by Allison Lane
She merely nodded and turned to stare at the ivy-covered window.
Once he departed, she numbly proceeded with her own toilette. There must be some way to escape this coil! But she could remember nothing beyond the accident. Not the faintest glimmering. Someone had carried her to an inn, removed her clothing (her cheeks reddened), dressed her wounds, put her to bed. That same someone must have done the same things to Mr. Mannering.
Her blush spread clear to her toes.
But who would have assumed that they were wed? She slumped dizzily onto the bed. At least nothing had been stolen. Her few coins still lay in the reticule she found tucked among her clothes. Except her virtue, mocked that inner voice she hated.
* * * *
Half an hour later, Thomas returned with a breakfast tray, keeping his expression carefully neutral. Dowdy didn’t begin to describe her dress. Never fashionable, it was at least ten years old, having originally belonged to someone both shorter and stouter than Miss Cummings. Innumerable washings had softened the fabric until it hung like a muddy, brown tent. The bandage bleached her face even paler. And her right hand was nearly as scraped as his own.
“The innkeeper’s wife fixed this for us. It is dusk, by the way. We are at the Blue Boar, some forty miles west of Sheldridge Corners.” He placed the tray on the table, drew it nearer the bed, then seated himself on the chair.
“What did you learn?” She poured coffee, cringing as he picked up his ale.
“I spoke to a thin young man who was another passenger.” He raised his brows.
She nodded.
“He claims that the driver was well into his cups – at least according to the guard. The fellow’s betrothed had just jilted him for a soldier and he has repeatedly been criticized for failing to average the nine miles per hour mandated for mail coaches. Slowness is one thing the company will never tolerate. But all tales are hearsay. The guard departed, along with the King’s mail, some hours ago. No one really knows why the coachman forced that sudden burst of speed. The accident broke his neck.”
Caroline shuddered.
“I owe you a vast number of apologies, it seems,” he continued ruefully. “According to report, my attentions were far worse than you implied. So familiar did I act that Miss Spencer was convinced that we are married. She so informed our rescuers and as neither of us was able to contradict her, they placed us in a room together.”
“Is she the spinsterish lady?”
“Right.”
“That would explain why she glowered at me while delivering her diatribe against the low company allowed onto the mail these days.”
He cringed. “Again, my heartfelt apologies. But we must settle our future. Your father is a vicar. Have you other relatives.”
“Papa was the fourth son of the late Lord Cummings, so there are numerous aunts and uncles on that side. But no money. He had to make his own way and preferred the church to the army or the government. He met my mother while working as a curate in Lincolnshire. She was the seventh Earl of Waite’s second daughter, but was disinherited for marrying so far beneath her, so I know little of that family. You might learn from her example. I have no dowry at all.”
So her breeding was actually quite good, he reflected in surprise. Which made his own behavior even worse. At least the connection would not reflect badly on his family.
“That matters not. I see no possibility of explaining away the past eighteen hours, Miss Cummings. I have hopelessly compromised you. There can be no solution but marriage.”
“Who will ever find out? No one knows my name. I spoke to none on the coach. I can simply continue my journey.”
“Word will get out,” he insisted. Honor aside, the more he considered Miss Cummings, the better he liked the idea. While no beauty, she was an improvement on the horse-faced Miss Huntsley. A governess surely had more sense than that brainless widgeon. And she would probably not complain about conditions at Crawley, never having known luxuries. Clearly she had few sensibilities. Most ladies of his acquaintance would produce week-long hysterics after what she had been through. It seemed that fate was offering at least a partial reprieve. All he had to do was convince her of the inevitability of their union.
He flashed the most understanding of his stock of charming smiles. “The accident has delayed your arrival, and your injuries will be impossible to hide. Once it is known you were on the coach whose driver died, someone is bound to connect you with Mr. Mannering’s mysterious wife. They know me, you see, having checked my card case. Who would overlook such a scandal involving their governess, Miss Cummings?”
She recoiled. “But you cannot wish to marry me, Mr. Mannering. You know nothing about me. Nor I of you, for that matter.”
