The Wedding Gamble

by Julia Justiss

  Nicholas shook his head, hostility battling with astonishment. “You seem amazingly well informed, Captain.”

  The hussar shrugged. “One of the benefits of a military education. Gather intelligence poorly, and you die—or your men do. The skill has its uses.”

  The frosty blue eyes met his. Nicholas had the feeling he was being sized up by one who’d learned, under fire, to judge men quickly and well.

  Instinctively he straightened. “Perhaps we should come to the point. I am not, you will find, a ‘society fribble.’ And I must ask—” he kept his voice even but could not hide its animosity “—what your intentions are regarding my wife.”

  The captain smiled grimly. “As well you might. Yes, let us dispense with further social niceties.” He crossed one booted leg. “I admit, my first thought after the horror of finding Sarah married was to carry her off to Spain.”

  Before Nicholas could recover from that announcement, the captain had the incredible gall to laugh. “What a splendid soldier’s wife she’d make. I can see her now, babbling Portuguese as she ordered billets and saw to the wringing of chickens’ necks.”

  His fingers clenching at the thought of another neck he’d like to wring, Nicholas took a long sip of sherry. “You have the audacity to think she would go?”

  The captain grinned. “I’d have to drug her, probably. Once I had her abroad, and she saw scandal would make it impossible for her to return, she’d come round. She loves me, you know—always has. I’d make her happy. To be sure,” he admitted with an offhand gesture, “she’d be upset for a while. She has such a powerful sense of duty.”

  Nicholas winced. The captain saw it, and one eyelid flickered in triumph.

  You conscienceless bastard, Nicholas thought, rage filling him. He envisioned swords, pistols—

  “Like to spit me on your sword, would you?” the captain said with unimpaired good humor. “Can’t say as I blame you. No doubt I’d feel the same, did I stand in your boots.”

  Nicholas took a deep calming breath. “Unlike you, Captain, I adhere to certain rules of morality. Which do not include, regrettably, murdering a guest in my library, no matter how much he might deserve it.”

  “Doubtless you are correct,” the captain replied. “One of the drawbacks of war—it tends to blunt one’s sensitivity to conventional moralities.”

  “Such as stealing another man’s wife?”

  “But for a mischance of the mail and a stubborn French general, Sarah would be my wife now, not yours.”

  Steering away from that shoal, Nicholas turned his attack. “Are you so certain you’d win her, despite your arrogant presumption? After all, you left her more than three years ago. And I can be rather charming.”

  The captain gave him another measuring look. “Would you choose to make yourself so? You prate of morality, but that seems shabby to me—to make Sarah love you, then slip away to Manton Street and the arms of Mrs. Ingram.

  “I know,” the captain said, waving a hand as Nicholas started to sputter, “you’ve not visited her since your marriage. Gallant of you to abstain for a whole month. However, the liaison is, I’ve discovered, of long standing. Judging by the ruby she sported when we talked and the fact that, just yesterday, you discharged a large gambling debt for the lady, I take it you’ve no intention of giving her congé?”

  Nicholas found his voice at last. “Captain, you reach the limits of what I can tolerate, even of a guest in my home. That you investigated Sarah’s activities is offensive enough, but to pry into my personal affairs—”

  “Reprehensible, I agree. I’ve no real interest in your doxies, though I must say I’ve not seen such a coarse display of womanly charm since leaving Spain. ’Twould hardly tempt me—if I had Sarah.”

  “Curious. It was my understanding you might have married Sarah. And declined the honor.”

  The mockery left the captain’s face and he flushed. Nicholas felt a savage surge of triumph.

  “I cannot deny it,” he said quietly. “’Twas the worst mistake of my life, though at the time I thought I was doing the right, nay, the only honorable thing.” He punctuated the word with a savage look and flung himself to his feet.

  He paced for a moment, then turned. “Yes, I spurned the fair lady and rode off to assuage my grief by dying gloriously in battle.” His tone was self-mocking now, and his face bitter as he stared sightlessly at the bookshelves. “It took but one battle to discover there’s naught of glory in dying, and naught to battle but dirt, anguish and fear.

