The Marriage Ring

by Cathy Maxwell

  Cathy Maxwell

  The Marriage Ring

  To Chelsea and Daniel Maerzluft

  Love is all that matters.

  May yours grow and grow and grow.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  A God-fearing man kept his base instincts under control, if…

  Chapter Two

  Go back out onto that stage and sing another song,”…

  Chapter Three

  Richard’s guard went up. Before his eyes Miss MacEachin transformed…

  Chapter Four

  Richard didn’t think; he reacted. He’d dreamed of someday clearing…

  Chapter Five

  His father’s head cocked to one side as if he…

  Chapter Six

  People often didn’t receive second chances in life. At least,…

  Chapter Seven

  They stayed in their separate corners of the coach as…

  Chapter Eight

  For a few seconds, Richard found himself in a tug…

  Chapter Nine

  Grace didn’t have any trouble rising the next morning after…

  Chapter Ten

  The path beside the raging water was steeper and rockier…

  Chapter Eleven

  Richard woke to the smell of cooking meat. He opened…

  Chapter Twelve

  Richard’s first concern was to protect Grace.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Grace had known she was playing a dangerous game. Her…

  Chapter Fourteen

  A dray stacked with cages of chickens and pulled by…

  Chapter Fifteen

  Richard led Grace to a field at the edge of…

  Chapter Sixteen

  Shocked silence met McGowan’s unfair punch. Grace watched Richard go…

  Chapter Seventeen

  Richard was a God-fearing man, but he had not expected…

  Chapter Eighteen

  Grace was absolutely certain Lord Maven was baiting her. She…

  Chapter Nineteen

  The woman’s news stunned Richard. He feared their impact on…

  About the Author

  Other Books by Cathy Maxwell

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  London

  March 1810

  A God-fearing man kept his base instincts under control, if he valued his pride—and Richard Lynsted was very, very proud. Even still, the blood coursing through his veins was male and right now, it wasn’t listening to brain or reason.

  She was the most beautiful woman he’d laid eyes on.

  For once, the extravagant praise heaped on an actress was accurate. If anything, what they said about the “Scottish Songbird” Grace MacEachin might even have been subdued.

  The male population of the crowd filling the theater had grown antsy during the long Macbeth. At one point an argument had started between one of the actors on the stage and a heckler who’d summed up the crowd’s feelings by announcing they had come to see “Gracie.” The only way Shakespeare could have held their interest is if Macbeth had grown “ripe, plump breasts and shining black curls.”

  And now, at last, she was on the stage, making her entrance in the light farce The Quaker. She played a small role—the tempting sister of some character or other such nonsense, the part that didn’t wear drab brown but a rosy pink with a very low-cut bodice. At some point she would sing, presumably after the Quaker had chased her around the scenery. Richard wasn’t a fan of farce…although he didn’t mind ogling Miss MacEachin’s ample breasts.

  He wasn’t alone. The audience stomped and clapped its welcome, necks craning for a better look. What women who had stayed for her performance became equally animated. Fans flipped open and started fluttering as lips hid behind them to express to compatriots what they really thought of her looks.

  Miss MacEachin started to speak her part—

  “I lovvve you, Gracie,” a male voice from the overcrowded two-shilling gallery interrupted.

  “Yes, we looovvve you,” the fashionable young bucks on the front row mimicked.

  Happy laughter agreed and then everyone began repeating her name. “Gra-cie, Gra-cie, Gra-cie.” The syllables came out faster and faster as they clapped the beat, effectively cutting off anything the actress had to say.

  Richard stood in the shadows of the private box, his arms crossed, sizing her up.

  Miss MacEachin had that deceptive quality called presence that made her seem both at ease and in control. She held up her hand, begging for a silence her admirers were not ready to give.

  The other actors and actresses on stage were not so patient. One actor began shouting his lines.

  “Sing,” someone in the boxes opposite Richard’s yelled out and the demand easily swept the audience, who began chanting, “Sing, sing, sing.”

  The actor again tried his line and ended up with a head of cabbage being thrown at him. He dodged it but then began a new game—chasing the actors off the stage with a new barrage of vegetables or whatever else was close at hand.

  The actors and actress scrambled to the safety of the wings, including Miss MacEachin. Only a few months before, this same theater had been the scene of riots over a hike in the price of tickets. They respected what a London crowd could do.

  “Gra-cie, Gra-cie, Gra-cie.” The chant went up again, the sound growing louder, more insistent—

  Miss MacEachin came stumbling onto the stage, obviously pushed there by one of her colleagues. Her audience roared their approval.

  She quickly recovered her poise, tugging up her bodice to keep herself intact. Richard wondered if she could feel every male in the crowd undressing her with his eyes.

  Then again, she must like it. Why else would a woman stoop so low as to become an actress?

  Miss MacEachin’s gaze went directly to his box in search of her good friend Fiona, the Duchess of Holburn. The box belonged to her husband, who was also Richard’s cousin. The lovely Fiona, a woman Richard didn’t know well because his side of the family didn’t mix with Holburn’s, was both countrywoman and friend to Miss MacEachin. Clearly she had been expecting to see Fiona in the box this evening.

