by Erin Rye
The young woman frowned. “This is too sudden—and frankly, it’s mad.”
“Not as mad as it may appear,” Stirling said. “Surely, Ella, you know me well enough. I’ve proven more than once that I have only your best interests at heart.”
She hesitated, and fear struck Ashton’s heart. What if she said no?
She nodded.
“For your assistance to Lord Strachan, he will not only provide Cyril a proper education until he gains his majority, but he will provide you a townhouse and a yearly sum for its upkeep—for life,” Stirling suggested. “Let’s toss in a coach and four, as well.”
Ella’s long lashes fluttered.
“Stirling, a word?” Ashton cleared his throat and with a vague nod in Ella’s direction, led Stirling into the hall and closed the door. “A rather generous offer. If I fail to secure the inheritance, that bloody might take all I possess.”
Stirling smiled. “You won’t fail. Not with Ella. I promise you.”
Ashton studied him. “Do you know something that I do not?”
“Surely, you can’t expect me to answer such a question,” his friend replied in amusement.
“Who, exactly, is she?”
Stirling clapped him on the back. “She’s the answer to your prayers. A genteel lady, well educated, and more than equipped to play the part. Trust me.”
“I’d find you a damn sight easier to trust if my entire means of survival wasn’t at stake,” Ashton retorted. “I don’t recall hearing of the Wetherbys.”
“Have you not?” Stirling queried.
Discomfort gnawed at Ashton’s gut. “What are you hiding?”
“Come now, I’m insulted at the level of your suspicion. Call it instinct, shall we? You have nothing to fear. Your grandmother will heartily approve the match,” Stirling assured. “I wouldn’t have said the same for Anne.”
Ashton raked a hand through his hair. From the sheer unexpectedness alone, he was inclined to reject the hairbrained scheme, but what choice had he besides walking away? He’d come so far. He gave a curt nod.
“Right then,” Stirling said. “I still have Ella to convince and a contract to write. Let’s assume I’m successful. I will speak with the priest about the license. You find a dress. Unless, that is, you prefer the lass meet your grandmother in breeches.”
Chapter Three
Choices
“Who is he?” Ella asked Stirling the moment he returned alone.
The Scottish lord closed the door and motioned to the chairs that faced the fire. “Please, hear me out, Ella.” He crossed to the hearth, knelt on the brick, and stoked the fire with the poker that leaned against the wall.
Ella hesitated. If she were smart, she would pick up her skirts—or breeches—and run. Yet, where did she have to run to that was superior?
“Good heavens, Cyril,” she said. “I—”
“No need to worry about him,” Stirling cut in without looking at her. “He’s in my room, imbibing biscuits and lemonade in the company of a maid.”
“Sir Stirling,” she cried, “I don’t know what to say.”
She glimpsed the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Not another word.” He stood and faced her. “Now, shall we sit?”
What had she to lose? Ella crossed the room and settled in the tufted chair to the right.
He sat in the other chair and said, “Lord Ashton Strachan is a trustworthy man, my dear, and a true man of honor. You need not fear he’ll attempt the dishonorable, nor will he fail to execute what he has promised. He’ll follow the contract to the letter, I assure you.”
“What will he expect of me?” she asked in a hoarse whisper.
“Merely to play the part of a devoted wife at social functions, and for the benefit of his relatives, as he navigates the complexities of his potential inheritance.” He crossed his long legs. “His grandmother wants to see him wed before she decides if he or his cousin will inherit her money.”
Ella nodded. Sadly, such stipulations were all too common. Elderly family members had a driving desire to see their progeny well settled before passing on their fortunes.
“You will only be expected to fill your days playing whist, taking tea, and perhaps even attending the occasional opera.” He smiled. “I wouldn’t mind a game of whist with you. I’m sure we can have lemonade served.”
“You remembered,” she murmured.
“I am not likely to forget the best whist partner I’ve ever had.”
