The Bridegroom

by Joan Johnston

  Becky set the little girl down, and Lily ran on teetering three-year-old legs, her arms swinging akimbo, into Reggie’s embrace.

  Reggie swept the child up into her lap and gave her a quick hug, then kissed Lily’s neck below her ear, where she knew the child was ticklish.

  The little girl squealed and writhed with delight. “Aunt Reggie, stop!”

  Reggie merely switched her attack to Lily’s rounded belly, drawing her dress up and blowing on her stomach to make loud, rude noises.

  Lily giggled with glee.

  “Stop that, both of you!” Becky said, sending a furtive look over her shoulder through the open door to the hallway. “Someone may hear you.”

  Reggie looked up, her enjoyment arrested by Becky’s admonition. “It is your home, Becky. Who should say you nay?”

  “Not me!” a male voice said from the doorway.

  Becky spun, her hand to her heart. “Mick! Oh, my God, I thought—”

  Despite the fact Becky was closer to the door, it was Reggie who reached Mick first, Lily clutched tightly in her arms. “Mick! How wonderful to see you! Your hair needs a trim,” she said as she tugged on the wavy black hair that had grown over his collar. “But you look fit.”

  “I’m glad to hear I don’t appear the total scapegrace,” he said with a grin.

  Reggie leaned back and examined his face, as though looking for evidence of his good character. A spray of crow’s-feet framed his sky blue eyes, a result of his tendency toward frequent laughter, and two vertical lines marked the edges of a surprisingly sensual mouth. He was undeniably a handsome man. “You’re a devilish rascal, if ever I saw one,” she announced.

  As he enfolded both her and Lily in his arms, Reggie could not help thinking how glad she was he had come. Perhaps Mick could help her figure out what it was about Carlisle that troubled her, and of course, there was Becky’s problem with Penrith to be resolved.

  Reggie stepped back and asked, “All right. What is it? A boy or a girl?”

  “You have a sister, Lady Margaret Moira Wharton,” Mick announced. “Better known as Meg. Mother and child are both doing well.”

  “Thank the good lord for that,” Reggie said.

  Mick chucked Lily under the chin and said, “You’re a sight for sore eyes, little one.”

  Lily shyly ducked her head into the niche between Reggie’s neck and shoulder.

  “I guess she doesn’t remember her uncle Mick,” Mick said. “I cannot believe it has been two years since last I saw her.” He turned to Becky. “Am I going to get a welcome hug from you?”

  Becky stood rooted to the spot where she had been standing when Mick entered the drawing room, her hand still pressed against her heart, her eyes focused on him, her face ashen.

  Reggie was sickened to think that Becky was so frightened at the thought of Penrith catching them in a moment of unreserved gaiety that she was near fainting. She opened her mouth to chide her twin for being such a peagoose, but at the last instant saw something in Becky’s eyes that took her breath away.

  Dear God. She is in love. With Mick.

  Reggie’s gaze shot to Mick’s face where, to her shock and dismay, she saw the same desperate, longing look in his eyes. Love … and something more. Overwhelming despair.

  Reggie felt the muscles deep in her belly squeeze up tight, as though she had just seen a raw, bleeding wound. She felt certain neither of them had intended for her to divine their feelings, and indeed, she wished she had not. Her heart ached for both of them.

  As Reggie watched their stilted greeting, a hug that was brief and from which each immediately stepped back, she noticed that both were careful to conceal their forbidden feelings from the other. Reggie tried to recall whether their last greeting had been so awkward and reserved, but it had occurred nearly two years past, and she could conjure no recollection of it.

  For one completely mad moment, Reggie considered how wonderful it would be if Mick and Becky were to marry. Mick would never mistreat her sister. Reggie knew he would make a perfect brother-in-law, because he had been a perfect “brother.” Thanks to their father, Mick had even been educated at Eton. Standing before her in his tailored plum jacket, buckskins, and shiny black Hessians, he looked every bit the Corinthian.

  But Mick was no gentleman. He was the bastard son of an Irish whore. There was no way Michael O’Malley could ever hope to marry a duke’s daughter. Presuming Becky were free to marry. Which she was not.

