Jennifer Ashley - The Duke’s Perfect Wife

One of the most contentious debates in England in the 1880s was the question of Irish Home Rule. There were those, like William Gladstone, prime minister during the time in which the Mackenzies’ series is based, who wanted to give Ireland some independence from England. In 1885, Gladstone began campaigning for his Home Rule bill, which would allow Ireland to set up a separate parliament in Dublin to contend with Irish affairs, though it would still answer to English rule. The question was a touchy one, and Gladstone had many opponents, including the queen.

Gladstone returned to power in 1886 after a temporary defeat, and was able to get the Home Rule bill passed in the House of Commons, but it was defeated by the House of Lords. The bill was once more brought to the vote in 1889 and once again passed in Commons, but again defeated in the House of Lords.

I borrowed Gladstone’s struggles with Irish Home Rule for this story and moved them a few years earlier. Hart, no lover of the English, wished to put forth Home Rule for Ireland, but he wanted his version, not Gladstone’s. Hart’s idea was to give Ireland complete independence from England, and from that victory, propose the same for Scotland. Hart’s scheme was to draw followers from both Gladstone’s Liberals and the Tory party, defeat Gladstone by calling a vote of no confidence, and step in to rule with a coalition.

Gladstone served as prime minister four times, resigning from office for the last time in 1894.

SCOTLAND 1884

Juliana St. John’s fiancé was an hour late to his own wedding. While Juliana sat waiting, resplendent in satin and yellow roses, her hands growing colder as the minutes ticked by, various friends and family members were dispatched through rainy Edinburgh to find out what was the matter.

Juliana’s stepmother, Gemma St. John, and the matron of honor, Ainsley Mackenzie, tried to keep her spirits up, but Juliana knew in her heart that something was terribly wrong. When Grant’s friends returned, embarrassed and empty-handed, Ainsley asked her husband, a tall brute of a Scotsman, to go. The result was different.

Cameron Mackenzie opened the vestry door enough to stick his head around it, never mind the group of ladies fluttering about like nervous moths. “Ainsley,” he said, then shut the door again.

Ainsley pressed Juliana’s hands, which by now were like ice. “Never you mind, Juliana. I’ll discover what has happened.”

Juliana’s stepmother, only ten years older than Juliana herself, was angry. She said nothing, but Juliana saw rage in every movement Gemma made. Gemma had never liked Grant Barclay and liked Grant’s mother still less.

Ainsley returned in a short time. “Juliana,” she said, her voice gentle. She held out her hand. “Come with me.”

When a person spoke in that tone, terrible news was certain to follow. Juliana rose in a swish of skirts. Gemma tried to follow, but Ainsley held out her hand. “Juliana alone, I think.”

Gemma, of the volatile temper, started to protest, but Gemma was also intelligent. She gave Juliana a nod. “I will be here, dear.”

Juliana had a temper of her own, but as she stepped out into the gusty rain of the church’s courtyard, she felt nothing. No anger, no fear, nothing but a curious numbness. She’d been engaged to Grant for years now. The wedding had always been so comfortably far away that it had come as a shock to reach the day. And now…

Was Grant ill? Dead?

It was a rainy Edinburgh day, mist cloaking the city, the sky obscured. Ainsley led Juliana in her finery out and through a tiny yard, mud soaking Juliana’s new white high-heeled boots. They reached an arched breezeway, and Ainsley started down this, away from the main church. Thank heavens, because all the guests were in the church, waiting and watching, now speculating about what had gone wrong.

Under an arcade, but still in the chill, Cameron waited alone. When Ainsley dragged Juliana over, Cameron looked down at her with flint-hard eyes. “I found him.”

Still Juliana felt nothing but numbness. None of this seemed real, not the tall Scotsman in Mackenzie plaid, a silver flask in his hand, not the lowering skies outside the church, not Juliana’s wedding finery.

“Where is he?” Juliana asked.

“In a carriage behind the church,” Cameron said. “Do you want to speak to him?”

“Of course I want to speak to him. I am going to marry him…”

She noticed the look Ainsley and Cameron exchanged, caught the glimpse of anger in Ainsley’s eyes, the annoyance in Cameron’s.

“What is it?” Juliana squeezed Ainsley’s hand. “Tell me before I go mad.”

Cameron answered for her. “He eloped,” he said. “He’s married.”

