He blinked. And laughed. He laughed until he thought his ribs would crack. When he stopped, she was glaring at him strangely.
He cleared his throat and rubbed his sore cheeks. “Thank you. I haven’t laughed like that in years.”
“Why are poachers so funny?” she asked mutinously.
“Because the only men who might be trustworthy enough to do such a job without question are my men, and they are accustomed to finding assassins who kill politicians and influential nobles, not hungry men looking to murder my rabbits to feed their starving families.”
“Well, what do you propose?”
“The same as I said before.” He lifted three fingers to count off their options. “Either I sacrifice my career and help you leave England, you stay and hang, or we wed.”
“Those are terrible options,” she muttered.
“I agree. Mud tea, mud soup, or mud cake. Take your pick.”
Her frown deepened as she brought her fingers to her forehead and began massaging in a small circle. “If only the options weren’t so permanent.”
“Death is the sole option which is unequivocally permanent. It is merely my sense of honor and integrity that keep me from continuing in my career should I help you escape the country.”
She raised a brow. “Your honor and integrity might be more permanent than death. We barely know each other, and even I know you will die before you give either of them up.”
“Very well, that leaves marriage.”
The silence that followed his words was the heaviest, most poignant moment of his life thus far. Thick with hesitation, dread, and anxiety.
“Is that, without question, our last option?” she asked grimly.
“It seems so.” His hands were shaking, blood was once again rushing in his ears, and his heart was beating faster.
He was loathed to admit it, but marriage would be the most logical solution, given their situation. He could keep his career, and she could keep her head, traveling abroad indefinitely. Perhaps she might wish to return to America. It wasn’t important where she went. The important part was that she was his wife.
She would simply apply for funds with his man of business, advising him of what new and exotic land she would visit next. And Drake would no longer be expected to wed and produce heirs. He would already be wed, and to the perfect woman—an absent one.
He might prefer logic to emotion, but even he knew love was the reason a person felt pain. And love required time to bloom, to reach deep within someone and snake about their heart, ready to pull it from their chest at the first opportunity. With her, he would never feel such a thing.
That was an arrangement that could very easily last his entire life.
Merciful heavens! The most aggravating personal puzzle of his life had just been solved. He gave in to a satisfied smile.
“Yes. I recommend we wed as soon as possible.”
“W-Wait just a minute.” Her eyes fetchingly widened with surprise. Or alarm. Most probably alarm.
He ignored it.
“It would also be strategically sound to announce our engagement this evening,” he went on. “I doubt Ainsley would object. Though Lady Ainsley might be a little upset at our encroaching—”
“No, no, no, no,” she interrupted, her fingers finding their way perilously close to his lips, most likely to physically stop him from uttering another word.
He moved back just in time.
“Mrs. Tindall—”
Again, she stretched out her hand to close his mouth for him.
“I say!” He turned his head to avoid being forcefully silenced and raised his hands. “Very well. I shan’t say another word.” Then he made a show of sucking in his lips.
She propped her hands on her hips. “Are you truly asking me to marry you?”
He watched her silently for several moments before he dared open his mouth.
“May I speak now?”
Her mouth twitched, and she nodded jerkily.
“Yes, I believe I am,” he clarified, straightening his cuffs and attempting to reassume a dignified appearance. “Sarah Tindall, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
She blinked mutely at him, and he felt his stomach twist and knot. What would he do if she said no? He would take her to Portsmouth and leave the Home Office, obviously. He would continue to ignore his mother’s not so subtle pleas for grandchildren, he supposed. Though he was getting damned tired of that. He could avoid her if he tried, but he couldn’t avoid the loneliness nestled between the lines in her letters, the all-consuming desire she had for the pitter-patter of little feet. If he married, she might stop plaguing him about it.
Suddenly, his entire future was riding on a woman agreeing to marry him. A woman he would never have imagined he would offer for.
Good God, he might be ill.
