A Wedding by Dawn

by Alison Delaine

  Except when it came to India, who, if nothing else, at least made no pretense about her life.

  Nick looked at Vernier. “This Père Valentine,” he said. “Where do you suppose I might find him now?”

  * * *

  TWO HOURS LATER, Nick returned to his lodgings to find an invitation waiting—an “intimate gathering” tonight at Lady Pennington’s. Interesting. It would seem he had at least some level of Lady Pennington’s blessing anyhow. Tonight he would attempt to find out for certain.

  He tossed the invitation on the pockmarked dressing table and went to the window, staring through dirty glass at a cobbled back alley where two stray dogs nosed through a pile of refuse. A church bell rang nearby, and his fingers tightened around the chipped molding.

  Yves Dechelle. Père Dechelle—a supposed man of God who had nonetheless found his way into a married woman’s bed. Nick’s mother’s bed.

  If only Mother had never told him the truth. But a deathbed was a damnable thing for more reasons than the obvious.

  And Dechelle had a daughter working as a laundress on the Seine.

  He had another sister. A laundress—and it didn’t take much to imagine what other services she likely provided in order to make her way in this city. He thought of Honoria, his younger sister in London, who even now would be dressing for some spectacular soirée. He could see her so clearly, with dark hair and green eyes so like his own, always sparkling with some kind of shockingly mischievous remark. So bold, so sure of herself. Yet even so, sometimes he simply felt a need to protect her. From what, he had no idea.

  This other sister would not be readying for any soirée. She would have hands that were red and raw from the water, perhaps a pox from whatever nighttime activities she had to engage in to survive on a laundress’s pay. She would be gnarled from labor, aged beyond her years, possibly ill—

  God. He pushed away from the window, but there was nowhere to go in the tiny room. He was not going to conjure up an imaginary, suffering sister. But guilt—horror—clawed at him, anyway. The life she had was the life he deserved. He wasn’t really a Warre. He had no moral right to the honors bestowed on him through his connection with Croston, because he was not the Earl of Croston’s son.

  Would his other sister look anything like Honoria?

  Unlikely. The woman probably had a husband and a brood of children. And it wasn’t difficult to imagine what would happen if she found out she had a half brother who was a baron, never mind that he could barely afford even these ramshackle lodgings.

  The sum Cantwell had given him to finance the search for India was being depleted alarmingly quickly. There also remained the journey north, passage to England, expenses during whatever time it took for Cantwell to make good on their arrangement. And there was Nick’s own agreement with Miss Germain, which would wipe out half his remaining purse as it stood.

  Nick went to his trunk, took out the finest suit of clothes he carried. Shrugged into his waistcoat and buttoned it himself when every other man who would attend Lady Pennington’s soirée tonight was being buttoned by a valet.

  He thought of Holliswell, waiting even now in London with his greedy eyes turned toward Taggart. If Nick took too long in returning, would Holliswell try to begin proceedings against Taggart even before the appointed date? It was possible.

  He could afford a few days in Paris. Perhaps even a week, if things with India looked promising enough that an ugly scene in front of a priest might be avoided.

  He latched on to that idea and shoved the others away.

  His indifference had worked wonders on the road.... Tonight he would find out what effect it would have on Lady India in Paris.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  IF NICHOLAS WARRE had fallen prey to ravenous desire, he showed no sign of it that night at the soirée.

  India wore one of Auntie Phil’s spectacular gowns—hastily remade that very afternoon—and watched Nicholas Warre across the room, very clearly not burning for her.

  “If nothing else, Lord Taggart does have very fine attributes,” Auntie Phil said, sipping a glass of wine and studying him with open appreciation.

  He was using those attributes at this moment on a French coquette who kept touching his lapel and stretching up to whisper in his ear. He laughed at something, and India felt it in her knees.

  “Why did you invite him?” she hissed.

