A Heart So Innocent
Page 10
Aidan blinked. “Best man! Father, he’s—”
“Not important, daughter. Your marriage to Westover, here, will simply have to go unattended.”
“Marriage! But, Father, he’s not the man …”
Frozen into a human statue, Justin sat silently, listening to the exchange between father and daughter, cold eyes appraising both. From the moment the man called Thompson had mentioned Atwood’s name, Justin had suspected he was doomed. When Alastair Prescott had stepped forward, he knew it.
Not seeing the man initially, he’d thought the band of men had been sent toward Gretna Green with instructions to stop all coaches in hopes of catching the errant Lady Prescott, her father having remained in London. Foolishly, he’d tried to enlist the leader’s sympathy, but he now realized his words had served only to trap him. Or had they? Perhaps he’d been the intended bridegroom all along!
As he thought on it, Justin was certain, from the moment he’d declined Atwood’s proposed alliance between Aidan and himself, the man had become instrumental in maneuvering all the players to their present end, like actors in a play.
No doubt poor destitute George had been paid a tidy sum to portray the part of anxious bridegroom, moving on- and offstage just quickly enough to say his lines and be gone. The ruse he’d used to excuse himself now seemed a bit contrived. What legitimate bridegroom would actually leave his ladylove in the hands of another while he rushed off to patch up an old house? None that Justin knew of.
Aidan Prescott, on the other hand, had undoubtedly rehearsed her part to perfection. She’d certainly fooled him with her instant show of dislike, her immediate defense of George and their forthcoming marriage, and her feigned swoon in the coach. Angered that he’d been duped, Justin conveniently disregarded the memory of how ill she’d been afterward.
Then, he thought, there was her softly whispered “Good night, Papa,” which had instantly tugged at his heart and gained his sympathy, causing him a sleepless night. Her sudden bout of tears and quick surrender into his arms—too quick, he realized, as he looked back on it—were all a ploy to throw him off-guard. Undoubtedly, though, when he’d mentioned the word “mistress,” her reaction had been genuine. From the start, marriage had been her game, and she’d been unwilling to settle for less.
“Say something!” Aidan demanded of Justin, breaking through his dark thoughts, hoping, praying he could somehow persuade her father this was all a terrible mistake.
Steely eyes turned on her. “What is it you want me to say? That I refuse to marry you? I think not, sweet Aidan. The cards are stacked against me. Should I balk, Thompson will blow my head off.” Hard eyes snagged Aidan’s father’s. “Right, Your Grace?”
“Very perceptive of you,” her father replied.
Gray eyes pivoted toward the daughter. “So you see, Aidan, it seems I have little recourse but to marry you.”
Her eyes round with disbelief, Aidan stared at Justin; then her slackened jaw instantly snapped shut. Her fiery stare singed the Duke of Westover from head to toe, making known her discontent. How could he take this so calmly? Anger filled her, for he’d refused to put up a fight and had simply lain down like a whipped dog. Quickly she thought to grab the pistol and fire at him herself. Coward! she silently railed, then immediately turned on her father. “I’ll not marry this … this miscreant, no matter what you say or do! I’d prefer death, any day!” Without warning, she seized the pistol barrel, aiming it directly at her heart. “Shoot, I say!”
Alastair’s own heart seemed to pop into his throat, while Thompson’s eyes bulged from his head. Fortunately the man was steady of hand or there would have been certain disaster. “Here, girlie, take yer hand away.”
“No! Shoot me!”
“Aidan!” Alastair commanded. “Do as you’re told!”
Abrupt laughter filled the coach, startling the two Pres-cotts, plus the duke’s hired man. All eyes slowly turned toward Justin. “Bravo!” he piped, applauding. “Nice touch! You nearly had me convinced.” Astounded, Aidan relaxed her hold, and Justin watched as the weapon was quickly lowered. “There’s no need for theatrics, Aidan,” Justin stated, his sarcasm evident. “I know my fate is sealed.”
