The Bridegroom

by Joan Johnston

  “All is in hand,” Pegg said. “Are ye sure ye want to go through with this, lad?”

  Clay stared out the window to avoid answering. And caught sight of Reggie being accosted on the lamplit street by two rough-looking villains.

  The play had begun.

  Clay watched as a grimy hand covered Reggie’s mouth to cut off her scream. He pursed his lips in admiration when Reggie gave Pike a vicious jab in the belly with her elbow, causing him to lose his hold on her. Clay winced as she clawed red furrows down Jarvey’s cheek, then laughed aloud when she took off running. Damned if the chit wasn’t about to escape!

  His amusement vanished when Pike caught her by the tail end of her skirt, reined her in like some desperate animal on a tether, then clouted her hard on the chin with his fisted hand.

  Clay growled in fury and lurched toward the carriage door.

  Pegg manacled his arm to hold him in place. “Ye must have known she would fight, lad.”

  “I warned them not to hit her!” he said in a savage voice.

  Pegg pointed to the lifeless body being hoisted over Jarvey’s broad back. “ ’Tis better this way. By the time the lass wakes, ’twill all be over.”

  Clay settled back into the velvet seat, but his shoulders were knotted with tension. His insides turned when he imagined how Reggie’s face would look, blackened and bruised by Pike’s blow.

  Clay turned away from Pegg, fearing the other man would see his anguish, hating himself for feeling sympathy for the daughter of his enemy. He reminded himself why he had begun courting the chit in the first place. Made himself remember the bitter bite of the lash on his back, the agony of the saltwater that had been used to salve his wounds, the unending ache in his chest where his heart should be.

  He had lost a wife and a son. In return, he would take Blackthorne’s daughter from him and get on her a child to replace the one he had lost.

  Clay watched, forcing himself to remain impassive, as the two men carted their burden down a darkened alley toward the brothel he had selected as the site of Lady Regina’s ruin. He had arranged for her to be sold to the worst of the Covent Garden abbesses, a woman who catered to the worst lechers, the most depraved gentlemen. It would not be long now before Reggie’s innocence was lost.

  Once she was ruined, she would be glad to marry him.

  Clay felt the bile rise in the back of his throat and swallowed it down.

  He felt dread. And summoned hate.

  He felt regret. And summoned rage.

  He had been a victim. It was only fair that Blackthorne’s daughter should suffer as he had.

  But the mere thought of Reggie submitting to some wretched goat with sweaty hands and the money to buy her virginity made Clay want to do violence. Lady Regina Wharton was no longer merely his enemy’s daughter. Sometime over the past four weeks, and despite his best efforts to avoid caring, Reggie had become a person to him, someone with wishes and hopes and dreams.

  He knew she wanted children, several of them. He knew she wanted to be more than an object of beauty to her husband, that she wanted to share her thoughts with him and to have an equal say in decisions about their future. And he knew she was romantic enough to believe that passion should be a part of marriage.

  He regretted never kissing her again, though she had given him opportunities enough to do so. They had even walked alone together along one of the darkened pathways in Vauxhall Gardens, stopping to admire the fireworks that had exploded overhead. Her eyes had glowed with excitement, and she had turned her face up to his, inviting his kiss, inviting his touch.

  He had known it was a test. He had leaned close, his mouth a breath from hers and said, “You are tempting, my sweet. I would love a taste of your lips. But I can wait.”

  He had resisted the urge to drag her into his arms, to align them body to body, to feel her softness against the places where he was hard. He had felt a grim satisfaction in her small moue of disappointment and exulted in the knowledge that when she was his at last, his seduction of her would be all the more satisfying.

  A sudden pounding on the carriage door startled Clay from his reverie. He opened the door and stepped out.

  “The girl has been delivered—”

  He hit Pike without thinking, flattening the man and making his nose spurt blood.

  “Why’d ye do that, Captain?” Pike said angrily, as he shoved himself to his feet.

  “That was for disobeying an order.” The instant Pike was on his feet, Clay hit him again. “And that was for bruising the girl.”

