A Wedding by Dawn

by Alison Delaine

  “Aren’t you? How else do you propose to consummate this marriage you’re so eager to complete?”

  “Your opinion of me is lower than I imagined,” he bit out.

  He was a man, and he was a noble. Of course her opinion was low. She stared at him and waited for a promise he would be unlikely to keep.

  “I assure you,” he said coldly, “my interest in Lady India is strictly financial.”

  Oh, yes. She’d seen that strictly financial interest burning in his eyes when he looked at India.

  She thought of India’s fate. Of her own. Of what itwould be like even if they managed to escape.

  “May I count on your assistance or not?” he said.

  Go to the devil. The words sat on her tongue.

  “You may.” She was the worst friend in the entire world.

  CHAPTER TEN

  MARSEILLE WAS CROWDED and damned hot to be wearing a greatcoat, but discomfort was a small price to pay with success this close. Which, of course, was an offensively liberal use of the term success.

  Nick kept one hand locked around India’s arm and the other wrapped around the pistol inside his pocket. It was probably an unnecessary precaution. And his conscience kept reminding him of that awful afternoon, and how small and vulnerable Lady India had been in her terror.

  But he’d be a fool to forget what had happened aboard the ship a week ago. Lady India and Miss Germain were pirates, plain and simple, and now that he was alone with these two, he would be ill-advised to consider anything but how easily they had managed to take over that ship—and how much more easily they could overpower him if he wasn’t careful.

  He had fifty thousand reasons to be on his guard.

  They made their way along the streets—Lady India eerily silent in the middle, Miss Germain a grim pallbearer on her other side. “Cross the street,” he ordered. Lady India’s lack of protest made him bloody nervous.

  That thick rope of a braid hung down her back, glistening like gold in the sunshine. Her pert little nose was pointed stubbornly forward, and her mouth—God, he didn’t dare think about her mouth. A fading bruise still darkened her cheek and eye—a bruise, he reminded himself yet again to assuage the guilt, that represented the only real consequences she’d endured for a crime that under any other circumstances would have ended with her death.

  He steered them toward the first church he saw and told himself to stop thinking about what happened that day. Most of all, to stop thinking about the way Lady India had looked to him for help, and the terror in her eyes that had struck him where he was most vulnerable. He’d been prepared to interfere with Jaxbury’s discipline—a foolhardy undertaking if there ever was one.

  But he’d have done it. For her.

  Just as he’d been prepared to sacrifice his honor for Clarissa, who—it turned out—cared nothing for him at all and had not even wanted his help. This vulnerability toward women in anguish was a personal flaw he would do well to remedy before he let his guard down and Lady India managed to escape. Because her silence could only mean one thing:

  She had a plan.

  “Do not scream,” he said under his breath as he escorted her into the church. Inside, it was dark and a good deal cooler. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust.

  Lady India didn’t utter a word. But she was not going to say these vows without a fight—he’d lay his life on that. No doubt she intended to appeal to the priest for help. Which meant they were about to witness a prime example of the power of money.

  A dozen people littered the pews. But up in front, fussing with something inside a gilded box, was the man Nick was looking for.

  The three of them walked down the aisle, and he caught the priest’s attention. “Might we have a word with you in private?” he asked in French.

  The priest inclined his head and gestured toward a door in the shadows. “Bien sûr, mon fils.”

  They followed the priest into a small chamber off the left transept. The door shut behind them with a solid click, and the priest turned to him. “What may I do for you?”

  “This woman and I have met with unusual circumstances,” Nick began, “and we need—”

  “This man is trying to force me into marriage.” There it was, in perfect French straight from those tantalizing lips. “I beg of you,” Lady India continued firmly, “please give my friend and me refuge in your church. Please. You must help us.”

  The priest frowned at Nick. “Is this true?”

