Changing the Earl's Mind (The Lords of Whitehall Book 3)

by Kristen McLean

  Moments later, the vicar and his wife entered with Martin, who had served as butler at Barrington Park since Drake was a babe. The vicar and Drake took their places at the altar, the vicar’s wife sat at the piano, and Pembridge stepped out to give away the bride.

  The music started drifting from the piano, her expert fingers gliding over the keys to the tune of Bach’s “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.”

  Drake’s stomach lodged in his throat, his eyes locked on the giant mahogany door. First the two flower girls walked down the aisle, tossing white and pink rose petals along the path before taking their seats along the wall.

  Then Sarah stepped into the room on Pembridge’s arm, and his world shifted, came apart, then froze in that chaotic state. It was exactly right, and terribly wrong all at once. Muddled and mixed together, indecipherable. All except for her.

  She was perfection itself. Even in all his most forbidden dreams, he could not have imagined a more breathtaking bride, and she was his.

  Well, not truly his. Not in the way that mattered. He didn’t have her heart. Nor did she have his.

  That fact shouldn’t fill him with discontent. It should fill him with relief. Granted, he would be miserable when she left, but not nearly as miserable as he would be had he fallen in love with her.

  He hadn’t fallen in love with her… had he?

  The vision slowly stepping toward him banished whatever terror was beginning to swirl nefariously in his gut. Heavens, she was lovely.

  Beneath the lace veil, her dark hair was caught in a loose knot at her nape with several errant curls already breaking free to fall along her neck and shoulders. The white dress hugged every sumptuous curve, flowing over every crest and valley from where it was gathered with a ribbon high on her waist.

  Then her gloved hand was placed in his, and the vicar started speaking. Vows were repeated, rings were slid onto fingers, and then there was silence. Everyone was waiting for him to lift the veil and kiss his bride.

  His heart hammered in his chest as he lifted the bit of lace. For the tiniest moment, his heart stopped completely before beating mercilessly behind his ribs until he was sure the entire room echoed with the sound.

  Then she smiled, a small, nervous smile, and the chaos inside him calmed.

  He lifted her chin with his fingers and bent his head. He brushed his lips against hers, soft and gentle, holding back the desire to plunder and consume. Then he forced himself to lift his head and smile at the few gathered around them.

  “Congratulations on joining the ranks of the married old men, Drake.” Pembridge grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. Then he turned to Sarah and bowed, placing a kiss on her knuckles. “And you, Sarah. I do wish you all the happiness in the world.”

  “Thank you, Nick,” she murmured, a fetching blush creeping over her face.

  Drake escorted Sarah from the chapel to the dining room, followed by the vicar and his wife, and Nick with a brightly grinning flower girl on each arm.

  Afterward, Drake and Pembridge took port in the library, while the vicar decided he and his wife were far too fatigued and too pleasantly stuffed to keep awake any longer, and Sarah went to her room to have her maid help her get out of her wedding ensemble with all the fastenings and tapes and hairpins.

  Rain began pelting the mullioned windows of the library with force, and flashes of lightning brightened the room in short bursts before thunder roared overhead. What an awful time for a bloody electrical storm. He doubted the poor vicar and his wife would catch a wink of sleep this night. While they were natives of Yorkshire, they were not used to nights in this ancient pile of stones. Storms were bad enough in the north without tossing in a sorely underused gothic castle into the mix. He would thank them again in the morning for agreeing to come to Barrington to perform the ceremony, sacrificing the comfort of their own beds.

  Drake sniffed the port. He had been told it was the best in England, a special brew preferred by his father. Drake had never tasted the stuff before.

  He sipped and grimaced. It was sweet, far too sweet for his taste. He set the snifter back down on the tray.

  “Not a port man, are you?” Pembridge asked.

  “Not a drinking man at all, really,” Drake said. “You know that.”

  “I figured you indulged in the privacy of your own library, like every other gentleman.”

