Her Proper Scoundrel

by A. M. Westerling

  Josceline peeped at him over the rim of her tea cup, eyes crinkling in a smile. It sent a rush of joy pouring through him to pool in his gut.

  She had once admitted to him she wanted a love match. In an impulsive silent vow to make it so, Christopher raised his cup to her. His mother’s words on love echoed in his ears and he had the feeling soon he would understand more fully what she meant.

  He could only hope one day Josceline would feel the same.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The evening of Lord and Lady Oakland’s fete finally arrived - an evening which, for the first time in years, Josceline looked forward to with great anticipation.

  And it was all because she accompanied the man sitting across from her on the front squabs. She glanced at him and he rewarded her with a quick grin.

  “Have I told you how lovely you look?” Christopher teased, eyeing appreciatively the copper satin dress peeking out from beneath her cloak.

  “You have,” she replied gaily, “but it shouldn’t hurt to remind me again. And I should return the favor. You cut a particularly fine figure tonight in your velvet waistcoat and evening tails.”

  “Saucy minx.” He laughed aloud and leaned over to pat her hand but she could see her compliment pleased him for a slight smile hung on his lips.

  The carriage rocked to a stop in front of Oakland Grange. With the help of several footmen who converged on them like ants to a honey pot, the two disembarked and were guided inside to a side room where more footmen were stationed to help guests with their coats.

  They joined the queue waiting to be announced. Other than a few curious glances from fellow guests, they shuffled forward unnoticed.

  It wasn’t until Howard, the Oakland’s butler, gestured to Christopher and pulled him aside that Josceline felt the first stirrings of unease.

  “Is something amiss?” Josceline asked when Christopher returned to her side.

  “Lord Oakland has requested my immediate presence in his library.” Christopher was clearly puzzled. “How odd.”

  “Go see what he wants.” She gave him a little nudge. “We can step back into line when you return.”

  She moved closer to the wall to wait, pretending to study the portraits and furniture lining the entrance way, recognizing the horsehair chair she had sat in the night she arrived from London.

  She felt a tap on her shoulder and she turned to see the butler.

  “There is a gentleman here who wishes to see you in private, my lady.” Howard bowed. “Will you come with me?”

  “A gentleman for me?” she exclaimed. How peculiar, who knew she would be here?

  “Yes, he says he is your father.” Her father? At Oakland Grange? Her heart leapt into her throat, constricting the flow of air and she had to make a conscience effort to breathe.

  No, it couldn’t be. He must have received the curt letter she had sent several days ago announcing her marriage. Furthermore, if it truly was her father, she knew him well enough to realize he wouldn’t be happy she had married against his wishes.

  Frantic, she scanned the crowd in search of Christopher but he hadn’t returned.

  She had no desire to face the duke. However, if Howard spoke the truth and her father was here, she could share her news in person and make him understand his plans for her and Mr. Burrows would not come to fruition. Her joyous anticipation of the evening crumbled at the looming confrontation.

  Josceline scanned the crowd one last time - still no sign of Christopher. It shouldn’t take long to talk to her father; she could return before Christopher noticed her absence.

  “I shall deal with him,” she replied. “Where is he?”

  “Lord Oakland’s office. This way, my lady.” The butler pointed and let her precede him.

  Reluctantly, she made her way, tasting ash in her mouth. Every step closer became more difficult as if she waded through sludge.

  “Through here, my lady.” The butler swung open the door.

  She paused in the doorway, leaning one trembling hand against the jamb for support. Two figures turned to her: the slight, stooped figure of her father, and the burly form of Thomas Burrows.

  They couldn’t hurt her here, in this public gathering, she told herself. She sucked in a deep breath and stepped into the room. The door closed behind her with an ominous “clack”.

  Burrows hung behind, a smirk on his bulbous lips as her father advanced towards her. The duke spoke first.

  “Lady Oakland has done her duty to me as your father and reported your circumstance to me. I’ve come to restore your honor.” His voice was querulous.