“If I agree…,” she muttered somberly, then shook her head. “You must understand my hesitation. After Frank…”
His brow furrowed. “Our situation is different.”
“Is it?”
“I am not Francis Tindall,” he forced out, incensed beyond measure at being compared to a lowlife criminal. “I am not a thief. I do not have a gambling problem. I cannot possibly since I cannot play cards to save my life. And I would never offer you to another man. Not ever.” The very thought sent his blood boiling. “What I am is a man of my word. If I say you may travel the world, Mrs. Tindall, I damn well mean it.”
Her chin lifted. “You will allow me to travel the world as your wife?”
“Once this investigation is over? Oh, most definitely.” Her traveling was the only way he would survive it.
Sarah nodded hesitantly. He spoke with conviction, and she believed him. Still, she felt unsure.
“What more do you want?”
“I want something one can’t have in life,” she said with a shrug. “I want guarantees.”
How easy that would make life. If one could purchase a future as easily as one could purchase a new frock or parasol. If every decision could come with a slip of paper detailing exactly what would happen. Not what might happen if all went as planned. Not what might happen if someone didn’t change their mind. Not what might happen if the wind didn’t pick up. What was guaranteed to happen. One hundred percent.
For a moment, he just watched her as though he couldn’t reconcile her request.
“That’s all?” he asked.
She smiled humorlessly. “Just that one impossible little thing.”
He nodded, and she could see his mind working.
“Splendid. In that case, we shall have a contract drawn up.”
Sarah blinked at the simple solution.
“A contract?” she echoed.
“In it, I shall mention everything I require, and you will mention everything you require. There may be some negotiating, but we shall only sign once we are agreed.”
She blinked. “That sounds… reasonable.” Too reasonable. Too simple. And yet…
“Of course it’s reasonable,” he said. “If I can make half a dozen sheiks happy without copious amounts of bloodshed, surely I can manage something as simple as a prenuptial agreement.” He spun around and opened the door. Then he turned back to her and offered his arm. “Shall we?”
Sarah knit her brows, a sinking feeling churning in her gut. “What about the negotiations?”
“That, my dear fiancée, will be done later this week. For now, we must announce our engagement to a pack of howling wolves.”
“Shouldn’t we come to an agreement before we tell the world?” she asked, nerves causing her voice to sound shrill in her ears. “I might not agree to your terms. I might not accept your suit. You would be jaded in front of all of London.”
“Then I shall be terribly disappointed in myself, and quite deserving of the shame and humility such a thing would bring me. I realize I am exceedingly confident, and with good reason, I might add, but I am quite willing to take whatever consequences come of that confid
ence.” He straightened, and though his brow was cocked haughtily, the sensual curve of his mouth softened the effect. “Now then, are you ready?”
She shook her head.
He leaned down, as though imparting a secret, and whispered, “Neither am I.”
Just like that, the sinking feeling in her gut turned into something else not altogether unpleasant.
“Today is full of firsts for me, believe it or not,” he went on, straightening back to his full height. “This is the first time I have ever created scandal. The first time I have ever waltzed in public. The first time I have ever asked anyone to marry me. And consequently, the first time I have ever had to announce my betrothal.”
She let out a shaky breath and nodded. “Perhaps we might have Lord and Lady Ainsley announce the betrothal?” she asked. “Perhaps that would appease Lady Ainsley?”
He lifted a brow at her, a smile pulling at his mouth. “For Lady Ainsley’s sake, is it?”
“Oh, no,” she admitted. “I’m terribly cowardly.”
He laughed at that, giving her a glimpse of the youthful and far too handsome man hiding behind the harsh exterior. His green eyes gleamed beneath perfectly styled chestnut waves that begged to be touched.
Dear lord, what was she thinking? Those perfect locks were not hers to touch. Yet the temptation was overwhelming, especially while she could still taste him on her lips.
There her mind went again! This was insanity. What if it took months, years, to arrest the murderers and close the investigation? How would she ever survive being married to this man without losing herself in the process?
