I wash my hands of her. She is your problem now. And she will be a problem. She always has been.’ And with that he left.
‘It might be prudent to wait a bit.’ The priest rested his hand gently on the back of Connie’s. ‘Perhaps in a few days all will seem clearer. This marriage is particularly fast.’
She shook her head without looking at the man and then retreated back into herself. Several ashen-faced servants filed in and stood uncomfortably in the room. Connie stood next to Aaron stiffly, staring off into space and struggling not to cry.
‘Do you, Constance Elizabeth Mary Stuart, take this man, Aaron Phillip Arthur George Wincanton, to be your lawfully wedded husband?’
Aaron held his breathe until Connie nodded once.
‘I need you to say the words, Lady Constance.’
There was a long pause. Aaron watched her hands fist at her sides and a myriad of emotions cross her face. After an age she turned to him with an expression of complete hatred.
‘I do.’
She mumbled the rest of her vows as if in a trance. In his haste, Aaron had forgotten to buy a ring and was forced to use his own signet ring as a wedding band. It swamped her delicate fingers and looked completely wrong on her hand, as he supposed he did too. Everything about this marriage was wrong. At best they were strangers, at worst sworn enemies.
As the first rays of the sun filtered into the study the vicar declared them man and wife. He did not suggest that Aaron should kiss his bride. Even the vicar realised that Connie would rather kill him than kiss him. But it was done. What had possessed him to follow her into that library last night he could not say, only now they both had an entire lifetime to regret his impulsive decision.
‘Come, Connie,’ he said with a sigh of resignation, ‘it is time to go.’
Aaron did not sit in the carriage with her as they travelled directly to Ardleigh Manor, instead he rode his horse alongside. While she was grateful that he had the good sense to realise that she really had nothing whatsoever to say to him, and probably never would have, it meant that she was left alone with her own thoughts and fears for hours on end.
Ardleigh Manor.
Whilst she had seen it almost every day of her life from her bedchamber window, the Wincanton estate was completely unfamiliar to her. It might well neighbour her father’s land, but that might as well be the moon now, it was so far away. She was completely and irrefutably estranged from her family. Her father had made that quite clear. Never again would she while away the hours chatting to her brother, Henry, or her mother, nor would she ride her own beloved horse again, nor would she experience the comfort, smells and cosiness of her childhood home. Although she doubted that she would miss her father—she had been a disappointment to him from the moment she had been born—each of those losses was a cruel blow. Connie felt as if her heart had been ripped from her chest and shredded, and there was not a thing she could do about it. She felt raw and broken, wronged and ashamed.
And so very angry that she felt as if she might burst from the way it boiled and curdled in her gut. She had let her mask slip in front of Aaron Wincanton, of all people. The man who had cursed her with that dreadful nickname, had seen how much it had hurt her, how it continued to hurt her because she had never been the kind of woman that men fancied, and that the only husband she could get was either bought or trapped into marriage.
Connie heard the sound of gravel under the wheels of the carriage and forced herself to look out of the window at her new home. Up close, Ardleigh Manor was larger than she had realised. The symmetrical, classically designed front appeared stark white against the night sky, the windows glowing warmly with candlelight. If it had belonged to any other family than the vile Wincantons, she might have considered the house pleasing to look at, rather than menacing, but as the carriage came to slow stop outside Connie physically steeled herself to go inside.
An austere butler and a small round housekeeper stood waiting just outside the open front door. Connie rudely ignored her husband’s proffered hand and made her own way down the short steps to the floor, all the while staring up at the enormous double-front door looming menacingly from ahead. To all intents and purposes those doors represented the gates of Hell, although in this scenario Ardleigh Manor was Hell and Aaron Wincanton was the Devil incarnate. Connie had no idea if she was a lost soul or a genuine sinner. The truth was she was likely a bit of both. Aaron had instigated her ruination, but she had welcomed his touch, silly desperate fool that she was. It was galling to have to acknowledge her part in the incident, but she would not meekly accept her fate. Aaron Wincanton would rue the day he had used her to get revenge. Of that, she was certain.
The stern butler stepped forward. ‘On behalf of the staff, may I offer you our congratulations, Mr Aaron? I am Deaks. This is Mrs Poole. Welcome to Ardleigh Manor, Lady Constance.’
It was the first time she had been referred to as a Wincanton and hearing her new name made Connie feel queasy. Out of ingrained politeness she inclined her head towards the servant. It was hardly his fault that she was here.
‘I have prepared the suite of rooms that you requested, Mr Aaron. I hope they meet your satisfaction, Lady Constance. There is also a light supper ready if you are hungry.’
Connie shook her head and then remembered her manners again. ‘Thank you, but I am not hungry. Mr Deaks... Mrs Poole.’
‘It has been a long day,’ Aaron interjected, ‘If you could have my wife’s luggage brought up, Deaks, I believe she would prefer an early night.’
‘Certainly, sir.’ The butler turned to Connie with a smile and she knew exactly what was coming. ‘Excuse my impertinence, madam, but you are tall, aren’t you?’ Mrs Poole, to her credit, rolled her eyes at this and nudged him unsubtly in the ribs.
Connie glared at him in response until he withered. Usually she would endure the crass stating of the obvious with a brittle smile. Tonight she did not have the strength. Aaron stepped in and rescued the butler from the frigid atmosphere she had created. ‘Thank you, Deaks, Mrs Poole. That will be all.’ The butler bowed stiffly and then stood to one side.
Without touching her, Aaron guided Connie into the house and up an ornate and sweeping marble staircase. ‘I am sure that you are finding all of this very daunting. I know I am.’ He smiled at her a little awkwardly. His face fell when she remained stoically silent. ‘I have put you in my mother’s old rooms. They look over the gardens. Attached is a small sitting room. I thought you might appreciate a little privacy whilst you become familiar with your new home.’
They were walking to the end of a long hallway. Aaron opened the double doors and stepped back to allow her to go inside first. The feminine parlour was actually very pretty. A roaring fire had been set in the fireplace, around which were arrange a cheerful old-fashioned sofa covered in boldly striped satin brocade and two comfortable matching chairs. The walls were papered in a subtle lemon-coloured stripe while a large picture window dominated the wall. Connie nodded, grateful that she would have a place where she could sit away from this awful family. Away from the man who knew that she hated being tall and ugly. The man who had seen her cry. The man who had married her out of pity when no one else would because she was so unattractive.
‘I have arranged for my father to stay in London for the next week so that you can settle in.’ Aaron might have told the old man to stay away, but there was no guarantee
