appeared to have been written by an educated man, she recognized

nothing familiar about the penmanship. Nor was there anything distinctive about the white paper, which

could have been purchased at any stationer's shop. Had the sender printed the words because he was

someone she knew, someone who was anxious to disguise his identity? But surely no one in her close

circle of friends would write such an unorthodox message rather than confess the truth to her face.

Perhaps a stranger was watching her. Perhaps she was being observed as she went about her errands,

walking to the lending library or taking her daily constitutional. Although the notion made her uneasy,

something about it also appealed to the romantic in her.

Was it possible that an unknown gentleman had fallen in love with her from afar? That he knew she was

out of his reach? That he merely wished to pour out his deepest feelings to her? Perhaps he longed for

her in daytime and dreamed of her at night...

Cassie curbed her runaway imagination. She couldn't fathom why such a man would address a letter to

her as if she were an unmarried lady. Could he be someone from her distant past? Someone who knew

her from Lancashire where she had grown up? On their infrequent visits, her parents had often brought

guests from London.

"M'lady? Is aught amiss?"

Gladys regarded her with sharp eyes, so Cassie summoned a smile. "A letter from an old

acquaintance," she fibbed. "It's of no consequence."

Most likely, it was a prank played by Walt or Philip or Bertie. In the past, she had learned the value of

ignoring their tricks.

Folding the note, she turned her mind to the evening ahead. The unwanted invitations she tossed atop

the clutter of quills and papers on her desk. After a moment's hesitation, she placed the mysterious letter

inside the drawer of her bedside table.

Yet as she headed downstairs, she couldn't help but puzzle over the message. The words had been

intensely passionate, tenderly romantic.

"Pray know that you are held in the highest esteem by one who adores you."

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Upon learning of my mother's untimely death, he pressed my hands between his and uttered in an

anguished tone, "My poor Belinda, I should have been there."

" 'Twas no fault of yours!" I assured him. "You were tending to your estates and could not have known

of her illness."

"Nevertheless I have failed in my duty as your guardian."

I lapsed into silence at that, for I so yearned to be more than a duty to the Honorable Victor Montcliff,

the devoted son and heir of Baron S ------.

--The Black Swan

*Chapter 2*

A CHANCE MEETING

Within moments of entering the private box at the theater, Samuel Firth noticed the woman.

He was late, and that fact irritated him. The crush of traffic outside the theater had tried his patience.

After four years abroad, he had forgotten the difficulties of negotiating the crowded streets of London.

But he hadn't forgotten the glittering allure of the ton.

Giving a nod of greeting to Ellis MacDermot, he took a seat beside his business acquaintance in the

front row and scanned the packed theater. Women in fancy gowns and sparkling gemstones sat with

gentlemen in tailored coats and elaborate cravats. Chandeliers lit the red and gilt decor of the vast room

with its high domed ceiling. In addition to the central seating on the main floor, three tiers of box seats

hugged the walls, topped by another two rows of balcony for those of lesser stature. The orchestra in the

pit played softly to underscore the booming voices of the actors on stage. Footlights cast a flickering

glow over the scene with its backdrop depicting a drawing room.

Samuel settled back to watch the drama. Not even the Kabuki shows of Japan or the sari dancers of

India could compare to good English theater. A stab of nostalgia took him unawares. Few knew that he

had grown up in the world of the theater in Brighton. He had read lines with the actors, run errands for

the director, hauled trunks of costumes in and out of storage. It had been hard work for a child, but he

had enjoyed the excitement of the stage. That happy phase of his life had come to an abrupt end at the

age of twelve with the untimely death of his mother and the words she had spoken before breathing her

last.

His gut twisted at the memory. He had always known he was a bastard, but not that his father was

George Kenyon, the Marquess of Stokeford, or that he had three legitimate half brothers. His mother

had confessed to writing to Lord Stokeford numerous times, begging him to acknowledge her son, but

her letters had never been answered. In broken gasps, she had pleaded with Samuel to go to Devonshire

and approach the marquess himself.

He had never gone, of course. His insides had burned with pain and grief and anger. He refused to

push himself on the haughty man who had rejected his unwanted bastard son. Spurred by cold hatred,

Samuel had set out to make his fortune. He had sworn to avenge the wrong done to him and his mother

by becoming the equal of the Kenyons.

Even now, a knot of ruthless resolve tightened inside him. With his innate skill in business, he had

achieved wealth to rival that of the richest aristocrats. But money wasn't enough. He was so close now.

So very close to achieving his revenge by founding his own dynasty.