Ella’s hands trembled. She eyed the blisters. She must be mad to consider such a contract, but she couldn’t deny she’d rather sit in a drawing room and feign wedded bliss than wash clothes and dress as a lad to avoid unwelcome advances. Marriages of convenience were common in Society. At four and twenty, she gave little thought to romantic love. As for Cyril, he could return to school, away from the pickpockets and a too sure future that included prison. All she need do was marry The Demon Earl in name only.
The Demon Earl. Should she ask Stirling about the rumors? She hesitated. A lady didn’t indulge in crass gossip. Did the answer really matter? She had to save Cyril.
“Ella?” Stirling queried at length.
A tear slid down her cheek. She brushed it away in irritation. “I will do it.”
“Then you must start this very night.”
Ella drew a breath. “Tonight?”
“Ashton is to present his wife to his grandmother this very night. That means you need never return to the washhouse, and Cyril will not return to the streets.”
Her heart beat fast. She nodded agreement.
There was no turning back.
An hour later, Ella stared at her reflection in the wall mirror of Lord Strachan’s room. The low fire left the corners of the room in shadow. Still, she stared at her transformation from washerwoman to fine lady. She stroked the bodice of the dark blue silk dress, hardly able to believe that she again wore such finery. The dress, along with a basket of toiletries, had arrived minutes before Lord Strachan returned. He’d nodded vaguely in her general direction, then promptly left with Stirling to discuss the details of the contract and the license. That suited her. She couldn’t let herself dwell on what she was doing—not yet—and until she made her peace, the less time she spent in his company, the better.
She smoothed the dark blue silk over her hips. The dress was a little short for her height, but not scandalously so. She could easily see her black satin slippers beneath the scalloped hem. The gown’s square neckline adorned with satin rosettes worried her a little more. The cut revealed more flesh than she preferred, but still, she supposed, it was proper enough.
She picked up the brush from the bedside table and turned back to the mirror. “Do you really intend to go through with this?” she asked her reflection. The girl in the mirror nodded back and licked her dry lips. “For Cyril,” she whispered.
For Cyril.
A knock on the door startled her. “A moment,” she choked, and quickly twisted her long hair into a loose coil. A handful of hairpins later, she had the bun safely secured and hurried to the door.
“You look quite lovely.” Stirling offered a pleasant smile as he and Ashton filed inside.
Ella tried to smile back, but her attention snagged on the papers in his hand. The contract. This marriage was real. She stared at the contract, her spine ramrod straight.
“Shall we?” Ashton’s deep voice jarred her from her stare.
Ella refused to look at him. There would be plenty of time for that later. Right now, she wanted to extend every moment of denial that she could before she sealed her fate.
“Please take a seat.” Stirling gently guided her toward the table by the fire. “I’ll have you read this first, my dear. Then, when you’re ready, please sign.”
The chair hit the back of her knees and startled her into sitting down. Stirling slid the parchment across the table toward her. Did he truly think her capable of reading right now? She pretended to. The words swam and blurred be
fore her eyes.
She blinked away tears, not certain why she cried, and held out her hand. “The pen, please,” she croaked.
A quill appeared in her fingers as if by magic, but before she could scratch out her name, a hand dropped over hers and gave her cold fingers a warm squeeze. She looked up, expecting to see Stirling’s face, but instead, found herself staring into Ashton’s green eyes.
Chapter Four
A Man of His Word
Ashton sat beside Ella at the table. Stirling gave them what privacy he could by standing at the window while they signed the marriage contract. As Ella stared at the document, Ashton couldn’t help but see the hopelessness in her face. Pity stirred him. She’d suffered. He saw that haunted look often enough in the mirror. Some called him a dark-hearted scoundrel, and perhaps, to some degree, he was. Even so, he wasn’t entirely heartless. Without thinking, he dropped his hand over hers. She glanced up, startled, and he plucked the quill from her fingers.
“You have a choice,” he murmured.
