by Anna Bradley
She tore her gaze away and turned toward the entrance of the inn, but she couldn’t shake the feeling Jane and Freddy weren’t the only ones at risk.
Now, it was also her heart, and every moment she spent with Benedict Harcourt, the greater the risk she’d lose it to him.
* * * *
Great Missenden proved to be a typical English village, sleepy despite its proximity to the larger town of Wendover. Lee Old Church was a small building of pale gold stone with arched, whitewashed windows, rather pretty but not remarkable, and situated at the end of a narrow, tree-lined lane.
“Remote, isn’t it?” Benedict gazed out the carriage window. “Difficult to find, if one doesn’t know it’s here.”
It was deserted at the moment, the only sound the soft sloughing of wind drifting through the gravestones in the tiny churchyard to one side of the building. No one appeared as Benedict brought the carriage to a stop in the drive, but there was a small house of the same pale stone just behind the church that was presumably the vicar’s house.
Georgiana took in the small building, shading her eyes from the late afternoon sun reflecting off the windows. “Yes. It’s the ideal place for a clandestine marriage.”
So ideal, in fact, there was some chance the duke might have believed his secret marriage to Clara Beauchamp would never be discovered, and so hadn’t bothered to cover his tracks.
She had a feeling about this place…
She’d never much relied on feelings. That was more Cecilia’s realm. Georgiana was enamored of facts, not fancies, but there was a strange exhilaration in her belly, a certainty that they’d find something in this humble place.
It seemed incredible it could be as simple as that. After all the mystery surrounding Kenilworth’s sins and his efforts to keep his secret, she could hardly believe a mere scrap of paper might be the means of exposing him, but neither would she have predicted everything that had happened over these last few days.
A dastardly duke, a kidnapped duchess, faro, masque balls, scandalous gossip and a notorious rake with the handsomest dark eyes she’d ever seen—
But she wouldn’t think about that now. It would only distract her. Now was the time for action, not mooning over a rakish earl.
“Shall we?” Benedict took her arm and led her to the entrance of the church.
Georgiana grasped the heavy iron latch and turned it. A draft of cool air wafted over them as the door opened with a gentle creak of its hinges. It was dim inside, but she could see it was as humble a place as it appeared from the outside, with plain whitewashed walls, the arched windows lined in the same stone, and the simple altar illuminated by a leaded glass window behind it, dust motes lingering in the pale light that shone through the diamond-shaped panes.
“It’s a simple little place. Not quite what you’d imagine for a man like Kenilworth.” There was a dark thread of bitterness in Benedict’s voice. “He always insists on everything being as magnificent as possible, as befits a grand duke.”
There was nothing grand about Lee Old Church—no stately altar here, and no stained glass. It was the last place in the world one would expect a duke to be married, but then Kenilworth hadn’t been a duke then, nor had he had any expectation of becoming one.
So he’d found his heiress, seduced and then married her, gained control of her fortune, and then once he became a duke he left her behind, as if she were no more significant than a bit of mud on his boots.
For such treachery as that, one church did as well as another.
“And a grand wife who befits a grand duke as well. Not that I blame Jane, but Clara Beauchamp—God in heaven, Benedict. What do you suppose happened to her that night?” There was a reason Kenilworth had been so certain Clara would never return to expose his perfidy.
It made Georgiana shudder to think about it.
The odds were against Clara still being alive, despite Jane’s certainty that she’d seen her outside Lady Tilbury’s London townhouse. It seemed impossible a man as cold and calculating as the duke would have been as careless as to leave a witness behind.
Another shudder raced down Georgiana’s spine. As awful as the duke was, surely, he wouldn’t have…he couldn’t have been so wicked as to—
“I don’t know, but once we have Jane and Freddy settled, I intend to find out.” Benedict’s jaw tightened. “Kenilworth won’t get away with what he’s done, Georgiana. I promise it.”