  Drake shook his head.

  “But surely you intend to drink a toast to your marriage?” Pembridge asked, his brow lifted in inquiry.

  “We toasted at dinner,” Drake reminded him.

  “That was then, in front of the vicar and his wife. You barely touched your wine.” Pembridge took both their glasses, and after glancing around the room, walked over and poured the contents into a potted fern.

  “What are you…? No, you will kill it!” Drake exclaimed too late to save the plant.

  “Nonsense, a little port never killed anyone,” Pembridge dismissed easily. “Now that we are in the privacy of your library, we may drink a proper toast to your new wife.” He opened the cabinet of the sideboard and pulled out another decanter, unstopped it, sniffed it, then set it back, and pulled out another. Apparently finding the aroma of that one more pleasing, he poured a generous amount into the two glasses, then handed one to Drake. “To your wife. May you two have a long marriage filled with love, happiness, and many, many children.”

  “You know this isn’t—”

  “Drink,” Pembridge commanded before he downed his own liquid. “That is quality scotch.”

  It smelled like antiseptic, but he took a drink, feeling it burn down his throat. His breath could rival that of dragons, but after a moment, he did feel a little better, more at ease.

  He took another sip.

  Pembridge paced along the bookshelves, occasionally selecting one of the leather-bound tomes before sliding it back into place and continuing on, sipping his scotch. Perhaps he was giving Drake a moment to collect his thoughts. Marriage was a big change, even one of convenience.

  Good heavens, he was wed.

  He took another sip. A deeper one.

  “Glad to see you enjoying the scotch,” Pembridge said, sifting through a copy of Byron’s Don Juan. “The poor dear has been sadly neglected.”

  “It tastes like death,” Drake muttered.

  Pembridge chuckled and sipped from his glass. Drake sipped as well. He could use the drink, though he was beginning to feel a little strange. He had better stop now. If Winters decided to brave the storm and come after Sarah tonight, he needed to be in good form.

  He set the nearly empty snifter on the sideboard. “I am retiring for the night, Pembridge—”

  “Nick.”

  He smiled crookedly. “In a rare moment of weakness, I succumbed to your friendship, and now you will never let me forget it, will you? Very well. Feel free to linger here as long as you like, Nick.”

  Nick grinned back at him smugly. “That I shall.”

  Drake nearly made it to the door before a thought struck him. He moved to the shelves near Pembridge, grabbing a small leather-bound tome before shifting his attention to the shelf dedicated to agriculture. He dragged his fingers along the bindings until he found what he was looking for. Then, tucking Thomas Whately’s Observations on Modern Gardening under his arm, he turned and quit the room.

  Sam glowered out the window of the old stone watchtower, focusing on the giant fortress where that widowed witch was hidden away. He bet they thought they had pulled one over on him, rushing out of London well into the afternoon, but he had seen them leave and followed them all the way here.

  With George and William nowhere to be found, he’d had to go it alone, but he had done it. Once this was all over, he would find those two cowardly traitors and show them what happened to those who ran out on Sam Winters.

  He turned to the scrawny little boy he had picked up in the village. “You’re certain no one will be looking for you?”

  “Mum and Da are dead,” he said. “My u
ncle pays no mind where I go.”

  Sam nodded. His uncle might care if the lad was chewed up by Saint Brides’ hounds or shot while breaking into the castle, but by the time he found out about that, Sam would be on his way to the continent.

  “Here’s what we shall do, lad,” he said, his mouth twisting into a smile as he considered his plans. He pulled out a long knife from his satchel and handed it to the boy, identical to the one he carried. “We’re breaking in tonight. Use the knife if someone gets in your way.”

  “But the storm …” the boy protested shakily. “Nights like these folks ought to stay indoors. Death haunts the moors when it storms something terrible.”

  “Curse the storm! It won’t be but a few minutes until we are inside the castle. There will be enough nooks and crannies that we could stay there for days, and none would be the wiser.” But Sam wasn’t planning to stay for days. The storm would let up sometime in the night, and then they would make for the coast, where he would rid himself of the child.