  “Gracious! How could I not, under the circumstances? He knows a great many people who are in Paris at the moment. It would have been terribly awkward not to invite him.”

  “It would be the least he deserves, after what he’s done.” India watched Nicholas touch the flirt’s arm. He wore his best suit—she knew because she’d been through his trunk—but it was modest in comparison to the finery on display tonight. He was like a rooster in a house of peacocks. And yet, somehow, he managed to put every man here to shame.

  Now the Parisienne was laughing and brushing something from his sleeve.

  India tore her attention away and surveyed the crowd. “There are any number of men here tonight with fine attributes,” she said, and spotted a particularly excellent example making his way directly toward them—tall, dark, wearing a burgundy coat made nearly black with embroidered designs. “That one, for instance.”

  Auntie Phil saw whom she meant, and smiled. “Ah, yes.” And then he was within earshot, and Auntie Phil was holding out her hand in welcome. “I’m surprised you found my little fête to your taste this evening, Winston,” she told him.

  “Everything you do is to my taste, Lady Pennington.” His eyes flashed, and a smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Although I do plan to enjoy the delights at Madame Gravelle’s later this evening. Perhaps you’ll join me?”

  Auntie Phil laughed. “You grow more preposterous by the hour. I don’t know that you’ve been introduced to my niece, Lady India Sinclair.”

  He raised a brow. “Cantwell’s daughter.”

  “Indeed. India, His Grace the Duke of Winston.”

  He took India’s hand and kissed it chastely. “A great pleasure, Lady India.”

  “Likewise, Your Grace.” She’d heard of the wild duke, but it was the first time she’d ever set eyes on him. He looked like the devil incarnate. Behind him, she saw Nicholas had left the Parisienne behind and was closing in on them.

  She gave the duke her best smile and said, “I might be persuaded to join you at Madame Gravelle’s.”

  The duke’s brows shot up, and Auntie Phil laughed. “That venue may be a bit ambitious for you, dearest.”

  “What a shame,” India said as Nicholas joined them, and made a mental note to discover later exactly where and what was Madame Gravelle’s. She looked directly at Nicholas as she added, “I’ve so been anticipating the delights of Paris.”

  “Ah, Taggart,” the duke said. “I’ve just been acquainting myself with your lovely fiancée.”

  Nicholas’s brows dived in a brief, not-certain-what-you-mean V, then smoothed. “Ah—you haven’t heard. There is to be no wedding after all.”

  India tensed. He was telling his fabrication to the duke?

  “Forgive me,” the duke said smoothly. “I didn’t realize.”

  “No apology necessary, Your Grace,” India said. “Lord Taggart is only too eager to inform everyone of our change of plans. In fact, he’ll be returning to London shortly. Perhaps, if you plan to leave Paris as well, the two of you could travel together.”

  “I’m afraid I shall be traveling the opposite direction,” the duke said. “I journey to Greece next month.”

  “Oh, I adore Greece.”

  The duke smiled, a flash of white teeth against swarthy skin. “As I am sure Greece adores you.” He offered Auntie Phil his arm. “Do show me the way to the refreshments, would you?” he murmured.

  And then India was alone with Nicholas. Her belly fluttered a little, but she refused to succumb to nerves—or attraction. “You surprise me, Mr. Warre. I would not have expected you to go to such
lengths to convince me of your indifference.”

  “I’m not sure I would call it indifference,” he said, and sipped a glass of deep red wine while he watched a pair of ladies walk by. One cast him a long look from behind her fan. “I have simply abandoned any plan to marry you.”

  “How do I know this is not all a trick? That you haven’t been pretending to have changed your mind, simply to lull me into a false confidence and then launch your attack?”

  “Lady India, if I had wished to launch an attack, I would not have left you in that barn.”

  “If you had tried to take me from the barn, I would have screamed.”

  His eyes shifted to hers. “Do not think for a single moment that I could not have taken you from there had I wished it.”

