by Liz Carlyle
It was as if she could read his thoughts. “Oh, Bentley,” she said in a quiet, sorrowful voice. “Can I count on you? Really count on you?”
The question was asked so sincerely that Bentley’s inner doubts seized a chokehold on him again. And he let that uncertainty drive him toward her, let it compel him to take her hand in his. “Just a year, then,” he said swiftly. “We’ll marry and give ourselves a year. To see how we go on.”
“A year?” She sounded horrified.
Bentley drew a deep breath. “All right, six months,” he managed. “We’ll try it for six months. In the end, if it does not work—if we are making one another miserable—then we will live apart. But I must be able to see the child. I have to know, Freddie, that all is well. You must promise that you will never go far away. I will provide you with a house and servants and whatever the child needs by way of education or dowry.”
“Bentley, it takes more than those kinds of things to raise a child!”
Bentley misunderstood. “Very well. Five thousand a year for your expenses.”
“Five thousand pounds?” She looked at him as if he’d just sprouted horns.
Christ Almighty! Bentley had never believed Freddie mercenary. But then, he did not know the terror of finding oneself unwed and with child, either, did he?
“Ten thousand, then,” he said gently.
“Fine,” she snapped. “If that’s how you want it.”
“Or fifteen?” he hastily added. “Whatever it takes. Oh, hell, if I marry you, my worldly goods are yours. But you must promise to try, Freddie. And I will do my damnedest—I mean, my very best—to be a good husband.”
Freddie’s face crumpled. “Oh, Bentley!” She was staring at him, her eyes wide, her expression incredulous. “This all sounds so…so appalling. You are speaking of money and of separation and—oh, my God, how on earth could we have let this happen?”
He shrugged, opening his hands wide. Good Lord, someone needed to lighten the moment. “Well, Freddie,” he quipped, propping one hip casually against the pianoforte. “For my part, I was half sprung. And as for you—” Here, he somehow managed to shoot her his cockiest grin. “Well, I’d like to think I was just flat-out irresistible. But you tell me, Freddie. What was it?”
Later, Bentley couldn’t understand why he’d teased her with such a foolish question. Had he hoped she might confess to having harbored some sort of unrequited passion for him the whole of her life? Or for worthless rogues in general, perhaps?
Freddie drew a deep breath, clasped her hands before her like a schoolgirl, and leveled him. “Oh, I don’t know! I was just so—so hurt. So mad. And I think—” She stopped and shook her head as if trying to clear her thoughts. “Yes, I think I just wanted to get back at Johnny. I wanted to punish him.”
Bentley stared at her, incredulous. “To get back at Johnny?”
Her lips trembled. “Well, you know, to m-make him sorry he threw me over?”
Anger and hurt welled up in him anew. “You just wanted to bed me out of spite?”
Frederica had the good grace to stare at the floor. “In part,” she whispered. “And I w-wanted to know what it was like to, well, to do it. And I heard Winnie say that you were something of an expert.”
“Well, damn me for a fool!” he swore, pushing himself away from the pianoforte with a violence. Freddie hadn’t even found him irresistible! She’d just wanted to spite another man! It stung far more than it should have done and conjured up too many bitter memories. Bentley lost his temper again.
“Let me tell you something, Frederica,” he growled, wheeling on her. “I’ve been used, abused, and blamed for a lot of wickedness in my day. But, by God, I don’t like being used as somebody’s vengeance fuck, and I bloody well won’t be dropping by old Johnny’s house to tell him about it over tea. And I swear to you, Freddie, if you ever pull another trick like that, I’ll blister your arse with the back of my hand.”
Freddie drew herself up an inch, lifted her stunning eyebrows, and stared down her pert little nose at him. “I’d just like to see you try,” she hissed. “Rannoch will have your head on a platter—if there was anything left when I got done with you. And just so you know, I find your language deeply offensive.”
Bentley caught her by the shoulder and dragged her pert little nose right into his face. “Darling,” he snarled. “I hate to be the bastard who bursts your romantic bubble, but most everything about me is deeply offensive. And you can just get used to it.”
She lifted her brows another notch, opened her mouth, then crumpled at once into tears.
