by Kate Bateman
“—company,” she finished, proud of her cool tone.
His teeth flashed white as he smiled. “Why not? You’ll never see me again. No one will know. Exceptin’ these fine gentlemen, of course, and I’m sure they’d give us a few moments of privacy—”
“I am not having … marital relations … in a dirty prison with a stranger I just met!” she ground out.
His eyes twinkled. “Aww. Have pity. Give a poor wretch one last, ’appy memory of England. I might not even make it to Australia. I could be wrecked, or taken by sickness—”
Georgie narrowed her eyes. “I know precisely how perilous the oceans are, Mr. Wylde. My father died at sea.”
The teasing laughter disappeared from his eyes. “Forgive me. I am sorry for your loss.”
She waved away his sympathy. “In any case, my answer is still no.”
“Will the marriage be legal if it ain’t consummated?”
Georgie bit back a curse. She had no idea if consummation was actually required, but this man wasn’t going to be around to cast doubts on the validity of their union. And she certainly wasn’t going to mention it to anyone. “I’ll take the chance, Mr. Wylde,” she said briskly. “Now shall we begin?”
He bent at the waist in a parody of a gentleman’s bow, which somehow managed to look entirely natural. “Why not, Miss Caversteed?” There was an ironic edge to his voice. “I have nothing else planned for this evening, save counting the lice in my cell.”
On shaking legs, Georgie approached the makeshift altar and felt a gust of warm air as the prisoner came to stand beside her. The hairs on her arm rose, as if she’d brushed against a cobweb. She glanced down at her feet; there was an indentation in the flagstones, a concave dip where the stone had been worn smooth. Thousands of others had stood here over the years, pledging their own vows of fidelity.
Cotton opened the Bible to begin the ceremony, and Knollys and Pieter stood to one side to act as the witnesses. Georgie quelled a moment of panic. This was not something to be taken lightly. What was she doing, marrying a stranger? Making a mockery of this solemn institution? Swearing to love, honor, and obey this one man until death? She would probably be struck by lightning for uttering such falsehoods in a sacred place.
The darkness, the flicker of candles, the oppressive cave-like walls, made her feel as though they were participating in a far more ancient ritual. Something primal and profound that included fire and blood and the bonding of hands. Of souls.
She shook her head to banish the thought.
The preacher began.
She did not class herself as a romantic—she left that to her younger sister, Juliet—but this was not how a wedding should be. No flowers, no choir or hymns or beaming, benevolent vicar. No family and friends. Instead, there was this cold, echoing, slightly musty-smelling chapel. Cheap tallow candles instead of the more expensive beeswax they used at home.
Warmth permeated her side as the prisoner shifted closer to her, almost as if he were offering silent support. His hip and shoulder pressed against hers and lent her strength.
Her voice didn’t shake when she spoke her vows. This was a matter of self-preservation, of protecting Mama and Juliet. She would not falter. The man at her side was not Josiah.
The prisoner repeated his vows, his voice low and confident, his accent less pronounced. Perhaps he was making an effort to speak properly for the occasion.
Pieter had purchased two plain gold rings, which he laid flat on the open Bible in the ordinary’s hands. Cotton launched into a blustering speech about the sanctity of this and submitting to that; Georgie barely listened. But her heart jolted as the prisoner took her left hand and slid a ring on her fourth finger. The metal was cool, but quickly warmed to her skin.
His own hands were large and capable; she felt the heat of his palm, the strength in his long fingers, as they reversed positions and she threaded the ring onto his left hand. It stuck on his knuckle, but she wriggled and twisted, and it finally slid on. Instead of letting her hand drop, his fingers threaded through hers, steady and oddly comforting.
And then it was over. Cotton added their names to the marriage license Pieter had obtained from a bribable clerk at Doctors’ Commons. The prisoner released her hand to sign the register, the gold ring on his finger glinting in the candlelight. Georgie bent her thumb inwards and touched her own band. It felt strange, foreign. She would remove it as soon as she was in the carriage.
The prisoner straightened and caught her eye. “In the absence of anything more rousing, may I be permitted to kiss the bride?”
