The Wedding Gamble

by Julia Justiss

  With surprising strength, he held the hand motionless, as if to prove he could effortlessly control her. With a groan of distress, she went still.

  He smiled again. “Good—you learn to submit. Now you will learn to kneel before me, to pleasure me, with your fingers—” he forced her hand down the length of the hard bulge in his breeches “—and with your sweet pink mouth.”

  Revolted, she somehow managed to rip her hand free. Beyond caution or rational thought, she slapped his face with all her might.

  As the crack of the blow echoed, they both froze. His expression incredulous, Findlay slowly reached up to touch his reddened cheek.

  Then his eyes blazed with heat of another sort, and before she could think or move, he seized her. Clapping a hand over her mouth, he dragged her to the side table and pinned her against the wall.

  “That wasn’t wise, my dear. Now I shall have to punish you.” Prying loose the hand he had kissed, he forced it against the burning chamber candle. She screamed, the sound muffled by his palm.

  His smile returned. “Pleasure and pain. So swiftly can one become the other. Remember that, little dove.” He turned his body and rubbed his hardness against her as he held her wrist to the flame.

  Tears dripped down her cheeks and she bit the inside of her mouth, but she refused to cry out again. The pain was itself a blinding flame, blotting out all else and sucking up every reserve of strength. When it abruptly lessened, her knees nearly buckled.

  Findlay relaxed his grip. She sagged against the wall, and though he supported her, he made no move to bring her close.

  “I came tonight to tell you I’d be leaving town for two days,” he said in a conversational tone, as if nothing untoward had transpired. “I must make preparations to receive you. And transfer funds. How much will I require?”

  He meant to complete her humiliation, for he knew to the last ha’penny what was owed. Instead, she felt a rage that stiffened her spine. “Nine thousand eight hundred and fifty-six pounds,” she spat out. Deliberately, she straightened and stepped away from him.

  Findlay laughed. “Courage, too. Damn, but you make me impatient for our union. Until Thursday, then—and try not to gather too many new suitors. ’Twould be wearying to kick their carcasses aside when I return to ask that question.”

  She accorded him a cold nod. He bowed, and with lightening speed plucked her burned wrist and brought it to his lips. Rather than kiss it, though, he ran the rasp of his tongue over the raw flesh. Pain exploded, and Sarah closed her eyes, once more biting her lip to keep silent.

  “Remember,” he whispered.

  Chapter Four

  The pain subsided to dizzying waves. When Sarah opened her eyes, Findlay had gone. She leaned against the side table, for a moment incapable of thought or movement, while nausea roiled in her stomach.

  Staggering out the terrace door, she managed to reach the shrubbery before she was thoroughly, miserably sick. When the retching at last subsided, she pulled herself to her feet and fled down the dimmest pathway.

  She burst into a deserted clearing and stumbled against a low iron railing. ’Twas the river landing, she realized. A thick fog caught and diffused light from a pair of torchères, as if inside the smoked glass of a lantern. Welcoming the privacy, she sank onto a nearby bench.

  She couldn’t marry Findlay. Frantically she searched her mind for an alternative.

  Marshall Beckman was gone, and the baron probably lost. Mr. Waterman would take years to gather the courage to make an offer, even were he so inclined. She’d been immediately drawn to Sir Edward. Could she possibly approach him?

  “Dear Sir Edward,” she imagined herself saying, “you begged me to call upon you at any time. Might you do me the small favor of marrying me, to save me from Sir James? By the way, I shall need ten thousand pounds the day of the wedding, which must be tomorrow.” No, ’twas impossible.

  Must she marry anyone? She could hire herself out as a housekeeper and have Aunt Sophrina launch Lizbet. With her beauty and gentleness, though dowerless, surely Lizzie would make a decent match. Later she might assist her sisters.

  Her aunt could shelter Elizabeth and one or two of the other girls, but where would the rest go? A potential employer would balk at housing his new employee’s penniless siblings. The modest wages Sarah might earn would never suffice to maintain Colton at Eton, much less provide the wardrobe to launch Lizbet’s Season. And Colton—stripped of his estate, what future could he hope for?

