by Kate Bateman
“You want me to marry some woman I’ve never met?” Benedict almost laughed in disbelief. “I appreciate the offer, Mr. Knollys, but I’ll have to decline. I ain’t stepping into the parson’s mousetrap for no one.”
Knollys took a menacing step forward. “Oh, you’ll do it, Wylde, or I’ll have Ennis bash your skull in.” He glanced over at Silas’s corpse. “I can just as easy ’ave ’im dig two graves instead of one.”
Ennis was a short, troll-like thug who possessed fewer brains than a sack of potatoes, but he took a malicious and creative pleasure in administering beatings with his heavy wooden cudgel. Benedict’s temper rose. He didn’t like being threatened. If it weren’t for the manacles binding his hands, he’d explain that pertinent fact to Mr. Knollys in no uncertain terms.
Unfortunately, Knollys wasn’t a man to take chances. He prodded Benedict with his stick. “Out with ye. And no funny business.” His meaty fist cuffed Ben around the head to underscore the point.
Benedict stepped out into the dim passageway and took an appreciative breath. The air was slightly less rancid out here. Of course, it was all a matter of degree.
A broad, grizzled man of around sixty moved to stand protectively in front of the woman, arms crossed and bushy brows lowered. Benedict leaned sideways and tried to make out her features, but the hood of a domino shielded her face. She made a delicious, feminine rustle of silk as she stepped back, though. No rough worsted and cotton for this lady. Interesting.
Knollys prodded him along the passage, and Benedict shook his head to dispel a sense of unreality. Here he was, unshaven, unwashed, less than six hours from freedom, and apparently about to be wed to a perfect stranger. It seemed like yet another cruel joke by fate.
He’d never imagined himself marrying. Not after the disastrous example of his own parents’ union. His mother had endured his father’s company only long enough to produce the requisite heir and a spare, then removed herself to the gaiety of London. For the next twenty years, she’d entertained a series of lovers in the town house, while his father had remained immured in Herefordshire with a succession of steadily younger live-in mistresses, one of whom had taken it upon herself to introduce a seventeen-year-old Benedict to the mysteries of the female form. It was a pattern of domesticity Benedict had absolutely no desire to repeat.
In truth, he hadn’t thought he’d survive the war and live to the ripe old age of twenty-eight. If he had ever been forced to picture his own wedding—under torture, perhaps—he was fairly certain he wouldn’t have imagined it taking place in prison. At the very least, he would have had his family and a couple of friends in attendance; his fellow sworn bachelors, Alex and Seb. Some flowers, maybe. A country church.
He’d never envisaged the lady. If three years of warfare had taught him anything, it was that life was too short to tie himself to one woman for the rest of his life. Marriage would be an imprisonment worse than his cell here in Newgate.
They clattered down the stairs and into the tiny chapel where the ordinary, Horace Cotton, was waiting, red-faced and unctuous. Cotton relished his role of resident chaplain; he enjoyed haranguing soon-to-be-dead prisoners with lengthy sermons full of fire and brimstone. No doubt he was being paid handsomely for this evening’s work.
Benedict halted in front of the altar—little more than a table covered in a white cloth and two candles—and raised his manacled wrists to Knollys. The jailer sniffed but clearly realized he’d have to unchain him if they were to proceed. He gave Ben a sour, warning look as the irons slipped off, just daring him to try something. Ben shot him a cocky, challenging sneer in return.
How to put a stop to this farce? He had no cash to bribe his way out. A chronic lack of funds was precisely why he’d been working for Bow Street since his return from France, chasing thief-taker’s rewards.
Could he write the wrong name on the register, to invalidate the marriage? Probably not. Both Knollys and Cotton knew him as Ben Wylde. Ex-Rifle brigade, penniless, cynical veteran of Waterloo. It wasn’t his full name, of course, but it would probably be enough to satisfy the law.