  Jarvey kept his distance. “She’s been sold to the School of Venus, Captain, like you said.” Jarvey held out a wad of paper notes. “They was glad to get her, her bein’ a virgin and all.”

  When Clay made an animal sound in his throat, Jarvey grabbed Pike by the arm to haul him to his feet, shoved the money into Clay’s hand and said, “Pike and me’ll just be headin’ back to the ship.”

  Clay shook his hand to ease the sting in his torn knuckles. He turned to the coachman and said, “Take me to the School of Venus,” then stepped back inside the coach where Pegg waited for him.

  “I thought ye planned to leave her overnight,” Pegg said.

  “My plans have changed.”

  Clay stared at the wad of dirty paper that represented the value of Reggie’s virginity. He set the money on the plush scarlet velvet beside him and did not look at it again. He still had not decided what course of action he should follow, when his carriage rolled to a stop before the School of Venus, the house of ill repute where Reggie was now held prisoner. “Wait here for me,” he said to Pegg.

  “What would ye be doin’, if I might ask?”

  “Rescuing the fair damsel,” Clay said in disgust.

  “But there hasna been time—”

  “Stubble it, Pegg.”

  The door knocker at the School of Venus was made of iron and clanked in a minor key when Clay used it. The knock was answered by a sticklike woman, dressed very much like the caretaker at Miss Henwick’s Home, who invited him inside.

  The walls of the drawing room were covered with Chinese hand-painted wallpaper that featured pheasants and flowers, and Clay’s boots sank in the plush weave of a Brussels carpet. A harp sat in one corner, while a gilded chaise longue with carved arms had been angled in front of a white marble fireplace. In the opposite corner, two Hepplewhite chairs braced a small parquet gaming table. The exquisite furnishings made it plain that the School of Venus catered to the Quality.

  Clay knew there were gentlemen with an appetite for virgins, the younger the better, and the money to pay for such a treasure, but he had never let himself dwell on the matter. Now he could not force the thought from his mind.

  “What can I do for you, milord?” the abbess asked.

  “I have a fear of diseases,” Clay improvised. “Have you any girls who are untouched?”

  The abbess smiled, revealing a missing eyetooth. “You are in luck, milord. A girl came here only today from the country saying she was pure as snow and wanted a real gentleman to pluck the bud from her—”

  “Are you sure she is untouched?” Clay demanded, his voice sharp with fear that he was already too late.

  “I do not promise what I cannot deliver,” the madam said. “She is pure. I checked her myself. But the price—”

  “How much?”

  “A hundred pounds?” the abbess ventured.

  “What does she look like?” Clay asked. It would be his luck to pay for a “virgin” who was not Reggie.

  “Small and shapely, milord, with black curls above and below, eyes the color of the deepest blue sea, skin that will taste of peaches and cream, excellent teeth, sweet breath—”

  “Done,” Clay said, his mouth dry with unexpected desire.

  Realizing that he would have paid much more, the woman said, “Of course, clean sheets are extra. And if you choose to spend the night—”

  “I will take the room until tomorrow morning,” he said. “How
much?”

  She named the amount she wanted, which he paid, along with the hundred pounds for Reggie’s virginity. It was four times the amount for which she had been sold. Acid surged into his throat. He did not know why he had said he would spend the night. Surely he did not intend to do so. To take her against her will? To make her his own in a place such as this?

  “Do you have a pen and paper?” he asked.

  “On the desk against the wall, milord,” the abbess said.

  Clay scribbled a note and sealed it with wax from one of the three tapers burning in what appeared to be a silver candelabra on the desk, imprinting it with the Carlisle seal etched in the gold ring he had inherited from his brother along with the title.

  “Deliver this to the man with a peg leg you will find waiting in the carriage outside,” he said.

  She eyed him askance but said, “It shall be done, milord.”

  “Now,” he said. “Show me where she is.”