Bentley just looked at her in gape-mouthed astonishment. Oh, bugger all! he thought. Now I’ve really done it. He let go of her shoulder and shoved both his hands into his hair. “Aw, Jesus, Freddie, don’t cry!” he begged. “Oh, please, oh, please, don’t. Anything but that. You know I can’t bear it.”
Then somehow, and very suddenly, Freddie was in his arms, snuffling against his lapel again. Which was just what had got him into this mess to begin with. He was afraid—really quite terrified—of crying women. And when it happened, his solution was to either bolt, buy them jewelry, or tumble them senseless. No wonder Freddie was pregnant. They really would have a bloody cricket team before this was done. If she stayed with him.
“Oh, I can’t help it!” she sobbed, her fingers digging desperately into the fabric of his coat. “I just can’t. I feel so queer all the time! Laughing and crying. Hungry and queasy. It’s as if—oh, as if I’m not myself. Evie says I’ll be right again when the baby comes, but I just d-don’t believe her.”
Bentley made himself another mental note. Figure out what makes her cry. And then never, ever do it again. Then he kissed her atop the head and curled one arm around her still-slender waist. “Well, I’m sorry, Freddie. I swear I am. I guess it doesn’t much matter why we did it.”
“Well, you j-just make it sound so appalling,” she wailed. The words were muffled in his cravat now. “I d-didn’t mean it the way you m-made it sound, Bentley. I didn’t. I just thought—oh, I just thought—oh, I don’t know…I felt so awful and so angry. And you smelled so good, and you’re always so sweet.”
Sweet—?
Christ Almighty. She thought he was sweet? He kept forgetting how young she was. He did not want anyone looking up to him. He damned sure didn’t want to be anyone’s hero. And suddenly, it dawned on Bentley precisely why that might be.
The proverbial shoe was slowly easing onto the other foot, wasn’t it? And a tight, miserable fit it was, too. He had always had the luxury of being the reckless one. The person who could always be depended upon to do the worst thing instead of the right thing, and get away with it by virtue of a hangdog look and a dose of damn near infallible charm. The person who was always pretending everything was fine, even when it obviously wasn’t. He was not so wholly lacking in self-insight that he did not understand the mechanics of the thing.
But what he did not perfectly understand was how to be something else. Like the man of the family. Before, Cam had always seemed willing—annoyingly willing—to do that. And now…well, this wouldn’t be Cam’s family, would it? Suddenly, he set aside his wounded pride, his crazy, conflicted feelings for Freddie, the ugliness of his past, and thought only of his future. He was to be a married man. The reality of it left him shaking. It was here. It was happening. He was to have a wife, and then a child, and he would be responsible for their care and their happiness, until they hefted his coffin into a hole in back of St. Michael’s. If she stayed with him.
There it was again, that awful, niggling thought.
“Bentley?” Freddie’s voice came at him as if from a distance. “Bentley, are you all right?”
He looked at her and blinked. Freddie looked wan and tired. And so very, very young. Somehow, he managed a smile, and then, to soothe himself as much as Freddie, he pulled her snug against him and buried his face against her neck. And, to his shock, she felt…well, she felt as if she just might be worth all
the fear and sacrifice. “Ah, just hold on tight, Freddie,” he whispered. “We’ll get through this.”
“All right,” said Frederica into his cravat. “I’ll try.”
Bentley kissed the top of her head again. “Good girl,” he said. “Now, come on, let’s go downstairs and get the deed done. The Reverend Mr. Amherst is waiting.”
Her head jerked up at once. “Now—?” she screeched, her eyes horrified. “Bentley, are you quite mad? We cannot do it now! You aren’t dressed! And look at me! My eyes are red, and my nose is pink, and—why, I don’t even have a bride cake or a ring or any of the other trappings!”
Bentley felt a stab of irritation. “Freddie, love, you’re pregnant! How much more trapped can you get?”
Frederica’s face screwed up like little Armand being put down for a nap.
Oh, Lord! thought Bentley. What a damned coil this marriage business was! “God, I’m sorry, Freddie,” he somehow managed. “Please don’t cry. I’ll come back tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” she sniffed, sounding a little grateful.
“Tomorrow,” he said wearily. “But darling, that’s it. If you aren’t ready by then, I’m throwing a sack over your head and carting you off to Gretna Green.”