  “I must say this about it.” He turned with a twisted smile. “There’s something about standing surrounded by smoke, the roar of guns and the screams of the wounded and dying that clears the mind. Land, titles, wealth—none of that matters,” the captain finished softly. “Only people do. And Sarah matters most of all.”

  Did he speak of any woman but his wife, Nicholas might have sympathized. Before he could reply, Sandiford continued, “Had Sarah’s letter reached me sooner—had Soult not caught us in the mountains, I should have reached England weeks ago, and we would not now be engaged in a conversation that cannot but be distasteful to us both.”

  Nicholas raised an eyebrow. “You think so? Wellingford came at a rather high price.”

  The captain shrugged. “I’d have sold off some land.”

  “Land doesn’t fetch much just now.”

  “Then I’d have touched up one of my wealthy army friends, or gone to the cent-percenters. Whatever it took to save Wellingford, and Sarah.”

  There could be no mistaking the sincerity of his words. Nicholas felt a reluctant tug of sympathy.

  “But wishing cannot turn back the clock.” The captain took another sip of sherry. “That is, I assume you wouldn’t consider an annulment?”

  Nicholas’s infant empathy expired. “No.”

  “Divorce?”

  “Absolutely not!”

  “I feared as much. So, we come to the proposal that brought me here today.”

  Nicholas looked at him coldly. “The only proposal I expect to entertain is the one that tells me courtesy forbids my kicking your insolent ass down my front steps.”

  “Hear me out first,” the captain persisted. “Yours was a marriage of convenience, not a love match. You take your pleasure elsewhere, and intend to continue doing so. I see no reason why we cannot both be accommodated. After Sarah does her duty by you, send her to me.”

  Through the sudden roaring in his ears, Nicholas stared at him. “You cannot have said what I think I just heard. You want me to keep Sarah as my wife until the succession is secured, and then—” he nearly choked “—let her go to you? By God, I should run you through where you stand!”

  “Whatever for? Outraged vanity? True, she’s your wife, and let no man poach on your preserves. But by God, she’s more than that! Can you claim, as I can, to love her? Can you pledge yourself to making her happy?”

  He gave Nicholas no time to reply. “Of course you cannot. You go your own way, as our society permits. As long as she satisfies convention, why not let her do so as well? For the sake of pride, would you deny her any happiness?”

  Too incensed by now even to formulate words, Nicholas clenched his fists, restraining by force of will the impulse that shrieked at him to lay the captain out flat. Somehow he managed to hold himself motionless.

  The captain ran a hand through his burnished hair. “Do you think I like the idea of taking to mistress the only woman I’ve ever wanted for a wife? But short of your demise, which I doubt you’d be willing to arrange despite my most fervent encouragement, that’s all that’s left to me. I’ll take whatever I can get—another attitude war inspires.”

  He leaned his hands on the desk, fixing on Nicholas blue eyes burning with intensity. “Don’t dismiss the idea out of hand. ’Tis no secret you’re a creature of London. Sarah prefers the country. If you lived separately, ’twould cause little comment. And we would be discreet.”

  From the midst of Nicholas’s fury an in
credible, galling suspicion bubbled up. Sarah’s distress on the morning of the captain’s visit: had it been the anguish of tearing open old wounds—or unhappiness at the idea of waiting for her lover? Had she come to his arms for comfort, or out of guilt? Red spots danced before his eyes.

  “And did Sarah agree to this charming little arrangement?” he asked through gritted teeth.

  “Lord, no!” The intensity left the captain’s gaze. “I wouldn’t dare propose such a thing to her. She’d probably put a bullet through me for so maligning her honor.” He laughed. “An impulsive lass she can be, as I suppose you’ve discovered. She’ll take a deal of convincing. ’Twould be easier if I could tell her you approved.”

  “On a snowy day in hell,” Nicholas retorted, though his anger cooled a fraction at discovering Sarah had no hand in this. “You must be a bedlamite to think I’d consider it.”