Slapped with the realization that Justin somehow thought she was involved in her father’s plot to bind them as man and wife, she fell back against her seat; her eyes searched his face. “Surely you don’t think—”
“I do, sweet Aidan.” His sharp gaze sliced into her like honed steel. “Now, enough has been said on the subject.”
Certain she’d been rent in two by his cutting stare, Aidan realized nothing she could say or do would change his mind. He’d pronounced her guilty without benefit of trial. Slowly her gaze fell from his. Admittedly, both their fates had been sealed.
Alastair had watched the exchange between his daughter and Westover with interest. When he and his men had first come upon the coach, he’d been ready to pull the blackguard he’d found inside through the door and trounce the man soundly. But when his eyes had caught sight of Westover’s ducal crest, he’d instantly thought better of it.
Lying back, he had waited, making certain it was indeed Justin Warfield within. When the man’s voice had confirmed it, Alastair could hardly contain his glee. What a stroke of luck! To think that his first choice in the way of a suitable husband for his daughter—the only man he knew could control her, tame her wild nature, and produce a horde of physically and mentally sound offspring for Alastair to indulge—would fall so easily into his hands! Fate had surely smiled upon him. But now he wondered if he’d perhaps erred in his judgment.
No, he decided as his gaze ran over his daughter, then Westover. The two were a perfect match. Though neither of them realized it now, they would—eventually. Alastair was certain of it. “Thompson,” he ordered abruptly, “have one of your men take the reins. Tell the others to stay close behind. Within a short time we’ll all be on our way home.”
The coach was backed from the shallow ditch, where it had landed, and was soon set into motion. The stern mode of silence which cloaked the foursome inside the rolling vehicle, heading ever closer to Scotland, seemed to Aidan like a shroud of death. Her death, she thought, knowing her carefree life and the freedom she’d once enjoyed would soon lie buried. As she peered at Justin, bathed in dimmoonlight, she was certain her body would soon follow. A lust for blood seethed from his gaze, sending an instant chill down her spine. May God help her when they were finally alone!
All too soon, the coach stopped in front of a small whitewashed cottage topped by a thatched roof. The sign hanging above the front door indicated that nuptials were performed inside. With the marriage agent quickly routed from his bed, the unhappy couple was escorted through the door, the Duke of Atwood and several pistol-bearing men playing the part of attendants.
When the agent nervously asked if Justin had a ring to give his bride, Justin quickly slipped the ruby ring from his little finger and shoved it onto the third finger of Aidan’s left Hand. Their vows exchanged—Justin’s in clipped tones, Aidan’s barely choked through her lips—the agent then informed Justin he could kiss the bride. A quick peck settled itself on her forehead.
“Satisfied?” Justin asked of his new father-in-law as he stepped away from Aidan’s side.
“Completely,” Alastair answered with a cool smile. “Just remember, my son, she is to be cared for in the manner to which she is accustomed. Also, her health has never suffered in the past. I don’t expect it to now.”
The duke’s message received, Justin inclined his head. “She will be taken under my protection. No harm will come to her, I assure you.”
“Then I see no reason why the happy couple can’t be on their way,” Alastair said at large, and his men lowered their pistols. He stepped to Aidan, folding her into his embrace. Immediately he felt her stiffen.
“How could you?” she whispered accusingly.
“He’s far better than Sedgewinn, daughter. With time, you’ll understand why
I did what I did.”
“Never”, she countered, her hurt evident, and pushed from his arms.
Ignoring her new husband completely, Aidan marched toward the door, feeling in desperate need of some fresh air. Tears stung the backs of her eyes and she fought to control them. Yet, despite her determination, several spilled over when she heard one of the men say, “Ain’t never seen a bride who wore black to her own weddin’ afore.”
Certain she was about to flood the cottage, she quickly slipped outside into the night. A bride in mourning, she thought as she brushed her tears aside, breathing deeply. And she’d married a man who’d acted more like a pallbearer than a groom. His elegant silk shirt, tight-fitting trousers, and fine leather boots, all the same shade as midnight, had fitted the occasion perfectly. She was doomed! Trapped in a void where she was certain no love would ever shine. And she’d never forgive her father for striking the final nail into her coffin by marrying her off to a blackguard like Justin Warfield, the “notorious” Duke of Westover! With an angry scuff of her shoe, she decided she hated them both!
