He was all formality, Charlotte realized. Every inch the lord of the keep. Feeling as if she might shake apart inside, she spun on her heels and marched into the hall. There, she halted, for the farmhouse was not large. She had no notion where to go.
“This way, if you would.” A strong hand on her elbow steered her toward the foyer, then out the front door.
So, he would remove her from the premises immediately. She should protest. For heaven’s sake, she hadn’t even broken her fast. Not that she could summon any hint of an appetite. For all his civility, he was being barbaric.
If he thought to daunt her, he would be disappointed. She would not be taken from the babes and Marian, and Hetty, with such ease. She pulled her elbow free and rounded on him. “Where are we going?”
“There is a grove down that gully where I think we may speak in privacy.” He pointed.
A grove? “Are you mad? I didn’t think you suffered an injury to your head, my lord.”
His gaze roamed the yard, taking in the windows of the house, the open doors to the stable. “This isn’t something I wish to do here.”
Charlotte threw up her hands. “Have your way. You always do.”
“I certainly hope so,” he muttered, and clamped a hand about her elbow again.
His grip firm, he assisted her across a field. As they descended into the grove and toward a cheerfully bubbling brook, the bright afternoon sun blocked by the canopy, she had the fleeting notion he might mean to murder her. Do her in and free his family of her. He was certainly highhanded enough.
Despite a dizzying mixture of anger toward Edward, and fear of losing the life she’d dreamed up for her, the babes and Marian, Charlotte was scathingly aware of the strength in his frame. Of the heat that seemed to radiate from him. The muscles that bunched beneath breeches and coat. Every time her gaze darted to his lips, she cursed him seven ways to hell.
When they reached the stream, she wondered if he would hoist her across and take her even deeper into the woods, though there was no need. They hadn’t come overly far, yet all traces of humanity seemed ages behind them. Down in the dip of the shallow valley, moss thick beneath their feet, they were utterly, heart-poundingly alone.
Trying to master her nerves, Charlotte yanked her arm free and turned to face him. She angled her chin up and set her jaw. If he meant to send her away, he truly would have to do her in to achieve that goal. “Well?”
He stared down at her, the dappled sunlight illuminating bright streaks in his hair. He pushed a hand through it, as if aware of her scrutiny, tumbling the locks. “Marian told me of your offer.”
“I should have guessed she would.” Charlotte wondered if aught would have come of asking Marian not to, but it was too late for that. “It’s her decision, and mine. Do not try to stop us. If you weren’t so pigheaded, you’d see it’s the best way for everyone.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I see no such thing.” He reached into his coat and pulled free a folded page. “Here.”
Jaw clenched, Charlotte accepted the paper, most likely a bribe. She resisted the urge to tear it up, to spite him, and unfolded the sheet to read the careful script. She read it three times before the meaning could penetrate her disbelief. “Your marriage is dissolved.”
“It is.”
She raised her gaze to his, her breath too shallow and rapid to catch. “Why?”
His expression softened. “Because it is my intention to offer marriage to you, Missus Fairhaven, and then, if you wish it, we shall raise my grandchildren together.”
“Because you love me?” she stammered, for that was what she read in his eyes, his tone.
“Because I love you.”
“And the babies?”
“Will be raised in a home full of light and joy, with a mother I trust to never leave them.” He skimmed warm fingers down her cheek. “Or me.”
Charlotte raised a trembling hand to her lips.
He captured that hand, warming it. “Say yes, Charlotte. Say you love me, that you’ll never leave.”
“I love you, Edward, and I will never leave.”
He crushed her to him. Their lips met and she clung to his coat against the weakness in her knees. He shrugged off his sling and wrapped his other arm about her, holding her up.
Charlotte pulled back. “Your shoulder.”
“Is more than up to the task,” he murmured, and lifted her into his arms.
Epilogue
“Rivington, there you are.”
At that jovial greeting, Samuel looked up from his untouched scotch to find Sir Stirling James standing across the table from him. “Stirling. I’m afraid I’m not the best company, at the moment.”