  He followed the abbess upstairs and then along a narrow, carpeted hallway, disconcerted by the serenity he felt in such a place. One would never have suspected the debauchery he knew must be occurring behind closed doors.

  When they reached the end of the hall, the woman unlocked the door and shoved it open. Clay half expected Reggie to throw herself into his arms, but there was no sound, no movement, and very little light.

  “Where is she?” he asked, taking a step into the gloom.

  “There, on the bed.”

  Clay followed the woman’s gnarled finger and felt his body tighten viscerally as he spied Reggie lying stark naked on the bed. Her hair tumbled across the pillow in abandon, and her legs were spread wide in readiness, but her hands were folded peacefully across her breasts. Clay swallowed hard.

  “What is wrong with her?” he demanded. “Why is she so still?”

  “Oh, well, I gave her a bit of laudanum. For the pain. And to make her compliant for whatever you wish, milord.”

  His mouth flattened in repugnance at the leer on her face. “That will be all,” he bit out. “Leave the key with me.”

  He closed the door, shutting out the world of demireps and doxies, then put the key in the bolt and turned it, locking himself inside with Lady Regina Wharton.

  Chapter 6

  Michael O’Malley believed devoutly in two things: hard work and Irish luck. It was Irish luck that he had encountered the Duke of Blackthorne at a time when Alastair Wharton had amnesia and did not know he was His Grace and not the sort to be socializing with the likes of Mick O’Malley. It was hard work that had resulted in Mick’s appointment as the Duke of Blackthorne’s steward in Scotland.

  On the other hand, it was damned bad luck that he had fallen in love with Lady Rebecca Wharton the first time he laid eyes on her. Becky had been sitting on the lawn at Blackthorne Abbey, her lap full of daffodils, when he crossed her path, scythe in hand. She had looked up and smiled at him, a perfect stranger dressed in a coat with too-short sleeves, pants with too-short legs, and boots that were two sizes too large.

  Mick had known even then, as a gangly boy of thirteen, that a duke’s daughter was never going to marry an Irish bastard. He had owed Blackthorne too much to lust after his daughter, when all it could lead to was heartache for both of them. Besides educating Mick and giving him a job, the duke had provided homes and positions for his half brothers Corey and Egan and his half sister Glenna.

  To repay the duke’s generosity, Mick had kept his hands and his thoughts to himself, watching Becky all of his life with his love well hidden behind a friendly smile.

  Until today.

  He did not quite understand what had happened. Perhaps Reggie’s exuberant greeting had broken his reserve. Or perhaps it was the way Becky had stood so still, staring at him, her heart in her eyes. Love in her eyes. It was a dream come true, to have her look at him with such longing. He had been so stunned he had …

  Oh, God, what had he done? Mick shoved a hand through his hair. He should never have let her see what he was feeling. How was he supposed to face her across the supper table tonight and pretend nothing had changed? Everything had changed.

  No, that was not precisely true. She was still a married woman. That had not changed.

  And he was still a whore’s bastard son.

  Mick groaned. He had no business even looking at Becky, let alone dreaming of what it would be like to kiss her, to hold her in his arms. It was blasphemy even to think of trying to steal her from her husband.

  Mick realized that if he did not find something to keep his mind off of Becky for the rest of the afternoon, he would go mad. Or do something he would regret for the rest of his life.

  A paper crackled in his coat pocket, and he pulled it out. It was a letter from a London solicitor urging Mick to see him “at your earliest convenience” on “a matter of great importance to your future.” Mick supposed some lord or another had heard of the modern farming methods he had employed at Blackthorne Hall and wanted Mick to come work for him.

  Mick considered the prospect of leaving Blackthorne’s employ. Perhaps that was the best solution. That would take him out of Becky’s orbit. That would remove temptation from his path. Because, if he were honest, now that he knew Becky might return his feelings, he doubted he would be able to keep himself from reaching for what he wanted.

  Making her an adulteress. Making yourself an ungrateful wretch.