  Nick gave India what he hoped was a shocked and wounded look. She was not going to evade him this easily. “My love, what can you mean?” He slipped the contract from his vest and handed it to the priest. “My apologies,” he told the man. “She and I are contracted to wed, and I can only imagine that last-minute jitters—”

  “He is holding a pistol to my side.”

  “A pistol!” The priest’s eyes shot to Nick’s other hand, buried as it was inside his greatcoat.

  Nick withdrew his hand and let the pistol lie in his pocket. “Such a wild imagination.”

  The priest was frowning at the contract. “I know little English,” he confessed, “but it does appear to say—”

  “That contract is forged,” Lady India informed him. “This man wrote it himself in the hope of marrying me and exacting money from my father.”

  “My apologies again,” Nick said to the priest. “Nothing could be further from the truth.” He turned to Lady India and murmured, “My dear, what are you about? After last night, I would have thought— But forgive me. What happened between us is a private matter.”

  She glared at him with murderous blue eyes. “Nothing happened between us, as you well know.”

  He called their kiss to mind and let the full effect of it smolder in his gaze as he looked at her. “Didn’t it?”

  The spark of that memory caught fire in her eyes, and her cheeks flushed a particularly attractive shade of pink.

  Nick smiled apologetically at the priest, even as he fought a fresh onslaught of desire. “As no doubt you can see, the circumstances demand a certain amount of discretion.”

  The priest eyed Lady India’s tricorne, waistcoat and breeches for perhaps the sixth or seventh time, and Nick cursed his decision to visit a dressmaker after the wedding and not before.

  Nick reached into his pocket once more and drew out a small sack of coins that represented a portion of the sum India’s father had fronted him for travel expenses. The priest eyed the sack exactly the way Nick had hoped he would.

  “I shan’t say the vows,” Lady India said testily. “You cannot make me. Please,” she begged the priest, “you are a man of God—you cannot be a party to this.”

  Over top of Lady India’s head, Nick met Miss Germain’s eyes and gave her what he hoped was an unmistakable look: do something to help. She looked away, and he decided to refresh her memory about their agreement at the first opportunity. He returned his attention to the priest.

  “Indeed, you appear to be involved in a most unusual situation.” The priest held his hand out for the sack of coins.

  “Your blood money cannot force me to speak,” Lady India warned.

  The priest’s hand closed around the coins and he turned away. For the amount Nick had just given him, there should be no need for Lady India to say a word.

  The priest went to a cabinet and turned a key, opening a small compartment. “Given the highly unusual nature of this marriage,” he began slowly, “I will of course need to consult the bishop about the propriety of the matter before anything can be done.” He looked sideways at Nick. “You would have no objection to that, would you, monsieur?”

  Yes, he bloody well had an objection. Nick clenched his teeth. “I don’t see the necessity—”

  “Please do consult your colleagues,” India interrupted wholeheartedly. “Surely you have a spare room, a small shelter where my friend and I might take refuge while you do.”

  “—but rather that time is of the essence,” Nick went on. “Which, of co
urse, I assumed you understood.”

  The priest turned an unmistakably disapproving look on Lady India. “I am afraid, mademoiselle, that we do not have such a room available.” And then, to Nick, “Oui, monsieur. I understood you perfectly. If you will tell me where you are staying, I shall inform you when I have discussed this with the bishop.”

  “There is no need. We shall be on our way.” Nick started forward, held out his hand for the coins.

  “May I wish you a safe journey,” the priest said, ignoring him and placing the sack inside the cabinet. “And may the Lord bless you for your most generous donation to our humble church.” He shut the door and turned the key.

  Bloody hell. “I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding,” Nick said coldly, knowing full well the priest misunderstood nothing.

  The priest clasped his hands together. “My apologies. You would like me to speak with the bishop after all?” He smiled. “I thought not. I shall see you both out the side door.”

  * * *

  “HOW MANY TIMES must you fail at this before you realize what you’re doing is wicked and wrong?” Back on the street, India wasn’t sure whether to celebrate or panic.