  Rain beat against the window and flashes of light streaked across the sky, followed by the fierce roll of thunder. With morbid anticipation, Sam lifted his hood over his head and made for the door.

  “Come, lad. It is time.”

  Chapter 18

  Sarah was not afraid of storms.

  Except for maybe the one currently raging outside her window. Just a little. Or perhaps it was merely a fit of nerves. She certainly had cause for them. After all, she was now Lady Saint Brides.

  Lady. Ye gods! The ceremony had been marvelous. Who knew a chapel in a gothic castle could be so enchanting? Her two godmothers, as she had come to think of them, had insisted she wear the simple, white gown when they had found it in the modiste’s shop. It took only two days to have it fitted and add a short train and veil. As soon as she had stepped into the chapel, she was glad for it, because it had matched the simple yet elegant decorations perfectly. Even the groom had been perfect, standing tall and handsome in black; the only color being the emerald stickpin in his snowy cravat, making his eyes the most intense shade of green.

  Another flash of lightning, followed by the crack of thunder, had her hugging her knees more tightly to her chest. However, it wasn’t the storm that had her heart kicking up. It was the next step in their plan.

  Winters was coming for her. Even though he was expected, she still felt goose pimples break out over her arms at the thought.

  He wanted her dead; had ordered men to kill her late husband.

  A knock sounded at the door, and to her aggravation, she jumped.

  Heavens, she had never been such a ninny before.

  “Come in.”

  The door opened and Drake stepped into the room, hair slightly mussed and shoulders relaxed. In one hand, he held a large, leather bound book.

  “I know it’s late, but I thought the storm might bother you, so I…” His voice faded when his eyes fell on her. He blinked, and then his eyes darkened, slowly trailing over her body and leaving shivers of heat in its wake. “Oh, Sarah,” he breathed.

  The appreciation in his eyes thrilled her with the way he seemed to devour her from across the room. It softened her brain until she almost forgot what she was so afraid of. Almost.

  She reached for her robe and wrapped it around herself before moving off the bed, her heart racing.

  “Has anyone seen anything? Is he here? Did you catch him?” The words tumbled out of her mouth.

  He smiled at her, handsome and warm and relaxed. He was relaxed. How strange.

  “No, he isn’t here. I doubt we shall see him tonight. Not in this storm.”

  “Oh.” Part of Sarah wished the blackguard would come tonight so they could get it all over with. Another part of her wished she could play the coward and run away before Winters had the chance to find her.

  Drake leaned back against the door. “Silly me, I was worried you might be frightened of the storm,” he said, holding out a very familiar book. “I should have known better.”

  She was immediately reminded of the last time he had given her that book. When she had felt his bare chest pressed against her, his breath caressing her skin.

  Her face flamed as she reached for the book, but she had to do it. He was holding it out to her clearly without any intention of moving. She snatched it and quickly moved away.

  He watched her, smiling as she placed it on the nightstand.

  “I am a little frightened,” she admitted. “Thank you for the reading material.”

  “It was my pleasure. Nothing works better to calm the heart than pure boredom. Besides, if I didn’t bring this, you might have found one of those frightening gothic novels and scared yourself silly.”

  “I like those frightening gothic novels,” she returned mutinously.

  “I know you do,” he murmured, the warmth in his gaze melting her insides. “You should know you have nothing to fear in the weather. These walls have stood this long,” he assured her, “I doubt they will crumble tonight from a simple electrical storm.”

  “How long have they stood?”

  “Three hundred years.”

  “That’s a long time,” she said, moving toward the side table with an open bottle of wine and two glasses. “I didn’t ask for two glasses. The servants must not be privy to our scheme.”

  “No, I thought it best for as few to know about that as possible.”

  “Since they brought two, would you care for a drink?”