  A shiver feathered her skin. “So if I went right now and brought a priest, you would not say the vows?”

  “No.”

  “I do not believe you.”

  “Then by all means, let us go find a priest.”

  And if this was a trick, wouldn’t that be the perfect way for him to accomplish his goal. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “And if it will help convince you, I plan to return your pistol and shot tomorrow.” He did? “Perhaps they will help you fend off hopeful suitors in Paris.”

  A couple walked by, and Nicholas’s hand lighted for half a second on the small of her back, as if to guide her out of their way.

  “I have no intention of fending anyone off in Paris,” she told him, while little sparks danced up and down her spine even though his hand was already gone.

  “No?”

  “No.” He wanted to continue this farce? She could toy with him just as easily. “Paris is the City of Love, not the City of Fending Off.”

  One of his brows quirked upward.

  “A city full of young Frenchmen will suit my needs perfectly.”

  “Much like a tavern full of sailors, I suppose.”

  Her temper flared, but she managed to keep it in check and offer what she hoped was a secretive smile. “Oh, far more perfectly than that, Mr. Warre.”

  Let him believe she planned to finish in Paris what she’d begun in Malta. Then they would see just how long he would profess disinterest.

  “Is that your plan for Paris, then?” he asked. “To tease the poor Frenchmen mercilessly until they are out of their minds with wanting to claim your innocence?”

  There’s little doubt he lies awake at night positively burning for you, dearest. Auntie Phil’s earlier speculation shot through her mind and left her...smoldering. Just a little.

  “You may have noticed that I am a woman of action, Mr. Warre. Not teasing.” She spotted a handsome young man in a flamboyant blue and silver jacket, and— Oh. She recognized him. It was the Marquis de Bravard, a friend of Auntie Phil’s who had expressed a particular interest in India when they were here three years ago.

  How fortuitous.

  “Mmm.” Nicholas sipped his wine. “Indeed, I suppose you’ve proven that to be true.” His tone was heavy with unspoken examples: the dressmaker’s. The inn. The hayloft, where she’d practically begged him to— “Tell me,” he went on, “what precisely is your plan of action?” The question was dry, delivered as he looked at the crowd.

  “Mr. Warre, a lady does not discuss the details of her affairs.” Her voice came out breathier than it should have.

  He chuckled. “That is because a lady does not have affairs.”

  More people walked by, and now they’d been pushed so much together that her arm pressed firmly against his chest. Her mouth went a little dry. She looked down, realized her glass was empty.

  “Please,” he said, “take mine.” He made the switch before she had a chance to respond. Her gaze dropped to the new glass in her hand, to the tiny drop of red wine where his lips had touched the rim.

  Those green eyes followed the motion as she raised it to her lips. She sipped, and the heady liquid sang through her as if he’d touched his mouth to hers.

  “I do hope I haven’t offended you,” she said, just as the marquis spotted her.

  “Not at all.”

  The marquis bowed to her from afar, and she raised Nicholas’s glass to him, and he started toward them. “I’m sure my plans are nothing to you—not anymore.”

  “Indeed not.” Nicholas lowered his voice and leaned close—so close she began to tingle in her most intimate places—even as his eyes followed a pair of ladies walking by. “In fact, if you should find that you need any assistance with how to conduct your affairs, you have only to ask. I shall be happy to help you.”

  “Lady India,” the marquis declared, joining them at last. “Quel plaisir. Paris has not been the same without you.” His gaze swept the length of her body.

  “A pleasure indeed,” she said, and allowed the handsome marquis to kiss her hand. The marquis raised a curious brow at Nicholas, and India made the introduction.

  “Lord Taggart,” she said. “A family friend.” She thought she saw the corner of Nicholas’s lips twitch.

  “How very fortunate for you to be a friend to such a magnificent young woman,” the marquis said to Nicholas. And then, “You must honor me with a dance, Lady India. With Lord Taggart’s permission, of course.”