  Fiona had been there. In one of those happenstances of fate, Richard’s path had crossed his cousin’s. Fiona had insisted Richard join their party, which had included their Spanish friend, the barón de Valencia.

  Holburn and Richard rarely appeared anywhere together, especially in public. They were of the same age and had attended the same schools, but while the duke was well liked, Richard was not. He knew that. He lived with it.

  However, marriage had obviously made Holburn mellow because he had seconded the invitation—and what choice had Richard save to accept it?

  Of course, he’d been concerned. How was he to confront Miss MacEachin and speak his mind with Fiona close at hand? Then, to his surprise, the duke, duchess, and the Spaniard had left the box abruptly after the Macbeth.

  Richard had assumed they would return for Miss MacEachin’s performance. However, the curtain rose and there had been no sign of them.

  A polite knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. A porter handed Richard a note. It was from Holburn. There had been an emergency and it was imperative they leave with Andres, the Spaniard. Fiona had added a postscript prettily begging Richard to personally deliver an apology for her absence to Miss MacEachin and her promise to call on her friend as soon as she was able.

  Meanwhile, on the stage, Miss MacEachin was saying a few words to the conductor, who nodded and passed the word on to the musicians. His baton went up and they played opening strains to a lovely ballad, “Barbara Allen.”

  Miss MacEachin sang, her voice clear and pu
re.

  However, the crowd was not satisfied. They had not come for sweetly sung music and their thoughts were summed up by an obviously inebriated wigged gent who stood up in his chair on the front row and yelled, “Here now, something lively. Didn’t come here for ballads. I want to watch your titties bounce.”

  His comment startled the crowd, who quickly recovered and burst into laughter.

  The bucks down the row from the gent began shouting, “Titties!” And a new chant was born.

  Blushing furiously, Miss MacEachin tried to go on with the song but found she couldn’t. She looked offstage as if for help, and discovered none was forthcoming. With one man’s crudity, she’d become fair game. It was the way of the world. People turned mean.

  Any other woman would have cried quarter and run off the stage. Not Miss MacEachin. To Richard’s fascination, her whole manner changed. Her back straightened. Her chin lifted in pride and her eyes took on the unholy light of battle.

  She marched to the edge of the stage where the wigged man stood in his seat, waving his arm and encouraging his cheer. He was a pudgy thing, dressed in white knee breeches and a cerulean blue coat that was a size too small for him. His lips were small and pouty and his nose the size of a pig’s snout.

  The cheering crowd went silent in eager anticipation of what Miss MacEachin was about to do.

  The gent didn’t immediately realize he was shouting alone. He glanced around and only then noticed Miss MacEachin on the stage above him. She tapped an impatient foot, her hands on her hips. This was the sort of woman Richard had suspected her to be. Bold, unabashed.

  Her wigged admirer smiled. “Love you, Gracie,” he slurred with a happy hiccup.

  “Then come up here,” she suggested. “You can’t watch my titties bounce from that seat.” She had a magical accent. Some Scots sounded guttural or too flat in their tone. Hers had the lilt of music.

  The audience loved her suggestion. They catcalled and urged the man to go up onstage.

  He was only too eager to comply. He looked for steps, walking in first one direction and then in another.

  “I’m waiting,” Miss MacEachin chastised.

  “Where’s the stairs?” her gent begged.

  “Who needs stairs?” was her reply. “Climb up on the stage right here.”

  The gent eyed the climb, a bit daunted.

  Miss MacEachin bent down, giving an eyeful of her ample cleavage. “Hurry. Everyone is waiting,” she said. “I’m waiting.”

  Voices from those around him chimed in now, telling him to climb upon the stage and placing his pride on the line. He made his first attempt to hoist himself up onto the stage and failed. He failed a second and third time, too. By now the audience was enjoying itself at his expense. Their laughter grew louder alongside his frustration.

  And then, with the help of a push to his fanny from one of the bucks sitting beside him, he made his way up onto the stage. He balanced there at the edge on his knees, waving his arms and encouraging the crowd to clap for him.

  Miss MacEachin brought an end to his antics by waiting for him to start to climb to his feet and giving his rump a good swift kick with her foot. The man went flying into the front row, his wig sailing off into the second.

  The theater went wild with laughter.

  “That is for not having the sense to listen to me when I sing,” Miss MacEachin informed him. “And for the rest of you, I have this song to share.”

  She didn’t wait for music but launched into a defiant, lusty little song about how a woman should always put a man in his place. The chorus was, “Hi diddle, hi diddle, hey!” By the time she was finished singing, her audience, including her disgraced admirer, was lustily singing it with her.

  Miss MacEachin didn’t linger. She made a quick curtsey, waved to the two-shilling seats and the boxes and ran offstage.

  Now Richard understood why all the men had gathered here. She was as beautiful as she was bold…but she also had talent. There was far more to her than creamy skin and ebony curls.

  The theater’s pillars and crystal chandeliers shook with applause. Flowers flew through the air to land on the stage. “One more song, Gracie,” became the refrain. “One more.”

