by Tanya Wilde
One corner of his mouth quirked up.
He hadn’t imagined things after all. Which begged the question, just how had the little conniving creature known this secret panel existed?
Mindful of being as silent as possible, he shut the panel and followed the path, glad for the cracks of light filtering through the wooden wall. And there appeared to be no sign of rats. He hated rats—almost as much as he loathed such tight spaces.
Brahm hadn’t quite known what to expect after following her through the secret panel. Certainly not Miss Middleton perched precariously on a footstool, peeking through two holes.
Though he shouldn’t have been surprised.
Still, even with his annoyance over being the one burdened to discover whatever this latest scheme was, he couldn’t stop his lungs from constricting as his gaze followed the outline of her flimsy garment until his eyes finally stopped at her posterior.
Brahm felt the ground give way under him.
What in the blazes?
This was Holly Middleton.
Not an angelic temptress.
He had no business noting her derriere or the way the skirt attached to her corset clung to her hips, enticing him to . . .
Brahm cursed.
He had never held any favor for the Middletons, mostly because they stirred up headaches wherever they went, and he sure as hell had no business suddenly lusting after one, especially one supposed to be betrothed.
Displeasure swiftly replaced any forbidden woolgathering. These desires were simply not to be borne, and neither was whatever trouble Holly Middleton was in the midst of creating.
“What on God’s green earth are you doing?” he boomed.
Miss Middleton whirled, losing her balance and toppling over.
Brahm shot forward, catching her in his arms, her soft body pressing up against him, melting away some of his annoyance.
At the same time, the full-toned resonance of his voice echoed throughout the entire church, and a notable hush fell over the ceremony, unmistakable even from behind the safe confines of the hidden room.
Miss Middleton’s eyes rounded, and she scrambled from his embrace to take up position on the footstool once more, effectively dismissing his presence. Not to be excluded, and having learned his lesson from speaking in this hidden room, Brahm moved beside her to the air vent and peeked through.
Sure enough, the entire ceremony had come to a halt, and the duke’s face had reddened to that of a ripe tomato. The bride, almost nervously, glanced back, searching for the man who so loudly voiced his outrage. After a breathtaking moment of anticipation, in which no one claimed responsibility, the bride shrugged and continued forward; the orchestra followed her lead and chimed in again. Even the duke visibly relaxed, though his eyes remained alert.
Calm . . . for now, Brahm mused.
How did the duke not know the difference between the two women? Even Brahm could tell the dissimilarity between them. For one, Willow Middleton was much milder and level-headed than her wild sister, a trait that could be easily spotted in the way she held herself, even in the way she walked. Holly Middleton had more of a spring to her step and did not possess a regal bone in her body. That alone should have tipped off the duke, and if not that, then the obvious difference in height.
The entire ceremony held him captive. He wanted to look away, wanted to scold the Middleton standing next to him, but could do neither. He knew what was coming, what was transpiring before him, but damn if he could tear his eyes away.
And who was he to protest? The last thing he wanted was to become embroiled in the lives of these three chits, notorious for their lack of grace and wild, reckless behavior.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God . . .”
“Lord Almighty,” Brahm heard Miss Middleton whisper as the ceremony commenced.
“. . . have and to hold from this day forward . . .”
“This cannot be happening,” she whispered again.
“. . . if any of you knows any impediment, why you may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony . . .”
Miss Middleton let out a low croak as they both waited for someone, anyone to voice an objection, but only soft murmurs of assent filled the room.
Brahm held his breath, as did Miss Middleton, he imagined, both of them engrossed in the entire affair.
“. . . have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor her, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
“I will,” spoke the voice of the duke, firm and resolute.
Brahm’s gaze swung to the bride.
“Wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”
“I will.”
A soft gasp came from Holly at Brahm’s side.
God help him, but he had stumbled upon a scandal in the making. In retrospect, it was amazing how they got away with it. But then, who would ever suspect a bride swap?
Finally, after a drawn out ceremony, it came down to the moment when the duke lifted the veil of his bride. If the man felt any shock at finding an entirely different sister behind the lace than the one he’d been betrothed to, it didn’t show on his face.
Troublemakers, the lot of them.
Good luck to you, St. Ives. You will need it.
A soft whimper reminded him that he too was stuck with one of those troublemakers. What the devil had possessed him to follow her? If they were caught together, his head will be slipped in the noose as well.
Brahm raked her with a scowl. “You are in serious trouble, Miss Middleton.”
“She wasn’t supposed to take my place,” Miss Middleton said, her voice filled with misery. She turned to him. “Willow was only meant to leave a note.”
“Be glad that she did. The duke’s fury might have been the ruin of your entire family. Advice for the future, Miss Middleton: when you do not wish to marry someone, decline their offer.”
“Perhaps the marriage had been arranged by my father.”
Brahm snorted. “You are not the oldest, are you? Besides, if your father had wished for you to marry, he’d have gotten rid of the lot of you years ago.”