  Whereas, if she steeled herself to marry Findlay, she could see her sisters well dowered and well presented, free to accept worthy men of their choice. Colton could complete his education at Oxford, buy that commission in the Hussars he was always talking about or assume management of his acres. She could replant and tend Wellingford’s fields, refurbish or replace its worn or sold-off furnishings.

  Wellingford. The image of it, achingly dear, rose before her: the Elizabethan great hall, its half-timbered walls adorned with climbing roses…the graceful stone wings with their Palladian windows…the glass galleries flanked with lilac and flooded with morning or afternoon sun. Unless she acted, Wellingford would be lost.

  If she acted, it would be hers always. Perhaps, if she didn’t please Findlay, he could be induced to banish her there. A vain hope, she thought sardonically. Did she not please him, he’d be far more likely, given the relish he’d just displayed, to punish rather than banish her.

  No doubt he wanted an heir. Though once, in Sinjin’s arms, Sarah discovered the joy of closeness with a man she loved, she’d long ago accepted this joy would never be hers. But Findlay? She thought of his cold, white hands pulling her close, touching her intimately. With chilling clarity, she remembered how he meant to have her “please” him.

  Gagging, she leaned into the shrubbery. When her already-emptied stomach stopped heaving, she grasped the iron railing and handed herself along it to the river’s edge.

  Below her, the stream flowed peacefully. How wonderful to feel inside the tranquillity of the river, how soothing to sink beneath its welcoming surface and be no longer tormented by terrible choices and a bleak future.

  “Miss Wellingford! Why are you out in this fog?”

  She started and nearly lost her balance.

  “Careful, my dear!” Lord Englemere jumped over to steady her. “You’re much too close to the edge. Why, you might have—” His scolding voice died as he gazed at her.

  Sarah knew she must look like the wild woman she felt: hair in disarray, eyes and nose red, bits of shrubbery caught in the lace of her gown. Turning her face away, she tried vainly to summon up some light remark.

  “You look upset, Miss Wellingford. I hope my friends were not importunate.”

  Sarah blessed him for providing so simple a conversational opening. “Indeed not,” she croaked. “I found them charming. So kind of you to send them to dance with me. Delightful dancers. But all that dancing—so fatiguing. I had to get away and find some, ah, cool air.”

  His raised eyebrow as he surveyed their chilly, damp surroundings helped her stop babbling. In a more normal tone, she continued, “What brings you out?”

  He gave her a penetrating look before replying. “My lovely betrothed persists in treating me like a leper. After greeting the duchess, she ripped herself free and latched on to Wexley like a limpet. Having watched that charming display quite long enough, I came out to blow a cloud. Yes, I know, a disgusting habit.”

  “I’ll leave you in peace, then. Enjoy your nasty little cigar.” Managing a creditable smile, Sarah turned.

  Englemere stopped her. “It was Findlay, wasn’t it.”

  “I should get back.”

  Nicholas didn’t release her. “Was your papa so desperately under the hatches that you must consider him?”

  At the mention of her father, all her anguish focused, and the remaining restraint in her overwrought mind seemed to snap. “My esteemed father wasn’t ‘under the hatches,’” she spat out bitterly. “Oh,
no, he sold the hatches. And everything else he considered even remotely of value. The silver. The furniture. All the estate’s and my mother’s jewelry. You may see the portraits of my ancestors gracing the drawing rooms of a score of different cits.”

  Once started, she couldn’t seem to halt the angry words. “He sold all the land he could and sucked every possible groat from what he couldn’t sell, never putting back a penny. So when he was finally merciful enough to break his neck in some ridiculous hunting wager, we had nothing left. Or nearly nothing.” She gave a mirthless laugh. “Fortunately he never realized books were of any worth. I financed this Season by selling off our library.”

  “The Season’s only half over. Dismiss Findlay! You can’t wish to marry him.”

  “Wish to!” This time, her laugh bordered on the hysterical. “It makes my skin crawl when he touches me. But Season’s end or no, I’m out of time.”