  “There is no problem with my honor.” She clenched her fists in the folds of her skirt. “The truth is-.”

  He interrupted her before she could explain. “That’s not what Lady Oakland has suggested to me. According to that fine lady, you are compromised.”

  “I beg to differ.” She stood her ground.

  “Mr. Burrows is willing to take you to wife. I command it to be so.” He glowered at her from beneath bristling brows.

  “I cannot marry Mr. Burrows.”

  “I am your father, the Duke of Cranston, and you shall do as I say.” He moved closer and made as if to grab for her.

  She took a step back.

  Her father came for her, clawed hands flapping and face becoming more mottled with red as he advanced. She took another step back, then another and another until she backed into the wall.

  She held her tongue with the perverse desire to see how ugly and twisted his face could become. Defiant, she crossed her arms, pressing her body into the wall tightly.

  “You can’t run from me, daughter.” He grabbed her wrist with one bony hand and yanked at it. “Come, we return to London this night. I’ve spoken to our parish priest and he awaits our return.”

  Her father had made arrangements without her acquiescence. Anger spurted through her and her skin crawled where her father held her wrist. She tried to tug free but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t loose herself from his grasp.

  Mr. Burrows lumbered over, eyes filled with vicious intent. His rank smell filled her nostrils as he grabbed the other wrist. “Deny me, will ye? Ye think yer so much better than me?”

  “No! I am wed already!” She screamed and dug in her heels but was no match against the strength of two men. The heels of her slippers scraped against the bare boards of the floor as they dragged her across the floor. She struggled and a fat hand clamped over her mouth, restricting her breath. A black mist clouded the room, lowering over her eyes until she could see nothing but blackness.

  Help me! Christopher, help me!

  * * *

  Christopher left the company of Lord Oakland, mulling over their brief meeting as he made his way back to the entrance hall. He searched for Josceline amongst the few remaining guests milling about. How curious, she was nowhere to be seen. All thoughts of the meeting fled his mind.

  She had disappeared.

  He waited a minute or two thinking she had perhaps gone to refresh herself before accosting one of the footmen.

  “Have you seen my wife,” he barked with such force the footman shrank back.

  “Yes, Mr. Sharrington, Howard took her to Lord Oakland’s office.”

  What the devil? First Christopher himself was called away and now her? A chill surged down his spine.

  “Where is this office,” he demanded, leaning his face into that of the young footman who, obviously intimidated by Christopher’s manner, raised a shaky arm to point.

  Christopher charged down the hallway and saw the sliver of light beneath a closed door. Without bothering to knock, he flung it open with such force it slammed against the wall and rebounded, quivering.

  Barging into the room, he took in the situation with a sweeping glance. Josceline was held fast on one side by a corpulent gentleman, who covered her mouth with a burly hand, while a frail, elderly man clutched her other arm.

  Her eye lids fluttered open at the sound of his foot
steps and she looked his way. The frightened expression in her eyes told the story.

  The two must be the Duke of Cranston and the man to whom he had promised her. Mr. Burrows, if memory served him correctly. Christopher’s face grew hot and he was blinded momentarily by scorching anger at the sight of Josceline held against her will.

  “I’ll thank you to take your hands off my wife,” he snarled, advancing on them with clenched fists.

  The duke dropped his hands and sidled away but Burrows jutted out his lip and adjusted his grip on Josceline.

  “Never,” he sneered, trying to pull Josceline towards the door. “The girl is betrothed to me. And if it hadn’t been for the kind assistance of Lady Oakland, we should never have found her.”

  With blinding clarity Christopher understood the motive behind Lady Oakland’s invitation.

  It hadn’t been for their benefit at all. It had been for the Duke to be able to catch his daughter and force her into marriage with the detestable merchant.

  Another wave of anger surged through him and he grabbed Burrows’ neck, shaking it ferociously.