Her pulse leapt, but she saw no reason to be churlish. She had what she’d come for, after all. She adopted an expression of bored resignation. “Oh, very well.”
He leaned forward. Georgie sipped in a breath and held it, determined not to inhale his undoubtedly repulsive odor. She pursed her lips and closed her eyes. Martyr-like, she waited.
And waited.
She heard him chuckle. His fingers settled on either side of her face and tilted her chin up. His thumb brushed the indent at the corner of her lips.
Her stomach flipped. She opened her eyes, caught a brief glimpse of his dark irises as his face descended to hers, and waited for something like Josiah’s greedy lechery: a wet, sloppy assault.
He did not kiss like Josiah.
His mouth brushed hers, his lips a shockingly soft counterpoint to the prickles on his jaw. Something hot and achy bloomed inside her, from her breastbone to the pit of her belly. It was a tease of a kiss; a light, questioning touch that somehow managed to both madden and promise at the same time. His lips moved on hers as if testing his welcome, and Georgie found herself leaning up into him, enthralled. Wanting more. She softened her mouth just as his tongue traced the seam of her lips. Seeking entry. Tasting her. She jolted back in shock, suddenly recalling where she was. Who he was.
Heat flooded her face. Thoroughly mortified, she stared up into his laughing eyes.
“Hello, Mrs. Wylde,” he whispered, just for her.
She ignored her hammering pulse and the weak sensation in her knees and tried to appear entirely unaffected by the kiss. Good God, that was her name now. Mrs. Wylde. She took a decisive step back. “Goodbye, Mr. Wylde,” she said firmly. Her lips still tingled. “And thank you,” she added. “You have done me a great service this night.”
The corners of his lips twitched, and he swept her another magnificent bow, as perfect as if they stood in the receiving line at Carlton House. “My pleasure, Mrs. Wylde.”
She did not fail to detect the sarcasm in his tone. They both knew he’d taken no “pleasure” from her.
“Any time you need another ‘service,’ do ask. I would be honored to assist.” Those wicked eyes flicked to her lips and back up again.
Georgie turned away, flustered, and gestured to Pieter. “Let’s go.” Suddenly, all she wanted was to be home. She needed to think, and her wits seemed to have gone begging in the presence of this exasperating man.
Pieter collected the marriage license from Cotton and tossed a jingling purse to Knollys, who grinned and touched his forelock.
“Nice doin’ business, milady,” he sneered. He crossed to the prisoner and began to refasten the manacles around his wrists. Wylde submitted to the imprisonment without comment, and Georgie bit her lip to quell an instinctive protest. There was nothing more she could do for him now.
She took one last glance at the prisoner. What did one say to a handsome stranger you’d just married and would never see again? It was not a situation often covered in etiquette books. She couldn’t very well wish him a good life.
“I wish you a safe journey,” she said at last. And then, on a whim, added the words she’d always said when taking leave of her father, “Fair winds and a calm sea.”
Those dark eyes met hers and held her captive for a long moment. “Thank you, my lady. If fortune is kind, perhaps we’ll meet again—under more auspicious circumstances.”
It was all
she could do to nod.
Once the outer door of the prison clanged behind her, Georgie took a deep, cleansing breath. Her hands shook as she raised the hood of her domino, but a mad sense of relief washed over her. She’d done it! For six long years, she’d endured awkward matchmaking and unconvincing proposals, the never-ending sting of gossip and speculation. Josiah’s thinly veiled threats and disapproval. She’d bowed to convention, done what others expected of her, from the moment she’d entered the ton. Now, for the first time in her adult life, she was free to start doing exactly as she pleased.
Ben Wylde, criminal rogue, had given her freedom.
Chapter 5.
A disturbance in the hallway and the angry scuffle of feet was the first indication of Cousin Josiah’s arrival. His voice, low but threatening, carried through the half-open salon door.
“No, curse you, I’ll announce myself!”
Georgie sat a little straighter in her chair and braced herself for what was bound to be an unpleasant interview. Anything concerning Josiah was unpleasant.
He flung himself through the door, brandishing the brief note she’d sent him like an Old Testament prophet. “What is the meaning of this, Georgiana? It says here that you’ve married. What do you mean by writing such twaddle?”
