Chapter 14
Angelina sank her fingers into Lord Bretheridge’s arm, and stiffened against a surge of panic.
Aunt Camille blenched and gasped. She clutched her throat, staring at her husband as if he’d sprouted another head.
What of Charles’s wife? He’d lost his mind if he thought Angelina would take up with him again. Her future might not be altogether bright at present, but life it would be far better without that blackguard about.
She tried to draw enough breath to sooth her jangled nerves, but the constriction in her lungs only permitted shallow breathing.
Poking around inside his wrinkled coat, Uncle Ambrose withdrew a crumpled paper. “Here, your mother sent one for you too.”
He thrust the missive at her.
“Let’s leave Mrs. Thorne to her letter, shall we?” The Dowager Marchioness of Bretheridge deftly guided her guests into the drawing room.
Angelina’s stomach sank to her shoes and flopped there a bit. What must the dowager think?
Lord Bretheridge stood a mere step beyond the glass doors, obviously reluctant to follow the others.
Once inside, his grandmother stopped and swung her cane to prevent the marquis from entering. “Flynn, why don’t you show Mrs. Thorne to the blue salon? She can read her letter without interruption there.”
He kissed her cheek. “Excellent idea, Grandmamma. Will you give our excuses to Their Graces?”
“Well, of course I shall, foolish boy.” She patted his face. “Might also order some strong coffee.”
She gave the duke a telling glare. “Very strong coffee.”
The moment Angelina entered the salon, she dropped her parasol on the divan. She removed her gloves, and after tossing them on a marble-topped table beside a stuffed male peacock, she cracked open the letter’s seal.
Dated June first, after the perfunctory greeting, Mama wasted no time getting to the purpose for the letter.
My darling, that horrid man came to call. You can imagine my surprise and anger at his effrontery. He claimed his wife died, and he was free to truly marry you now.
Can you believe his audacity? Well, I tell you, I cannot! Charles demanded to know where you were. I didn’t tell him, of course.
He became quite violent, cursing and shouting. He threatened your sisters and me if we didn’t reveal your whereabouts. I had him forcibly removed from the premises. I even notified the local authorities, he frightened me so.
Dearest, I don’t think he’s right in the head. Charles mentioned your desire to visit your aunt and uncle. He’s determined to find you in England. He blathered on about you belonging to him, that he owned you. I’m so very worried . . .
Charles had kept his vow to come for her.
A jolt of alarm speared Angelina. Strange, she’d never been frightened of him prior to this. That was before she became aware of the depths of his deviousness.
Refolding the once crisp sheets—she would read the rest later, when the pounding in her head didn’t threaten to cross her eyes—Angelina placed the letter on the table before wandering to the window and staring blindly through the glass.
Oh, Mama, things are far worse than you know.
Angelina turned to face Lord Bretheridge. “How soon can we be married?”
He pointed at the letter. “May I ask what the communication contained?”
“It seems Charles, er, Pierre, is in England searching for me. According to Mama, his wife died, and he thinks to marry me. Again.” She couldn’t keep the derision from her voice, though Lord knew, she prayed daily that she wouldn’t become embittered.
The marquis’s keen eyes bore into hers. “And you don’t want to, even though you carry his child? Wouldn’t that solve your problems?”
She detected no condemnation, only sincere concern in his voice. Her heart gave a tiny flip. Was he truly so unselfish? For if she married Charles and not Lord Bretheridge, his lordship, as well as his family, faced certain devastation.
Angelina spun to the window, pressing her forehead against the cool glass. The throbbing in her temples mirrored the pulsing in her ears.
“If you’ll have me, I’d rather marry you. In one day, you’ve shown me a depth of decency Charles could never hope to achieve.”
And Charles would have to leave her and the babe alone if she wed another. Perhaps, more importantly, she could guard her fractured heart. Marriage to Lord Bretheridge constituted a business arrangement benefiting them both. She’d no misguided illusions about love or devotion, and therefore, she’d be spared more heartache.
What about when our contract term is over? What if Charles still pursues me?
Unlikely.
She would climb that hill when she came to it.
Uncle Ambrose would prefer her to marry the marquis, though she carried Charles’s child. Since the Napoleonic Wars, the duke despised all things French.
“Do you love him?”
She found Lord Bretheridge’s deep baritone oddly soothing. Ironic that he asked the same question she posed not more than a quarter of an hour ago. They made quite a pathetic pair.
Shrugging, she toyed with the navy silk tassel holding the drapery open. “I thought I did. I swore undying love for him the day we exchanged our vows. These past few months have taught me much.”
