The Unmarriageable Collection (Books 1–3)

by Lancaster, Mary

  “At this moment, we’re dancing,” he murmured, “and nothing and no one else need concern us. Afterward, we’ll talk in private. Only tell me where.”

  He knew the house. He had been here with Alvan many times when she and Julius were children living with Lady Barnaby.

  “The library,” she said.

  He nodded once and turned her in the dance. His thumb stroked her hand. His arm tightened almost imperceptibly. It was useless to deny this. He made her heart, her whole body, sing. And it was undeniably sweet to dance with him like this, as though isolated from everything but the music, their bodies moving in perfect, synchronized rhythm.

  All too soon, it was over. And now, at last, Verne behaved well, bowing to her and placing her hand lightly in his arm. Somehow, he had located Lady Barnaby in the throng, seated beside her matronly friends, and he conducted Cecily there directly.

  “Twenty minutes,” he breathed, and she nodded once, smiling for the benefit of watchers, as though he had said something amusing.

  “How do you do, Lady B?” he said amiably.

  Whatever she thought of his presence, Aunt Barny had had time to get over her surprise and realize the best approach. She greeted him with cheerful good nature, allowing him to bow over her hand. “Good evening, Verne. I see we have dragged you away from your building project after all. How does it go?”

  “Well, if slowly,” he replied. “Though it’s wretchedly noisy.”

  Cecily turned to greet an old friend, and after conversing civilly for a few moments, Verne strolled away. She caught sight of him a few minutes later, bowing to Mrs. Longstone and then chatting with Isabelle de Renarde. From across the room, Monsieur de Renarde regarded them from sleepy, expressionless eyes.

  Almost surprised by her own deception, Cecily managed to catch the lace of her gown on a roughened chair leg and tear it. Since this was her own home, it was perfectly natural to run upstairs to have it mended. Only, she did not go to her own chamber but to the library, where she knew she could find a needle and thread. A couple of quick stitches in the lamplight repaired the tiny tear and she was already cutting the thread by the time the door opened.

  Hastily, she pushed her skirt back down, just as Verne walked in and kicked the door shut behind him.

  “How did you come up?” she asked nervously. “Did anyone see you?”

  “I used the door at the back of the hall, and the smaller staircase beyond.”

  “Oh, good.” Laying aside the needle, she rose to meet him, saying in a rush, “I have so many things to tell you. I did not know that Henry is your heir, and although it is a horrid idea, I wondered if you think he might conceivably do you harm for the inheritance? And then, Monsieur de Renarde is here, and I am not quite sure why. I know he was in the Hart that night and so is your friend as well as Isabelle’s husband, but I own I cannot warm to him. Do you think—”

  “At this moment,” Verne interrupted, coming to a halt in front of her, “I find I don’t care about any of these people, or even the fate of nations. I want to know about you.”

  “About me?” She frowned in confusion. “What about me?”

  “Can you bear me?” he demanded intensely. “Can you stand my moods and my past? Do you even want to, now that you are free of me?”

  “What… I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Your letter. Your first letter, when you said you’d wait to hear from me before delivering my expected congé. What did you want me to say?”

  This was unfair, throwing this at her now, making her say, admit what could not be taken back. There would be no pride left. Panic rose up.

  “The truth,” she got out. “I wanted to know if you still wished to end our engagement.”

  “We were never engaged,” he said brutally. “So, you could not end it.”

  The blood drained from her face. The world seemed to be shaking again. “I know,” she whispered.

  He seized her by the shoulders, almost angrily. “It was a lie, a nothing that neither of us meant.”

  She tried to push him off. “I know that! Patrick, let me—”

  He swooped, seizing her mouth in a fierce, hard kiss that left her gasping. “If we do it now, it’s different. It means you’re mine and I’ll never let you go. But you have to want it. You have to want me.”

  She stared up at him, dazed, afraid to hope. “What are you saying?” she whispered. “Are you asking me to marry you? To really marry you?”

