God, he was in a foul mood tonight. He sat down at his desk and shuffled through the papers, thinking the work would distract him. It didn’t.
Why was he feeling like smashing every priceless object in the house? He should be delighted! The report on Miss Wembly was promising. He had been given a thorough review of her background—quite august—her family-blessedly small, and her character. Everything had shown her to advantage. This was a tremendous relief after the two applicants he had interviewed so far. Completely unacceptable, both of them. One, a thin wisp of a woman who looked as if the sight of her own shadow would send her into fits, and the other a strange, quirky girl of good breeding who had the annoying habit of twisting her nose, as if she were smelling something foul. Miss Wembly was far and away the best candidate.
Not only that, but he was favorably impressed with the woman herself. Perhaps too much so. He might as well admit it. Might as well also admit he had known she was the one from the first.
Well maybe not from the very first. When he had caught her gazing at her own reflection, he assumed she was some vapid, inadequately-bred chit. What he found on subsequent acquaintance was a woman who could match his wit. A woman who wanted his money, but was brave enough to say so directly. She had not breached propriety, yet neither had she fainted when he had laid his hands on her, showing herself able to handle herself in difficult situations.
And she could set his blood on fire.
That was what had him on edge tonight. Miss Wembly.
Lovely Miss Wembly, who dressed like a siren, acted the prig and yet looked at him with such challenge. An excellent choice to bear his child.
Miss Wembly who could tempt a saint with her pouting mouth and flashing eyes and who was—damn her—making him feel a new and terrible dread of leaving this world.
He pushed the thought away, crossed quickly to the decanter and splashed more whiskey in his glass. He downed it in a single swallow.
He must not think of dying. He would lose his focus, his mission. He would lose himself.
Glancing at the stack of papers on his desk, he swiped them off with a growl. Dishes and scraps of food scattered onto the floor, ruining the documents.
It made no difference. Caroline Wembly would be his wife. Waiting had merely been a formality, and his investigation of her halfhearted. It did not matter if a dozen fullblooded princesses wanted the position. He had decided. Miss Wembly’s mother could sport a cockney accent and her dead father turn out to be a fishmonger, and still Magnus knew he would have no other.
Impatiently, he unfastened the studs at his collar, opening the fine lawn shirt to midchest. He was growing warm. Perhaps he had drunk too much. Even as he thought it, he knew otherwise.
His suspicion was borne out when he began to sweat and his stomach curled gently, a teasing premonition of what was to come.
This is how it always started. His pulse quickened, as if his blood had grown thick and unwieldy in his veins. His heart felt ready to burst out of his chest, he struggled to his feet. He needed to call Arthur. Assessing his position quickly, he saw he was closer to the door than to the bell-. pull.
He made his way to the hallway, advancing only a few steps before he was able to go no farther. Cursing himself for waiting too long to summon help, he stumbled as his legs began to buckle. He was falling. Reaching out, he grabbed at a marble pedestal, knocking it askew and bringing the Chinese vase which had been set upon it down with him. The sound of it breaking into countless shards was satisfying, and sufficient to wake the entire house. He smiled wryly. He had been wanting to break something all night.
A young parlor-maid, Wendy, was the first to arrive. Arthur was fast on her heels, barking for her to return to her room. The manservant called for two burly footmen who hurried out of the attics in their nightshirts. With the efficiency and care of much practice, they hauled Magnus to his feet and bore him to his rooms.
“Get me the chamber pot,” Magnus managed to say. Arthur cleared the room, locked the door and brought his master the basin, holding it as Magnus retched in violent spasms. He was on fire, feeling as if his skin were suddenly too small for his organs. It was a nasty attack, one of the worst. How many more would he endure? When he felt well, he could scarcely fathom the fact that he was ill, but in these moments when his whole being screamed in torment, he knew with certainty he would not survive long.
Arthur gave him his paltry measure of laudanum. The beneficial effects set in immediately. The valet was summoned and undressed his master, laying Magnus carefully on the bed. Cool cloths were placed on his feverish skin. He slept, occasionally waking to vomit and shiver and wait until it was safe to administer another dose of soothing medication.
It went on like this throughout the night and most of the next day. In his waking moments, Magnus could think only of the woman who had sat with him in the grand salon. He feared he would never have the chance to act on the carnal desires which she stirred in his blood, making him crave a lifetime of such pleasures as she offered. Worse, if he died now, he would not be given the opportunity to lay his seed in her belly to take root and bring forth his redemption.
Chapter Three
Magnus straightened the pile of papers on his desk before answering the knock at his study door. “Come,” he said, leaning back in the tufted leather chair and watching as the slender woman entered. He smiled. “Miss Wembly.”
“My lord.”
“Please have a seat.” He indicated one of the two tapestry chairs situated in front of his massive desk.
She was dressed more soberly today, and Magnus was grateful her décolletage was more in keeping with convention. A modest fichu of starched lace frothed at her throat, crowning a simple gown of fawn muslin. He would not be distracted by that enticing swell of exposed breasts, at least. Yet, his mind savored the taunting memory even as the corners of his mouth drew down in disappointment.