Announcing that his brother happened to be the Earl of Morcott would certainly make matters interesting, but thanks to their father’s profligacy, the estate was mortgaged to the hilt. John had even less money than Benedict.
The unpleasant sensation that he’d been neatly backed into a corner made Benedict’s neck prickle, as if a French sniper had him in his sights. Still, he’d survived worse. He was a master at getting out of scrapes. Even if he was forced to marry this mystery harridan, there were always alternatives. An annulment, for one.
“Might I at least have the name of the lady to whom I’m about to be joined in holy matrimony?” he drawled.
The manservant scowled at the ironic edge to his tone, but the woman laid a silencing hand on his arm and stepped around him.
“You can indeed, sir.” In one smooth movement, she pulled the hood from her head and faced him squarely. “My name is Georgiana Caversteed.”
Benedict cursed in every language he knew.
Chapter 3.
Georgiana Caversteed? What devil’s trick was this?
He knew the name, but he’d never seen the face—until now. God’s teeth, every man in London knew the name. The chit was so rich, she might as well have her own bank. She could have her pick of any man in England. What in God’s name was she doing in Newgate looking for a husband?
Benedict barely remembered not to bow—an automatic response to being introduced to a lady of quality—and racked his brains to recall what he knew of her family. A cit’s daughter. Her father had been in shipping, a merchant, rich as Croesus. He’d died and left the family a fortune.
The younger sister was said to be the beauty of the family, but she must indeed be a goddess, because Georgiana Caversteed was strikingly lovely. Her arresting, heart-shaped face held a small, straight nose and eyes which, in the candlelight, appeared to be dark grey, the color of wet slate. Her brows were full, her lashes long, and her mouth was soft and a fraction too wide.
A swift heat spread throughout his body, and his heart began to pound.
She regarded him steadily as he made his assessment, neither dipping her head nor coyly fluttering her lashes. Benedict’s interest kicked up a notch at her directness, and a twitch in his breeches reminded him with unpleasantly bad timing of his enforced abstinence. This was neither the time nor the place to do anything about that.
They’d never met in the ton. She must have come to town after he’d left for the peninsula three years ago, which would make her around twenty-four. Most women would be considered on the shelf at that age, unmarried after so many social seasons, but with the near-irresistible lure of her fortune and with those dazzling looks, Georgiana Caversteed could be eighty-four and someone would still want her.
And yet here she was.
Benedict kept his expression bland, even as he tried to breathe normally. What on earth had made her take such drastic action? Was the chit daft in the head? He couldn’t imagine any situation desperate enough to warrant getting leg-shackled to a man like him.
She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue—which sent another shot of heat straight to his gut—and fixed him with an imperious glare. “What is your name, sir?” She took a step closer, almost in challenge, in defiance of his unchained hands and undoubtedly menacing demeanor.
He quelled a spurt of admiration for her courage, even if it was ill-advised. His inhaled breath caught a subtle whiff of her perfume. It made his knees weak. He’d forgotten the intoxicating scent of woman and skin. For one foolish moment, he imagined pulling her close and pressing his nose into her hair, just filling his lungs with the divine scent of her. He wanted to drink in her smell. He wanted to see if those lips really were as soft as they looked.
He took an involuntary step toward her but stopped at the low growl of warning from her manservant. Sanity prevailed, and he just remembered to stay in the role of rough smugg
ler they all expected of him.
“My name? Ben Wylde. At your service.”
* * *
His voice was a deep rasp, rough from lack of use, and Georgie’s stomach did an odd little flip. She needed to take command here, like Father on board one of his ships, but the man facing her was huge, hairy, and thoroughly intimidating.
When she’d glanced around Knollys’s rotund form and into the gloomy cell, her first impression of the prisoner had been astonishment at his sheer size. He’d seemed to fill the entire space, all broad shoulders, wide chest, and long legs. She’d been expecting some poor, ragged, cowering scrap of humanity. Not this strapping, unapologetically male creature.
