by Mia Marlowe
Not that they’d been particularly successful in that respect either. She was sure most of the guests quartered near her chamber were aware that Rhys Warrington had been caught there with her in a compromising situation. No one could have slept through Horatio Symon’s roaring. By now, the tale had surely lost nothing in the telling.
And word of their flight certainly swirled through the servants’ wing of the great house once Mr. Thatcher and Davy were ordered to hitch up the matched set of bays to the Symon’s best traveling coach.
“But I’m still a virgin,” she’d told her father, grateful now that Rhys had made sure she remained one.
It didn’t matter. Papa had come to a “gentlemen’s agreement” with Lord Rhys over copious amounts of spirits and that was that.
The worst of it all was for the first time her father refused to listen to her. He wouldn’t be swayed when she pleaded with him not to send her away with a drunken lord. Until today, she’d have said she was a little bit his favorite among all his daughters, but his face was set like stone.
It had softened for just a moment before he closed the carriage door. “Be careful, daughter, and write your mother once everything’s settled good and proper,” he said. “Lord Rhys gave me his word he’ll try to make you happy, and we already know he is particular about your protection. If anything happens to you, I…”
Her gruff father found he needed to blow his nose and did so loudly after the door clanged shut.
Barrowdell was within a hard day’s drive of the Scottish border, so word of fleeing couples who were bent on taking advantage of the liberal Scottish marriage laws came to her mother’s notice with frequency. Beatrice Symon always made a tsking noise when they did.
“It smacks of seediness and poor upbringing,” she’d say. Words like “shockingly fast,” “loose morals,” and “bun already in the oven” were burned into Olivia’s memory.
Even though she was ashamed at being hustled away to be married on the quick, part of her still might have been glad to run away with Rhys.
If only he hadn’t been rolling on the floor drunk.
He’d roused once or twice and demanded they stop so he could heave in the bushes alongside the coaching road. Each time he’d looked so pale and drawn afterward, she hadn’t the heart to berate him for his disgraceful condition.
Now that he was sleeping soundly again and his skin had regained a healthy color, she thought a good berating was exactly what he deserved for ruining what by rights ought to have been an exciting adventure. An eloping couple should have spent this coach trip laughing together and enjoying the splendid Lake District sights. Maybe even indulging in a little naughtiness in the rocking conveyance, which would shortly be state-and church-sanctioned naughtiness after the words were said over them in Gretna Green.
Instead, though their flight was encouraged, forced even, by her dear father, Rhys’s drunkenness made the escapade feel tawdry.
He hadn’t even asked her to marry him.
Her chest constricted. Was he drunk because he couldn’t bear the thought of marrying her while sober?
The coach dipped in a pothole, and Rhys was startled awake. He groaned like a wounded bear, but he opened his eyes and made a manful attempt at sitting upright. He managed it on the second try.
“Decided to join me, did you?” Olivia said in a clipped tone.
He stared out the window of the coach through bleary eyes. The Blencathra and Caldbeck Fells rose in the distance, a blue blur capped with snowy peaks towering over the lower hills. “Where are we?”
“More than halfway from Penrith to Scotland,” she said. “I saved you a bit of my luncheon. We have cold chicken and liver pate—”
“Ugh. Don’t mention food.”
“So sorry, milord. I neglected to pack any liquor, since we embarked on this journey with such short notice,” she said snippily, “but in your case, I doubt even the ‘hair of the dog’ would help.”
He leaned forward and cradled his head in both hands. “If ever again I touch absinthe, or any derivative thereof, I beg you to shoot me. But in the meantime, will you please stop shouting?”
“I’m not shouting,” she said, making a conscious effort not to do so.
“It sounds like you are from in here.” He tapped his temple and grimaced. Then he reached over and lowered the curtains, throwing the interior of the coach into semi-darkness. “That’s better.”
They rode in silence for a few minutes.
“Do you even know where we’re going?” Olivia finally said, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Of course I do.” Rhys raised his head and looked at her. “You just said we’re halfway to Scotland, didn’t you?”