She stared for an instant, as if not understanding, then said, “A choice to wash clothes for the rest of my life while my brother grows up on the streets and ends up in prison?” Her frown deepened, then her expression softened. “Do not fret, sir. It isn’t your fault that I am forced to make this choice.”
He blinked. She thought he was trying to assuage his guilt. He started to deny the unspoken accusation, but said instead, “I stand in your debt.”
She stared, as if waiting for more…or perhaps deciding if his words held any value. She was a damn sight prettier than he’d realized. Especially those eyes--bluer than the sea.
The clock on the mantle chimed. Ashton started from his thoughts. Nine p.m. If they didn’t hurry, they would be late. They barely had enough time to wed before his grandmother arrived.
“This is a marriage in name only,” Ella whispered.
Her reminder surprised him, but then, she knew nothing about him.
“I am a man of my word, Ella. I assure you, this matter between us is purely business in nature.” His voice sounded cool and detached even to his own ears, the declaration at odds with his earlier attraction.
She nodded, her mouth a thin line. He handed her the quill. Ella’s long lashes dipped. She took the pen and signed the contract. Her trembling fingers gave her signature a shaky, uneven appearance.
With a deep breath, she said, “It is done.”
The perfume of her hair floated around him, a sweet, delicate scent of roses.
“Ashton?” Stirling prodded.
Ashton drew a sharp breath. Odd. He wasn’t one so easily distracted. With a frown, he signed his name with a flourish.
“Well done.” Stirling strode to where they sat, picked up the contract and blew on the ink. “I will take this for safekeeping. Now, we have a wedding to attend.”
They left the inn, a somber party, and crossed the street to St. Giles, where Ashton had arranged that they say their vows. Thank God, he’d procured the license in anticipation of his marriage to Anne—and hadn’t filled in her name. Stirling had put in a word with the priest, who had agreed to the unorthodox hour for the wedding. A dozen witnesses occupied the front pews. Four discreet gentlemen Ashton had attended university with, and seven guests Stirling invited, including his wife, Lady Chastity. Ella’s little brother sat beside her.
The ceremony passed in a muddled blur, and as the clock in the church struck ten, Ashton suddenly heard the priest say, “You may kiss the bride.”
She looked up at him as if she expected him to bite her. Ashton grimaced. Her eyes widened, and he realized she’d mistaken his reaction.
He pulled her close, whispered, “It isn’t you, Ella,” then drew her closer.
Their lips touched, and an unexpected jolt of awareness to his cock caught him off guard. She was a beautiful woman. But he’d kissed other beautiful women. What had happened? To his surprise, she grasped his shoulders. Was she trying to remain steady? She released a breath and he breathed in, then broke the kiss. She blinked as if surprised. A blush colored her cheeks as the priest directed them to the registry. They signed, and Ashton found himself a properly wedded man. Ella turned away, clearly unable to meet his gaze as Lady Chastity reached them.
“Ella, I am so pleased to see you.” She pulled Ella into a hug.
“My lady,” Ella said in a quiet voice. “You are looking well.”
Lady Chastity laughed. “As you do. You are a beautiful bride.” She looked at Ashton. “Congratulations, Ashton. You are very fortunate to have Ella as a wife.”
“I am the most fortunate of grooms,” he said.
Stirling joined them. “I believe our priest would like to retire for the night.”
“Of course.” Ashton winged an arm toward Ella. “Will you be joining us, Lady Chastity?”
She smiled. “Unfortunately, no. I must return home.”
“Thank you for coming,” Ella said.
Chastity hugged her again. “You must promise to visit soon.”
Ella smiled, and Ashton couldn’t help noticing how beautiful she was. “I promise,” she told Lady Chastity.
They left the church, their footfalls echoing in its vast emptiness. As they started across the street, Cyril’s questions broke the silence.
“Are you really married, Ella?” Before she could answer, he turned to Ashton. “Does this make you my brother? I’ve never had a brother before. All my friends will be green with envy that my brother is The Demon Earl.”