“Thank you for coming so promptly,” he stated without inflection. “I have completed my investigation of your application, and can inform you.” Here he paused, conscious that this was no way to propose to a woman. “Of my decision to accept you as my wife.”
She was silent. Stunned, probably, but she recovered quickly. “Th-thank you, my lord.”
She didn’t smile. He wanted to see her smile. Ever since he had first laid eyes on her a week ago, he had wondered what that gorgeous face would look like lit up with laughter. He had seen her angry, wary, prideful and bristling with indignation, but he had not seen a whisper of happiness on those striking features.
“Are you not pleased, Miss Wembly?” he drawled.
“Yes, I am, of course, my lord.”
“You seem as if I just asked you if you would stop stepping on my foot.”
A faltering smile, which was worse than her seriousness, appeared. “I apologize. I suppose I was simply surprised. I thought it would take longer.”
“I began the necessary inquiries when your application was first made. Other than your family history, everything I require has been completed, and after some preliminary investigation, I have decided not to pursue it. I really do not see the need to wait, as time is of the essence.”
Her mouth made a small O, but she said nothing.
“I have taken the liberty of applying for a special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury, who is an excellent friend. The dispensation will be granted posthaste, and we will be free to marry anytime after that. I would, of course, wish to have the ceremony soon so that we may begin our wedded life.”
His pulse quickened just thinking about the implications of those words. He could see she was reacting too, a little, by the pink tinge which spread up her neck to those delicate ears.
My God, he was like a randy youth hot after his first woman. In fact, his body was responding much as it had in his adolescence at the sight of a desirable female. He was grateful he was seated safely behind the desk.
Her next words offered another explanation for the prett
y flush of color. “There are some arrangements I need to discuss, of course. Financial arrangements.”
Like ice water, those words killed his brewing desire. “Of course,” he said crisply. He withdrew a document from a stack of files. “You remember Mr. Caractacus Green, the solicitor handling this transaction? I have asked him to draw up an agreement by which all will be made clear to you. In addition, I am giving you a copy of my will, so that you will know exactly the settlement I have arranged for you and the child upon my death.”
“And if there is no child?”
His mouth tensed. “You will be given a generous annuity, which I have arranged with David, who will inherit the title. It is all explained here.” He proffered the document.
Slender hands reached out and took it from him. She perused it. “It does not mention a specific amount.”
Coldness settled in deeper. “No,” he said. “We can amend that if you prefer. I simply thought we would leave it open. I do not imagine there are any expenses I cannot afford. However, if you feel the need to have it stipulated clearly.”
“I do,” she nodded definitely. “What amount had you in mind?”
He laced his fingers in front of his chin, regarding her steadily for a moment. “You name a figure.”
She was startled, and he grinned maliciously. He wanted her off guard, uncertain.
His glee at forcing her to ask for a monetary amount was cut off when she named a figure no larger than one of his footman’s salaries. She sat unmoving under his glare, and only by her preternatural stillness could he detect the crucial nature of these proceedings. He didn’t understand it. Not yet. But, Lord, she did intrigue him.
He reached out his hand for the document. Taking up his quill, he inserted an addendum. “I’ll double it,” he stated as he scrawled the amount, still remarkably small to his way of thinking, on the contract.
When he raised his head, his heart stopped dead in his chest and his arm, halfway extended to return the document to her, suspended in midmotion. She was staring at him with the most exquisite expression, a mingling of joy and gratitude, with a sheen in her eyes as if there were tears building. He had not thought it possible for her to be lovelier than when she had hissed and spat at him like a cornered she-cat, but there it was.
After a long moment, her hand came up to take the document, and the spell was broken. He let out the breath that had caught in his throat and busied himself with shuffling papers while she read over the rest of the agreement and affixed her neat signature. He in turn impatiently scrawled his own name.
The deal was done.
“Now,” he began, “there are some details which we have to contend with. Namely, the disposition of your mother. I would prefer if she did not reside at Hawking Park. I am a private man, and my illness makes me more so.”
“About that,” she interrupted softly, “your illness, I mean, I was wondering.that is, I do not know.”
Something gentle made him save her from the discomfiture of her question. “Is it the nature of my illness you wish to know about?” She nodded. “I am afraid I cannot tell you that, Miss Wembly.” At her self-conscious glance downward, he explained, “I do not know for certain, nor do any of my physicians. My symptoms indicate a weak heart, but the weakness does not follow the usual course. It is generally agreed that it is an atypical disease of the heart. However, there is one aspect upon which there is complete agreement. The attacks are coming more frequently, more severely, and will in time result in my heart ceasing to function. Just as my father’s did. It is hereditary you see—a wretched curse. How lucky for you that you come from healthy stock and have nothing to worry about.”
There was a long, broad silence. She simply returned his regard with a strange look on her face and the unexpected desire to know her thoughts registered in his brain.
“I am so sorry,” she said at last.
God, there was true regret in her eyes! “There is nothing to be done about my condition. As for my most profound wish, you are providing it for me, so do not apologize.” His tone was harsh, and he immediately regretted it. “About my condition,” he continued, unable to disaffect the curtness in his voice, “there is one expectation we have not discussed. I hope it will not be a hardship for you, but I will wish you to attend me during the episodes of my illness.”