Then he muttered something about how women never think men listen when clearly they do and a few other less decipherable sentiments along with an expletive or two about absinthe. She thought he also may have cast aspersions on the legitimacy of Horatio Symon’s birth, but as his words were fairly garbled, she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt on that score.
She was none too pleased with her father either.
“Do you remember why we’re going to Scotland?” Olivia asked.
“Horatio said we need to get you away from Barrowdell to keep you safe.”
Horatio? Not even her mother called her father Horatio. “When I last saw you with my father, you were not on such pleasant terms.”
“After a few jiggers of that devil’s brew he calls absinthe, I’d have called him the pope if he’d asked me. What rotten stuff.” He rubbed his temples.
Her father used his fortified liquor to gauge a man’s mettle. He always claimed anyone who was still upright after three shots of the hellacious liquid was probably worth his time.
“How many drinks did you have?” she asked.
“Four, no, five, I think. Maybe a dozen,” he said. “And on an empty stomach to boot.”
Her father was, no doubt, impressed. Olivia was considerably less so.
“At any rate,” Rhys went on without any noticeable slurs in his words now that he was more fully awake, “Horatio and I agreed that this was the proper course.”
“This?” What was so hard about the word elopement? Why couldn’t the man say it?
“Yes, this. Whoever threatened you at Barrowdell surely won’t follow us to Gretna Green. Besides,” he pressed a fist to his chest to stifle a belch, “the royal duke isn’t interested in marrying you now, so there’s no reason for anyone to try to hurt you.”
“What?”
“Oh, I ought not to say it that way. How did your father put it? Something about the Parliament wouldn’t let His Royal Highness’s purse marry you because you’re a commoner. No, that doesn’t sound right either, but there it is,” he said. “But if you want to put a fine point on it, I’m a commoner too, and I have no purse to speak of, so what do I care?”
“How very enlightened of you, Rhys.” What does he care indeed?
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” He grinned soppily at her, pleased with himself.
Evidently, one of the side effects of too much absinthe was to render the sufferer immune to sarcasm.
“So once we arrive in Scotland, what are your intentions toward me?”
His grin dissolved into a puzzled frown. “I intend to make you my wife, of course.”
“Have you asked me to marry you?”
He stared down at the tips of her slippers as if the answer to the question might be imprinted on their rounded toes. “I must have. You wouldn’t be here with me otherwise.”
“I’m only here because my father bundled me into the coach with you and sent us on our way,” she said testily. “Luckily for you, I’ve never disobeyed my father.”
“Didn’t he tell you that you’re going to marry me?”
Drat the man. “Yes.”
“Well, then there you are.”
She reached up and pounded the flat of her palm on the coach ceiling, signaling the driver to stop. Once it st
opped moving, she shoved open the door. “And here I go.”
She clambered out of the coach and started walking back in the direction from which they’d come. Her slippers were not meant for long hiking. She had no money. She had no idea how long it would take for her to make it back to Barrowdell, but she didn’t care. Her only plan was to put as much distance between her and Rhys Warrington as possible.
“Olivia, wait,” he called after her.
She didn’t slacken her determined stride. Given the fact that light was like shards of glass to the eyes to someone who’d imbibed as much of her father’s liquor as Rhys had, she was more than surprised when she heard his quick footfalls pounding behind her.
He caught up to her and fell into step beside her. “Slow down and I’ll walk with you.”
She shortened her strides by the smallest of measures.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked pleasantly, as if they were off on a stroll.
“Back to Barrowdell.” She pulled the hood on her pelisse closer against the wind washing down from the distant peaks. “If the Duke of Clarence no longer wants to marry me, then I’m no longer embroiled in royal intrigues. I’m reasonably safe from whoever tried to do me harm.”
“You don’t know that.” Rhys started to reach for her, but when she glared at him, he shoved his hands into his pockets. “They may have had another motivation.”