  “No, thank you. I just finished off a scotch I probably should never have touched.”

  Surprise shown on her face before she had the good grace to hide it. “Pardon me, I just didn’t expect…” Her voice faded when light filled the room.

  She stiffened, preparing herself for the crack of thunder, but still she jumped when it came, spilling wine on the sideboard.

  “Oh, damn,” she muttered under her breath.

  She heard him walking up behind her. Then his scent surrounded her, so masculine, so clean.

  “Allow me.” He reached for the bottle, finished filling the glass, and handed it to her. “Is this your first drink since dinner?”

  She nodded and downed the contents in one gulp.

  “I don’t usually drink like this. It’s just that I’m…” She sighed heavily.

  “You, my dear, are nervous, and that is perfectly understandable.” He lifted her chin with his fingers, and heat suffused her face. “It does not make you any less brave. You are the strongest, bravest woman I believe I have ever known. I am rather proud to call you my wife, in fact.” His mouth curved into a devastating smile. “And I have a present for you.”

  Equal parts pleasure and surprise filled her chest as he presented her with another book, this one from inside his jacket.

  “Oh, Drake,” she breathed. She took the gift, a choked laugh forcing out the breath that had caught in her throat. “A frightening gothic novel.”

  “The Mysteries of Udolpho by Ann Radcliffe, to be specific,” he said. “I think you will enjoy it.”

  “Oh, you do, do you?” She laughed. “Who may I thank for recommending it? Your mother? Pembridge?”

  His brows knit. “Place credit where credit is due, my dear. It’s my recommendation.”

  “Yours?” She blinked. “You have read Radcliffe?”

  He looked slightly uncomfortable. “Yes, but not this particular copy. The original had suffered greatly at the hands of an open window and the dreadful Yorkshire mist almost twenty years ago.”

  She shook her head, thoroughly surprised and impressed, and perhaps the slightest bit in love. Perhaps more than the slightest bit.

  Good Lord, she was in trouble.

  She turned her attention back to the book, appreciating the beautiful binding and golden, engraved lettering. He had read Ann Radcliffe.

  “Her stories are my favorite. What made you think to give me such a wonderful gift?”

  “Jewelry would have been more appropriate, I suppose, but already you may have your pic
k of the family jewels. Necklaces, bracelets, baubles, broaches, all in a hundred different cuts and colors,” he said, the smile now gone from his features. “I thought perhaps when you read about the dilapidated heap in the story, you will remember this dilapidated heap in Yorkshire. You might remember me. Though I hope you won’t think of me as the villain.” He forced a smile that sent a shaft of pain through her heart.

  She forced a smile in return. “You had better be careful with these compliments and gifts. Any more of this nonsense and I might fall madly in love with you.”

  “We wouldn’t want that, now would we?” he muttered.

  She shook her head. “Though we do get on rather well.”

  He chuckled then, a genuine rumble that lit his eyes. “Not at the start, we didn’t.”

  “No,” she ceded with her own smile, setting the beloved gift on a nearby chair since the side table was still damp with wine. “Not at the start.”

  His green eyes sparkled as they watched her. Perhaps it was the scotch, or perhaps he was remembering their little spats with fondness, as she was.

  “Did you really punch the blacksmith?” he asked, laughter in his voice.

  She smiled wickedly. “Yes.”

  “You didn’t use a horseshoe, or mallet, or what-have-you?”

  She shook her head, and he chuckled again.

  “You truly are marvelous, Sarah. Absolutely marvelous,” he said. Then his fingers came up to caress her cheek. “I imagine you can take a blow just as well as you can deliver one, but if I ever see a man touch you again, my darling, I shall rip his arms off. That is my right as your husband.”

  Pleasure skittered warmly over her skin. “That seems excessive.”

  “It is very minimal considering what other punishments come to mind.”

  “You sound frightening.”

  He lifted a brow. “Most believe me frightening without my having to dismember anyone.”

  “Most people don’t know you.”