  He frowned, and suddenly it seemed important that he understand fully, that he not again suspect she was merely weary of poverty, impatient with making do.

  “You see,” she went on, “when there was nothing left to barter, he borrowed nearly ten thousand pounds, secured by a mortgage on Wellingford.”

  “How could he? ’Tis entailed, surely.”

  “But it isn’t. Some long-ago ancestor, incensed that his son supported Cromwell against the king, petitioned to have the entail broken. It was never restored.” She looked out over the river. “We knew nothing of the debt until six months after his death, when the bank approached our solicitors. Out of compassion, they gave us three more months to avoid foreclosure. The time expires Friday.”

  “Good Lord.”

  “As gambling debts go, ’tis not so great a sum, but for us, ’twas impossible. I hoped we could get by until my sister Elizabeth came out. She’s a true Diamond. But we had so little time, it had to be me. Now there’s no time, so it has to be him.”

  “Have you no other family to assist?”

  Sarah shook her head. “Both my parents were sole surviving children. We’ve only Great-aunt Sophrina—and if we lose Wellingford, she couldn’t take in all of us.”

  She inhaled deeply and straightened her shoulders. “While there’s breath in my body, I can’t stand by and watch my family beggared, parceled out to distant relatives like—outmoded furniture. See my sisters denied any hope of marriage and my brother stripped of his birthright and his future. I can’t! Could you?”

  Nicholas met her fierce, anguished gaze with a troubled look. “No, I don’t expect I could.”

  “Then you understand.” She ought to be shamed, now that he knew the full extent of her family’s degradation, but instead she felt…comforted. “I must go in. No, stay,” she said when he moved to escort her. “You’ve not had your cigar, and it wouldn’t do for us to walk in together.”

  Reluctantly he halted. “Go, then, but don’t think I concede the point. There must be another way.”

  “I appreciate your kindness, Lord Englemere. But there’s nothing to be done.”

  “’Tis not yet Friday.”

  She smiled at that. He smiled back and took her hand. As he lifted it, his fingers grazed the burn, and given no time to steel herself, she cried out.

  “Have you injured yourself? Let me see.”

  Grimacing, Sarah tried to wriggle free, but his fingers were so close to the wound that the slightest twist fired the burn back to white heat.

  “That’s what you get, stumbling about in the fog,” Nicholas chided as he held her arm up to the flickering light. He froze, expression draining from his face.

  Sarah saw the wrist as he must—the blackened edges of the unbuttoned glove, the red, weeping wound. “I—I d-dripped some h-hot candle wax on it.” Even in her own ears, the excuse sounded lame.

  Nicholas’s face hardened. Cursing softly under his breath, he eased his grip. “Where did you leave Findlay?”

  She stared back at him. “L-leave?”

  “I’ll escort you to Lady Beaumont. ’Tis time the baronet had a swift but punishing lesson in manners.”

  His curt words finally registered. “Oh, no, you mustn’t!” Sarah cried in alarm. She dared not imagine what retribution Findlay would wreak on her later if Englemere confronted him. “I…I’m fine. Besides, in no manner can this be considered your concern.”

  He raised her uninjured hand and kissed it. “But my dear, ‘Uncle Nicholas’ always protects his own.”

  “’Twas but a foolish game! Please, my lord, if my desires mean anything to you, do not pursue him.”

  He stood utterly still for a long moment. “Very well,” he said at last. “It shall be as you wish—for now.”

  “Thank you, my lord. I—I should go in.”

  He retained her hand. “You must not marry Sir James.”

  “I must,” she said softly. “Despite my momentary weakness, I won’t go meekly as a lamb to the slaughter. Nor shall I ‘submit’—” she spat out the word “—or remove myself, as those other poor creatures evidently did. Sir James will find I’ve a stronger will than ever he imagined. And I’m a crack shot with a pistol.” She smiled without humor. “If neither of us survives the honeymoon, at least Wellingford will be saved.”

  “Sarah—”

  “There’s no more to say. Thank you, my lord.”

  This time, he let her go. When she glanced back from the turning of the path, he stood staring after her, a lit cheroot glowing in the darkness.