  It is impossible. Even if Becky could be separated from Penrith, Papa would never allow it.

  On the other hand, why not? They could live in Scotland, far away from Society and its strictures.

  Lily snuggled closer, her cold nose pressing against Reggie’s neck.

  Reggie looked down at the child in her arms and realized she was holding both the source of—and the primary obstacle to—her sister’s happiness. Even her father’s vast influence could not silence the scandal that would ensue if Becky married a whore’s bastard son. Lily’s chances of making a good marriage would be ruined. She would be refused admittance to the best houses. Whispers would follow wherever she went.

  Becky would never trade Lily’s happiness for her own. And even if Becky were willing to take the risk, Reggie knew Mick would never sacrifice Becky’s and Lily’s happiness for his own satisfaction. It was a tragedy with no possible happy ending.

  “It is good to see you again, Becky,” Mick said. “You are looking …” A crease formed between his brows, and he turned to confront Reggie. “Have you been running your sister ragged, keeping her out all hours of the night at routs and balls? If you have, Reggie, I swear I will—”

  “I am not the one to blame for her deuced appearance!” Reggie said, surprising herself with the strong language that popped out of her mouth.

  “Then who is?” Mick demanded.

  “Penrith,” Reggie blurted.

  Mick’s frown deepened. He reached out slowly and laid his hand along Becky’s cheek, caressing the shadow beneath her eye with his thumb. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Reggie could see the struggle Becky waged between moving closer to Mick and stepping away from the comfort he offered. At last Becky said, “It is something William and I must work out between ourselves. But thank you for the offer.”

  Mick’s hand dropped away, but their eyes caught and held.

  Reggie felt her throat clog with feeling.

  “The Earl of Carlisle,” Hardy announced.

  Mick and Becky sprang apart.

  Reggie barely stifled a groan. It was Carlisle, come courting. She wondered if he would discern the feelings Mick and Becky were being so careful to hide from each other, but which seemed so blatantly obvious, now that Reggie had become aware of them.

  She sought Carlisle’s eyes as he entered the drawing room for a clue to what he was thinking. She was flustered by the sudden flash of hunger she found in his gaze and stunned by the matching flare of desire that rose within her.

  Carlisle was dressed, as usual, entirely in black with snowy white linen. She let her gaze follow the breadth of his shoulders to his narrow waist and hips, then down the length of strong legs outlined by tight-fitting breeches, to tasseled Hessians. Her perusal could not have taken more than a few seconds, but when her gaze returned to the earl’s face, she found his eyes heavy-lidded with desire.

  Reggie had never been so aware of a man in her life, but she felt helpless to extricate herself from what was fast becoming, in light of their audience, an unseemly encounter.

  “Welcome, my lord,” Becky said with considerable aplomb, as she made her curtsy. “You find us en famille.” She crossed to take Lily from Reggie, leaving Reggie feeling even more nakedly open to the earl’s regard.

  “May I introduce my father’s steward, Mr. O’Malley,” Becky said. “Mr. O’Malley, the Earl of Carlisle.”

  Carlisle seemed to realize of a sudden that they were not alone. His eyes narrowed as they settled on Mick. “We have met b
efore,” he said in a voice Reggie hardly recognized, it was so cold and hard. “And parted less than amicably.”

  “I recall the moment vividly, my lord,” Mick said in an equally unpleasant voice.

  “Perhaps you would like to share your recollection,” Reggie said to Mick.

  Mick’s lips curled down in distaste. “It is Carlisle’s moment and therefore his to share.”

  Reggie was perplexed. She had never seen Mick take anyone in such instant dislike. Except, it was not instant dislike, she realized. The two men had obviously met in the past, and not on good terms. She was convinced by Carlisle’s black looks that a request for elaboration would not be welcome. But if he were ever to become her husband, he would be seeing a great deal of Michael O’Malley. Better to know the worst now than to face calamity later.

  “I think I must hear this story, my lord,” Reggie said.

  “I do not choose to tell it,” Carlisle replied.

  “If you do not, I shall,” Mick retorted. “Especially in light of recent events.”