  But Miss MacEachin was not accommodating. The bouquet-covered stage remained empty.

  Many men, including the fancy bucks on the front row, rose from their seats and headed for the nearest exits. Richard knew what they were about. The frenzy of entries in London’s betting books over which man would be the first to bed her had become the stuff of legend. From what Richard had heard, well over two hundred vied for the honor. The race was on. Every buck, every beau, every Corinthian schemed to lavish her with jewels, money, and promises to claim her for his lover.

  But as Richard left the box to join the stream of men queuing up outside the stage door, he knew there was a difference between them.

  He wasn’t there to bed Miss MacEachin.

  He was there to destroy her.

  Chapter Two

  Go back out onto that stage and sing another song,” John Drayson, the stage manager ordered. He was a dark-haired man with distinguished gray at the temples. Many women found him attractive. Grace didn’t. He lacked sincerity and had a touch of the bully in his demeanor. “Listen to them,” Drayson continued. “They are mad for you.”

  Grace shook her head. She was trembling she was so angry. “Mad for me? They didn’t hear a word I sang.”

  “Oh, yes they did! They heard that last song clear as a bell. Tomorrow, that ‘hi diddle hey’ refrain will be on everyone’s lips. Go out there, Gracie. Give them more of what they want,” he ordered, taking her arm to steer her back onstage.

  Grace dug in her heels, but before she could answer such an outrageous command, Chester, one of the stagehands, interrupted. “Excuse me, Miss MacEachin,” he said, his arms full of bouquets he’d pick up off the stage. “What do you want me to do with these?”

  “Burn them,” Grace instructed, yanking her arm free of Drayson’s hold. She’d had enough. She needed privacy, a place to think and evaluate the public humiliation she’d just experienced on the stage. Some women might covet such attention. She did not. She started for the stairs leading down to the dressing rooms.

  “Collect them all. Take them to her dressing room,” Drayson countermanded as he fell into step behind her.

  With an impatient sound, Grace moved away with every intention of outdistancing him, but as she walked past the other actors waiting in the wings, she overheard one of the other new actors, Mr. Holland, opine, “So, we have a new Grand Doxy of London.”

  Grace came to a halt.

  The “Grand Doxy of London” was a name the actors had for the actress who would become the next big rage in London. It was not a compliment Grace wanted. It meant the woman had more looks than talent and would soon be sought after as a mistress by London’s most powerful men. It was assumed she would accept this protection.

  The actresses surrounding Mr. Holland, especially the ones who had been so unhelpful since Grace had been promoted from a dancer to one of their company two weeks ago, sniggered over the comment.

  “Shut your mouth, Holland,” Drayson snapped, taking Grace’s arm before she could comment. He guided her forward. “Don’t listen to him. That cabbage should have hit him in the head and spared us all from his nonsense.”

  But Grace knew Mr. Holland spoke aloud what was whispered everywhere she went. Wagers were being placed in betting books all over the city linking her name with a host of rakes, scoundrels, and idiots. Claiming her had become a game. Men seemed to rush at her from every direction when she was in the theater, including Mr. Holland, whose advances she’d spurned earlier that afternoon. So, his surly comment shouldn’t have surprised her. There was no man more dangerous than a rejected one.

  But Holland was the least of her worries. She’d been informed the notorious Lord Stone was placing the highest wagers. The stories she’d heard of him were unsettling.


  Grace had taken action to avoid offending him and all the rest. She was refusing all callers save for Fiona. Rumor had it that Stone had offered a hefty purse to the watchman and several of the porters and stagehands for access to her. Fortunately, she was well liked in that quarter and his bribe had been rebuffed—for now.

  If the attitude of Mr. Holland and her fellow players was an indication, it was only a matter of time before someone would sell her out.

  Thank the Lord that Fiona had not been in her box tonight. Grace had left word with the watchman to let the Duchess of Holburn pass, but was now so glad Fiona had stayed away.

  “My temper found the best of me,” Grace murmured, now mortified at the way she’d set that wigged man in his place in front of everyone in the theater.

  “Your temper knows how to put on a show,” Drayson answered. “Go out there again, Gracie,” he coaxed. “Sing another one. They are still waiting. Can’t you hear them stomping their feet?”

  How could she not? The floorboards trembled with the clamor.

  And in that moment, she feared she’d sold her soul.

  Fiona had tried to warn her. When they’d first come to London, Fiona had taken work as a seamstress, but Grace had wanted more. In spite of her friend’s warnings, Grace had pursued the stage…

  “Don’t call me Gracie,” she answered. “I’m Grace. Grace, Grace, Grace.” She grabbed the stair rail and went charging down the narrow, winding steps leading to the dressing rooms.

  Drayson was right on her heels.

  He caught up with her at the foot of the stairs, grabbing her arm and whirling her to face him.

  “Grace, listen to me. We are giving you your own place on the bill. And I want you to continue wearing this costume. We’ll put people out in the audience to rile them all up. There won’t be an empty seat in the house—”

  “No,” Grace said, attempting to shake off his arm. “I’ll not parade myself around.”