Marry the Man Today

by Linda Needham

  “What kind of accord?” She fisted her hands against her hips and scowled up at him. A scowl that he was sure would turn to horror in the next instant. But he was ready for that.

  He hoped.

  “I intimated to him, madam, that since you and I were planning to be married anyway—”

  “Married!” Her eyes had grown to saucers. But for the moment he had her full attention.

  “That I would advance that date, my dear, marry you tonight by special license in exchange for dropping the charges, thereby taking you off the streets and out of the court docket for good.”

  “Now you’ve lied to the Lord Mayor.” She was shaking her head at him in horror. “I’ll be swinging from Tyburn for the noonday rush.”

  “I didn’t lie to the Lord Mayor, Elizabeth. We are getting married tonight.”

  He didn’t like the stark stillness of her silence. Didn’t like that her fine mouth was set firmly in a frown. Or that she was blinking at him from under a thunderous scowl.

  “Is that why you brought me here to the Lord Mayor’s? So that you could take charge of me like a wayward lunatic?”

  She looked that way at the moment, with her gold-tipped hair gone slightly wild, her cheeks pinkening to crimson, her kitchen maid apron stained every which way. But at least she wasn’t pitching a tantrum.

  “The choice is yours, my dear,” he said, trying to keep his own breathing steady, his temper in check, because this was not the way he would have chosen a wife and a wedding day. “Marriage to me, or a lengthy trial by a jury of men. A lifetime as my wife, or twelve years in prison.”

  She raised a very wry brow and focused her glare into the deepest part of him. “The rock or the hard place? The fire or the frying pan? Is that the choice you’re offering, my lord?”

  A slap in the face that he felt all the way to his heart. “Have I been such a rogue?”

  “No, damn you.” She paced to the wall and back to him, scrubbing her fingers through her hair. “But you’re still a man. And the law is on your side. My fortune becomes yours. My every decision. My children. My bookstore. My friends. The Abigail Adams.”

  And here he was, as good as forcing her to marrying him. No wonder she couldn’t trust him.

  “If I tell you that I’m not like that—”

  “What’s that old saying, my lord? That absolute power corrupts absolutely.”

  “That’s unfair, Elizabeth.”

  “But it’s the truth: that as my husband, you’d wield absolute power over me. You could so easily shut down the Adams, forbid my friends, grow tired of me… .”

  He couldn’t imagine ever growing tired of her enterprising spirit, or the challenge in her eyes, or the goodness of her heart.

  But how to convince her that he would do his best by her to the end of their days?

  “Elizabeth, I can’t force you to sign the registrar’s book. The choice to marry me has to be yours alone.”

  “How can you do this to me?” Her face fell to a flood of tears. “Offer me my freedom as long as I surrender my independence to you?”

  “That’s not my intention, love.” But he was beginning to understand her terror, could see it in the trembling of her chin. “But you’ve finally pushed them too hard. And they’ve got the power to remove you from the sunlight. And I wouldn’t like that a bit.”

  “But I—” Her chin wobbled. Her hands were quaking, her knees knocking against his. Panic welled in her eyes as she shoved herself away from him with a cry. “No, no, no, no, no! I can’t do this.”

  Then she turned and sprinted toward the door they’d come through.

  Fortunately, he was faster, scooping her into his arms, the force of her flight sending him into a spin. He stopped in place, then held on tightly as he carried her back down the corridor.

  “Running won’t take you where you want to go, love.”

  “But I want to go home!” She clutched her arms around his neck, holding on for dear life, as though he might drop her. “Back to the country.”

  “That’s no longer an option for you. They’ll find you there too. Home is with me from now on, Elizabeth. You’ve left yourself no choice but to marry me. Tonight.”

  “But I can’t—”

  “Ah, there you are, Blakestone!” The Lord Mayor himself came strolling down the hall on a bouncing heel, grinning madly at them. “And you, Miss Dunaway. Good evening.”

  “Has the registrar arrived, Callis?”