Georgie set down her book—Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe—and glanced over at Pieter, who’d followed Josiah into the room and positioned himself in the corner, a silent but effective bodyguard. She looked up at her cousin’s irate face impassively, but inside, her heart was racing.
“It’s quite true, Josiah. I am married. Three days ago, as a matter of fact. I wanted you to be one of the first to know.”
The irony in her tone was lost on Josiah. He’d removed his hat but hadn’t handed it over in the hallway before he’d barged his way up to the salon, and his knuckles gleamed white as he crushed the curled brim in his hand. He slapped it against his thigh in an impatient gesture and exhaled with a chiding half laugh. “You are a tease, Georgiana.”
Georgie lifted her chin, grateful that her mother and sister were out shopping. “Far from it. I would never joke about something as important as marriage. I wed by special license. Pieter can vouch to the truth of it.”
Josiah’s face grew red and mottled as his lips compressed in a furious line. “Who is he?” he demanded. “This husband of yours? Not one of ’em fortune hunters who’ve been sniffing ’round your skirts? You couldn’t stand the sight of any of ’em!”
Georgie refrained from adding, Fortune hunters like yourself? Instead she said, “He’s a midshipman on one of my frigates. We met at Blackwall three years ago. And we’ve been meeting in secret each time he’s been back in port.”
She silently congratulated herself on that little embellishment; she’d been inspired by her sister’s favorite book, Romeo and Juliet.
Josiah looked as though he’d swallowed something repugnant. “A midshipman! You’ve pledged herself to a common sailor?” His eyes ran over her in disgust, as if he were viewing her in a whole new—and distinctly more unflattering—light. “Which ship?” Disbelief fairly dripped from his tone.
“I don’t believe I’m under any obligation to tell you. I doubt the two of you will ever meet.”
Georgie smiled as an overwhelming sense of triumph poured through her, a feeling of weightlessness, of relief. She’d endured months, years, of Josiah’s unsubtle, overbearing attentions. The way he used his greater height and bulk to stand too close to her at every opportunity, invading her space, subtly aggressive. The way he sometimes caught her wrist to restrain her or placed his sweaty palm at the small of her back to steer her in to dinner. Proprietorial, when he had no cause to be. Now, all his fawning obsequiousness had come to nothing.
“But what of your fortune? The honor due to your family?” Josiah spluttered.
Of course, her money would be his primary concern. It was the only reason he’d ever paid her any attention. He took a menacing step toward her, and Georgie shrank back; he looked as though he wanted to throttle her. She glanced over at Pieter in a silent, pointed reminder that she was amply protected, and breathed a sigh of relief when Josiah spun on his heel and paced away.
“Your mother agreed to this farce?” Josiah demanded. “You cannot convince me of it. She’s always wanted an aristocratic title for you. And for Juliet. I doubt she’d have given her blessing to the Prince Regent himself!”
Georgie raised her brows and dodged the question. “I needed no one’s permission. I am of legal age to make my own decisions, especially those which concern my future happiness. In three weeks, I shall turn twenty-five.”
“You’ve lost your wits, girl! You should be sent straight to Bedlam. A sailor?” Josiah repeated incredulously. “Good God, what will the world think?”
“I haven’t the slightest intention of finding out. There’s no reason for anyone in the ton to know about my marriage. My affairs are my own, as are my wits. Besides, I doubt my husband will ever set foot in a ballroom, once he returns to these shores. We plan to retire to Lincolnshire.” She sent Josiah a sweet smile and twisted the verbal knife. “I know I can rely on your discretion, Josiah. Such an undesirable connection might reflect badly on you.”
Her cousin was as obsessed with the family’s social standing as her mother. He’d spent his entire life trying to ingratiate himself with the ton, glossing over what he saw as the family’s “shameful” background in trade. In his opinion, a fortune that had been earned was of far less merit than one that had been inherited. He would never lower himself to actually work for a living—which was good because as far as Georgie had seen, he had no discernable skills, save perhaps a talent for overindulgence. He spent his time trying to emulate his betters, lounging in gentleman’s clubs, playing cards and dice, attending prizefights, and patronizing eye-wateringly expensive tailors and boot makers he could ill afford.