“Good afternoon,” a voice called, and Georgiana turned to find a diminutive man dressed in the somber black suit and white cravat of a vicar stroll through a doorway at the back of the church. “I beg your pardon for keeping you waiting. I didn’t realize anyone was here. I’m Martin Henshawe, the vicar. May I help you?”
“Good afternoon, Vicar Henshawe. You may be able to help us, yes. This young lady and I have come to inquire about a marriage—”
“Ah, yes. I thought it must be that. Such a lovely young couple.” Vicar Henshawe beamed at them. “You need only give me your names. Once I’ve called the banns over three successive Sundays—”
“Banns?” Benedict cleared his throat. “No, that’s not…we’re not here about calling banns.”
“A special license, is it? We don’t get many of those here, but of course I’m pleased to assist you. I just need to see the—”
“Er, no, Vicar Henshawe. We, ah…this young lady and I aren’t betrothed. We’re acquaintances only, or…well, more friends, really, but not…we’re not here about our own marriage, but about someone else’s.”
Benedict’s cheeks turned pink as he fumbled through this explanation.
A rake, blushing? Georgiana had never seen such a thing before, and she couldn’t help but find it…well, an oddity, really. Peculiar, but nothing more. It wasn’t fetching, or charming, or singularly adorable.
The vicar blinked at them. “Indeed? I beg your pardon. The two of you look rather…that is, I assumed you were…well, no matter. You’ve come to ask about another marriage, you say?”
“Yes, Vicar Henshawe.” Georgiana gave him her most gracious smile. “A dear friend of mine, a lady by the name of Clara Beauchamp, may have been married here, but it would have been some time ago. Seven years or more. Perhaps her name sounds familiar to you?”
Vicar Henshawe shook his head. “No, I’m afraid it wouldn’t. I came to this parish just two years ago, after the previous vicar, Vicar Smithfield, passed away. Of course, I know the names of the members of the parish, but I don’t recognize the name Clara Beauchamp.”
Georgiana glanced at Benedict, and saw her own disappointment reflected in his face. If Clara Beauchamp and the duke’s name weren’t in this register, there’d be no one to verify their marriage had taken place with the previous vicar dead.
But if they had married here, their names would be in the register. They had to be. “Perhaps we might have a look at the register, Vicar Henshawe? It’s a matter of some urgency, you see.” Georgiana lowered her voice. “A dispute about the legality of the marriage, I’m afraid, and some disagreement over an inheritance. A rather unpleasant business, you understand.”
“Oh, dear. Yes, I imagine so.” Vicar Henshawe looked mildly scandalized. “I’ll just fetch the register for you so you might have a peek, shall I?”
“That’s very kind of you. Thank you.” Georgiana waited until the vicar shuffled off in the direction he’d come before turning to Benedict. To her surprise, she found him smirking at her. “What?”
“Lying to a vicar, and in a church, too. I noticed the falsehood rolled rather easily off your tongue. Shame on you, Georgiana. I think you must be far more wicked than I initially suspected.”
Georgiana noticed the teasing glint in his eyes, and her lips quirked. “Well, someone had to tell him something. If I’d left it to you, the poor man would be calling our wedding banns this Sunday.”
She’d expected
him to laugh out loud at such a preposterous idea, but he didn’t. Instead, his eyes met hers, and he gazed at her with such intensity heat climbed into her cheeks, and she had to force herself to look away before she was tempted to give in to foolish flights of fancy.
Fortunately, the sound of a door closing broke the silence between them. Vicar Henshawe came down the center aisle, a thick, heavy book in his hands. “Here we are. I have some business to attend to in the back, so I’ll just leave this here with you for a bit. Do let me know if I can be of any assistance, however.” He handed the book to Benedict, then toddled off back down the aisle and vanished through the door again.
“Well, that was easier than I imagined it would be.” Benedict gestured Georgiana toward a seat in one of the pews, then slid in beside her and spread the book open over both their laps.