Ashton stiffened.
“Cyril,” Ella admonished. She looked at Ashton, eyes wide with anxiety. “My lord, I am sorry.” She shot her brother a quelling look. “We shall have a talk, little man.”
“What will your friends say?” Ashton asked the boy.
Cyril cast his sister an uncertain look.
“It is polite to answer your elders when they ask you a question,” Ashton said.
Cyril shrugged. “I imagine they will tell me to sleep with a pistol beneath my pillow. You know, in the event you decide to steal my soul.”
“Steal your soul?” he blurted in unison with Stirling’s muffled laughter.
Cyril nodded. “Oh, yes, sir. Everyone knows demons collect souls.”
Ashton bite back a laugh. “I see. Do you have a pistol?’
He shook his head. “Ella will not allow me to have a pistol.”
“Then it would be terribly unsporting of me to try and steal your soul when you have no way to defend yourself.”
“Will you teach me to shoot?”
“Cyril--” Ella began.
“When you are older,” Ashton interjected. “Until then, I promise not to steal your soul.”
“Don’t tell anyone, though, if you don’t mind,” the boy said.
Ashton frowned. “Tell anyone what?”
“That you promise not to steal my soul—because I want to tell everyone you promised to teach me to shoot.”
“I imagine your friends will think you very brave to sleep in the same house with The Demon Earl and live to tell about it,” he said as they reached the inn.
Cyril grinned.
“I promise not to tell anyone.” He opened the door and held it while everyone entered.
“Will we go riding together?” the boy asked when the door closed behind Ashton.
“Indeed, we will. But not just yet. You will start school straight away.”
Cyril hung his head. “That is Ella’s doing, and it isn’t fair.”
Ashton nodded gravely. “Indeed, it isn’t. But to school you will go, nonetheless.”
Stirling winked at the boy, then handed Ella a key. “The key to Cyril’s room, so you may check on him later. There’s no need to fret over the wee lad. I’ve hired a maid to mind him until he’s safely back in school.”
Cyril opened his mouth to reply but closed it when Ella cast him a warning look. She said to Stirling, “Thank you, my lord,” and dropped into a curtsey.
Stirling turned
to Ashton. “Until later.”
“Aye,” Ashton extended a hand. Stirling clasped it.
With a final smile, Stirling said, “Come along, Cyril,” and led him down the hall.
Ashton turned toward Ella, but she studiously inspected the rug. He clenched his jaw before the absurdity of the situation struck him. “We make most convincing newlyweds, do we not?” He gave a dry chuckle.
Ella’s eyes met his, and to his surprise, humor flickered there. “Perhaps, we can say we’ve been wed a year already, my lord.”
A year? He snorted. “I see you’re as jaded as I am on the subject of wedded bliss.” The fact she’d addressed him as ‘my lord’ registered. “Ashton. Call me Ashton. We are wed, happily or not.” He caught her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm.
She tensed under his touch, but acquiesced. “Ashton.”
“This way.” He led her down the hall toward the reserved private parlor.
As a rule, his grandmother detested Englishwomen. He’d only ever known her to praise one, a young London debutante she’d met the previous summer. She’d sung the woman’s praises so often, he might have wondered if her mind had begun to fade if she hadn’t been so sharp-witted in all other regards.
“I will introduce you, then do the talking—if any is required,” he murmured as they walked down the hallway. “Most likely, my grandmother will ignore you entirely.”
“As you wish, my lor—Ashton.”
“If, by chance, she does ask questions, stick to the truth as closely as possible,” he said. “We’ll say we met in Edinburgh, fell madly in love, and eloped.”
Ella nodded.
As for Anne, the less he said, the better. Should his grandmother ask, he would claim he’d fallen madly for Ella, and upon the discovery, Anne had broken their engagement. It made Anne a martyr and him a cad, but since his family only believed the worst of him, the tale would serve quite well.