Moonlight suddenly reflected off the center stone of the ring gracing her left hand, flashing like fire in her eye. In a fit of temper, she pulled the gold circle from her finger, intending to toss it into the woods, beyond the road. Instantly a strong hand clamped over hers, startling her.
“That ring, sweet wife, is probably worth more than your dowry and three others combined.”
“What dowry?” Aidan snapped, hoping he’d think her destitute.
“Precisely. So I suggest you reconsider your deed. That trinket may very well be the only thing of value you ever receive from me.”
Aidan shoved it into his hand. “Keep it. I have no use for it.” She turned on her heel, intent on heading for the coach.
Infuriated by Aidan’s shrewish tone, mainly because he was now trapped in an unwanted marriage, Justin took off after her. His hand snagged her arm, spinning her around. Her wrist trapped in his long fingers, he pushed the ring back onto her finger. “Never take it off again. You’re mine now, Aidan, and all the world shall know it. Consider it a token of my love.”
The sarcasm that dripped from his words angered her further. “You insolent buffoon!” she berated him, fighting against his hold and her tears. “You wouldn’t know what love was, not even if it were to slap you in the face.”
Thinking she intended to retaliate, as she had tried to do in the coach, Justin quickly caught hold of her other wrist and jerked her against him. “A bride can hardly leave the wedding chapel without the proper signature of marriage. Can she, sweet?”
Justin let loose her wrists, and before Aidan could react, his arm slipped round her waist, molding her snugly against his hard length; his mouth covered hers in one fell swoop. Momentarily, she stood stunned. His harsh lips became more insistent, his hard, angry tongue forcing its way between her lips, and she began to fight against his strong hold and the wild emotion which had suddenly rocked through her entire body.
In desperation, the heels of Aidan’s palms shoved against Justin’s shoulders, only to slide off the silk-clad sinew beneath them. His hold tightened as his fingers splayed across the back of her head, forcing her to be still. His lips opened more fully, his deepening kiss branding her, burning her, consuming her. Then, when Aidan thought herself all used up, Justin suddenly released her. “Consider that another token of my undying love. One that will not be repeated.” Without warning, he swept her up into his arms, deposited her inside the coach, and slammed the door.
As Alastair Prescott watched the entire episode from the doorway of the small cottage, the couple’s words lost to him, he thought better of allowing Justin Warfield to take immediate leave with Aidan, alone. Acute anger emanated from the young duke. One misstated word, one false step, and the man’s weak hold on himself was bound to snap its restraints. Once unleashed, his fury would, no doubt, erupt with a ferocity that would rival any beast’s. Alastair hoped Westover’s tenuous hold on his temper would stabilize with time. And the older man meant to stay close at hand until he was certain it had. Then, to his surprise, he watched as Justin climbed atop the coach to settle next to the driver.
“My men and I will follow along with you back to London,” Alastair informed Justin upon reaching the coach.
“The road is open to all who wish to travel it,” Justin replied coolly. “However, Aidan and I are headed only as far as my estate. You’ll be on your own from there.” With that, Justin snatched up the reins and, by way of a quick flick of his wrists, set the coach in motion.
Alastair surveyed the vehicle, dust kicking up from the road in its wake, and he wished he’d been much less impetuous and a good deal more prudent in his original assessment of things. Perhaps Justin Warfield was the wrong choice for his daughter, after all. With a frown marking his brow, Alastair quickly mounted his horse, then followed, never falling far behind.
6
Aidan stepped from the interior of the coach, her neck craning backward as she gazed up at the huge three-story brick-and-stone mansion known as Warfield Manor. To her eye, the beautiful structure exuded wealth. Smoothing the wrinkled skirt of Penny’s black gown, she waited nervously while Justin instructed Potts to bring her small case when he came.