“I believe you have mispronounced courageous, Mrs. Tindall,” he said as he led her into the hall. “You may just be the most courageous person I have ever met.”
Or the most self-destructive.
Chapter 12
Lady Ainsley made the announcement to her guests while Lord Ainsley stood behind her, glaring darkly at anyone who seemed to disapprove of the union. When she finished and realized what her husband was doing, she playfully slapped his arm and told him to behave. This was a celebration, after all, and she would not allow him to frighten off her guests with his black looks.
After all the guests left, albeit reluctantly, only Lord and Lady Ainsley—the latter of whom Sarah was ordered to call Kathryn—Saint Brides and his mother, Lady Umberton, and Sarah remained settled in Ainsley’s study.
“This feels very familiar, doesn’t it, Grey?” Kathryn asked, a warm smile gracing her full mouth.
Lord Ainsley smiled back and took her hand in his, pressing his lips to her knuckles, worshipping her with his eyes. Then he stepped nearer, whispering something in her ear and making the marchioness blush a deep crimson.
“Why this absurd meeting, Ainsley? There is nothing to discuss,” Saint Brides said from where he stood beside Sarah. “There is certainly no reason to keep everyone late when it is obvious you are all exhausted.”
“I am not exhausted,” Lady Umberton said. “Are you, Elisabeth?”
The dowager shook her head. “No, I am fine. How are you fairing, Lady Ainsley?”
“Oh, I am quite well,” Kathryn said, smiling.
Saint Brides scowled. “I am sure Mrs. Tindall is exceedingly fatigued. She isn’t accustomed to these sorts of activities.”
“Are you exceedingly fatigued, Sarah?” Kathryn asked, all innocence.
“I wouldn’t say exceedingly,” Sarah admitted.
“Precisely whose side are you on?” he muttered under his breath.
“You see?” Kathryn said brightly. “She isn’t exceedingly fatigued. So now I want to know what we are going to do about this scandal you have caused, Saint Brides.”
He growled. It was so low she almost missed it, but it was there.
“I sincerely regret being party to scandal in your home, Lady Ainsley,” he said calmly enough. “However, what happens next is my affair. You need not worry yourself with it.”
Ainsley and Kathryn both nodded sagely. Then Lord Ainsley turned to his wife. “Pembridge will want to be here. He will probably demand to be best man.”
Kathryn nodded. “It’s too bad Céleste will not be able to come. What with the child being just born.”
Lord Ainsley set down the glass of brandy he had been nursing and went for his desk. “I shall write to him.”
“Wait just a moment,” Saint Brides protested.
“Make sure to send him my love,” Kathryn said as her husband pulled out the stationery and unscrewed the inkwell. “And my congratulations on baby Anita.”
“Of course, my lovely,” Lord Ainsley said distractedly as he began scratching pen to paper.
“Wait just a moment, I said,” Saint Brides insisted.
“Yes, Saint Brides, but the moment is over,” Kathryn said. “Now is the time to move forward.” She smiled at Sarah, a mischievous glee in her eyes. “We have an enormous wedding to plan.”
“No, we do not!” Saint Brides and Sarah spoke in unison.
“Yes, indeed,” Kathryn argued. “And we must prepare your trousseau, Sarah.”
Sarah had the sudden urge to run for the exit. “My what?”
“Your trousseau.”
She swallowed. “B-but that is completely unnecessary. I just finished purchasing an entire wardrobe,” she argued. “It hasn’t even all been delivered yet.”
“Yes, but those are all widow’s weeds,” Kathryn returned, waving her hand at the black ensemble Sarah was draped in. “You will need something with a bit more color as the Countess of Saint Brides.”
“But I’m still in mourning, and will be for some time.” Sarah turned to the scowling Saint Brides, who was watching her with keen interest. She gestured to Kathryn. “Tell her I don’t need another wardrobe.”
“Why is it all the women with which I am acquainted are so terribly demanding?” he muttered.