Stirling nodded and pulled out a chair. “I rather suspected that might be the case. It’s what I’ve come to speak with you about.”
“What’s there to say?” Samuel muttered as the duke seated himself, not protesting. While no one’s society brought him pleasure these days, at least Stirling’s wasn’t outright aggravating.
Stirling frowned at him for a long moment. “Missus Fairhaven has been gone for nearly a year,” he finally said.
“I’m aware,” Samuel drawled. Ten months and eleven days, if one were inclined to count.
“I think it’s time you moved on,” Stirling said with all earnestness.
Samuel pushed a hand through unruly dark hair. He considered his possible responses. A forced laugh. Denial of how he still longed for the only woman he’d ever loved. Making the claim that he no longer thought of her every moment of every day. That his heart didn’t cry out for the sound of her laugh. That his mind couldn’t conjure an image of her smooth skin and tumbled rose-copper locks aglow by candlelight. He turned the crystal tumbler in his hand. “I wish I knew how.”
Stirling leaned forward in his chair. “You could start by leaving Edinburgh.”
Leave this city, ripe with memories of Charlotte? Bittersweet as those apparitions were, Samuel was loath to give them up. They were all he had left of what they’d shared. Besides which, her townhome was there. She’d kept her staff on. Eventually, she would return. He shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned. “This place is as good as any other. I see no reason to go.”
“Rivington,” Stirling’s voice was low, anxious, “I’ve seen her. She’s married.”
Air whooshed from Samuel’s lungs. On the heels of his breath’s departure, his body stilled. Not even his heart dared flicker with life. For one long moment, there was nothing. Darkness swam at the edges of his vision.
How ironic that he, who’d broken the hearts of countless women, should die when his gave out. Heaven curse that blighted emotion men called love.
His heart gave a stumbling, shuddering beat. Then another. He drew in a long, slow breath. A bizarre giddiness filled him. The urge to laugh, madly, until he could laugh no more. He lifted his glass and knocked back a hearty swig of scotch.
Stirling watched with worried eyes.
Samuel slammed the crystal tumbler back to the table. Liquid leapt within. “She married.”
A single nod.
“Who?” The word came out harsh. Samuel took another pull of scotch.
“Does it matter?” Stirling’s question was quiet.
Only because Samuel would murder the blighter with his own two hands.
“She didn’t simply marry.” Stirling’s voice was calm, soothing, but concern lurked in his gaze. “She’s in love, and there are children. Twin babes.”
Again, that suffocating feeling. “I thought…” He couldn’t finish the question. As hurt as he was, he couldn’t pass on her whispered words, told to him in confidence. He could, and did, picture the pain in those beautiful blue eyes as she told him that he needn’t worry about consequences with her. She was barren. He cleared his throat. “Twin babes?”
Stirling nodded. “And two stepdaughters.”
Something Samuel couldn’t offer her, then. A family. He hadn’t even any siblings, or parents. Hell, he didn’
t even have any friends. He’d driven them all away in his misery over losing Charlotte, those few he hadn’t already alienated by sleeping his way through London, and then Edinburgh, with a complete lack of regard for whose aunt, cousin, mother or sister he lay with.
But they had their revenge now, didn’t they? Here he was, Samuel Rivington, expert rake, moments away from crying into his scotch. He cleared his throat. “Charlotte has twin babes?”
“Yes.”
Hope flared to life, nearly as painful as despair. “When? Perhaps, that is, how can she be sure they aren’t mine?” If she was mistaken about being barren… Why, they’d taken no precautions.
Amusement and pity warred in the other man’s face, equally aggravating. Stirling shook his head. “I can assure you, the children are not yours.”
“You cannot kno—”
“I can and I do.” Stirling’s tone had lost all sympathy. “I’m here to help, Rivington. Don’t make me change my mind.”
Samuel latched onto that inconsistency, far safer than thinking on Charlotte married, happy, and with a family. He leaned back in his chair, frowning. “Yes, why is that? You’ve always been amiable enough, but helpful?” He knew about Stirling’s stringent morals. “I’m not really up to your standards, am I?”