  There’d been no wedding, and Nicholas Warre had just lost a precious sum of money. But she had only one plan left, and it was the most terrifying of all.

  “I shouldn’t count myself victorious just yet if I were you,” he told her. “That was not the only church in France.”

  “The question is,” she said archly, “how many sacks of coins can you afford to lose?” It was a good bet the answer was not many.

  They marched along the street, dodging people and dogs and carts going this way and that. His hand gripped her arm, and his face—the face she’d spent too much time thinking about while imprisoned in her cabin—was pure stone. Inside his greatcoat, his pistol pointed directly at her.

  Which only made it more frustrating that those awful moments a week ago—his true horror, his earnest efforts to help—made it impossible to see him exactly the way she had before.

  “Where are we going now?” India asked.

  “To get you some proper clothes,” he said.

  She barely managed to hide her alarm. “I prefer the clothes I have.”

  “Of course you do.” He steered them across the street, and India spotted a dressmaker’s sign.

  The moment she put on a gown, her ability to run from him would drop to practically zero.

  The busy street teemed with activity—the perfect cover for an escape. One singular effort could be enough for her and Millie to lose themselves among the crowd. But Millie was in no condition for dodging through streets or climbing over walls or whatever else they might have to do in flight from Nicholas Warre.

  Which is why your plan is not to run from him.

  No. She planned to gain control an entirely opposite way. She’d thought it all through during those long hours in her cabin, but planning was different from doing, and now that the reality was upon her—

  “Wait!” India stopped and put a hand to her stomach. Perhaps if she bought herself a few minutes to think...

  “What now?”

  “I’m feeling ill...”

  “The hell you are.”

  “It’s been happening every morning.” She looked at Millie. We must do something! “Do you think I could be...?”

  “What are you talking about?” Nicholas Warre demanded.

  She looked up at him, rubbing her hand lightly across her belly. “Mr. Warre, I must inform you that if you marry me now, I shall almost certainly bring forth a great shame upon you and your household.”

  His eyes narrowed, and he yanked her forward. “You are not enceinte.”

  “We can’t know for certain.”

  “I daresay we can.”

  “There was an Italian deckhand on board William’s ship. Lorenzo.”

  “Whom, naturally, you invited into your locked cabin at every opportunity for hours of glorious lovemaking.”

  “Please, Mr. Warre, if you are going to describe Lorenzo’s skill at lovemaking, at least attempt to do it justice.” He had her arm in his grip, but now she curled her hand around his and leaned into him, gazing dreamily into the distance, which in this case consisted of a donkey urinating in the street.

  There was an alleyway, an open shop door, a giant, lumbering wagon piled with hay... But it was no use.

  He turned his head just as she turned hers, and suddenly she was inches from his face. His green eyes dropped to her mouth. Her own gaze followed suit, dropping to his lips, which she remembered very, very well.

  “What a relief to know I needn’t take precautions for your inexperience on our first night together,” he murmured.

  A shiver dropped down her spine and crashed in her belly, way down low. “Oh, dear, Mr. Warre.” She laughed. “Now I am doubly sure you shall never live up to Lorenzo.”

  “And I am sure that, being the benevolent man that I am, I can be persuaded to overlook your indiscretion.”

  He opened the door to the dress shop and steered her inside.

  * * *

  “I SHALL HAVE him wrapped around my finger in no time,” India told Millie in the back room of the dressmaker’s shop, trying to sound more confident—and less anxious—than she felt. The dressmaker issued a string of instructions and gestured India toward a tall looking glass while Millie perched on a nearby chair that had fabrics piled across the back.

  For Millie’s sake—for both their sakes—her plan had to work.

  “I can see you have him half-wrapped already,” Millie said a bit glumly, wincing a little as she shifted on the seat.

  “Doubt me if you wish. Only think what Auntie Phil would do if she wanted to escape from a man.”

  “Philomena? Want to escape from a man?”