  “If you loved her as I do, you’d consider any alternative.”

  “You had your chance, Captain. I don’t feel any obligation to provide you with another—certainly not the tawdry, illegitimate little arrangement you’ve proposed.”

  “You can’t offer her love, or even fidelity. So give me no pious tripe about the sanctity of marriage.”

  Nicholas clenched his jaw to stifle a vicious retort and crossed to the bellpull. “I consider the subject closed. Thank you for your…illuminating visit, Lord Sandiford.” He gave the embroidered cloth a ferocious tug. “I shall be cordial in public, but pray do not call again.”

  “My pleasure, though the matter isn’t closed, merely pending. I’ve a score yet to settle with Boney, but when I return…” The captain smiled grimly. “You may hope some Frog marksman relieves you of my presence. The odds are with you.”

  “Never before have I favored the French.”

  The captain made an exaggerated bow. “Henceforth, I’ll restrict my calls to Sarah. Quite conventional ones, I assure you. She thinks to make me a list of potential brides, and I’m willing to humor her.” His voice softened. “I don’t wish to hurt her more than I already have. Good day, my lord. Take care of her for me.”

  Nicholas gasped. “First you fit me for a pair of horns, then you instruct me to care for her until you choose to make me wear them! By God, Captain, you have gall!”

  “A useful attribute in a cavalry officer, my superiors tell me. Your servant, sir.”

  As Nicholas escorted him to the door, an opening occurred, and he seized it. “A delightful business, this getting of sons. Chancy, though. One may end up with any number of daughters first. And as you so thoughtfully reminded, Sarah will do her duty.” He let a lascivious smile play at his lips. “I promise you, Captain, I take great pains to ensure she enjoys it.”

  With an ignoble but satisfying rush of pleasure, he watched this shot strike target. The captain’s mocking expression vanished, a muscle twitched in his cheek and the blue eyes blazed with rage.

  But Sandiford hadn’t been battle-tested for naught. Though his sword hand clutched at his side and his other hand balled into a fist, he made no move. Nicholas wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or relieved he’d failed to provoke a guest to brawl in his own library.

  “Why not meet me at Jackson’s?” The captain looked Nicholas up and down. “For a useless society fribble, you might strip well.”

  “Nothing would give me greater pleasure than beating your pretty face to a pulp. But then, I should hate to jeopardize Sarah’s matchmaking plans.”

  Glendenning appeared at the door. “Show Lord Sandiford out,” Nicholas snapped. With the barest of bows, he turned his back on the visitor and stalked to his chair.

  Nicholas stared at his paper-strewn desk and counted to one hundred, then two. Fury, outrage and a brace of other strong emotions he’d not put a name to elbowed for room in his mind like noisy spectators at a cockfight.

  Send him Sarah, indeed! he fumed. Rifle fire must have rattled the man’s brain. How dare he suggest such a thing, or question Nicholas’s fitness to be Sarah’s husband. He really should meet the captain at Jackson’s and pummel some of the effrontery out of him. The very idea of her in the arms of that hussar sent a shaft of torment through him.

  He had never learned for sure if Lydia actually betrayed him. After the accident, her hysterical maid disclaimed all knowledge of the nameless soldier, and not wishing to arouse more speculation among the servants, he hadn’t investigated further. Knowing that Lydia had always preferred wooing and gifts and pretty speeches to the physical act of love, he suspected she might have gone to her grave still technically faithful.

  In truth, Lydia had always been somewhat chilly, especially before that ill-fated sojourn in Bath. Unlike his eager, sensual Sarah—Sarah, who even after an obviously wrenching scene with her former love, sought out rather than rebuffed his embrace.

  He reviewed the encounter in fond detail, finding reassurance in each kiss, each sigh. If loving would keep her close and content, he was more than happy to provide it.

  What else was it Sandiford said—that Sarah would shoot him for maligning her honor by suggesting an adulterous relationship? If Sandiford, who—God rot him—had known Sarah longer than he, discounted the possibility of her abandoning her marriage, why should he worry?