She’d studied his shaggy, overlong hair and splendid proportions from the back as they’d traipsed down the corridor. He stood a good head taller than Knollys, and unlike the jailer’s waddling shuffle, this man walked with a long, confident stride, straight-backed and chin high, as if he owned the prison and were simply taking a tour for his pleasure.
Now, in the chapel, she finally saw his face—the parts that weren’t covered with a dark bristle of beard—and her skin prickled as she allowed her eyes to rove over him. She pretended she was inspecting a horse or a piece of furniture. Something large and impersonal.
His dark hair was matted and hung around his face almost to his chin. It was hard to tell what color it would be when it was clean. A small wisp of straw stuck out from one side, just above his ear, and she resisted a bizarre feminine urge to reach up and remove it. Dark beard hid the shape of his jaw, but the candlelight caught his slanted cheekbones and cast shadows in the hollows beneath. The skin that she could see—a straight slash of nose, cheeks, and forehead—was unfashionably tanned and emphasized his deep brown eyes.
She’d stepped as close to him as she dared; no doubt he’d smell like a cesspool if she got any nearer, but even so, she was aware of an uncomfortable curl of … what? Reluctant attraction? Repelled fascination?
The top of her head only came up to his chin, and his size was, paradoxically, both threatening and reassuring. He was large enough to lean on; she was certain if she raised her hand to his chest, he would be solid and warm. Unmovable. Her heart hammered in alarm. He was huge and unwashed, and yet her body reacted to him in the most disconcerting manner.
His stare was uncomfortably intense. She dropped her eyes, breaking the odd frisson between them, and took a small step backward.
His lawn shirt, open at the neck, was so thin it was almost transparent. His muscled chest and arms were clearly visible through the grimy fabric. His breeches were a nondescript brown, snug at the seams, and delineated the hard ridges of muscles of his lean thighs with unnerving clarity.
Georgie frowned. This was a man in the prime of life. It seemed wrong that he’d been caged like an animal. He exuded such a piratical air of command that she could easily imagine him on the prow of a ship or pacing in front of a group of soldiers, snapping orders.
She found her voice. “Were you in the military, Mr. Wylde?”
That would certainly explain his splendid physique and air of cocky confidence.
His dark brows twitched in what might have been surprise but could equally have been irritation. “I was.”
She waited for more, but he did not elaborate. Clearly Mr. Wylde was a man of few words. His story was probably like that of thousands of other soldiers who had returned from the wars and found themselves unable to find honest work. She’d seen them in the streets, ragged and begging. It was England’s disgrace that men who’d fought so heroically for their country had been reduced to pursuing a life of crime to survive.
Was the fact that he was not a condemned man truly a problem? Her original plan had been to tell Josiah she’d married a sailor who had put to sea. She would have been a widow, of course, but Josiah would never have known that. Her “absent” husband could have sailed the world indefinitely.
If she married this Wylde fellow, she would not immediately become a widow, but the intended result would be the same. Josiah would not be able to force her into marriage and risk committing bigamy.
Georgie narrowed her eyes at the prisoner. They would be bound together until one or the other of them died, and he looked disconcertingly healthy. Providing he didn’t take up heavy drinking or catch a nasty tropical disease, he’d probably outlive her. That could cause problems.
Of course, if he continued his ill-advised occupation, then he’d probably succumb to a knife or a bullet sooner rather than later. Men like him always came to a sticky end; he’d only narrowly escaped the gallows this time. She’d probably be a widow in truth soon enough. But how would she hear of his passing if he were halfway across the world? How would she know when she was free?
She tore her eyes away from the rogue’s surprisingly tempting lips and fixed Knollys with a hard stare. “Is there really no one else? I mean, he’s so … so…”
Words failed her. Intimidating? Manly?
Unmanageable.
“No, ma’am. But he won’t bother you after tonight.”
What alternative did she have? She couldn’t wait another few weeks. Her near-miss with Josiah had been the last straw. She’d been lucky to escape with an awful, sloppy kiss and not complete ruination. She sighed. “He’ll have to do. Pieter, will you explain the terms of the agreement?”