“You have as much to lose as I do if word of this comes out,” she reminded him quietly.
Josiah shook his head and his lip stuck out stubbornly. “I simply don’t believe you, Georgiana. This all some ridiculous joke at my expense. But mark my words, I will discover the truth.”
Georgie shrugged. “Believe what you will, but my marriage is fact.” She gestured to the door. “That is all, Josiah. I’m sure you have plenty of other places to be. Pieter will show you out.”
As the door slammed behind him, Georgie breathed a sigh of relief. Pieter returned and gave her a meaningful glance from under his bushy brows.
“He won’t be taking your word for it, Georgie. Not when he’s been after you for so long. No man wants to think he’s been pipped to the winning post.”
“Especially when he thought he was the lead horse in the race,” Georgie finished dryly. She tossed her head. “He won’t find out anything. And besides, even if he does, my marriage was perfectly legal. There’s nothing he can do about it. He’s just furious because the Caversteed fortune has slipped through his greedy, grasping fingers.”
Chapter 6.
Lady Langton’s ballroom was the usual wash of vapid chatter, politics, rivalries, witticisms, and gossip. Georgie stood next to her mother and feigned polite interest in the assorted comings and goings.
She was happy. Really. Everything was wonderful. Today—her twenty-fifth birthday—she’d finally become sole, legal owner of Caversteed Trading and Shipping. The family’s future was secure. Josiah’s plans had been stymied.
So why did she feel as if she were in an odd sort of limbo?
She’d blame it on the usual melancholy of being another year older and still unwed, but she was wed, wasn’t she? Maybe that was the problem. She was a married woman without a husband. A wife, yet still a virgin. What a mess.
She gazed across the dance floor and tried to ignore the sense of dissatisfaction that had plagued her ever since she’d left Newgate. According to her original plan, she should have been a widow by now. Instead, she had a husband, somewhere out there in the world.
Her stomach gave an anxious flutter every time she thought of the rogue she’d married. Their encounter had left her with a restless awareness of her own body, a strange yearning. Looking back, she was amazed at her own boldness. Her memories of that night had taken on elements of a dream, or a bout of madness.
She had to stop thinking about him.
It had been three weeks since she’d summoned her mother and sister into the library and calmly explained that she’d married a convict to avoid Cousin Josiah. Mother had taken the news surprisingly well. She’d long ago abandoned any hope of Georgie landing a decent husband, and she’d never particularly liked Cousin Josiah, so she sympathized with Georgie’s aversion to marrying him, if not her choice of alternative.
In addition, Mother was blessed with a talent for simply ignoring things she didn’t want to acknowledge, like outrageous dressmakers’ bills, the ruinous cost of claret, and wayward eldest daughters who secretly married criminals. Her main concern had been that the ton might find out about Georgie’s “foolish act,” as she called it. No scandal could be allowed to jeopardize Juliet’s chances of a brilliant match. She’d pronounced the whole affair an “unfortunate incident best forgotten,” and had sworn both Georgie and Juliet to secrecy.
“Do try one of these flans, Georgiana.”
Georgie turned. Only her mother ever called her Georgiana. And Pieter, of course, whenever she did something outrageous.
“I wonder if it would be possible to abduct Lady Langton’s pastry chef?” Mother muttered around a delicate mouthful of éclair. “He’s French, you know. These are divine.”
Georgie smiled, well used to such flights of fancy. “I don’t think it’s legal. And even if it were, it sounds expensive. I bet you’d have to lay out a tidy sum for a kidnapping. Even for a lowly pastry chef.”
Her mother chewed thoughtfully. “Hmm. You’re probably right. Besides, Cook wouldn’t like it if we let a revolutionary invade her kitchen.” She poked Georgie in the ribs with her folded fan. “I hope you’re not going to discuss trade routes with Lord Galveston again. This is supposed to be a party. No one wants to talk about latitude and longitude. Eccentricity is all very well in a ninety-year-old spinster, but it is hardly becoming in a woman who is only twenty-four.”
