The Blackmailed Bride

by Mandy Goff

  The quieter he became, the louder she grew.

  “I’m not marrying you.” Her tone was intractable, final, and Nick thought it best not to point out she was acting like a child.

  “Yes, you are.”

  “You cannot force me to the altar. The church requires my consent as much as yours.”

  She had him there. If Nick couldn’t get her to acquiesce, she would willingly ruin herself because of her stubbornness. Taking a few moments to pray silently, Nick waited, hoping the right words would come to him.

  “This will be good for both of us,” he said finally.

  “You don’t know me well enough to judge that,” she said hotly. “This marriage will ruin my life.”

  “You’ve said as much already.” He tried not to let her words sting. But it wasn’t working.

  Sighing in frustration, she sank deeper into the seat, rubbing her temples with her fingertips. “Don’t worry. Marcus will be home in a few days. He’ll help us sort this problem out.”

  Nick was one more protest away from losing his temper. “There’ll be nothing left for him to ‘sort out,’ as you say. We will be married.”

  She snorted. “I don’t know how many different ways you wish me to say no, but if you’ll provide me with a number, I’ll be happy to accommodate you.”

  “You’ll be ruined if you don’t marry me. I won’t let that happen just because you’re being stubborn.”

  “I’m ruined already.”

  Nick shook his head. “There will be talk, but the gossip will die quickly enough once we are wed. You’ll be properly married with the protection of my name.”

  She said nothing.

  He leaned across the carriage, catching her hands between his. “I will take care of you, Olivia. You’ll want for nothing.”

  Her eyes filled with skepticism. “You wouldn’t care that I don’t love you? That I can never love you?”

  He dropped her hands, surprised over how much those words hurt. Nick should have known while Finley was in the picture he’d have problems getting Olivia to cooperate.

  Her heart was, apparently, out of his reach.

  How had he allowed himself to believe he and Olivia could be happy together when she would always be pining for Finley?

  This time, as he addressed her, his own voice was cold and devoid of emotion. “You will marry me. And if you leave me no choice but to tell Marcus the truth about what happened tonight, I will.”

  Her protestations stopped immediately.

  “I’ll hate you for this,” she said after several blissful moments of silence.

  Nick was surprised at the venom in her voice. “I suppose I’ll have to take the chance. I will not abandon you to the wolves,” he said.

  “I’d be in better hands,” she spat.

  While he knew she didn’t mean it—at least he hoped she didn’t—the last insult was better aimed than the others.

  The carriage stopped in front of Olivia’s home, and Nick, seized by a very ungentlemanly impulse, simply threw the door open and watched her struggle to dismount by herself.

  “I’ll call upon you tomorrow, and I expect to be granted entrance.” He didn’t have to add the or else. The unspoken threat hung, festering in the air between them.

  Olivia barely acknowledged he had spoken, instead turning her back on him to walk to the door. But for a moment she paused and looked back toward the still-open entryway into the carriage.

  “I trust since you have my capitulation, you’ll have no need to tell my brother about this evening?” While she tried to hide it, the vulnerability gleamed in her eyes.

  Nick nodded curtly, thinking his voice might betray him. He wanted to call her back, to hold her until the pain in her eyes vanished.

  But he didn’t.

  After watching her safely inside, he signaled the coachman to continue home. As the carriage rumbled past the row of houses, Nick wondered if Olivia would ever come to care for him.

  Even just a little.

  “You naughty, naughty girl,” Henrietta chided as Olivia made her way to the breakfast table the next morning. She’d wanted nothing more than to hide in her room, pretending as though last evening had been a horrible nightmare. But the duchess had called upon her before the sun had really had a chance to rise, and Olivia had invited her friend to eat with her.

  “What, Henri?” she asked, pretending as though she had not heard her the first time.

  “I had to hear about you and my nephew from someone else. Imagine my embarrassment at having to be told two people close to me are planning to wed and I had not the faintest idea.” The duchess paused briefly to take a breath.