  “Just before you did, my lord. Everything’s in place for your wedding to Miss Dunaway.”

  The man was looking at Elizabeth with a ready smile, obviously expecting a delighted bride.

  But her eyes swamped with tears again and she turned her face into Ross’s collar, wetting his neck, steaming against his nape. Then a huge sob rolled out of her, roaring through his chest.

  But she didn’t say no.

  Didn’t try again to bolt from him.

  Ross nodded back at Callis to ease the moment, feeling only somewhat like a cad. “Overcome with emotion.”

  “My wife cried on our wedding day,” Callis said, starting off ahead of them. “Come to think on it, she cries most days, for one reason or another.”

  That set the woman in Ross’s arms into a howling sob.

  A lamb to the slaughter.

  His lamb.

  Chapter 14

  His designs were strictly honorable, as the phrase is; that is, to rob a lady of her fortune by way of marriage.

  Henry Fielding, Tom Jones

  Ross carried his reluctant bride-to-be all the way into the Lord Mayor’s office, surprised that she was still clinging so fiercely to his neck when they arrived. As though he was threatening to throw her over the side.

  “You’ll be all right, Elizabeth,” he said as he stood her on her feet, halfway expecting her to bolt again.

  But she merely clung to his sleeve with her warm fingers as he and the registrar exchanged formalities with the Lord Mayor about the matter of the special license that the archbishop had so kindly issued to him earlier that evening.

  Her only moment of resistance came after the quick ceremony, when she paused with the pen poised above the document that would officially make her his wife.

  He’d never seen such melancholy on such a beautiful brow, had never felt so personally responsible for a crushed spirit as he watched her worry her lower lip between her teeth.

  Though he yearned to assure her of his honorable intentions, he also knew that she wasn’t ready to listen. He would have to prove himself worthy of such a prize.

  After the longest minute of his life, and two false starts, she finally bent her hand to the registrar’s book and signed her name. When she finished, she righted her shoulders and sighed as though she were bidding farewell to a loved one being put into the ground.

  It wasn’t until he had lifted her into the carriage that Ross realized that he hadn’t thought through where they would spend their first night together. The choice between her rooms at the Adams and his substantial suite at the Huntsman seemed suddenly no choice at all.

  Hardly the stuff of hearts and honeymoons.

  But since he was sure that the staff at the Huntsman would be available to serve his bride’s every need, even at this late hour, he chose the devil that he knew.

  “The Huntsman, driver. My private entrance.”

  His new bride said nothing all the way to the club, only watched in silence out the window as the gaslights flicked by on the darkened streets.

  He carried her from the carriage over the threshold and in through his private entrance at the back of the Huntsman. And since she still wasn’t objecting, he carried her up the two flights of stairs and into the sitting room of his suite.

  The troubled frown remained on her captivating mouth even as he set her on her feet in front of the cold hearth. Her thoughts seemed distracted, wandering with her gaze, racing ahead of her, lagging behind. But withheld from him.

  He slipped a lap blanke
t over her shoulders where she stood then left his rooms to speak with the night attendant about bringing up a tray of tea and firing up a hot bath in the next room.

  But when Ross returned, his bride was standing by the window, looking out onto the rooftops, her shoulders sagging.

  “I thought you’d like a bath and a meal. And I’ve sent word to the Adams not to worry. That you’re fine and safely out of jail.”

  “And married to you.”

  “I thought I’d leave that news for you to deliver.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” When she turned back to him, he realized exactly where he’d seen that haunted look before. On the battlefield. The walking wounded wandering aimlessly amidst the carnage, unaware of the bullets and cannonballs whistling past them.

  She’d lost something dear to her tonight.

  Until this moment, he hadn’t realized just how dear her independence had been to her. And didn’t quite know what he could do to ease her road.

  But one thing was sure: he much preferred her spitting anger to this silent despair. Preferred the sparkle in her eyes rather than this abject surrender.

  “Are you warm enough there, Elizabeth?”