Her outraged gasp caused the people nearest to the wall to look around.
“Would you settle your feathers?” he scolded, his eyes burning into hers. “Given your state of undress, lest you still want to be married, keep your voice down.”
Those temptingly full lips snapped shut.
Good.
The last thing he wanted was to be fastened to her for the rest of his life.
Pivoting on his heel, he turned to leave. But years of courtesy drilled into his skull caused him to hesitate. Confound it! Now was not the time for chivalry. But he looked back at her. Damn if she didn’t resemble an abandoned alley cat. Her small shoulders drooped in defeat. She was a little thing, and with his size, he dwarfed her. But it was her blue eyes, so full and trusting in her delicate face—though there probably wasn’t an innocent bone in her body—that got to him.
“Can I escort you somewhere?” Brahm offered.
She perked up. “You would assist me?”
“Against my better judgment,” he muttered, noting how with each breath she inhaled her corset pushed up the delights that lay beneath. While not large, her breasts were just the right amount to tempt a man to settle his lips there. Of course, that obliterated the childlike image of her that he had carefully constructed in his mind.
“Blast it,” he swore, shrugging out of his coat and offering it to her. “Just cover yourself up, for Christ’s sake.”
“You curse a lot.”
“Only when I
’m vexed,” Brahm snapped.
“Which is a lot.”
Brahm narrowed his eyes on her. “And you talk a lot for a lady in need of assistance.”
She snatched the jacket from his fingers and turned her back on him in a haughty whirl. “Fine.”
For the tenth time that day Brahm wondered what madness had possessed him to involve himself. And since when did he find Holly Middleton attractive? It was as though in the span of a moment she had transformed into an exotic fruit, and he could not help wanting to take a bite of her sweet nectar.
God save him.
Sweet nectar?
His head felt as though it had been split in two, yet he hadn’t taken a blow to it. Not even a quarter of an hour in her presence and she’d driven him to complete, utter madness.
The chit wasn’t even his type. Not that he claimed to have a type, but he did prefer his women tall and busty, not frail little creatures such as she. And he favored women who, to be frank, resembled a woman and not a child. In fact, he had always seen the sisters as just that: children, nursing at the teat of a wet nurse, suckling on velvety cream breasts—
Christ.
He turned away and busied himself by glaring at a pile of stacked books, finding it more prudent than watching her shrug into his jacket. When she finished, she came to stand before him, a small smile curving at the edges of her lips. Of course, his gaze just had to drop to those soft mounds to see if they were well and truly concealed.
“What are you staring at?”
Brahm’s head snapped up. “I . . . er . . . just asserting that your interesting choice of apparel is covered.”
“Oh! They are marvelous, are they not? My cousin Belle had them designed for me.”
Well, that explained everything, then.
The muffled pitter-patter of footsteps moving alongside their hiding place drew their attention back to the matter at hand.
“I must speak with Willow,” Miss Middleton implored in a solemn voice. “Will you help me?”
Brahm shook his head. “Not possible, I’m afraid. You must leave town at once if you wish to avoid the backlash that’s to follow this scandal, and if you are wise, Miss Middleton, you will stay away for a lengthy time. Or at least until the duke has forgiven this deception.”
“I’m well aware of the consequences, sir. But I must know if my sister is all right.”
“And if you are caught?”
“I’m ruined, not a fugitive of the crown,” she snapped.
“Besides the fact that St. Ives won’t leave your sister’s side, it will be best to first determine whether he will be out for blood,” Brahm said, resisting the urge to glare her down.
Her hands had lifted to rest on her hips, and her blue eyes narrowed on him in a way that strangely stirred up a desire to kiss her.
He almost groaned.
“You are right, of course. But where will I go? I do not wish to burden my family, not until I know what the duke plans to do.”
“Have you no one you can visit in the country?”
She shook her head. “I’m a social outcast now, remember.”
His jaw slackened. “There is absolutely no one? What of friends?”
“Of course I have friends. But none I’d ever put in the position to lie for me! This is such a dreadful mess.”
Brahm concurred. “I own a cottage in Dover,” he found himself saying. “It’s not much, but it remains vacant, so you will be shielded there until the dust settles.”
Hopeful eyes shot to him, and for one mad moment, he desired to do more than just provide her a safe place to stay. He wanted to offer her something intimate, like brushing his lips against hers. Then he instantly dismissed the notion. He was not her damn hero, and kisses would not be considered. Granted, by dispatching her to one of his estates, he might just have reached the height of insanity. It also meant she’d fall under his protection.
God help them both.
“I will be most grateful for your assistance.”
“It’s nothing,” he muttered gruffly. It was deuced hard not to react to the relief in her voice when his protective instincts were already so fired up. He clenched his hands at his side. “I will secure a ticket with a mailing coach. It should be sufficient.”
“You will not escort me?”