Love most assuredly is not a giddy, warm feeling fueled by attraction and desire.
Releasing a beleaguered sigh, she rested her shoulder against the window frame.
“No,” she shook her head, “I don’t believe I do—at least not anymore—if I ever truly did.”
She certainly sounded fickle.
Angelina rubbed her lower back, past caring what his lordship thought. She needed to relieve the muscle cramps.
He frowned, scanning the barely discernible bump below her waist. “You don’t sound very convincing, I must say.”
Hands braced on her hips, she arched her spine and released a soft groan.
He shifted his eyes to her breasts, a hint of desire in his eyes.
Her nipples tingled and hardened. She stifled a gasp. Her pregnancy made her breasts more sensitive, not his visual caress reaching across the room.
Liar.
Arms folded to hide the tips of her traitorous breasts, she searched his face.
“Lord Bretheridge, I’m a woman of my word. I promised I’d marry you, and in doing so, my uncle will cancel the gaming debt. Your reputation will remain intact, and your fortune will be restored.”
Angelina crossed to the table where her gloves and the letter lay. Peering into the marquis’s eyes, she placed a hand on his arm and suppressed the shiver of awareness touching him caused her.
“Most importantly, the women you love will be provided for, as will my child. That’s a far better thing for me to do than marry a lying cur who had no thought or care for me when he deceived me into marriage.”
Removing her hand from Lord Bretheridge’s muscular forearm—she couldn’t think straight while touching him—she clasped her hands before her.
“I cannot help but think my child will be the better for having you in its life, if only temporarily, than having that bounder’s influence for years on end.”
Lord Bretheridge broke into a dazzling smile, pleasure lighting his eyes.
Some ancient unspoken communication passed between them. Angelina blinked several times. Why did he affect her like this?
Curling her toes in her shoes, she forcibly lowered her focus to his neckcloth. Much safer and more dignified than gawking into his stunning eyes with her mouth hanging open.
“I could never marry a slave-trader in any event.”
She couldn’t keep the venom from her voice. To expose her child to such an abomination was unthinkable. She’d voiced her abhorr
ence of the practice with a great deal of vehemence more than once. No wonder Charles kept that detail from her. He’d known she’d never accept his address if she’d been aware.
Yes, he’d treated her despicably, but selling human beings and getting rich from the contemptible practice? Surely those devils had their own special place in Hades.
The marquis placed a finger beneath her chin, tilting her head until she reluctantly met his eyes once more. He grazed his thumb across her lower lip, taking her breath away.
“I’d be honored to make you my marchioness as soon as possible.”
Tears blurred Angelina’s eyes and burned her throat.
Why couldn’t she have met this decent man before Charles? When she didn’t fear love? When her heart beat whole and healthy, without wounds or scars? Or, when the ability to ever completely trust another man hadn’t been stolen from her?
Still, dread choked her. Did she trade one unpleasant kettle of fish for another?
She swiped at an eye, dashing away a tear. “Thank you, my lord.”
“Here now, none of that.” Lord Bretheridge caught another tear with his bent forefinger. He brushed her cheek softly with the back of his hand. “Won’t you call me Flynn?”
Uncharacteristic shyness swept her. Closing her eyes, she tucked her chin to her chest, lest he view the blush on her cheeks and the pathetic gratitude that assuredly simmered in her gaze. Or the tears that determinedly seeped from between her lashes.
Angelina blamed the weepiness on her pregnancy. Though unaccustomed to such reverent tenderness from the males in her life, she didn’t need to act a sniveling ninny.
Perhaps she should make that a rule.
Compassion in a male is to be desired, but keep your distance from men who make you cry.
“Come here.” Flynn gathered her in his strong, comforting embrace, one large hand cuddling her head against his broad chest. “You have every right to a good cry.”
That did it.
She lost the tenuous grip on her self-control. The walls she’d erected against her pain and humiliation crumbled like week-old biscuits.
Wrapping her arms around his lordship’s trim waist, she pressed her face to his jacket and bawled like an infant. And she wasn’t a dainty weeper either. Great gasping sobs, wrenched from the bowels of her anguish, spewed forth harsh and loud, saturating the front of his coat.
“That’s it. Let it all out, darling.” He made soothing noises and whispered calming words into her hair as his hands gently caressed her back and shoulders. Several times, he pressed soft kisses onto the crown of her head.
“There’s a dear, poor thing.”
Long moments passed, until at last, peace settled upon Angelina. The steady cadence of his heartbeat beneath her ear soothed her. Her tears spent, she drew in several ragged breaths.