“Are you ready, my lovely bride, to make your grand entrance as Warfield Manor’s new mistress?” Justin asked, his intent gaze upon her.
Aidan noticed his somewhat cordial tone did not match the hard glint in his eyes, and it unnerved her. From the moment they’d left Gretna Green, he’d purposely distanced himself, either by riding atop the coach with Potts or by exchanging places with one of the ever-present group of hired men, who kept vigil on the conveyance, to ride horseback for a while. Not once had he entered the coach, and Aidan had been relieved he hadn’t.
She was now alone with him, her father having said his farewells where the roads to London and Warfield Manor had forked. Again she viewed the huge structure. Her new home stood before her. His home, she corrected, sure she would never be able to consider it her own. Oddly, a deep sadness settled around her heart, for she thought of the lovely place, not in the terms of ownership, but in the sense of welcome and belonging. Never would Justin extend those simple, yet pleasant courtesies to her. Of that she was certain.
Aidan felt a hand at her elbow, and her husband guided her up the stone steps, across a level plain of slate, toward two massive doors that were artfully carved, the Westover ducal crest set in stone above them. As the pair reached the entry, one panel abruptly swung inward.
“Your Grace,” the elderly butler said, alarmed by his employer’s unexpected appearance. “We were not forewarned. No message—”
“Relax, Ridley, before you suffer a bout of apoplexy. No warning came because I hadn’t planned on being here.”
“I’ll have the banner raised,” Ridley stated, referring to the display of arms which flew on a pole atop the house whenever the duke was in residence.
“Don’t bother. I’ll be gone before it can be hoisted.”
Her huge violet eyes taking in the grandeur surrounding her, Aidan had missed the exchange. At her feet, pink-veined marble flowed across the great hall to sweep up the walls, several stories, to a massive glass cupola, its beveled panes acting as both protection and opening to the blue heavens beyond. A huge chandelier, secured by a sturdy chain and anchored in an iron beam which ribbed the glass, dropped from its domed center. A multitude of candles graced the gilded sconces, waiting to be lit at nightfall.
Straight across from the entrance, where Aidan stood, was a wide staircase, also of pink-veined marble, that climbed upward into the core of the house. Framed by at least a dozen marble columns and a carved marble balustrade, the area beyond was secreted from her view. On each side of the huge foyer were a half-dozen rooms, their gilt-trimmed white doors tightly closed, all except one.
“Ridley!” a woman’s voice impatiently called through the open panel. “Who goes there?”
“Westover!” she cried in surprise. “What brings you here?”
Justin’s lips spread into a wide grin which sparkled in his silvery eyes. “Why, you, of course, Aunt Patti,” he said as his long strides carried him toward his great-aunt’s side. “I’ve missed seeing you.”
One silver brow arched skeptically. “A likely story, nephew,” she said, presenting her lined cheek for his light kiss. “Soon enough, the truth will be out.” Her faded blue eyes latched on to Aidan. “Another servant girl? Ridley, take her to the kitchens and have her fed, then show her to her new quarters.”
Justin’s aunt waved a dismissal at Aidan, making her blink. “Servant girl!” Aidan exclaimed as she shook free of Ridley’s hand, which had somehow attached itself to her arm. She marched toward the woman. “I beg your pardon, but—”
“Silence, you insolent chit!” Aunt Pattina snapped, emphasizing her words with a thump of her cane. She squared her sagging shoulders. “Such impudence will not be tolerated in this house, young woman, and never in the presence of your superiors. If you expect to remain employed here, you shall remember those rules. Now you may take your leave. Ridley will show you the way.”
Aidan bristled; violet eyes instantly clashed with blue. Never before had a member of the peerage spoken to her in such condescending tones. Little did it matter her appearance confirmed the older woman’s assumption that she was nothing more than a servant. If the positions were switched, however, Aidan knew she would never have uttered such a sharp command to anyone, no matter what her status in life.
Drawing a breath, Aidan was about to pronounce who she was when a burst of laughter rang through the air. Startled, both women turned curious eyes toward its source.