  Olivia seized the opportunity to interject. “The announcement was unintentional. After a rather unfortunate circumstance, Lord Huntsford decided to make his declaration public.”

  Henri’s eyes sharpened at the mention of the unfortunate circumstance, and Olivia knew as surely as she was sitting there, Henri had already been privy to the juicy details.

  “Well, it is rather romantic,” Henrietta said.

  “Yes, well the marquess quite literally refused to take no for an answer.”

  Henrietta sighed dreamily. “Why, my child, I couldn’t have done better for you if I had snagged the prince regent himself.”

  Olivia wondered how the duchess was planning to take credit for the events that transpired in the mockery of an engagement. Unless, of course, Henri was more cunning than anyone suspected.

  In a flash, Henrietta whipped out a small writing pad and commenced scribbling notes. “Now, it’s a shame your brother has not yet returned. I need him to contact whoever’s in charge of these matters to see if we can’t book Westminster Abbey for the wedding.” She paused her movements. “I suppose I shall have to plow ahead under the assumption your brother will be able to handle the task to my satisfaction.”

  Olivia cautiously began, “Isn’t it a bit soon to be planning the wedding?”

  Henri looked as though Olivia had suggested that one day women would be running around in breeches and driving horseless carriages.

  “Well, let’s plan for something small, then. Maybe here at my home,” Olivia said quickly before Henrietta could begin weeping over the missed opportunity to throw a gala. Olivia hoped to avoid a public spectacle or uproar…at least until she could find a way to extricate herself from this mess.

  As expected, Henri looked horrified. “I refuse—absolutely refuse—to allow my only nephew to be joined in matrimony to the woman I would love to claim as a daughter in the privacy of a home! We wouldn’t want everyone thinking you are ashamed of the match.” She waited a moment. “Or that circumstances are such that God wouldn’t be pleased at the event taking place in a church.”

  The duchess looked at her shrewdly.

  “I don’t think God has a preference where we wed, Henri,” Olivia said. Was God upset with the mess she’d gotten herself into, however? She sent up a silent prayer asking for a way out of the latest fiasco. “Well, I certainly do! And it’ll not be here in this squalor.” Henri gestured around the dining room, and Olivia strained to see how anyone could mistake the finely appointed furnishings as anything remotely resembling squalor.

  Henrietta continued with her furious list making. “Now, I was thinking the first things the guests would see would be a sea of roses as soon as the doors to the church are thrown wide.”

  Olivia groaned. It was painfully obvious she was going to be forced to sit and listen as her well-meaning friend handled the meticulous details. She just prayed the older woman wasn’t foolish enough to think Olivia would let her choose the dress. Although…Nick might well run from the altar if his intended waltzed down the aisle in something the shade of a pumpkin.

  Olivia picked at her plate, half listening to the duchess’s single-handed debate on the virtue of pink versus white roses. So much swarmed in her mind Olivia felt dizzy from the activity.

  Salvation came in the form of Gibbons at the door. “You h
ave a caller, Lady Olivia.”

  She nearly knocked over her chair in her haste to escape the duchess. Olivia didn’t bother to ask who it was. She would have gladly endured tea with the Viscount Danfield just to have a few moments of not having to speak about the “tremendous news.” But Olivia remembered her manners at the door and turned to look at Henri.

  “Go on,” the duchess said with a dismissive wave. “I’ll be here waiting for you when you’re done.”

  Olivia stifled a groan.

  Moments later, she entered the sitting room to find Nick standing by the fireplace. His presence—while not necessarily welcome—was expected.

  “Rather early for you to be about, isn’t it, Lord Huntsford?” she asked, taking a seat on the chair farthest from him.

  “Is it?” he asked, not yet moving from his position.

  “Yes, I thought you would need to sleep in this morning. I can’t say with surety, but I would imagine ruining lives is quite tiring.” She didn’t bother to hide the irritation in her voice. She might well be corralled into this marriage, but she wasn’t going to be docile and compliant about it.