“So, you think I’m distasteful enough that someone wishes me dead.”
“No, of course not. It wasn’t because of you. Never.” He put a hand up to shade his eyes. She was sure being in the open sunlight was excruciating for him.
Good, she thought waspishly.
“But your father is a very rich man. And rich men make enemies,” Rhys continued. “In fact, if he makes a habit of introducing his associates to absinthe, I’ll wager he’s made plenty.”
She stopped her ears with both hands. “No more wagers.” Lost bets to Rhys Warrington were the beginning of all her troubles.
He swung around in front of her, stopping her in her tracks, and took both her hands, sheltering them between his. “Olivia, I only want to see you safe.”
“Is that all you want?” she asked, her heart anxious about his answer, but not terribly hopeful. It seemed Rhys was only following her father’s dictum.
“Well, no.”
Now. If he’s going to ask me to marry him, let him ask now. Oh, please, God, let him ask.
“I…” He paused as if stringing together words were an onerous task to which he wasn’t sure he was equal. “I want to find out who made those attempts on your life and see them brought to justice. Someone has to pay for Mr. Weinschmidt, you know.”
“You’re right. Mr. Weinschmidt deserves better than he got.” She tugged her hands free, her heart wilting inside. “Then the best place to find his killer is back at Barrowdell.” She started to walk again.
“But your father says you need a husband.”
“I also need a mare that isn’t lame and a gardening assistant who’s still alive, but we can’t turn back time. Don’t worry about me, Rhys,” she said. “I don’t mind losing the match with Clarence. Court life would have been like prison to me.”
“I’m glad you feel that way.”
“And don’t trouble yourself over being caught in my bedchamber this morning,” she said, increasing her pace. He matched her easily with his longer strides. “I’m not the fashionable sort. I don’t care what fashionable people say about me. I’ll be perfectly happy to live out my semi-scandalous life in my father’s house as an eccentric spinster.”
“But what about my happiness?”
That made her pause for half a step; then she shook it off. “Your happiness? Why, I expect you’ll remember very shortly that you’re a libertine and a rake and glad to be one. Just because we were caught in a compromising situation this morning, you are not obligated to marry me, Rhys.” The last thing she wanted was a man who felt required to become her husband. “I release you from whatever Machiavellian bonds my father and his absinthe placed upon you.”
He caught her wrist and stopped her. “What if I don’t want to be released?”
“You don’t?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then you do want to marry me?”
“I do.”
It sounded so much like a real declaration her heart leapt up in joy. Then she remembered she was Horatio Symon’s daughter. Her father lived for the art of the deal. “What did my father promise you if you married me?”
“He promised that I wouldn’t be able to touch a farthing of your dowry, which is fine with me.” His lips quirked in a quick smile. “Since I intend to continue to support myself at the gaming tables, it’s probably best that I not have an infinite kitty from which to draw. Too much money in the hole makes a gambler sloppy. Rest assured that I will always provide sufficient funds to support you. I may be out of favor with my family, but they haven’t cut me off financially. If we get in a tight patch, Warrington credit is good anywhere. Use your father’s money for more orchids or horses or whatever pleases you. I won’t touch a pence.”
Forty thousand pounds a year would buy a lot of orchids. She’d have to look into founding some charities with her father’s largess.
“Did Horatio—” she could still scarcely believe her father had asked Rhys to call him that, “promise you anything else if you and I wed?”
“He hinted that you might allow me to live with you in the Mayfair townhouse he intended to buy for you.”
“I might,” she said, “but you’d have to learn to behave yourself.”
“That’s what he said too, but I can’t promise that,” he said and bent to kiss her. Then he picked her up and twirled her around. “In fact, I’ll never behave myself with you.”
When her feet finally touched the ground again, she sighed. “But I can’t marry you.”
“Why not?”
“You haven’t really asked me, have you?”
He nodded slowly. “Without doubt I have done, and in the future will do, many things wrong. Allow me to attempt to do one thing right.”