It was on his lips to say no. The reply had already formulated in his brain, but, then, “Do you wish for me to escort you?”
“Only if it’s not too much trouble.”
Brahm scowled, more to himself than at her. Damn those big, blue eyes staring up at him! It was simple. Just say no. No. But while his mind remained clear on the matter, his mouth apparently did not.
Before he could react, Miss Middleton threw herself into his arms, and he grunted as his breath left his body. The chit packed some mighty strength into her petite frame.
“Thank you! You shall not regret this.”
He pulled her off him, holding her at bay by the shoulders. “No need for that, Miss Middleton. Any gentleman worth his salt would aid a lady in need of his assistance.”
She cocked her head to the side. “I daresay not any gentleman would be brave enough to risk the wrath of a duke.”
“Then I am unique,” he muttered. Because here he was, dead in the center, about to do something altogether out of character: aid a Middleton in a mad scheme. For once, his sister would be pleased. And that—Josephine’s fondness for the Middletons—was the only reason he was assisting Holly Middleton in the first place.
Or so he told himself.
Chapter 4
On the lips of every guest, speculation stirred about what would, in the coming days, be called ‘the wedding scandal of the century.’ A select few believed that Willow was indeed Holly and that the resemblance between them was simply uncanny. Others pointed out that one sibling had noticeably been missing at the ceremony and believed something wicked was afoot. But the majority correctly assumed that the country “heathens” had pulled the wool over the duke’s eyes and swapped places.
Then, assuming the latter was true—it was the most scandalous and therefore the most gossip-worthy—the crowd began to wonder why the sisters would trade places, as if ensnaring such a grand-titled gentleman for a husband were at the top of every lady’s list. Which, of course, it normally was.
Holly listened to these wild rumors, ears pressed up against the wall, as they waited until they were confident that most of the guests had departed and that the duke had ushered his new bride from the church. St. Ives, at least, gave no indication that he had just married the wrong sister.
The more romantic of the guests surmised that Holly had fallen in love with another man and had eloped with him. Others theorized that she was barren and could not supply the duke with an heir—though how on earth they thought she would know such a thing was beyond her. Some of the older matrons even assumed her limbs must be disfigured, for why else would she desert the wedding?
Preposterous!
Holly even heard a person claim the fault lay with her father for refusing to remarry. “. . . heathenish behavior . . . a result of being raised by a man . . .” the woman was saying.
Heathenish?
Honestly.
But perhaps that person had been closer to the truth than anyone else. For their father had raised them to chase after their dreams, to be happy, and not to settle for anything less than what he had shared with their mother: love. So why had Willow gone and done such a lamentable thing as marrying St. Ives?
Holly let out a small sigh and concentrated again on the gossip. So far no one had remarked on the absence of the Marquis of Warton.
Her eyes flicked to him. He stood stiff as a tree stump and said not a word. And he held that starched position until the voices receded, leaving only silence in their wake.
Holly found herself intrigued by the taut expanse of his waistcoat. And though she really ought not to, she felt secretly thrilled that someone had come to her aid—even if that someone
was the temperamental Marquis of Warton.
“It’s time,” he said and swiftly guided her from their hiding place and out of the church. Unfortunately, once outside, their luck ran out. Many of the guests were still waiting for their carriages and were using the time as an opportunity to continue to gossip about the scandal.
“Walk beside me.”
Holly nodded, drawing the oversize coat tight around her and securing Willow’s shawl around her head. Warton was a big man, frighteningly so, and his body provided the necessary shelter for her to sneak past the bystanders unnoticed. All things considered, dashing through town in nothing but her undergarments would not have counted in her favor.
She was still ruined, of course—irrecoverably so.
And all Holly could think about was how unfortunate that her ruination hadn’t been the result of a torrid affair. At least then she’d have known some kind of passionate encounter.
Then again, one could probably argue that love was a form of passion and that love had been what had ruined her. Or rather, the falling out of love had been. And for that, she placed the blame firmly on St. Ives’s arrogant head. He had been the root of the cause. Him and all of his rules. Nevertheless, had she not fancied herself in love with the devil in the first place, all of this might have been avoided.
In a way, they were both to blame.
Willow might have a point; maybe love ought not to be a prerequisite for marriage. Even Poppy believed that falling in love was not the same as loving a person, but Holly had always been of a different opinion. Love, to her, was love—regardless of the speed, duration, or form.
Perhaps that was the problem.
Perhaps they were both right.
Either way, it had been deeply irresponsible to agree to marriage on a whim. Now the duke would demand . . . well, Holly did not know what he would do, but he’d require something for this betrayal. That much was certain.
“I cannot believe how foolish I’ve been,” Holly muttered.
Warton snorted.
“Oh, all right,” Holly grumbled. “I can believe it.”
They turned a corner and Warton’s carriage came into view. For the first time that day, Holly allowed herself a breath of relief. With a bit of luck, they would depart without incident.