The arches and the courtyard, solid Edinburgh stone, spun around and around her, but no, she was standing upright, staring at Cameron Mackenzie, Ainsley’s warmth at her side.

“Married,” she repeated. “But he’s marrying me.”

She knew that the last thing in the world Lord Cameron wanted to do this day was hunt down Juliana’s groom and then tell Juliana what he’d discovered about the despicable man. But she kept staring at Cameron, as though if she glared hard enough, he’d change the story and tell her a different one.

“He married yesterday afternoon,” Cameron said. “To a woman who was teaching him the piano.”

This was mad. It had to be a joke. “Mrs. Mackinnon,” Juliana said without inflection. She remembered the woman with dark hair and plain dresses who had sometimes been at Grant’s mother’s when Juliana arrived. “She is a widow.” A strange laugh escaped her lips. “Not anymore, I suppose.”

Cameron’s steady gaze seemed to hold Juliana upright. “I told him he needed to have the decency to tell you himself. So I brought him. Do you want to talk with him?”

Cam was giving Juliana the choice—to face Grant while he shamefacedly confessed that he’d betrayed and abandoned Juliana, or to walk away.

“No,” she said. “No.”

Cameron pressed his flask into Juliana’s hand. “Get that inside you, lass. It will lessen the blow.”

A very proper lady did not drink spirits, and Juliana had been raised to be so very proper. But the turn of events made this a highly unproper occasion.

Juliana tipped back the flask and trickled a bit of burning Scots whiskey into her mouth. She coughed, swallowed, coughed again, and dabbed at her lips as Cameron rescued the flask.

Perhaps she should not have drunk. What Cameron had told her was starting to seem real. Two hundred people waited in the church for Juliana St. John and Grant Barclay to wed, two hundred people who would have to be told to go home. Two hundred gifts to be returned, two hundred apologies to be penned. And the newspapers would certainly enjoy themselves.

Juliana pressed her cold hands to her face. She’d never been in love with Grant, but she had thought they’d at least formed a mutual respect for each other. But even that… Grant hadn’t given her even that.

“Ainsley, what am I going to do?”

Cameron tucked the flask inside his greatcoat. “We’ll take you home. I’ll have my carriage pull up in the passage at the end of this walk. None need to see you.”

They were kind, Ainsley and Cameron—they were being kind. Juliana didn’t want kindness. She wanted to kick and rage, not only at Grant, but at herself. She had been so secure in her engagement, rather smug that she was no longer in danger of being left on the shelf.

Her future had just crumbled to dust, her safe choice ripped from beneath her feet. Shock still rendered her numb, but she sensed regret coming hard on its heels.

Juliana rubbed her arms, suddenly freezing. “Not yet. Please, give me a moment. I need to be alone for just a moment.”

Ainsley glanced into the courtyard, into which people were now emerging from the church proper. “Not that way. There’s a chapel down here. We’ll keep them out.”

“Bless you, Ainsley.” Juliana could not unclench herself enough to give Ainsley the hug she deserved.

She let Ainsley guide her to the door of the chapel, which Cameron opened. Cameron and Ainsley stepped back, and Juliana went in alone, the door clicking closed.

The chapel was chilly but dim and peaceful. Juliana stood for a moment in front of the bare altar, looking up at the plain cross hanging above it, alone and unadorned.

Grant, married. To Mrs. Mackinnon. Juliana now realized things she’d seen in the past few months but paid no mind to at the time—Grant and Mrs. Mackinnon side by side at Grant’s mother’s piano, their exchanged smiles, the looks between them. Grant gazing pensively at Juliana as though he wanted to speak to her about something important, and then making some joke or inane remark instead.

She knew what he meant to say, now. Miss St. John, I’ve fallen in love with my piano teacher and wish to marry her, not you.

Scandal. Humiliation.

Juliana balled her fists, wanting to shout at Providence for being so aggravating. But, even in her agitation, blasphemy in a chapel seemed wrong, so she settled for storming into a pew, her ivory skirts billowing around her.

“Blast!” she said and slammed herself into the seat.

On top of something that moved. A human something, a man with long legs under a woolen kilt, a broad body that heaved up onto strong elbows. A man coming awake to find a hundred and twenty pounds of young woman in wedding garb sitting on his thighs.

“What the devil?” Gray eyes the same color as Ainsley’s flashed in a face that was too tanned to have been in Scotland long. “Juliana?”