  Nor was she going to stop and think about why she was so angry with the marquess. Truthfully, her own actions had instigated this entire affair, and she supposed most young women would be grateful for the marquess’s interference and assistance.

  But not her.

  If she were looking for a fight, however, Lord Huntsford didn’t appear as though he was going to oblige her. He crossed the room to stand in front of her. “I think perhaps I bungled things last evening,” he said simply.

  “That’s an astute observation.”

  He ignored her. “I realize nothing about this has been the least bit conventional. But I hope you’ll allow me a bit of tradition now.”

  She didn’t have time to ask what he meant before he knelt down before her. “I realize most women want poetry, and flowers, and romance,” he said, “but I think you would see through the fripperies. I know this marriage isn’t something you planned for yourself, but I sincerely hope you will join me in making the best of our lives together.”

  Nick reached up and lifted her hand from her lap. “Lady Olivia Fairfax, I would be honored if you would consent to become my wife.” He took something from his pocket and slipped it on her finger. Something cold and heavy—a complement to the feeling of dread gripping her.

  Olivia looked down, preparing herself to be unimpressed by whatever she saw on her finger. But it didn’t work.

  The ring was stunning, a large sapphire set in the midst of a circle of diamonds. The gems caught the sun and cast little shining points of light on the closest wall.

  She drew an involuntary breath. “It’s beautiful,” she said.

  Tears sprung to her eyes, and she didn’t bother to try to hold them back. The situation was so inconceivably—and unjustly—ridiculous. Were Olivia any other woman, this would have been the happiest moment of her life. Instead, she was embroiled in a farcical charade of a betrothal…a second charade of a betrothal.

  Nick had only to glimpse her tears before bolting upright and wrapping her in his arms. He murmured words to her she couldn’t make out—ones undoubtedly meant to comfort. And Olivia wanted nothing more than to lose herself in the embrace, to forget about Finley and his threats.

  But that was impossible. She knew, better than anyone, the serious ramifications of marrying Nick, or even agreeing to an engagement. How then could she feel anything but sorrow?

  Stemming the tide of tears and composing herself took several moments. It was better by far for her to be angry rather than sad, Olivia decided. If she were able to convince herself Nick cared nothing for her wishes, she could remain distant and aloof. But the Nick who thought enough to procure a ring, even for their sham of an engagement, was too complicated for her to handle.

  Olivia needed to buy some time until she figured out how she was going to undo this mess.

  “I think we should discuss the terms of our arrangement.” Her voice was shaky, and she coughed to cover the fact.

  Nick looked at her warily but nodded his assent. “All right.”

  “My first term,” she began, “is for you to walk into the other room and find a way to pry your aunt away from my table. I’ve no wish to discuss wedding plans today.”

  He smiled. “Do I get to propose a counterterm?”

  Olivia thought about this. “I suppose.”

  Nick’s grin grew wider. “A kiss?”

  “Certainly,” she agreed.

  “Really?”

  “I assume you wish the kiss first?” she asked.

  Nick nodded slowly, still looking ill at ease.

  “And if I grant your request, you’ll handle mine?”

  He nodded again.

  “Very well,” she said on a sigh, rising from her seat and standing in front of him. “Whenever you are ready,” she announced. She daintily held out the back of her hand.

  Nick laughed but took her hand and pressed his lips to her bare skin. “You have bested me,” he said with a smile. “Now, I shall go slay the dragon for your fair ladyship.”

  He left the room, and Olivia flopped into a chair. She held the back of her hand to her own lips.

  And she pretended—just for a moment—she wasn’t going to have to ruin everything.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Olivia tossed and turned for several hours that evening. She could tell the moment the rest of the house went silent and retired for the night. But she remained awake and lucid. Marcus would be home in less than a week. And she had no ready excuse to give him for the chaos he was sure to discover when he returned.