  Mick sighed and shoved himself off the four-poster bed in the room he knew Becky had prepared especially for him, because it contained a vase of his favorite flowers … daffodils. He imagined how Becky would look with a daffodil on each breast and a cluster of them decorating her mound of Venus. His body tightened viscerally, and he shook his head in disgust at the foolishness of indulging in such fantasies.

  Perhaps he ought to take whatever offer was made by that London solicitor. It was an honorable way out of the coil in which he found himself. At least the visit would remove him from the house during the long hours that stretched before him until supper.

  In clean linen, with his coat brushed free of dust from the road, his Hessians polished, and his unruly black hair combed, Mick presented himself at the address on Chancery Lane named in the correspondence he had received.

  A rotund, bald-pated gentleman looked down his nose through a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and asked, “May I help you, sir?”

  Mick handed over the letter. “I received this from someone in your office.”

  The gentleman took one look at the missive, then leapt to his feet, bobbed his head, and said, “Oh, my goodness. So sorry, my lord. Come with me.”

  Mick stared at the man, who had become quite agitated. Before Mick could protest that he was plain Michael O’Malley, not lord of anything, the wizened fellow had cracked his knuckles on a door across the room, opened it without waiting for an answer, and announced, “He’s here! Tenby’s grandson is here!”

  Another gentleman, even rounder than the first and with spectacles perched on a much larger nose, appeared in the doorway. “Oh, my. The resemblance is amazing.”

  “Yes, Mr. Ellis. Amazing,” the wizened man agreed, tilting his head back and staring down his nose through his spectacles at Mick.

  “Would you please come into my office, my lord?” Mr. Ellis said. “We have a great deal to discuss.”

  “I think there’s been some mistake,” Mick said.

  “No mistake, my lord,” Mr. Ellis assured him. “Please, come inside where I can explain everything.”

  Mick was intrigued. It sounded like a case of mistaken identity, with him being mistaken for some lord’s grandson. But what if there was no mistake? What if he really was who they thought he was?

  Mick’s chest felt like some heavy piece of farm equipment had fallen on it. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. He and Corey and Egan and Glenna had often speculated on who their fathers might be. Of course, they had no way of knowing, since their mother had spent so many nights with so many different gents. But they
had often imagined it was some lord or another and that someday he would come looking for his missing child, because he had no heir for his absolutely huge fortune.

  The three boys had all agreed that if any one of them was claimed by Lord Moneybags he would help the others. Glenna had lifted her chin in imitation of some grand lady, patted Blinne’s back to make her burp up a bubble of milk, and said, “If I turn out to be Lady Lots-of-Loot, I shall allow you to work in my stable.” Which had seemed a grand idea to the boys, because there was nothing they craved so much as the thought of sitting astride some fine blooded animal.

  Of course, no lord had ever shown up claiming any of them. Until now.

  Mick’s feet felt like two anvils; moving in any direction was impossible. He was afraid to hope his dreams had come true, equally afraid to discover they had not. But in this one shining moment, anything was possible.

  Becky already has a husband. All the money in the world cannot buy her freedom. It is too late.

  “My lord? Will you join me?” Mr. Ellis said, gesturing him into the chamber.

  “Would you mind telling me what this is all about?” Mick asked in a desperate attempt to control the absurd fantasies of wealth and power that had his heart pounding in his chest.

  “Certainly,” Mr. Ellis said. “Please come in and make yourself comfortable.”

  Mick stepped inside the solicitor’s office. Every surface was littered with stacks of paper and immense, leather-spined books filled cases that lined the walls. He sat in one of the chairs across from the desk, but getting comfortable was out of the question. He felt like he was sitting on pins and needles.

  “May I offer you a glass of sherry?” Mr. Ellis asked as he seated himself across from Mick.

  “Brandy would be better,” Mick said, feeling the need for something stronger.

  “Of course,” the solicitor said. “Jensen, brandy please, and then you may leave us.”

  Moments later, brandy in hand, Mick found himself facing Mr. Ellis, who leaned back in his chair contemplatively, pudgy fingers steepled atop his rotund belly.