  India laughed lightly. “I do not need Lord Taggart’s permission.”

  “Nor would I dream of withholding it,” Nicholas assured them, already shifting his attention to the crowd beyond them as if he was impatient to move on to more interesting company.

  “Then by all means,” India said, taking the marquis’s arm, “let us dance.” She held out the wine Nicholas Warre had given her. His fingers brushed hers when he took it, and a hot, quick yearning shot through her.

  Already he was turning away.

  “After you left Paris,” the marquis told her dramatically as he led her to dance, “I despaired of your ever returning.”

  “Such flattery. But I am here now,” she said loudly enough for Nicholas to hear, “so you needn’t despair a moment longer.”

  * * *

  “YOU DO REALIZE,” Lady Pennington said a short time later, positioning herself gracefully at Nick’s side, “that you have just left my niece in the care of the most profligate young marquis in Paris.”

  The countess, who was at least five or six years Nick’s junior, looked like the kind of woman for whom profligacy was a desired character in a man.

  “You disapprove?” he asked.

  “You do not?” she countered.

  He more than disapproved. He wanted to cross the ballroom, grab Lady India out of the marquis’s embrace, take her to his hotel and finish what they’d started in that barn.

  But he could be patient.

  “How interesting.” Lady Pennington pinned him with eyes every bit as blue as India’s, and he could see why she had men falling at her feet—and how easily India would be able to follow in her example. There was no way he would allow that to happen. But he was best served to let India think she could do as she pleased. “You are a clever man, Lord Taggart.”

  “Am I?”

  “I suspected you had not given up.”

  “Forgive me, Lady Pennington. You have me at a loss.”

  “There’s no need to pretend with me. There is nothing more attractive to a woman than a man who doesn’t want her. I daresay you’ll have her in love with you before the week is out.”

  His pulse sped up. He didn’t want India in love with him—only married to him.

  “I’m afraid you misjudge my intentions,” he said evenly. But now he was thinking of the way India had felt pressed against him moments ago, the unguarded desire she was too open to hide. The glisten of his wine on her lips.

  Married to him, with all the benefits that implied. That was what he wanted.

  Lady Pennington laughed. “You cannot fool me, Lord Taggart. But if by some chance I do misjudge you, then I must warn you... You will not ruin my niece, and you will not break her heart.”

  Break t
he heart of the young woman who had just professed a desire to seek the attentions of every young Frenchman in Paris? Across the room, he watched her smile up at the young marquis.

  Just once, he wanted to see that blazing smile directed at him, and not because she was trying to work another scheme against him.

  “Then allow me to put your mind at ease,” he told the countess, “as I have no intention of the first, and I would need to possess Lady India’s heart in order to accomplish the second.”

  “I wonder that you did not accomplish the first already. You doubtless had ample opportunity.”

  “Perhaps you’ve failed to notice your niece’s less than enthusiastic opinion of me. She would not have made a willing accomplice.”

  “Hardly a deterrent, for some.”

  He looked at her sharply. “But a very great one, for me.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Am I to assume you do not approve of my arrangement with your brother?”

  She laughed. “It’s never safe to assume anything, Lord Taggart. But know this. India’s happiness is my sole concern.”

  “I would expect nothing less.”

  She studied him from behind her fan, then smiled and cast her eyes toward the dancers, where Lady India whirled in the arms of that damnable marquis. “But that’s neither here nor there,” Lady Pennington declared happily, “as she is not your responsibility any longer. But I’ve little doubt we shall see you at any number of soirées. Oh, what a wonderful unexpected surprise to be together with India in Paris once again. I daresay we shall have a very high time indeed.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “IF I WANTED to marry someone,” India said to Millie the next afternoon as they strolled along the shops on the Pont Notre-Dame, “that is, if I wanted to force myself upon someone in marriage, I would bide my time and assert myself when that person least expected it. Wouldn’t you?”

  “I can’t honestly say.”