  “You know it all. You know the worst. Will you do it? Will you marry me?”

  She licked her dry lips, almost frightened by the emotion burning in his dark, unfathomable eyes. “Do you want me to?”

  “God, yes, I want you, but you have to know I’ll walk away and leave you alone if I’ve misunderstood, if it’s not what you want. I—”

  She swayed against him, stopping his words with her lips. “Then marry me, for I love you,” she whispered brokenly into his mouth. “I’ve always loved you.”

  He groaned, his arms tightening around her. “No, you haven’t, but I’ll take it. I’ll take you.” And then he was kissing her as if he would never stop, bending her backward with the force of his ardor.

  She flung her arms around his neck and surrendered, kissing him back with all the pent-up passion of the last weeks, of her whole life which all seemed to have been leading to this one moment of perfect joy.

  Chapter Fourteen

  One of the most difficult things Verne had ever attempted was to tear himself away from Cecily Moore when she was trembling and eager in his arms. Her heady scent, her sweet softness winding around him, and most of all, the unexpected force of her awakening passion, almost undid him.

  With fierce triumph, he understood that she was his in any way that mattered. He could take her now, on the sofa or the inviting rug before the hearth. He could teach her a few of the sensual delights he longed for, achieve the pleasure he craved, the joyous release of his clamoring lust. Oh, God, yes.

  But he could not do that to her. She must not be tainted by the habits of his past, however little resemblance there was between his feelings for her and those for the previous women in his life. He was not a good man, but he had promised himself that if she only accepted him, he would treat her only with goodness.

  With a deep groan, he wrenched his mouth free of hers, detaching himself from the warm body that seemed to be glued to him. Somehow, he held her by the shoulders at arm’s length while he tried to recover his composure, to regain control of the rampant desire that would still take her…

  He stared down at her warm, clouded eyes, her swollen, passionate lips curved into a tremulous smile. A siren’s smile.

  He swallowed. “We will do this properly,” he said hoarsely. “With no possibility that anyone can force us to it. It has to be our choice.”

  “It is,” she whispered.

  He closed his eyes. “I mean our marriage. You are not yet twenty-one. We need Alvan’s permission, and I am sure you would prefer his blessing. Both will be hard enough to come by, even if I refrain from ravishing you.”

  “Have you not ravished me already?” she asked huskily.

  A breath of laughter shook him. “I haven’t even begun.” Deliberately, he dropped his hands from her shoulders and took another step back. “I had many things to say to you, apologies and explanations, but I think they must wait. For if I stay any longer, I still won’t say them. I’m going to find Alvan, while you… should call your maid to re-pin your hair.”

  “And then?”

  “I shall see you downstairs at the ball. If Alvan doesn’t throw me out. Or shoot me as you foretold so long ago.”

  She started toward him and he grasped her hand to prevent himself seizing the rest of her. He pressed a quick, fervent kiss into her palm before he released her and strode from the room.

  He returned by the same dimly lit staircase he had climbed so recently, meaning to slip back into the ballroom. However, the side door at the foot of the stairs
caught his attention, for the bolts had been drawn back. Someone was taking the air—an attractive proposition to Verne in his current state—and knowing his host as he did, he suspected the duke himself.

  Verne opened the door and slipped out into the wide courtyard. Closing the door behind him, he raised his face to the breeze and breathed deeply.

  She wanted him. She loved him, God help her. No wonder he was smiling up at the starry sky. He had a chance of happiness, of making her happy. Please God, if you still have anything to do with me, don’t let me make a mess of this…

  He began to walk, striding around the courtyard toward the archway that led to the front of the huge house. Music and the jollity of laughter and chatter drifted from within.

  The silhouette of a man stood out in the darkness, to the right of the main drive where he was untouched by the lights blazing on the terrace and at the main door. He appeared to stand quite still, gazing outward over the flat, glistening fens in the distance. He was tall and lean, the right shape to be Alvan himself, so Verne walked toward him.

  “Alvan?” he said into the darkness.