  Her wrist bandaged by a sympathetic housekeeper whom she fobbed off with a glib story of an overturned candlestick, Sarah proceeded to repair her glove. She had just finished that task when Lady Beaumont burst in.

  “Sarah, thank heavens I’ve found you! Wherever have you been this age, child? You must come this instant!”

  “Calm yourself, Lady Beaumont.” Sarah sprang up to assist her. “Let me find your vinaigrette.”

  “Never mind that, I shall bear up somehow. Oh, ’twas dreadful! You must seek Clarissa at once!”

  So, the shot had exploded at last. Sarah braced herself. “What happened to overset you, ma’am?”

  “That wretched girl! What must she do but snub, absolutely snub, the duchess, and go hang herself upon Wexley’s arm. Three dances—three!—with him, at the center of the ballroom for all the world to see, Wexley clutching her against him in a positively indecent manner!”

  “’Twas unwise, truly, but their friendship is—”

  “Friendship!” her ladyship shrieked. “I should like to strangle the blackguard! Bad enough that he led her into such indiscretion, but after the second waltz—the two of them still at the center of the room—he pulled off her glove and kissed her bare wrist. At length!” Lady Beaumont shuddered. “Countess Lieven was standing not three feet away. Of all moments, Englemere chose then to appear.”

  “He wasn’t amused.”

  “I should like to strangle him as well. What was he thinking, subjecting my poor darling to such Turkish treatment tonight?” Lady Beaumont demanded, abruptly changing tack. “Small wonder she arrived at the ball in such a pucker, after the horrid things he said to her!”

  Sarah made a sympathetic murmur. Lady Beaumont rushed on. “I know not what he said—’twas done so softly none could hear, but it must have been something equally nasty, for—” she faltered and began shredding her lawn handkerchief “—for then my darling reacted rather rashly.”

  With foreboding, Sarah held her breath and waited. After a silent moment staring unhappily at the far wall, Lady Beaumont said, “She slapped him.”

  “Right there in the ballroom?” Sarah gasped.

  “Full on the face,” her ladyship confirmed with a little sigh. “I daresay he will have a bruise.” That thought seemed to cheer her, for she smiled briefly, but then recalling her mission, she sprang to her feet.

  “Englemere didn’t say a word, but dragged my poor child off the dance floor.” Lady Beaumont in turn pulled Sarah toward the door of the withdrawing room. “And such a loo
k on his face, he’s like to murder her! You must go at once!”

  Sarah caught the door frame. “Lady Beaumont, they cannot want someone intruding upon such a…private moment.”

  “My darling’s safety is in danger! And her future, of course. Have I not sheltered and succored you?”

  Almost, Sarah would have preferred to meet Sir James than to interrupt the quarreling lovers. But as Lady Beaumont continued to gaze imploringly at her, she heard again the clarion call of Duty. Why, she wondered as she straightened her shoulders and braced herself for the inevitable, was Duty so often unpleasant?

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “My smelling salts,” Lady Beaumont moaned as she released Sarah and tottered back to the sofa. “No, I shall find them. Go save Clarissa!”

  Could anyone perform that melodramatic feat? Sarah wondered as she descended the stairs.

  A number of curious guests loitered in the hallway. Shooing them away, she proceeded to the anteroom door.

  “…suffer the sight of my intended making a spectacle of herself with that overdressed, underwitted fop.”

  “‘Fop!’” Clarissa’s voice cried. “He dresses far more elegantly than you. As for wit, he, at least, knows how to treat a lady.”

  “Kissing another man’s fiancée in the middle of the ballroom? Gentlemanly behavior indeed. And I do know how to treat a lady—when I encounter one.”

  Groaning at that, Sarah entered. “Please, I beg you, restrain yourselves! At least, lower your voices.”

  She might have been shouting into a gale, for all the attention the pair paid her.

  “By God, I’ve borne enough carping and insult! ’Tis not a ring you gave, but a ball and chain. Saddle some other unfortunate female with it!” Clarissa jerked off his ruby.

  “I’m perfectly ready to take it back, I assure you.”