It was on the tip of Georgiana’s tongue to say it was too easy, and disappointment would be sure to follow, but she bit the words back. There was no reason to infect him with her gloomy portents, and after all, perhaps it would be that easy. If not, they’d find it out soon enough without her dire predictions.
She opened the book to the middle and bent over it, squinting down at the dates. “Let me see. If Mrs. Payne had the right of it, Clara and Kenilworth would have been married sometime between seventeen-ninety and ninety-one.”
“Start a year earlier, just to be safe.” Benedict held the book steady while Georgiana turned the thin pages until she’d reached January of seventeen eighty-nine.
“Here we are. My goodness, either the previous vicar had dreadful handwriting, or he was very old when he died.” The letters were uneven and shaky, and the ink faint, as if the writer had trouble managing a quill. “It looks as if a bird hopped across the page. It’ll be quite a task, making sense of this.”
“Here.” Benedict moved closer, so the length of his thigh was tucked against hers. “I’ll read this page, and you read the other. It will go more quickly that way.”
No, it wouldn’t, because now she was distracted by the sensation of his warm, muscled thigh. She couldn’t say so, however, so she drew in a deep breath and ran her finger down the page, reading off the names in her head as she went down the row.
It wasn’t a long list, Lee Old Church being a small church in a small parish, but the ink was so faded by the time she reached the end of her row the names were swimming across the page. One thing was certain, however. “No Clara Beauchamp.”
“Not on my side, either. Go on to the following year.”
She turned the page, and they both fell silent as they each read through their list of names. October, November, December…Georgiana’s heart sank as she read the names of the last couple married in December of seventeen ninety. “She’s not here either.”
“No.” Benedict let out a sigh, and rubbed his fingers over his forehead, as if he had a headache. “Keep going.”
Georgiana did as she was bid, but even as she began reading down the row of names, her hopes were fading. There were dozens of churches in Oxfordshire alone, and dozens more of them close to here, in Buckinghamshire and in Kent. Kenilworth could have taken Clara to any one of them—
Georgiana paused, her finger stopping partway down the page. “Benedict, look.” She pointed to the first name on the top. “The date here is February of seventeen ninety-two. What happened to the previous year?”
Benedict slid the book onto his lap to get a closer look, then flipped back to the previous page. “It’s missing. The dates go from December of seventeen ninety to February of seventeen ninety-two. Seventeen ninety-one is missing!”
Georgiana stared down at the book spread across Benedict’s lap, and that was when she saw it, pushed deeply into the inside of the spine.
The ragged edge of a missing page.
Someone had been here before them. Someone who had something to hide.
And they’d torn the page out of the marriage register.
Chapter Twenty-one
Neither Benedict nor Georgiana spoke on the carriage ride from Great Missenden back to Dunsmore. They collected Madame Célestine’s horses at the Silver Stagg, but Benedict insisted they ride together and bring the second horse on a lead. “I can’t promise we’ll be comfortable, but at least we’ll be…”
Together.
“Warm.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips, his gaze holding hers as he pressed a lingering, open-mouthed kiss on her palm. “Your throne, princess,” he said with a courtly bow, sweeping his arm toward the horse.
He half-expected her to protest, but instead she dipped into a dainty curtsy. “Why, how gentlemanly, my lord.”
He chuckled. “You’re too kind. It’s rather a poor throne, I’m afraid. Not a single cushion.”
“I’ll just have to recline on you, then. I daresay you’ll make a proper cushion.” A blush stained her cheeks, but she offered him a smile that went straight to the most secret depths of Benedict’s heart.
He removed his coat, draped it over her shoulders, then handed her up and swung into the saddle behind her. “Lean back on me.” He drew her into the space between his legs and shifted so she could rest her back against his chest. “Yes, just like that,” he whispered, wrapping an arm around her waist.
He urged the horse into a brisk walk, pressing Georgiana tightly against his chest. He glanced up at the first few faint stars studding the night sky before resting his cheek on the top of her head. He wouldn’t wish himself anywhere but here. If he could, he’d stay here with her forever.