He dropped to one knee before her. “Olivia Symon, will you do me the supreme honor of becoming my wife?”
She almost asked why he wanted to marry her. After all, he hadn’t said a word about love. Everything she’d read in the Practical Guide for Young Ladies of Quality led her to believe that courtship was the only time a woman might expect fair speech from her man.
But she thought she saw something that might be love shining in Rhys’s dark, slightly bloodshot, eyes and decided not to push him for a declaration. Fair words weren’t the be-all and end-all, were they? Besides, if a man had to be prompted to proclaim love, how satisfying could it be?
How real?
Perhaps just the fact that Lord Rhys Warrington, self-avowed rake, was willing to commit to a wedding was enough for now.
She bent down and kissed his forehead. “Yes, Rhys. I’ll marry you.”
Chapter 22
Darkness was gathering by the time the coach rattled into Gretna Green, painting the surrounding hills a dim purple in the fading light. Rhys had sobered considerably in the last few hours of the trip. They’d laughed and talked and engaged in a little naughtiness in the rocking coach.
“There are ways for a man to have carnal knowledge of a woman in a carriage without either of them undressing completely, you know,” Rhys had told her.
“How?” she asked. “This may be your last chance to make a knowledgeable virgin of me.”
“Yes, but I couldn’t guarantee you’d remain one. Potholes can make for some spectacularly disastrous results. Besides,” he pulled her close and whispered in her ear, “I want your first time to be perfect, and we really need a good stout bed for that. After all, it’ll be your first chance to catch me without my stockings.”
“That’s right. I’ve yet to see you completely naked.” They laughed together then. When Olivia looked at Rh
ys and closed her eyelids, the imprint of his profile was burned on the backs of her eyes. His broad brow, his fine straight nose, the mouth that tempted her to any amount of folly…
And he’s mine. She hugged that delicious little fact to herself. If she lived to be one hundred, she’d remember him like this, ruggedly handsome, full of life and joy.
After seeing the coach and horses safely housed in the town livery and their driver given a place in the haymow for the night, Rhys lost no time locating the blacksmith’s shop on the edge of town.
The way the laws of Scotland read, anyone could say the words over a willing couple and they’d be considered man and wife. Smiths took advantage of their prime locations at crossroads to offer their services as “anvil priests,” leading couples to offer their marriage vows amid the soot and ironworks, and then re-shoeing the tired horses that brought them there in haste.
“O’ course, I’ll tie the knot for ye,” the burly, red-haired giant said as he stepped away from the heat of the forge. “Only one thing first. Are ye a willing party to this marriage, missy? I’ll no’ be leg-shacklin’ ye to this gentleman if ye’re under compulsion of any sort.”
Olivia shot Rhys a quick smile. “I’m willing.”
“Weel, that’s grand then, isn’t it?” He swiped his sweaty neck with a grimy hand. “Are we in a hurry or d’ye think there’s none followin’ close enough to hinder yer intentions if I take a moment to wash up a bit?”
“We’re not likely to be disturbed in the next few minutes,” Rhys said.
The smith nodded and submerged his ham-sized hands in a nearby basin. He scrubbed mightily, but soot stains still clung to his fingernails.
“Calum,” he said to the gangly bare-chested lad who worked by his side. “Fetch yer mother and a clean shirt for me. Have a bit of a wash for yerself too whilst ye’re in the house. Ye’re sixteen now. Old enough to be witness to a wedding. Best ye make a presentable job of it. Oh, and light the fire in yer brother’s cottage before ye do aught else.”
While the boy disappeared into the thatched cottage near the forge, Olivia took stock of their surroundings. When she was younger, she’d imagined her wedding in vibrant detail. She’d envisioned the parish church fragrantly alive with blooms from her garden and hothouse. The choir of boys that populated the church school would sing their sweet little lungs out. She’d seen herself in an elegant gown, styled in simple lines to please her and sparkling with seed pearls and lace to please her mother. The sanctuary would be filled with her family and well-wishers from the village.