At Bentley’s insistence, he spent another hour at Strath sequestered in the library with Rannoch hammering out a draft of the marriage settlements. As distasteful as he found it, Bentley meant to honor the six-month promise he’d made to Freddie. And he needed to put it in writing, to make to her some small gesture of good faith. But what he did not need was Rannoch’s money.
The marquis’s brows had lightly lifted when Bentley mentioned that he and Frederica had already agreed upon the conditions of any separation. Then Rannoch made a little strangling sound in the back of his throat when Bentley explained the financial terms he’d offered. But when Bentley insisted they apportion Frederica’s rather significant dowry to any children born to the union, the old boy quite literally choked on his coffee.
It was, Bentley suddenly realized, a most gratifying sight. He was one of those brash gamesters who had often known both penury and prosperity in the same month, and was never much troubled by either condition. Now, for the first time in memory, Bentley actually took great pride in the fact that his present situation was extremely flush. And on his next breath, he was struck with the realization that he was now obliged to keep it that way.
His heart in this throat, Bentley left Strath almost as quickly as he’d come and went straight to Lombard Street. He was, quite literally, but a shipwreck away from abject poverty. His remark to Stoddard had been but half in jest; if a fellow had a bad day in the insurance business, the underwriters really could take his drawers, and probably grind out his bone marrow, too. The profits one made were obscenely high, yes, but the downside was total ruination. And as thrilling as that risk might be, it was one he could no longer afford.
Stoddard, thank God Almighty, had not yet delivered his latest agreements. He was quite pleased to toss them into the grate and almost deliriously happy when told to deposit every sou of unallocated capital into the safe and sound five percents. And so it was that Bentley’s three-year love affair with that most faithless of mistresses, Lloyd’s of London, ended in a puff of coal smoke.
Stoddard fairly beamed as he showed Bentley to the door. “I collect you’ve seen the error of your investment habits, Mr. Rutledge!” he chortled, brushing a little soot from his coat sleeve.
“You collect right,” agreed Bentley a little morosely. “I daresay hazard will be the next thrill to go. Soon I’ll be suffering the gout and wrapping warm flannel about my throat.”
It was a shame, but there you had it. Life as he’d known it was about to change. And so Bentley ambled down to Hanging Sword Alley—a bit subdued by the symbolism of the name, given the day he’d had—and wolfed down an eel pie and a tankard of ale at a grimy little pub whose ambiance he especially liked. Somewhat cheered, he sauntered on into the Strand.
Kemble was stuck halfway inside his bow window, arranging an assortment of enameled snuffboxes, when Bentley ambled past. The jangling bell caught his attention, and he looked up, his eyes instantly mistrustful.
“You again!” he said when Bentley wandered inside. “And don’t give me that pathetic puppy look, as if you just pissed on the carpet.”
“Arf!” said Bentley with a shameless grin. “But it’s something rather more serious than carpet, I fear.”
Kem’s eyes rolled. “What now?”
“A wedding.”
“Good Lord!” said Kemble, backing his haunches out of the window. “When?”
“Tomorrow.” Bentley just leaned against the door and feigned a pitiful expression.
On a sigh, Kemble shut the window and snapped its little lock shut. “Have you a proper morning coat?” he challenged, swishing around a table piled with an arrangement of old mantel clocks. “No, I thought not. Where is it to be? And for God’s sake, don’t say St. George’s. I can’t possibly manage that.”
A church? Bentley had never considered that. If Frederica wanted a bride cake and a ring, she probably wanted a church, too. Bloody hell. This was more work in one day than he did in a week. Then he remembered Freddie’s soft, trembling lips, and all the inconvenience slipped from his mind.
“Where?” Kemble demanded again, throwing open the green draperies which led to the back rooms. “Remember, Rutledge, one must dress for location! Not just occasion!”
Bentley jerked into step behind him, giving the delicate-looking clocks a wide berth. “I did not think to get a church,” he said honestly. “Do you reckon I ought?”
Kemble whirled about, horrified. “My God, not your wedding?”
Bentley tried to smile. “Wish me happy, Kem.”