She blinked, seeming to be taken aback. “Attend you?”
“As a nurse. A companion, really, for there are servants to do the more onerous duties.” For an instant, her gaze melted into his, and he knew she understood. He himself had not anticipated the desire to have her close to him at his death, but it was there as a sudden, urgent need to not die alone. She nodded and said, “Of course.”
“Thank you. Now, are there any questions you have?”
“Yes. If my mother is not allowed at Hawking Park, where shall she live? I was hoping she would be provided a better home than the place where she presently resides.”
He considered her request for a moment. “There is my London house, which is quite spacious, and a staff of servants remain year round. Also, I have a lodge in the Cumbrian Lake district. It is a more than modest residence and also comes with an intact staff.”
“Someplace close, if you please,” she asked, biting her lip as if she hardly dared request more than was already being so generously offered.
“Hmm. Someplace close.” He thought for a moment. “I cannot think of a thing. Unless.”
“Yes?”
“Until something suitable can be agreed upon, or until my death, I will continue to make the suite at the Ordinary available to her.”
It was then it happened. The smile he had wished for, fulfilling the promise of all he had dreamt it would be. She clasped her hands together and nodded, as if speech failed her.
It certainly failed him. There was a long pause as he studied her unguarded delight. Recovering, he cleared his throat. “Very well, I will make the necessary arrangements.”
When they had signed the papers, he called in Mr. Green, whom he had kept waiting in the parlor, much to the solicitor’s obvious and abundant displeasure. The sourfaced man looked over the adjustments, giving Caroline a slow, disdainful perusal when, Magnus guessed, he came to the annotation about her allowance. Shifting his gaze to his client, Green opened his mouth and was about to say something. Magnus bestowed a quelling glare, stopping the objections before they were spoken. With a snort and a “Harumph!”, Green stuffed the papers into his portfolio.
“I shall see to these, my lord,” he said, darting one more disapproving glance toward the future countess before taking his leave.
Caroline visibly relaxed in his absence. Catching Magnus’s eye, she gave a sheepish smile. “He does not like me, I am afraid.”
But I do, Miss Wembly.
“He is merely looking out for my interests,” Magnus explained. “Come, I shall take you on a tour of the house. My brother said he would be arriving today, and with any luck he will be here in time to join us at luncheon.”
“Oh,” Caroline said, surprised.
“That is, if you do not have other plans?” He meant his tone to communicate she would certainly break any other commitments should that be the case.
“No, as a matter of fact I had nothing other than returning to the Barrister’s Ordinary to take luncheon with Mother.”
Pushing his chair away from his desk, he rose. “I will send a man to inform her you are spending the afternoon with me. Would that be acceptable?” Before she could agree or disagree, he came to take her elbow and proceed with her out into the corridor. “Would you care for tea now?”
“N-no,” she answered. “I am not hungry just yet.”
“Excellent. Then we shall start on this floor and work our way up.”
She stopped. “Up?”
He turned. Her eyes, those magnificent depths which had seemed indigo or violet or some indefinable color he had never witnessed before, were in fact a deep blue shot through with swirling gray,
rather like a storm cloud. Thickly fringed with dark blond lashes, they possessed a haunted, otherworldly quality. She stared at him now, her features signaling mild alarm.
He chuckled. “I assure you, Miss Wembly, I am content to wait out the week until you are my wife, properly wed. The tour is not a ruse to compromise your sterling respectability.”
Those eyes he had just studied flashed blue fire. Ah, yes, they were nearly violet. “Are you mocking me, sir?”
“Not at all. Simply trying to reassure you I am not half the reprobate I am reputed to be. Have I not acted the gentleman thus far?”
She seemed unsure. “Yes,” she admitted.
“See? It is just that my circumstances defy propriety’s dictates. I haven’t the time to import my great-aunt, who is the reigning matriarch and acknowledged authority on the family history. Thus, I must do it myself. Besides,” he said, pausing as he gave her a lazy look, “it will give us time to become better acquainted.”
She regarded him for a moment, her face unmoving and unreadable. At last, she said, “Very well, my lord.”
They started in the huge, circular entryway with its twostory Palladian windows and Ionic columns. As they wandered, the earl kept up a running monologue of the history of the house.
“This is my mother’s salon, which you’ve seen. She used to gather with her friends here each day. They were all artists and musicians—Bohemian types. That is why there is no music room, it was incorporated as part of this one. Now, down here is the grand dining room. I rarely use it.” He paused, looking about. “Come to think of it, I have never used it.”
He showed her the other rooms: a smaller dining room, a cozy parlor, a large mirrored ballroom with so much leaded glass and gilt it made her dizzy. He introduced her to every servant they came across and even took her into the kitchens where his appearance was met with an enthusiastic reception from Mrs. Bronson, the cook.
“Mercy, aren’t you a love?” she cooed to Caroline, smiling and clasping her pudgy hands together. “It’s wonderful, we all say. What a lovely thing, the two of you meetin’ like that and decidin’ to marry right off. Oh, terrible romantic it is!”
A Rose at Midnight Page 4