  She was no closer to a solution that involved not marrying the marquess, nor was she anywhere near a plan that meant she’d not have to honor the agreement she’d struck with Finley. It had been a dangerous bargain with the baron. She’d known it from the beginning but hadn’t realized how much she’d be losing in the end.

  When she closed her eyes, hoping nerves and pure exhaustion would win in the epic battle between sleeping and not, Nick’s was the face she saw. She envisioned the way his mouth quirked when he found something funny. And his were the hands she felt lingering against her cheek though they were physically far apart.

  Would it be that way after she and Finley married? Would she look at her husband and instead see the man she was growing to wish she could marry?

  A commotion from downstairs caught her attention just as her eyes were closing on something promisingly like sleep.

  Olivia pushed her unbound hair back from her face as she sat up. “What?” she asked the empty room.

  Throwing on a robe and belting it securely, she opened the door to her bedroom, looked both ways down the hall and stepped out when she found it empty. Should I grab a candelabrum, a weapon against whomever might be intruding? But she discarded the thought. Creeping unnoticed downstairs would be difficult enough without having to heft the weight of a heavy weapon.

  “His lordship has given me explicit instructions not to let you enter,” Gibbons’s voice rose up the expansive stairwell to her.

  Finley.

  It had to be. Marcus wouldn’t deny entrance to anyone else, and the baron was the only person with enough gall to come to her house at—she looked at the clock—one in the morning.

  Finley’s voice was lower in his response, but Olivia could still make out the words. They sent chills skittering across her back.

  “Your lordship has no authority over me,” he informed the butler. “I demand an audience with your mistress, now.”

  Olivia, struck for a moment by the very unlikely humor in the situation, wished she could see Gibbons’s face after being dismissed so summarily.

  “You, sir, are drunk,” Gibbons declared. “And I no more intend on letting you see my mistress than I plan on letting you sleep off your drink on the front steps.”

  After Gibbons’s observation, Olivia noticed Finley’s words did sound slurred. It
was difficult to tell where one syllable ended and another began. Wonderful, Finley in her house at all was more than she wanted to deal with. Finley after he’d been imbibing was another thing entirely.

  “You should probably let your mistress decide if she wants to see me or not,” she heard Finley saying. “I believe you’ll find she’s most eager to oblige me.”

  Olivia, poised at the top of the stairs, warred with indecision on whether she should descend. Or, like a coward, retreat to her chambers and allow Gibbons and the able-bodied footmen to deal with the problem of the drunken baron.

  Before Gibbons could edge in a retort, Finley’s voice came in clearer, as though he had turned his head toward the stairs—knowing she was at the top, listening in.

  “I think you’ll find she’s most agreeable to come down. And if she hasn’t done so in two minutes after you deliver my request to see her, then I think she’ll realize she’s misjudged my generous nature,” he said, now sounding threateningly lucid.

  “I’ll not be delivering any kind of message for you.” Gibbons’s outrage rang through every word.

  Olivia gave the ends of her sash a yank, fortifying herself against what was likely going to be an unpleasant confrontation. The twenty-six stairs down to the entryway suddenly seemed thrice the number, and Olivia thought of about as many reasons why she should turn around and lock herself back in her room. But she forced one foot in front of the other until she’d made it down the flight.

  Gibbons had his back to her, and without wanting to startle him, she laid her hand on his shoulder. The butler whirled to face her. “It’s all right. I’ll see him.”

  “I don’t think it’s wise, my lady.” His words were clipped.

  Olivia tried to look imperious, which was rather difficult considering she was attired in nothing but her nightgown and robe. She also tried to ignore Finley’s eyes on her, scorching through the layers of clothing she wore.

  “Am I not in charge of this house when my brother is away?” she asked Gibbons.

  His nod was curt.

  She turned her attention to Finley. “I’ll see you in the morning room.” Then she turned her back on him as though he ceased to exist to her.