They didn’t speak much. Neither of them said aloud that their investigation into the Duke of Kenilworth was over, that his ugly secrets seemed destined to stay buried. There was no need to say it. The marriage register had been their last hope, and even proof of a marriage between Clara and Kenilworth wouldn’t have been enough to save Jane and Freddy.
They needed Clara Beauchamp. Not just a glimpse of her in a carriage on a darkened street, but Clara in the flesh, her skin warm and her heart beating.
In the eyes of the courts, Kenilworth was no bigamist unless they could prove Clara was still alive, and they were as far from being able to do that as they’d been when this business first began. Now there was nowhere left to go except back to London, and for Benedict, from there to North America, to give Jane and Freddy a chance at a new life.
Benedict wished for a new life, too, but not the life he’d find in North America.
Not any life that didn’t include Georgiana Harley.
He wanted to tell her, but there was too much to say, and too little time left in which to say it. Neither of them tried to fill their last moments with frantic words. Instead she let her body melt against his, and he held her close.
This was the most he’d ever have of her. These fleeting moments, with her nestled against him in the saddle, her slender back pressed to his chest, his arms resting against her sides. He leaned forward so his face was mere inches from the back of her neck and inhaled a deep breath of a scent that had breathed new life into him—a scent he’d never forget, no matter how many miles came between them.
He was in love with her—had been in love with her for months now—and it didn’t make a damn bit of difference.
“Sleep, Georgiana,” he whispered, his lips close to her ear. “It’s late.”
Too late to be making the long ride back to the gamekeeper’s cottage, but they’d decided not to remain at the Silver Stagg. If Benedict thought they’d come across the duke’s men on the darkened road he wouldn’t have risked it, but the duke hadn’t sent his men after them at all.
He hadn’t needed to. Any evidence of his marriage to Clara Beauchamp had long since been obliterated. Kenilworth had covered his tracks too well to believe they’d find anything they could use against him.
Benedict leaned closer to Georgiana, his eyes falling closed as the stray locks of hair that had come loose
from her hat brushed against his cheek. “It’s all right to rest, Georgiana. I’ve got you.”
He waited for her to insist she wasn’t fatigued, and didn’t need to sleep, but the words never came. She drifted to sleep in his arms in such an unexpected show of trust it brought an ache to his throat.
The ride back to Burham was both too long and too short.
When they arrived at the cottage, he eased himself from the saddle and then reached up for her, taking care not to wake her as he lifted her down and gathered her into his arms. He nudged the cottage door open with his foot, strode inside with her cradled against his chest, and carried her to the bed in the corner.
She stirred when he lay her down, made a low, protesting noise in her throat, and caught his sleeve when he tried to draw away. “Don’t go, Benedict.”
He caught her wrist between gentle fingers and tried to free himself. “Shhh. You need to sleep, Georgiana. We have a long ride back to London tomorrow.”
A small frown crossed her lips, and she held him fast. “You need to sleep, too. Lie down here, next to me.”
A rueful smile drifted over Benedict’s lips as he shook his head. “You’re inviting a notorious rake into your bed?” He thought of how it would feel to hold her in his arms, their bodies pressed together, his every breath an echo of hers, the firelight playing over them and her lips mere inches from his. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, princess.”
She opened her eyes, and her answering smile was…Good Lord, he’d never seen such an inviting smile grace any woman’s lips before. It was innocent and sultry at once, the slight pout of her lower lip making him hard in an instant, all the blood rushing from his head to his cock in one thunderous surge, leaving him dizzy with arousal.
“I do.” Her fingers tightened on his sleeve. “I think it’s a wonderful idea.”
Benedict gazed down at her, his best intentions warring with a desire that grew stronger with every flutter of her eyelashes, each of her quickening breaths. She didn’t know what she was saying, didn’t realize how dangerous it was to tempt a man like him to lie beside her in a bed in a darkened cottage. How could she? She was inexperienced, an innocent.