  He wouldn’t. He would forget the whole distasteful interview. Sarah would never consider such a sordid arrangement. In turn, he vowed, he would ensure she never regretted her loyalty. After all, contrary to the opinion of that fur-pelissed popinjay, Sarah’s happiness was of great concern to him.

  So why was he still troubled? The answer trembling at the edge of his mind unsettled him. Surely he wasn’t such a coxcomb that he demanded both his wife’s fidelity—and her love—without being willing to pledge his own.

  Love. He’d thought he loved Lydia, that she loved him in return. But she claimed in her farewell note he couldn’t have loved her and neglected her so—then abandoned him.

  All he knew about for sure, he concluded bitterly, was the devastation of betrayal. And the simplicity of more businesslike arrangements.

  From beyond the stack of musty ledgers where he’d relegated it, the cloying scent of a perfumed letter reached him. Twitching his nose in distaste, he picked it up.

  Chloe’s missive thanked him prettily for paying her gambling losses and hinted she lay ready at any time to offer thanks of a more intimate nature.

  He stared at the letter, frowning. Despite Lydia’s quixotic bedroom behavior, he’d never taken a mistress during their marriage. The captain’s harangue on the subject pricked at him.

  A “coarse display of womanly charm,” the captain had uncharitably described Chloe. Truth be told, of late he was beginning to share the captain’s opinion.

  He could pen a cordial note assuring her of his regard, but terminating any future relationship. And yet…

  He rolled the quill in his fingers. After Lydia, he had been relieved to settle on a straightforward exchange of cash for services rendered. Intimacy with Sarah was so sweetly different.

  As friends, as lovers, they had grown close enough to make their marriage a comfortable and pleasant arrangement. Without Chloe, it would be all too easy to become—rather devoted.

  The old, sick feeling stirred in his belly. Once he had thought Lydia devoted. Were he to be wrong again, he wasn’t sure he could bear it.

  His head was beginning to throb. With a growl he set the paper aside and stood up. Damn the hussar for reviving all his doubts.

  No one would force him into a decision about this now, he vowed as he stalked from the room. Not Chloe, not Sarah and certainly not an obnoxious, adultery-minded captain.

  Chapter Eleven

  After a highly satisfactory visit to the factor, Sarah sat at her desk reviewing the agricultural supplies she’d ordered. There’d be a bountiful harvest at Wellingford this year—thanks to Nicholas. Perhaps she should tell him. ’Twas such a wonderful prospect, surely he would share her delight.

  Her enthusiasm cooled. Perh
aps she should tell him before someone else did.

  After shopping for the usual fripperies with Clarissa, she’d intended to slip away to the agricultural factor. Scenting a secret, Clarissa had insisted Sarah reveal her mysterious destination. When she’d reluctantly confided her plans, her friend dissolved in laughter. Sobering, Clarissa swore not to divulge a word. Englemere would be a laughingstock, she declared, if the ton ever discovered his wife had spent her quarterly allowance on a farm.

  Entering upon her knock, she found the library deserted. She paused, frowning. She could inform Glendenning she wished to see Nicholas when he came in. But no, she’d as lief not offer the servants any cause for speculation so soon after her meeting with Sinjin.

  Write him a note, she decided. She walked to his desk, thinking to find paper and a pen.

  The pale pink vellum scribed in a childish hand was tucked in his blotter. A sheet of paper poised beside it, as if he were about to reply. Even at the distance of several feet, she could smell its cloying scent.

  Something tightened in her chest. Even as instinct urged her forward, she retreated. No, she’d not stoop to reading letters from his mistress.

  All thoughts of a note forgotten, she sped from the room. Not for anything would she want one of the servants—or worse yet, Nicholas himself—to discover her snooping.

  When she got to her room, she found her fingers still trembling. Though she’d accepted Mrs. Ingram’s position before she married Nicholas, lulled by the harmony of their honeymoon, she’d put the woman out of mind. She was, she discovered with mingled irritation and chagrin, woefully unarmed for the evidence of their continuing liaison that now sat conspicuously displayed on Nicholas’s desk.