  “Release her.” He squeezed tighter until he could feel the ribbed cords pop in the fleshy throat. Eyes bulging, the man dropped his hands from Josceline and fell to his knees, gasping for breath.

  “Who are you?” From behind him came the querulous voice of Josceline’s father.

  Christopher became aware of the feeble blows raining on his back from the duke and whirled about to shove the man, sending him sprawling to the floor.

  “Christopher Sharrington,” he growled, reaching to tug Josceline to him. “This is my wife.”

  “Christopher, they tried to abduct me,” Josceline exclaimed. She stumbled and he pulled her close, half-carrying her as they backed off in the direction of the door.

  “If either of you ever touch her again, I shall kill you both, do you understand?”

  Burrows, still on his knees, looked daggers at him. Lord Cranston hauled himself up and sat cross-legged on the floor, head in his hands.

  “I shall kill you both, do you understand?” Christopher repeated when neither man deigned to respond.

  “Understood,” scowled Burrows. “You’re welcome to the chit. She’s more trouble than she’s worth.”

  Josceline’s father said nothing but raised his head and, with tears in his rheumy blue eyes, nodded once. Misery limned his features and for an instant he seemed to Christopher nothing more than an old, sad man.

  Christopher softened his voice at the sight. “I shall have the butler escort you out immediately.”

  And with that, Christopher pushed Josceline through the door and closed it firmly behind them.

  The force of his anger when he had seen her held by Burrows stunned him. Equally stunning was the abject fear for her safety. Even now, blood pounded hot and hard through his veins at the thought she might have been injured or worse, abducted without his knowledge.

  “Did they harm you?” He grasped her shoulders so he could look her full in the face. The well lit hall, with every wall sconce burning, clearly showed her features. She was shaken but she returned his gaze firmly.

  “No.” Josceline shook her head. “But why were they here?”

  “I believe it was at the instigation of Lady Oakland. I suspect we were invited so your father would find you here.”

  “I see.” Josceline began to shiver. “So the invitation wasn’t issued for our benefit at all.”

  “I don’t believe so.” He slammed his fist into the wall. “How could the woman behave in such an atrocious manner?” He slanted a sideways glance in her direction. “Are you cold?” he asked abruptly. “You’re trembling.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not cold. I assure you, if I tremble, it is from anger. How could she play us for fools?”

  “I am certain she had her reasons.” He sighed and, slouching, jammed his hands in his pockets. “What do we do now?”

  “Leave,” Josceline said firmly. “It’s the sensible thing to do.”

  Her only desire at this moment was to escape Oakland Grange. The situation disgusted her. Her fists clenched. If she saw either her father or Lady Oakland, she would pummel them black and blue. Then she would set their ears to burning with a tirade the likes of which neither would forget.

  He gave her an incredulous look. “Leave? I say no. I say we stand firm.” Abruptly he straightened up. “We are here. Let us attend as if nothing has happened. Let us meet our neighbors. What say you, Josceline, are you up for the challenge?”

  “Are you serious?” Her eyes were round. “There may not be a place set for us.”

  “Which shall only reflect badly on Lady Oakland, don’t you think? A hostess who cannot properly count the number of her guests?” He took her elbow and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Shall we? I grant you the expression on Lady Oakland’s face will be worth it when she sees us.”

  “Indeed.” Josceline gave him a thoughtful look. Perhaps Christopher was right – running off was the coward’s way out. If there was one thing she knew about Lady Oakland, it was that the woman kept up appearances. The last thing she would want would be for her fete to be ruined.

  As for her father, all she could think of right now was the distress on his face when Christopher threatened him. Her father had grown old and she hadn’t even seen it.

  “Josceline? Are you in agreement?”

  Christopher’s concerned voice interrupted her thoughts and she forced herself back to the matter at hand – the come-uppance of Lady Oakland.

  And she realized with a sudden start, with Christopher at her side, she could face anything. The remembrance of his anger when he found her with her father and Burrows warmed her - it meant he cared for her a little.