  The figure turned. “Verne. I thought it would be you.”

  “I was sure it was you, escaping your own party.”

  “Only for a few minutes.”

  Verne stood beside him. “You gave permission for Cecily’s engagement to me, but you didn’t believe it, did you?”

  “Not for a moment. She is far too wise to fall in love in a day, and I am well aware you couldn’t have known each other any longer.”

  “Did she tell you what really happened?”

  “Some of it.”

  “Then you know I deserve to be shot.”

  Alvan appeared to consider. “Punched,” he corrected. “Quite hard. I know she is no angel and was clearly where she shouldn’t have been. Beyond that… I suppose I expected you to have more sense if not more decency.”

  “You know what I am. What I’ve done.”

  “And haven’t done.” Alvan’s head turned toward him. “You’ve come for her, haven’t you?”

  “She wants to marry me.”

  “I know.”

  At last, Verne turned to stare at him. He could make out his features now, if not his expression. “You don’t like it.”

  “You’re not who I would have chosen for her,” Alvan said frankly. “You have too much… baggage.”

  Verne drew in his breath. “I can’t undo the past. But I can make the future better. Besides, with her, the baggage is somehow lighter.”

  Alvan looked downward, as though peering at his feet. “Charlotte reminded me I have baggage of my own.”

  “I know.”

  “It is lighter now,” Alvan murmured. “Much lighter.”

  “I would know her better, your duchess.”

  “I hope you will.” Alvan drew a deep breath. “If I refused, what would you do?”

  “Wait until her birthday and marry her anyway. It’s what she wants. For some reason. I’m who she wants.”

  “And if you marry too quickly and she changes her mind? Or you do? The deed is done.”

  “As yours is,” Verne pointed out.

  A twitch of Alvan’s head acknowledged it. His had not been a long courtship either. “Damn it, Verne, you’re my friend,” the duke burst out. “I want you both to be happy.”

  “Then give us this chance.”

  *

  Alvan made the announcement toward the end of supper, proposing a toast to the happy couple who sat next to him. There was little the duke’s guests could do except stand and drink the toast—which compelled them, Verne thought sardonically, to future civility if nothing else.

  There was pleasure in her smiling presence at his side, in the world knowing she was his after all. His triumph somehow gave him hope, where there had been none for so long. And then his gaze fell on Henry, staring across the room at him as he retook his seat. His lips were tight with disappointment or anger, or both.

  On one side of him, Mrs. Longstone smiled as she always did. On the other, Isabelle dashed the back of one hand over her outwardly happy face. And yet Pierre sat beside her. He hoped she could find happiness with him, with whatever had drawn her to him in the first place. He hoped Pierre was worthy of her, but as usual, there was nothing in his expression to give away his true thoughts. Pierre had no reason to care about Verne’s marriage.

  For Cecily’s sake, Verne minded his manners, even set out to entertain the lady on his other side at supper and, afterward, to make friends with the duchess whom he found rather delightful. He could easily see why Alvan had fallen for her. What baffled him was how anyone had ever come to describe her as ill-favored.

  To Verne, the whole evening had taken on a strange sense of unreality. Every inch of him was aware of Cecily, whether at his side or across the room, and yet they barely had the chance to say anything meaningful to each other. Although he intercepted many looks of awe, curiosity, disapproval, and plain fear—which amused him most of all—no one cut him. Mind you, he did not make the mistake of asking their daughters to dance with him. Apart from Cecily, he danced only with the duchess.

  “Oh!” her grace exclaimed suddenly. “We do not have a room made up for you. I’m afraid it will not be one of the better—”

  “There’s no call to worry,” Verne interrupted. “I’m putting up at the Alvan Arms in the village.”

  She blinked. “But why?”

  He gave her a crooked smile. “I wasn’t quite sure I would be welcome.”

  “By Cecily? Or my husband?”

  “Both,” he said frankly.

  “Well, we could still send for your belongings.”