But Kemble just pressed his hand to his forehead. “Good God!” he muttered. “I’ve been saddled with Bentley Rutledge, Man of Action! I thought you were supposed to be indolent, charming, and dissolute.”
“Well,” said Bentley a little wistfully. “Things change.”
Kemble plunged through the draperies. Bentley followed him to his desk. Kemble snatched a pen from its stand and began to scratch out a note. “I pray that Maurice still has your measurements,” he snipped as he scribbled. “And the choirmaster at St. Martin-in-the-Fields owes me a favor. We’ll walk round there in a moment. And flowers! We’ll need flowers—lilies if we can get them. Good Lord, Rutledge! You’re going to make me a candidate for sartorial sainthood! How do you expect me to get all this done today?”
“Well,” said Bentley very quietly. “You’re going on quite splendidly, Kem. But I only came in to buy a ring.”
Chapter Nine
In which Lord Treyhern suspects The Worst.
On the morning of her wedding, Frederica shook out her favorite blue dress and gave it to Jennie, the maid she and Zoë shared. It was to be her last clear thought. The rest of the day flew by in a flurry of packing, hugging, crying, and chaos. It was just as well. She was afraid to slow down, afraid that her fears might catch up with her brain before the deed got done. And yet the morning was not without hope; a tiny little flame of it burned now in her heart.
Frederica had passed a sleepless night. But to her surprise, few doubts had assailed her. The sleeplessness was due, in part, to hope. And to the thoughts of what came after marriage. No, he was not her dream husband. But he certainly was her dream lover.
“Better the devil you know, I daresay,” Elliot had sighed, kissing her gently on the nose.
At least her child would have what Frederica had always longed for, a good old English surname and a legitimate lineage which went back a dozen generations. Moreover, though she would never have confessed it, Frederica was also just a little bit afraid that a piece of her heart had begun to hold out yet another hope, and one which was surely wasted. Nonetheless, the Bentley Rutledge she’d thought she knew had not been precisely the same man who had proposed marriage to her yesterday.
Zo
ë spent the early hours of the morning lazing about Frederica’s bedchamber, making a general nuisance of herself. Apparently, Frederica’s soon-to-be husband had many fine characteristics which had heretofore passed unnoticed. And to distract Frederica from her usual bout with morning sickness, Zoë was all too willing to enumerate them. In addition to his brilliant mind, incisive wit, and charming personality, he possessed a kind heart, perfectly straight teeth, and a mane of dark, unruly curls. And then there was his shameless grin, with half a dimple on the left side. And his eyes! Oh, they were an oddly mesmerizing shade—or so Zoë claimed—of dark brown rimmed in bottle green.
But when Zoë began to sigh over the size of his thighs, Frederica shoved away the chamber pot and suggested perhaps Zoë ought to marry him and take a turn heaving up her hot chocolate. Zoë had just laughed and threatened to snatch back Jennie, whom she had magnanimously surrendered to Freddie for the trip to meet Bentley’s family in Gloucestershire.
And soon enough, they were at the church and standing in the midst of a ceremony so simple and so elegant Frederica’s breath caught. Though not wildly fashionable, St. Martin-in-the-Fields was one of London’s most beautiful churches, and for her wedding day, it blazed with a thousand candles and brimmed with vases of white lilies, all of it trimmed in gold satin ribbon. She found herself deeply touched that Bentley had arranged such a lovely ceremony.
Then the Reverend Mr. Amherst came out, looking very different in his flowing vestments. And the next thing Freddie knew, her knees were nearly buckling, and Bentley Rutledge was sliding a warm, heavy chunk of gold onto her hand and pledging his eternal love in that husky whisper she loved so well. After that, she had only the vaguest memories of having her cheek repeatedly kissed and her hand pumped up and down as she’d stood next to her husband on the church steps.
But Bentley, never one to remain solemn for long, had been unable to resist a moment of levity. When the pews had completely emptied and the well-wishers were wandering away, he grinned, snatched her up by the waist, and kissed her again, right in the churchyard, twirling her round and round in a heady circle, just as he’d done on Boxing Day. And suddenly, quite unexpectedly, Frederica felt happiness spring into her heart. There was a sense of unalloyed delight in his touch, and his face had not held the expression of a man who’d gone to the altar against his will.