  “Absolutely,” Josceline declared, lifting her chin. “She’s likely to fall over with surprise when we are announced after all.”

  Together they marched down the hall. The queue had disappeared and a hubbub of voices drifted through the doorway of the salon punctuated by the occasional raucous shout.

  “Announce us,” Christopher demanded to the single footman who remained.

  “Of course.” The footman bowed slightly. “You are - ?”

  “Mr. Christopher Sharrington and his wife, Lady Josceline Woodsby,” interjected Josceline arrogantly, playing her part.

  Enough of Lady Oakland’s meddling, she seethed silently. Doubtless, the woman had written to the duke to check the veracity of Josceline’s identity. When her father had discovered her whereabouts, the woman had become her father’s ally and for some unknown reason had provided him the opportunity to retrieve Josceline.

  Lady Oakland had shown incredible gall. First, having the audacity to demand an introduction to Christopher’s supposed son, then by inviting them to her fete under false pretences. She had sent both of them tumbling through hoops of insecurity and trepidation.

  The opportunity had presented itself to take the woman to task.

  Chapter Twenty

  It gave Josceline grim satisfaction to see Lady Oakland’s face turn ashen when they were announced. She hurried over to greet them, pretending great pleasure but also obviously puzzled as she looked behind them in the direction of Lord Oakland’s office.

  Apparently seeing nothing, she recovered with aplomb, inclining her head in welcome which set the ends of the string of pearls woven through her hair to swinging. A picture of elegance in sapphire blue silk, she held out a velvet gloved hand for Christopher to kiss.

  “Why, Mr. Sharrington, Lady Woodsby,” she cooed. “How lovely. You’ve arrived just in time, we’re about to sit down to dinner.” She pulled them into the salon.

  Josceline choked back bile at the woman’s artificial manner then glanced about. Perhaps thirty people were crammed in the room, no small feat considering the amount of space taken by the pianoforte and the massive sideboard. All were involved in animated conversation and no one paid attention to the recent arrivals. The heated room, bordering o
n oppressive, released a miasma of odors - perfumes, wine, perspiration, and burning bees wax candles. For an instant, Josceline felt light headed. She swayed and Christopher caught her.

  “No longer Lady Woodsby, I am afraid.” Christopher looked down at Josceline then back at Lady Oakland. “I’m pleased to introduce you to Mrs. Sharrington. We were wed this past Sunday.”

  Lady Oakland’s jaw dropped. “My, that was rather sudden, was it not?”

  “When the heart is smitten, it cares not to wait.”

  He said it so smoothly, Josceline almost believed it to be true. Almost. She must remember theirs was a marriage of convenience. She firmly squashed the hope bubbling up within her at his words.

  “Mr. Sharrington, that is too romantic for words,” simpered their hostess. “Do let me have the honor of announcing your recent nuptials.”

  The smile she gave them didn’t reach her eyes and for a crazy instant, Josceline fancied her much like a cat ready to pounce on a mouse. She compressed her lips, tilting her head to give the woman a calculating stare. Two could play that game.

  “As you wish.” Christopher inclined his head, turning it slightly to give Josceline a surreptitious wink meant to bolster her courage. Wits tuned, Josceline lifted her chin.

  “Everyone, everyone, do pay attention.” Lady Oakland tapped her ivory satin fan against a convenient glass. The cheerful tinkle cut through the noise and gradually the room fell silent.

  Every head in the room swiveled to look at the late arrivals; Josceline’s armpits grew damp and a bead of perspiration trickled down her temple. She wiped it away and focused on Lady Oakland.

  “I should like to announce that our dear friend and neighbor, Mr. Christopher Sharrington, wed Lady Josceline Woodsby just this past week.” She turned to face them. “In the parish church here?” At their nod, she turned back to the gathering. “Yes, in the parish church here.” She began to clap, dropping her fan to dangle from a cord around her wrist.