  “Voilà!” the dressmaker exclaimed, pushing a light blue gown into her assistant’s hands, then a green, then a serviceable gray stripe.

  “She would gain the upper hand through seduction,” India said.

  “Good God. You can’t possibly be thinking—” Millie cut off abruptly.

  Yes. It was exactly what India was thinking. And what she’d been planning—but only as a last resort. A desperate measure.

  They were at the point of desperation now.

  “I shall seduce him, Millie, and have him eating from the palm of my hand, and then we shall be able to make our move.”

  She watched in the looking glass as the dressmaker’s assistant helped her out of her beloved men’s clothes and into a simple shift. She thought of Nicholas Warre, who waited at the front of the shop, and suddenly he may as well have been standing next to her, watching in the glass as she stood in nothing but her shift while the dressmaker measured her arms, legs, waist, hips.

  “I already know it will work,” she added. He hadn’t been able to resist touching her that night in his cabin, and she’d been fully covered. A gown would not be nearly as modest as the men’s shirt she’d been wearing that night.

  “So your plan is,” Millie began slowly as the dressmaker’s assistant laced India into a set of stays, “that you will seduce him and he will suddenly bow to your every command?”

  “He will be struck powerless,” India corrected, and tried to believe it. “Isn’t that what Auntie Phil says? That a man is rendered powerless by the sight of a woman’s breasts?” She surveyed her breasts now and smiled. They practically spilled from inside the whalebone.

  “I don’t think she meant the way a pistol shot renders him powerless,” Millie scoffed.

  “A chance of rendering him powerless—or distracted enough for us to escape, in any case—is better than no chance.” Although that night in his cabin, standing there while his hands wandered over her, she’d been rendered practically powerless herself.

  The memory of it came alive, smoldering across her skin with fresh yearning, and now she thought of how possessively he’d kissed her, and how good it had felt to be held that tightly, and
—

  “Let us hope it will work as quickly as a pistol shot,” she said. “Every moment of delay only takes us further from an easy means of escape.” And escape was what she wanted—not the feeling of being in Nicholas Warre’s arms. She may have succumbed a little before, but now she knew what to expect, and there would be no more weakness.

  “I shall do it while we’re still close to Marseille, so it will be easy to find our way onto a ship.” She watched in the glass as the dressmaker pinned her smartly into a gown that, if she’d been at Father’s house, would not have even done for her lady’s maid. The gown took shape, molding to her form. Her breasts sat high above a blue ribboned stomacher pinned over her stays, and panniers caused the paler blue jupe to flare at her hips, accentuating her waist.

  “I don’t suppose you’ll actually bestow your virtue on him,” Millie said doubtfully.

  Bestow her—

  India exhaled. Felt a trembling of nerves deep inside, much different from what she’d felt in that Maltese tavern. “Perhaps I will,” she said. “Depending on the exact...situation.” Millie watched her in the glass with unhappy eyes, and India bolstered her resolve. “And I’ll not listen to your objections this time. If bestowing my virtue upon Nicholas Warre will secure us a means of escape—” a whisper of heat feathered her skin “—then I shall simply see it as killing two birds with one stone.”

  Yes, that was exactly how she would see it. She would have given her virtue to that Egyptian sailor in Malta... There would be little difference in giving it to Nicholas Warre.

  Millie smoothed her palms across her breeches. “Well, in that case...” She fiddled with the button on her jacket sleeve.

  India waited. “In that case, what?”

  Millie looked at her in the glass and raised her chin a little. “I was only going to say that if you’re going to do that, you ought to do it sooner rather than later.”

  “So you do not object?”

  “Of course I object. Only...” Millie fussed with her sleeve once more, and India knew exactly what she was thinking. Millie couldn’t see any alternative, either.

  “Only nothing. You mustn’t feel guilty. You know how I’ve been anxious to be rid of this vexatious virtue.” Butterflies converged behind her belly button as the dressmaker pinned a tuck near India’s hip.