A disturbance directly across the theater distracted Samuel.

Three gentlemen in a private box scuffled over something on the floor. Their brief battle for possession

created a stir in the audience and a chorus of hissing. Then one of the toffs straightened up and

victoriously waved a program. With a bow and a flourish, he handed it to the lady sitting in their midst.

She afforded the fellow a nod of thanks and returned her gaze to the stage.

Beautiful.

Samuel forgot the actors reciting their lines. Carnal interest stirred in him as he stared intently at the

woman. Fair and delicate, she was the epitome of the aristocratic lady. Her face bore the fine features of

a cameo, a testament to her noble breeding. Her sole adornment was a spray of pink rosebuds tucked

into her golden hair. If not for her air of regal confidence, he might have thought her a debutante in her

first season.

But she was no maiden fresh from the schoolroom. The maturity of a woman radiated from her. He

could imagine all that soft blond hair spread over a pillow--his pillow. He could imagine himself lying over

her, pressing himself into the cradle of her slim thighs ...

The image was so vivid, so carnal, he had to restrain himself from going to her at once. He knew

nothing of her, least of all her marital status. But with several men sniffing around her, she must be

unattached--or had a fool for a husband. Who was she? For once, Samuel regretted his lack of a

quizzing glass used by so many of the fops here. He wanted to take a closer look at her.

He forced his gaze back to the stage. But his attention returned to her from time to time, and he willed

her to glance his way so that he might somehow catch her eye. The play, however, absorbed her

completely. Not once did she scan the audience as did so many others who considered attendance at the

theater a social affair.

A few minutes prior to the interlude, one of the men in her entourage leaned over to whisper in her ear.

She smiled and nodded, and the gentleman scuttled out the back door of the box, presumably to fetch a

refreshment for her. The other two men in her party looked disgruntled at the missed opportunity.

But she took no notice of them. She leaned forward slightly to watch the closing moments of the act.

The audience laughed at some tidbit of dialogue on stage, and so did she. The glimmer of animation on

her face transfixed Samuel.

That smile. Where had he seen it before?

As the crimson curtain descended, and people left their seats to stroll in the lobby, a gruff voice with an

Irish lilt muttered, "See someone you know, Firth?"

Samuel glanced at the affable features of Ellis MacDermot. With his curly ginger hair and ready smile,

the fashionable coat and perfectly tied cravat, he appeared more a gentleman about town than a canny

businessman. But like Samuel, MacDermot had earned his considerable riches through hard labor. He

owned several textile mills and often used Samuel's ships to send his wares to the far reaches of the

globe.

"I don't know a soul besides you," Samuel replied. "I may be somewhat tolerated in Brighton society,

but not here in London."

"Yet you're staring at someone. A lady, I'll wager."

"Several have caught my eye." Samuel deliberately kept his gaze on MacDermot. Having never been

one to share his women, he had no wish to point her out. Not even to an old friend.

MacDermot peered across the theater. "One in particular, I'd say. The lass with the golden hair,

directly across from us. Ah, she's a choice one."

Samuel made no reply. He knew better than to encourage MacDermot.

Nevertheless, the Irishman went on. "Looks like you've competition, eh? They're gathered like stallions

guarding their favorite mare."

Samuel let himself look at her again. She had arisen from her chair and stood conversing with her

admirers. A filmy blue gown skimmed her shapely form. The bodice was cut fashionably low, giving him

a glimpse of a fine bosom. His pulse quickened. Even from across the crowded theater, the sight of her

exquisite beauty stirred his blood.

It had been many weeks since he'd had a woman. The only females aboard the ship from India had

been the elderly wife of a colonel and a young girl of perhaps seven in the company of her dour,

middle-aged nanny. Over the past four years, he had traveled to his far-flung holdings all over the world.

A sugarcane plantation in the West Indies. A gold mine in Africa. A tea estate in Ceylon. Almost

constantly on the move, he had eased his physical needs in occasional discreet encounters with local

women.

But he had no intention of taking a mistress while here in London. He had too much at stake, a plan

that was vital to his scheme of revenge. A plan he intended to set in motion on the morrow.

So why was he even considering a visit to the box across the stage?

"What business matter did you wish to discuss?" he asked MacDermot. "You said it was urgent."

His reddish brows lowering, MacDermot appeared loath to change the subject. He folded his long

fingers over his dark green waistcoat. "It concerns a bank draft I sent to your purser a fortnight ago.

Your man swears it never arrived, yet my records show the bill was paid in full."

Samuel frowned. In his absence, other funds had gone missing from the London office. "An oversight,

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