  “Fine.” Even her nod was halfhearted, her eyes stricken.

  He went to her anyway, just to be close, to be resourceful, honorable. Not knowing what else to do, he bunched the blanket up around her shoulders and then gave in to the need to fill up his arms with her, blanket and all.

  Amazingly, she let him stay.

  “A room in my gentlemen’s club,” he said against the silky softness of her coppery hair. “Hardly a proper setting for a wedding night.”

  She shook her head slowly, back and forth beneath his chin, leaning her weight against him, rocking, swaying with the beat of his heart. “I couldn’t very well expect a beach in the South Seas.”

  Where lovers met on the warm sands? Was that part of her silent fears? That he would insist on making love to her tonight?

  “You’ve nothing to fear on that count, Elizabeth. I’ve no intention of seeking my husbandly rights tonight.”

  She leaned away and quirked a brow at him. “I’m not afraid of your husbandly attentions, my lord.”

  “Well, good. You’ve no reason to be.” Indeed, she didn’t look afraid, not with the steadiness of her gaze, that sizzling flash of green. “I’m not a complete cad, you know. Despite what you might have thought about the methods I used to rescue you tonight.”

  More frowning, a stiffening of her shoulders. “I don’t consider you a cad at all, my lord. Believe me, I’ve known my share of cads, and you are not among them.”

  “Indeed?” A good thing to know. Amazing, considering. Although he could only wonder where she’d come by knowing a brace of cads in her sheltered life.

  “In fact, my lord, I believe that had you turned your husbandly attentions on me tonight, I would have welcomed them.”

  That was not the praise he was looking for now. Not with him standing so close to his newlywed wife, in all her magnificence. With his unfettered, husbandly attentions meeting her fiery, wifely initiative.

  Not with an enormous bed waiting for them in the next room, piled high with pillows and dense with bedclothes.

  And a rock-hard erection throbbing in his groin, which wanted relief, wanted to be buried inside her.

  And yet he couldn’t help but ask. “Excuse me, what did you just say, wife?”

  “I’m sure you would have been a most gracious and attentive lover.” She looked up at him, her mouth a deep shade of rose. “You are the quintessence of the very Unbridled Embraces which, ironically enough, led to my imprisonment, your kidnapping me, and forcing me to marry you.”

  He filled his lungs with a long, unsteadying breath of her meadowy scent. “For your own good, wife.”

  “We’ll have to see, won’t we?” She shook her head, then pulled her warmth away from him, hugging the blanket close around her shoulders as she stalked away from him.

  “Well, then, I appreciate your … candor, Elizabeth.” He might not survive it, but he managed to speak through a throat grown tight with a fortitude he hadn’t known he possessed. “As well as your confidence in me and my unorthodox remedy against your legal woes.”

  However ill-conceived.

  “It may have been your remedy, my lord. But it’s my responsibility.” She slid her hand along the back of his desk chair as she walked idly behind it, her mood grown dark again. “I brought my legal troubles upon myself.”

  “With cause, madam.”

  “Nevertheless, you were right. I jumped right into each of those perilous projects with my eyes wide open, knowing full well who I was baiting. As well as the consequences. And I lost. Everything.”

  Everything. Now he felt like a true cad. Male and monstrous, because he’d always taken for granted that the power he wielded against her was a natural process. That it had been bestowed upon him and his fellow men by glorious, unalterable tradition.

  Everything. As though he had beaten her at a game she hadn’t known he was playing against her.

  And the extraordinary woman had felt every blow, struck against her heart.

  Christ! How could he convince her of the possible, when he wasn’t certain of it himself?

  “Surely you haven’t lost everything.”

  She studied him from the end of the desk, a wariness in her voice, as though she were regrouping. “I think I understand exactly how Princess Caroline felt when she lost her kingdom. Though I know she did it for the love of her life. For Lord Wexford.”

  Oh, my dear, for a love much larger than the world would ever know. “I can assure you that Caro and Drew are living happily forever after.”

  “That was plain. A love to be admired, my lord.”