“Please.”
He slowly looked over her gown, sending warmth tingling over her skin from head to toe. Then he turned to Kathryn. “She looks fetching in black.”
Fetching? Her face burned.
Kathryn tilted her head and studied her. “I think she would look lovely in carmine or blush, but a soft green or blue would do as well.”
Sarah blinked. Then shook her head. “No, no, no, no. On second thought, I don’t believe I am allowed to wed. I am in mourning, after all. Forgive me, Saint Brides, for committing to such a thing when I had no right to.”
Saint Brides opened his mouth to speak, but he didn’t get the chance.
“I normally would agree with you,” Lady Umberton spoke up from her seat by the fireplace. “Propriety and tradition are very important in our world—soon to be your world—but you were only wed to my grandson for six weeks, and he was a rapscallion. Lawless and boorish.”
Several sets of eyes swung to where Lady Umberton sat by the fire with the dowager Lady Saint Brides.
“Surely, we can overlook the too-strict rules of mourning in this one instance,” Lady Umberton continued.
“Why, Francine,” Lady Saint Brides said approvingly, “that is the most sensible thing I think I have ever heard you utter.”
The older woman grinned, her wrinkles multiplying across her face.
“However, you are old enough to know one must never speak ill of the dead,” the dowager added.
The grin quickly turned into a scowl, her eyes nearly disappearing completely as they narrowed on the other woman. “There is no point in making him out to be a hero.”
“No, Sarah is right,” Kathryn said, a line forming between her brows. “Society can be very particular about mourning. Even with all our efforts combined, we might not be able to stop the censure a grand wedding is bound to conjure up.”
“No one is going to cut the Countess of Saint Brides,” Ainsley spoke up from where he sat at the desk. “No matter the scandal. Even if the wives took exception, their husbands would not allow it. It would be a political nightmare to find oneself at odds w
ith the earl.”
“They may not cut her directly, but they will still talk, and it is terribly uncomfortable to be whispered about behind one’s back.” The sobriety in the marchioness’s tone spoke to her experience on the subject.
Ainsley paused and glanced up at his wife. A second later, he rose and went to her, wrapping his arms around her protectively. “Of course, my lovely. What a coxcomb I am to have overlooked the whispers. We shall do our best not to give them anything to whisper about.”
Sarah stifled a sigh of relief. Surely even a small wedding would cause whispers. Perhaps they could just sign the papers behind closed doors.
“It will have to be a small affair,” Kathryn said, turning in her husband’s arms to face the room. “Only one hundred or so guests.”
“One hundred?” Sarah echoed. “Surely not.”
“Mm,” Kathryn confirmed distractedly, stepping out from Ainsley’s embrace. “Unfortunately, it cannot be helped. A grand wedding would be pushing it too far.”
Sarah looked to Saint Brides. “Aren’t you going to say something?”
“Of course. I shall leave the guests, the trousseau, and everything else in your capable hands, Lady Ainsley,” Saint Brides said, suspiciously meek as he began guiding Sarah backward toward the door. “You may continue your discussion if you wish, but I must escort Mrs. Tindall home since it is unforgivably late, and tomorrow will be long with preparations.”
Sarah gaped at him, lost for words.
“Good night, then,” Kathryn said smilingly.
“B-But—” Sarah stuttered, trying to pull away.
Saint Brides very slightly shook his head. Then he turned back toward the room at large and bowed.
Everyone except Lord Ainsley said their farewells happily enough. When she and Saint Brides stepped out into the hall, the marquess’s eyes narrowed on them, but he said nothing.
Sarah managed to keep her ranting in her head all the way down the hall, through the vestibule, where they collected their personal effects, and on the way to the carriage. Once they were both settled and the vehicle had rocked into motion, however, she was ready to spit fire.
“You high-handed, self-important aristocrat,” she bit out. “How dare you?”
Changing the Earl's Mind (The Lords of Whitehall Book 3) Page 17