Stirling leaned back in his chair as well. He shrugged. “In over twenty years as a bounder, you’ve not once deflowered an innocent, nor sired a bastard.”
“That’s all it takes to earn your regard?” Samuel’s chuckle was brittle.
“That’s what it takes not to lose it.”
Samuel swallowed. He studied the remnants of his scotch, a single sip in the bottom of the glass. There was nothing Stirling could do to help him. No one could. Yet… “I suppose taking your advice can’t hurt. Where would you have me go?”
“Return to London, Rivington. That’s where you belong.”
Samuel grimaced. London. Well, it had been a few years. Most of his former lovers would have moved on by now. Cuckold husbands would have forgotten, or at least reconciled themselves to the sort of women they’d married. Perhaps he could return and live a life not punctuated by wailing castoff lovers, outraged menfolk and early morning duels. He drained his final sip of scotch. “You win, Stirling. London it is.”
“Perfect.” Stirling stood.
“That’s it, then?” Samuel lifted his empty glass. “Stay. I’ll call for a round.”
Stirling shook his head. He fished a card from his coat. “Some other time, Rivington.” He slapped the card onto the table. “When you get to London, you’ll need this.” He nodded, turned on his heels, and strode away.
Bemused, Samuel picked up the card. Printed on the smooth, thick paper were four words: London Lonely Hearts Club. He turned it over. On the other side, two lines. An address on the most prestigious street in town.
Samuel shook his head. London Lonely Hearts Club, indeed. That was one bit of advice from Stirling he wouldn’t be taking. He stuffed the card in his pocket and called for another scotch.
###
Marrying the Belle of Edinburgh
The Marriage Maker
Book Eighteen
The Marriage Maker and the Widows
Lisa Boero
A foul murder, a beautiful widow, and one man who will risk everything for love.
On a dark and lonely road, a masked gunman ends the life of the dashing Lord Carlyle. Distraught but determined, Helena, the bewitching Belle of Edinburgh, reenters London’s glittering society bent on tracking down her husband’s murderer.
Lord William Brandon has spent torturous days and desperate nights in love with his best friend’s wife. He resolves to marry another with the help of the Marriage Maker, but when the Belle of Edinburgh appears at a ball and asks for his help, he once again is powerless to resist her. William sees a chance to win Helena’s heart if he can solve the mystery of Lord Carlyle’s death, but first he must track a killer’s footsteps down a dark and lonely road.
Chapter One
He had forgotten how the sight of Lady Helena Carlyle made the blood hum through his veins. She wore a pale blue gown with a fall of silver lace at her throat. The satin clung to the curve of her hips and emphasized her height. Her skin, perfectly smooth and porcelain white, created a striking contrast to her dark hair, now coiffed and decorated with a matron’s cap. Back in Edinburgh, when he was a frequent guest of her husband, Lord Carlyle, he remembered glimpses of her hair coming loose in long soft tendrils that framed her face. She had been so carefree in those days, so unconcerned with the rigid propriety of braided hair and lace caps.
Widowhood seemed to have killed that carefree spirit. Now she stood like a statue, cold and hard and perfect. But her eyes remained unchanged and unmatched by any lady in London. They were a deep sapphire, fringed with long black lashes, and she had a habit of looking at a man in such a penetrating way that she seemed to lay his heart bare in an instant. They were the eyes of a queen. Like her namesake, Helen of Troy, armies would have rushed to their deaths for her.
Instead, Lady Carlyle fanned herself slowly, the apple of discord apparent among the men who clustered about her. She nodded absently as Mr. Northcutt rattled on about something. William didn't know what Lord Carlyle saw in Northcutt, but they’d spent considerable time together since their days in Oxford. And now, Northcutt appeared to be in a mood to console Lady Carlyle. It was too much to bear. But William didn’t have a right to his anger. Lady Carlyle wasn't his concern.