  “What recent events?” Reggie asked.

  “The day before I left Scotland, the traces snapped on the carriage your stepmother uses when she travels to Mishnish. When the horses broke free, the carriage overturned and nearly slid over a cliff into the sea.”

  Reggie gasped. “You said Kitt and the baby were well!”

  “She is well, only a little bruised. Meg was home safe with her nurse. But it was a near thing. It seems the leather had been cut nearly through with a knife.” Mick focused his blue eyes on Carlisle as though expecting a response.

  Reggie looked from Mick to the earl, whose face had become a wall of stone. “What does Lord Carlisle have to do with an accident in Scotland?” she asked.

  “I had nothing to do with it,” Carlisle said flatly.

  “So you say!” Mick shot back.

  “Why would you suspect the earl of such perfidy?” Reggie demanded, incensed on Carlisle’s behalf.

  “It is obvious Lord Carlisle has not told you quite all there is to know about himself,” Mick said.

  Reggie glanced at Carlisle and saw the flush—was it rage or shame?—rise on his cheeks. She had suspected he was keeping something from her, but obviously it was something of even greater import than she had imagined. But she could not imagine the earl being responsible for such a heinous act. “Lord Carlisle has been in company with me these past weeks,” she said. “How could he be the one who cut the traces on Kitt’s carriage?”

  “He is rich enough to hire someone else to do his dirty work,” Mick accused.

  Reggie turned to Carlisle, whose dark, dangerous eyes were focused on Mick.

  “If you were a gentleman,” Carlisle said to Mick with a sneer, “I would challenge you for that.”

  Reggie’s head snapped around to see how Mick had taken Carlisle’s insult. He looked ready to launch himself bodily at the earl.

  Becky grabbed Mick’s arm and begged, “Mick, please, do not provoke the earl. My lord, I am sorry—”

  “Don’t apologize to him!” Mick snarled at her.

  Becky looked stunned at Mick’s attack.

  Lily let out a howl of protest at all the shouting. Her eyes scrunched up and her fists clutched at Becky’s hair, grabbing handfuls and holding on tight.

  “Ow!” Becky cried.

  Mick’s attention was torn from Carlisle by the need to rescue Becky from Lily’s painful hold.

  Reggie took advantage of the commotion to announce, “I am afraid we will have to postpone our meeting, my lord.” She took Carlisle’s arm—it was hard as stone—and ushered him toward the door to the drawing room. She could not hear his addresses now, not before Mick’s accusations had been explained away. And she wanted time to compose herself before she heard Carlisle’s confession, whatever it turned out to be.

  “I have had a message from Miss Henwick’s Home beseeching my immediate presence,” Reggie improvised. “I am sorry I was unable to advise you sooner and spare you an unnecessary visit.”

  “Reggie, I—”

  “Please, my lord,” she said, making it clear he was no longer welcome. “I cannot speak with you now.”

  He bowed to her and said, “I will see you soon, Lady Regina.”

  It sounded more like a warning than a promise. It was not until Carlisle was gone that Reggie realized he had not observed the courtesy of taking his leave of either her sister or Mick. When she turned to search them out, she saw why.

  Mick was holding both her tearful sister and the whimpering child in his arms—in what could only be termed an embrace. Reggie took a deep breath and let it out. This would never do. She crossed the room and put her own arm around Becky, forcing Mick to relinquish his hold. But his eyes never left Becky’s.

  Reggie was annoyed by Mick’s behavior. She had invited him to London hoping he would be a source of succor. But all he had done so far was create more problems with his amorous attentions toward her sister and his mysteriously violent attack on Carlisle. “Why do you think Carlisle is to blame for what happened to Kitt?” she demanded. “Papa made every effort to ensure Carlisle’s lands and title were restored. Surely the earl must be grateful to Papa, not angry with him.”

  Mick made a face and shook his head but said nothing.

  “You will have to tell us something,” Becky said in a voice intended to ameliorate Reggie’s aggravated tone.

  “I promised your father I would not accuse Carlisle without proof,” Mick said disgustedly. “He says he has wronged the earl enough, and that he will not compound prior insult with further injury.”