  “Thank you, but I’ll be better at the inn.” Well away from temptation. “But if you permit, I’ll join you tomorrow, not too early in the day!”

  “Most of our guests will be gone by early afternoon, but you are welcome at any time. We—” She broke off, a frown twitching on her brow. “Why do you look at me like that?”

  “No reason. I did not expect such a gracious welcome.”

  “Well, you have one. So long as you treat Cecily as you should.”

  “You are a fierce friend,” he said with approval.

  The duchess smiled. “So is she.”

  The gentleness of the Alvans’ warnings might have surprised him, though their anxieties did not. After all, if he’d had a sister, he would not have given her to the likes of him. It was interesting seeing himself through other eyes for a change, rather than alternatively railing against and cultivating the shocking reputation that surrounded him.

  His dance with the duchess was the last of the ball. The orchestra began to pack up. Carriages were summoned to take guests back to their own homes or that of friends with whom they were staying. House guests began to yawn and drift away to bed, or join in a nightcap with the duke.

  There was to be no private parting for Verne and Cecily. Instead, under many pairs of watchful eyes, he bowed over her hand and kissed it. “I shall see you tomorrow,” he promised.

  And she smiled with such open pleasure that his heart seemed to burst.

  Had he ever felt like this before? Even at fifteen when he’d fallen in love with his Latin teacher’s flirtatious daughter? No, this was unique. And terrifying, but he would not change it for the world.

  Since the stable staff were all bound to be run off their feet, he simply walked round there, squeezed in among the chaos, and saddled Jupiter himself.

  It was not a long ride by road back to the Alvan Arms, and the moon supplied a decent light without him having to resort to the lantern. Nor was he in a great hurry. A coach passed him at full tilt, almost running him off the road, but he only waved at it.

  “I’m happy,” he said aloud and laughed. “Happy and imbecilic.”

  It was true, as proved only minutes later when someone suddenly leapt out of the trees, screaming and waving his arms. It happened so quickly, there was no time to properly see the man. In the dark,
he only had an impression of a bulky scarf shape muffling half his face and a large hat hiding the rest.

  Jupiter reared, whinnying in fright. Verne, less than half as aware as he should have been, considering the company at Mooreton Hall, was taken by surprise and fell from the saddle, landing heavily in the road. Before he could recover his breath, something—someone—landed on top of him. Metal glinted in the moonlight, rousing him at last to the true danger.

  He bucked, which at least upset the balance of his attacker, enabling Verne to protect himself with one hand and seize his assailant’s wrist with the other. The man wrenched his wrist free, but Verne dealt him a mighty buffet that knocked him aside, and leapt to his feet.

  While his attacker scrambled to his, the hat still clinging to his head, Verne glanced around for the vanished Jupiter. Putting two fingers in his mouth, he gave a piercing whistle and closed with his enemy.

  Dodging a slightly wild punch, he got in one of his own that connected before his attacker fell back. Jupiter’s whinny and galloping hooves had distracted him, or, rather, frightened him, for he suddenly turned tail and ran, as though he imagined it was Verne’s reinforcements.

  Instinctively, Verne threw himself on the returning Jupiter’s back and charged after his assailant, but almost immediately pulled the horse to a halt. In the darkness of the forest he would not risk Jupiter on terrain he didn’t know. Besides, he could hear the muffled neighing of horses in the distance. He could ride straight into a trap.

  Turning Jupiter’s head, he rode on toward the inn, his senses rather more alert than they had been before the attack. Which could have been a local robber or a lunatic, though he doubted it.

  Frustratingly, he’d had no real glimpse of his assailant’s face. He just hoped he had left a mark on him that would be visible when he visited the hall tomorrow. Perhaps, he would go earlier than planned.

  *

  Cecily sat by her bedchamber window, smiling up at the stars, when a scratch at the door heralded the arrival of her sister-in-law.

  “Cecily? I saw the light under your door. Are you still…? There you are.” Charlotte blew out her candle and came toward her. “What are you doing?”