“The beauties this Season must be furious,” Sir Stirling James said, jolting William out of his reverie. “Lady Carlyle is sure to cast them all in the shade.”
“I didn’t know she had returned to London,” Lord William Brandon replied, recovering a bit of his composure. If he had known, he would likely have returned to his estates in Scotland, the cold be damned.
“The Belle of Edinburgh had need of a change, I was told. And my sources are usually reliable.”
In truth, Stirling was probably the most well-informed man in the British Isles. This explained his skill in the serious game of matrimony. Anyone who wanted a match approached him for an introduction.
“Your sources are quite good,” William replied. He felt a sudden moment of panic. Why had he asked Stirling to find him the perfect wife? He should have found one himself. He had wealth enough to tempt the mamas of hopeful daughters. His estates in Scotland, after some considerable investment, produced good returns, and his shipping ventures with Stirling had paid off quite handsomely. He had a title, although who knew how much a title counted for these days. As a man, he supposed, he wasn’t terrible to look at. Not as handsome as his friend Carlyle, but tolerable enough. No, Stirling would find him a bride so perfect that Helena would become but a faded memory. If The Marriage Maker couldn’t find him such a woman in the marriage mart of Almack’s, then he was beyond hope.
Stirling paused and then sighed. “It isn’t any good introducing you to the lady I had in mind. You have never had any guile about you, Brandon, and I suppose you never will. Any fool can tell that you only have eyes for Lady Carlyle.”
“What? No, no, of course not. Carlyle was a dear friend, and I am just surprised that his widow has reentered the bosom of society so soon.”
“It has been a year and a half, my good fellow. She is out of mourning now and free to marry again if she chooses. And what does she have to keep her in Scotland? The new Lord Carlyle has the estate and the house in Edinburgh,” Stirling said.
“Is the new Lord Carlyle here tonight? I must say I can’t stand the fellow.”
“Yes, he is, and in search of a wife, as well. I thank the heavens that he hasn't sought my help. I don’t know if I could help him in good conscience. There is something about the former Mr. Reginald Merton that sets my teeth on edge, and that reaction has not abated with his assumption of the title.”
William nodded. “Carlyle told me some stories that make me fairly hate the man. As cousins, they saw much of each ot
her. He was with us at Oxford too, but was sent down after two terms for some infraction. I never got the whole story.”
In any case, William became suspicious of Reginald when he heard that Carlyle had been shot by highwaymen along the Great North Road. It seemed just the sort of dastardly thing Reginald would have got himself involved in somehow. But without evidence, William was left with conjecture.
“Ah, look sharp my good man, it seems Lady Carlyle has a mind to speak to us,” Stirling said.
Lord Brandon turned and watched Lady Carlyle approach. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that he was most definitely over her influence.
She smiled, showing a row of perfectly formed teeth, and held out her hand. “Sir Stirling! How delightful to see you again. How is dear Lady Chastity? I promise I will come for a visit when I am next in Inverness. I had a letter from her last month, but it seems like ages since we were able to sit together for a nice long chat.”
Stirling smiled. “Quite well. I will send her your regards. She would have attended tonight had I not persuaded her that my short London visit was purely business. I promise that she shall accompany me when I return.”
Lady Carlyle clapped her hands in delight. “Wonderful. And I cannot let you go without thanking you for what you did for my dear friend, Lady Haverford. I have never seen her happier than with her Mr. Smith.”
Stirling bowed slightly. “The pleasure was all mine, I assure you.”
She turned her intense gaze on Lord Brandon and extended her hand. “Lord Brandon, you know how indebted I am to all of your attentions when Lord Carlyle passed. You were a true friend to my late husband. I am sorry that we have seen so little of each other since. I have decided to remain in London for the Season, so perhaps that oversight shall be rectified.”
He breathed deeply and took her gloved fingers in his. “I must express my condolences once again, Lady Carlyle. Your husband’s death was a terrible tragedy.”
Rake Ruiner: The Marriage Maker and the Widows Book One Page 11