Pieter nodded. “You’ll marry Miss Caversteed tonight, Mr. Wylde. In exchange, you’ll receive five hundred pounds to do with as you will.”
Georgie waited for the prisoner to look suitably impressed. He did not. One dark eyebrow rose slightly, and the corner of his mobile lips curled in a most irritating way.
“Fat lot of good it’ll do me in here,” he drawled. “Ain’t got time to pop to a bank between now and when they chain me to that floating death trap in the morning.”
He had a fair point. “Is there someone else to whom we could send the money?”
His lips twitched again as if at some private joke. “Aye. Send it to Mr. Wolff at number ten St. James’s. The Tricorn Club. Compliments of Ben Wylde. He’ll appreciate it.”
Georgie had no idea who this Mr. Wolff was—probably someone to whom this wretch owed a gambling debt—but she nodded and beckoned Pieter over. He took his cue and unfolded the legal document she’d had drawn up. He flattened it on the table next to the ordinary’s pen and ink.
“You must sign this, Mr. Wylde. Ye can read?” he added as an afterthought.
Another twitch of those lips. “As if I’d been educated at Cambridge, sir. But give me the highlights.”
“It says you renounce all claim to the lady’s fortune, except for the five hundred pounds already agreed. You will make no further financial demands upon her in the future.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
The prisoner made a show of studying the entire document, or at least pretending to read it, then dipped the pen into the ink. Georgie held her breath.
Papa’s will had divided his property equally between his wife and two daughters. To Georgie’s mother, he’d left the estate in Lincolnshire. To her sister, Juliet, he’d left the London town house. And to Georgie, his eldest, the one who’d learned the business at his knee, he’d left the fleet of ships with which he’d made his fortune, the warehouses full of spices and silk, and the company ledgers.
His trusted man of business, Edmund Shaw, had done an exemplary job as Georgie’s financial guardian for the past few years, but in three weeks’ time, she would turn twenty-five and come into full possession of her fortune. And according to English law, as soon as she married, all that would instantly become the property of her husband, to do with as he wished.
That husband would not be Josiah.
Despite her mother’s protests that it was vulgar and unladylike to concern herself with commerce, in the past five years Georgie had purchased two new ships and almost doubled her profits. She loved the challenge of running her own business, the independence. She was damned if she’d give it over
to some blithering idiot like Josiah to drink and gamble away.
Which was precisely why she’d had Edmund draw up this detailed document. It stated that all property and capital that was hers before the marriage remained hers. Her husband would receive only a discretionary allowance. To date, she’d received seven offers of marriage, and each time she’d sent her suitor to see Mr. Shaw. Every one of them had balked at signing—proof, if she’d needed it, that they’d only been after her fortune.
She let out a relieved sigh as the prisoner’s pen moved confidently over the paper. Ben Wylde’s signature was surprisingly neat. Perhaps he’d been a secretary, or written dispatches in the army? She shook her head. It wasn’t her job to wonder about him. He was a means to an end, that was all.
He straightened, and his brown eyes were filled with a twinkle of devilry. “There, now. Just one further question, before we get to the vows, Miss Caversteed. Just what do you intend for a wedding night?”
Chapter 4.
Heat flashed across Georgie’s skin, both at the impertinent question and the way the rogue’s cheeky gaze moved over her. Laugh lines crinkled the corners of his brown eyes. She was used to such speculative ogling from her years in the ton, but not once had her body reacted as it did to this blackguard’s leisurely perusal. Her breath quickened.
Pieter growled again and took a step forward, but the man grinned and held up both hands in an expression of innocence.
“Can’t blame a chap for trying.” He chuckled. “Jus’ tryin’ to scratch an itch.”
“There will be no wedding night,” Georgie said firmly. “I want your name, Mr. Wylde, not your—”
“Cock?” he suggested cheerfully.