  My husband, he wanted her to say. But now was not the time to press the issue.

  Now was for courting her. Because, for good or ill, they were married.

  “And Drew and Caro nearly missed it completely. Would have, if the princess hadn’t taken matters into her own capable hands. Nearly caused an international incident in the bargain.”

  “But she was a royal. They couldn’t very well put her in prison, could they?”

  “Nearly put her in the grave.”

  “Good heavens!” She put her fingers to her lips. “They tried to kill Princess Caro? When? Who? I never read anything about it in the newspapers.”

  “And you won’t ever.” His wife was far too easy to talk to, to share with. A dangerous temptation when he had so many great secrets to protect from so many enemies. “Pretend I didn’t say that, wife.”

  She raised a brow, then went back to touching her way through his room, as though trying to steady herself. “Somehow I’m not comforted in knowing that they—whoever they are—treat royal princesses worse than they treat common women. That’s hardly playing fair with the weaker sex.”

  “No, it’s not fair. Not in the least.” He caught up with her capricious pacing as she reached the pair of upholstered chairs in front of the bay window. She stopped and looked up at him, leaving him to marvel at the brightness of her eyes. “I understand the subtleties of fairness more than you can imagine I do.”

  “I doubt that, sir. A wealthy man of rank and privilege. A life of carriages and foxhunts and a fat goose at Christmas. Let me guess: you’re an Oxford man.”

  Now there was a topic they hadn’t covered in their oh so brief courtship. He laughed and touched her cheek, just to convince himself that she was real.

  His wife.

  “Not Oxford.” He threaded his fingers through the strands of hair at her temples, which had come loose in all their wrestling.

  “Cambridge, then?” She gentled against his fingers, though reluctant, wary of meeting his strokes. “I see you as a helmsman at the Henley Regatta.”

  “You’d have been more likely to find me dockside on the Thames, larking for goods that I could then sell on the streets. Or scouting the railyards for an unlocked fr
eight car.”

  “Oh? When was that?” She narrowed her eyes at him, silently accusing him of spinning a tale for her benefit.

  “I was eleven and a bit when we started out.”

  “Eleven! Did you run away from home?”

  “As fast as our little legs could take us, the first chance we got.”

  “Your parents must have been frantic.”

  “We hadn’t any parents to worry about us.” He sat down in the high-backed upholstered chair, the memory always taking the wind out of his sails for a moment. “Home was a brutal workhouse run by Squire and Mrs. Craddock. And if they missed us, my dear wife, it was only because we’d stolen the gold buttons off the old bastard’s coat and run off with them.”

  She stared down at him, her eyes dark with disbelief. “A workhouse? You must be joking.”

  He shook his head. “Not a bit. We were halfway to Newcastle by the time they found that rat-faced squire, naked as a plucked chicken and tied to the village market cross.”

  “You said we.” She knelt at his knee, catching up his wrist with her warm fingers. “Have you brothers or sisters?”

  Brothers to the marrow, no matter that they shared not a drop of blood between them.

  “Friends.”

  “Who?”

  But his answer was cut off by a knock at the door to his private entrance, followed by Pembridge’s voice. “Tea tray, sir.”

  “Blast it all, Pembridge! You should be in bed.”

  Ross flung the door open a moment later, and found the elderly man holding the tray of tea and cakes, his clothes in perfect order, as though at this hour, well after one, he hadn’t been fast asleep, hadn’t just scrabbled out of his nightclothes to wait on Ross’s every whim.

  Or to verify the staff’s gossip about the beautiful woman that Ross had stolen up the back stairs and hidden away in his suite.

  “I was just taking care of some last minute details, sir.” Pembridge plowed his way into the room and headed for the table between the two upholstered chairs, only to come to a full stop a few feet shy of Elizabeth. “Good evening, miss.”

  “Not miss, Pembridge.” Ross came to stand behind him. “I’d like you to meet Elizabeth Dunaway Carrington, the Countess Blakestone. My wife.”