Where was her handkerchief? Drat. In her reticule, sitting primly beside the tea service atop the table in the drawing room.
Neck bent, she stepped out of his arms. “May I trouble you for your handker—”
Lord Bretheridge pressed the cloth into her quivering hand.
“Thank you.” She dabbed at her eyes and dried her cheeks, before turning away from him and blowing her nose in a most unladylike fashion. The handkerchief smelled of him; a musky, yet clean manly scent.
No doubt her eyes and nose were red and swollen and patchy blotches covered her cheeks. Several strands of hair dangled loose from the once-neat knot atop her head. Tendrils hung in waves about her face and ears.
How did some women manage to weep and appear as fresh as a peony afterward, and she resembled a mashed strawberry?
“I’m sure I look a sight.” Giving a shaky laugh, she fisted the soaked cloth. She’d have it laundered and then return the handkerchief.
“You could never be anything other than lovely.” He tucked several wisps of hair behind her left ear.
Another watery chuckle tumbled forth. “You sir, are a bold-faced liar. But a gallant one.”
My, how relieved one felt after a good cry. Except for the thickness in her skull, as if a bale of cotton resided where her brain had once been. And for her stuffy nose which made her sound as if she was recovering from a nasty cold.
Exactly how one wanted to appear when discussing wedding plans with one’s betrothed.
The dead fowl atop the table boasted better looks than she did at the moment. She brushed the peacock’s bright feathers.
Poor thing.
At least her headache had disappeared, although the ache in her abdomen persisted, as did the pain in her heart.
His lordship gathered her gloves, the letter, and the forgotten parasol. He passed her the two former items, keeping the latter. He wedged the sunshade beneath his arm.
“Given the urgency of your situation, I think we ought to move the marriage forward. We should make for Scotland immediately.”
“Immediately?” Angelina jerked in surprise. She faltered in donning her second glove. “As in today?”
He tapped her nose. “In a hurry to be my wife, are you?”
“No—yes—that is, I . . .”
She stared at him, certain a myriad of emotions flitted across her face. Averting her eyes, she folded the letter into a small, tidy rectangle before inserting it into the palm of her right glove.
“I think tomorrow morning should suffice.” Chuckling, he tucked her left hand into the crook of his elbow and ushered her toward the door.
She pulled him to a sudden stop, her eyes mere slits. “What of our contract?”
Flynn tried to quash his amusement. “Do you know suspicion is fairly shooting from your eyes?”
“It is not.” She gave a perturbed huff, but dropped her gaze just the same. “You and your nonsense about reading my eyes. Balderdash.”
“Steady on and fear not.” He raised her chin with his forefinger. “My steward practiced law before Father lured him away from his London office promising a heavy purse and relaxed existence. I’m confident Fleming can draft an acceptable settlement by tomorrow.”
“But what of Uncle Ambrose’s agreement?”
She crinkled her adorable nose and eyed Flynn hesitantly. “I thought you had to take the document to your man of business in London.”
Ah, she’d remembered that, had she? Angelina possessed a sharp mind. It would be interesting to discover just how intelligent.
He nodded. “I thought to. We shall have to make do with Fleming’s perusal. As long as the contract language is standard, I don’t foresee any complications. Once I’ve signed the copies and Fleming witnesses it, we can proceed with our private bargain.”
A tinge of guilt speared him. He ought to tell her there wasn’t a court in England that would enforce every term of their secret agreement. He doubted she’d marry him then, and if she didn’t, she’d be at Renault’s mercy.
What Flynn wouldn’t give for fifteen minutes in the ring with the bugger. He’d thrash him soundly for what the wretch had done to Angelina. He’d also ask Yancy to use his significant influence and have Renault deported to France and charged with bigamy.
Flynn stepped forward again.
Angelina fell in beside him, the soft swooshing of their feet on the thick Oriental carpet the only sound for a few moments.
“And when shall I sign our contract? Not in the carriage?” She peeped at him from beneath her lashes.
He didn’t blame her for being wary. The men in her life had given her good reason to be guarded. In time, he hoped she’d come to trust him.
“I’ll request a meeting with Waterford for this evening and leave you a copy of our proposed agreement. That should give you time to note changes you wish to have made.”
He glanced at her pert profile. “Will that suffice?”
Flynn didn’t expect genuine resistance from the duke. Anxious to see Angelina wed, with any luck the lush would agree to an appointment tonight.
Triumph and Treasure (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 1) Page 17