  “So you are only speculating that the earl is to blame?” Reggie said, her face revealing her disappointment in Mick.

  “It cannot be anyone else,” Mick argued.

  “Why not?” Reggie said.

  “Carlisle is the most logical culprit.”

  “But he was here in England courting me.”

  “Why would a rake like him bother courting a woman known as the Ice Princess, a disagreeable female who has rejected every eligible suitor for the past four Seasons. Think, Reggie!”

  Reggie stared at Mick. She felt nauseated. “Are you suggesting the earl is courting me for some reason other than the pleasure of my company?”

  Mick’s face looked troubled. “I’m sorry if you have let yourself like the man, Reggie, but I cannot believe it is simply coincidence that Carlisle sought you out.”

  “I sought him out,” Reggie countered, her face heating. “Despite what you say, I believe the earl has developed a genuine fondness for me.”

  “You are only fooling yourself,” Mick said. “I think—”

  “Are you suggesting I’m incapable of knowing when a man is dissembling? Why do you think I have waited so long to marry?” Reggie said angrily. “I have never met a man I could like as much as I like the earl. I have tested him in every way I can conceive, and he has never failed to impress me with his goodness, his kindness, his—”

  “Perhaps we should sit down and discuss this calmly,” Becky suggested.

  Reggie felt a knot in the pit of her stomach. She was afraid to examine Mick’s accusations too closely. Afraid of what she would discover. “I cannot stay. As you must have heard me tell Lord Carlisle, I have an appointment at Miss Henwick’s Home this afternoon.”

  Reggie felt like sobbing. And would have, if she were the sort of female who allowed herself to become a watering pot. She had an awful premonition that once Mick told her everything he knew about Carlisle, she might never want to see the earl again. Carlisle could not have kept the truth so well hidden from her. He must have a care for her; she would have discovered a lie. She was not like her sister. She had been so very, very careful to look before she leaped.

  “I will return in time to join you for supper,” Reggie said as she fled the room.

  She would deal with everything at supper. She would listen to what Mick had to say about Carlisle. And she would distract Penrith, so he percei
ved no evidence of the obvious attraction between Michael O’Malley and his wife.

  “Pike and Jarvey understand they’re not to strike her?” Clay said to Pegg as they stopped near Miss Henwick’s Home in a closed carriage that was purposely absent the Carlisle crest.

  “They’ve been with ye since the Sea Dragon first set sail,” Pegg said. “They’ll do their best.”

  Which meant, Clay thought, they might be provoked to violence. He shoved aside any second thoughts. Reggie had given him no choice. “I should have kidnapped her a month ago and saved myself the trouble of a courtship,” he muttered as he stared out into the black, starless night. A misty rain made the cobblestones glisten in the light from a flickering gas lamp on the corner.

  “ ’Twas not time wasted,” Pegg said. “The lass trusts ye now. When ye rescue her from a fate worse than death, she’ll be glad to marry ye.”

  Clay was upset with himself for not broaching the subject of a leg shackle sooner with Reggie. He should have known his luck would run out. But he did not intend to see his plans foiled by the sudden appearance of Blackthorne’s steward, Michael O’Malley, even if it meant arranging things so the duke’s daughter would be forced to marry him.

  He had not believed Reggie’s story that she had an appointment at Miss Henwick’s Home, so it had been a relief to see her leaving Penrith’s town house within minutes of his own departure earlier in the afternoon. The foolish female had not even bothered to disguise herself in old clothes and had hailed a public hackney to reach her destination. She had stayed long past an hour when it was safe to be in such a disreputable neighborhood.

  Clay was waiting now in the shadows for the drama he had set in motion to unfold. “I warned the chit she should not linger here after dark. She is fortunate no one else has done what I am about to do.”

  “When do we sail?” Pegg asked.

  “Tomorrow morning with the tide.” Clay patted the pocket of his jacket. “I have procured a special license that will allow us to be married at any time of day, and without the banns being read in church, in anticipation of precisely the situation which has presented itself. Have you arranged to bring someone aboard tomorrow morning long enough to perform the ceremony?”