“True, though that can be easily remedied.” He inhaled deeply. “I will not deceive you, Miss Cummings. I am no bargain. To give you the words with no bark on them, I have spent the bulk of the past year in continuous dissipation, surfacing only recently to find myself deep in the River Tick. That is the worst of it, however. I am the second son of the Earl of Marchgate and have a small estate of my own, though it is in considerable disrepair. My father has decreed that in exchange for bailing me out, I must stay on said estate and see to its restoration. The only capital I can obtain is an inheritance from my grandfather that comes to me upon my marriage. But my recent misbehavior has not helped my reputation any. Father claims that Lord Huntsley would welcome my addresses to his youngest daughter. I had not yet given him my answer, deciding in my cups two evenings ago to first travel to Devon and see whether she is really as disgustingly inept as I remember. Frankly, your advent is a blessing. Already I know and like you better than Miss Huntsley.”
Hardly a complimentary declaration, but acceptable under the circumstances, Caroline reflected. He obviously had no desire for a wife but must accept one for financial reasons. So their compromising situation would not become a bone of contention in the future. He seemed to consider her an improvement in his fortunes.
“I will be equally frank, sir,” she countered, pacing the room restlessly. “I am the third of twelve children. Times are bad and Father can no longer afford to feed such a brood. I accepted a position as governess, planning to send a portion of my salary to my family. That remains important, so in addition to bringing no dowry, I would constitute a modest drain on your admittedly straitened circumstances. To my credit, I am excellent with children and well-versed at running a household. I even know a bit about estate management. However, my education will seem shockingly broad to the polite world, for I am the worst sort of bluestocking. And while I have acquired all the manners expected of one in my position, I have no idea of how to go on in higher circles and cannot produce the inane chatter acceptable to drawing rooms. I still cannot accept that marriage is the only solution to our predicament. And I have no desire for a husband who is both an admitted gamester and a drunkard.”
He reddened. “Plain speaking indeed, though I had not previously shown a penchant for gaming and believe that I have now come to my senses regarding my recent behavior. As for drinking, after last night I have a profound antipathy to over-indulging ever again. But speaking of last night, I do not know exactly what happened. Nor do you, seemingly. However, we must proceed on the assumption that the worst occurred, with the worst likely consequences.”
She blanched.
“Precisely, my dear Miss Cummings,” he confirmed. “And if there are to be no longstanding repercussions, then we must marry immediately.”
“All right. But how am I ever going to explain this to Papa?” She burst into tears.
Chapter 3
Closing her eyes, Caroline rested her head against the squabs and reflected on the last four days, grateful that Thomas had chosen to ride. She needed this respite. Fate had forced another night together at the Blue Boar, for they could not engage a second room without precipitating the very scandal they sought to quash. At least he’d volunteered to sleep on the floor. They had returned to
Sheldridge Corners the next morning.
Rumors of the accident abounded, and her family was appalled to discover that Caroline was involved. In deference to her pounding head, Thomas sent her to bed and himself informed the vicar of their situation.
They had agreed on a suitable tale: being somewhat disguised, he had fallen asleep slumped against her shoulder. This had led an elderly spinster to assume that they were man and wife. When the accident rendered them both unconscious, the good lady had so informed the innkeeper, who then assigned them a single room. Naturally, he was prepared to take Caroline to wife and would ride immediately to London to obtain a special license. The vicar was agreeable, so Thomas departed forthwith. She had not seen him again until their wedding in the vicarage parlor that very morning.
Not that she had been allowed time to either regret or celebrate her fate. The intervening days had flown by in a flurry of congratulations and preparations. Her mother and married sisters overwhelmed her with conflicting advice, and all worked feverishly to improve her limited wardrobe now that she was no longer restricted to governess drab.
Thomas had spent most of their abbreviated wedding breakfast with his friend, Lord Rufton, so they had exchanged few words. Nor had they spoken beyond the commonplace since. She thus had no idea how anyone had reacted to their forced nuptials. Even her parents never mentioned it. Nor had she voiced her own misgivings to her family, restricting her comments to the challenge of restoring Mr. Mannering’s estate and the unexpected advent of such a personable young man.
For despite his scrapes and bruises, he did clean up very well indeed. And sober, he possessed such charm that her entire family had fallen instantly under his spell. She shook her head. They had certainly seen a different side of his character.
“Such a handsome man!” fourteen-year-old Esther had sighed when Caroline appeared at breakfast the morning after her return. “That curly black hair is so like Evelyn’s description of Lord Byron. And those eyes! Who would have believed you could meet such a beau at our own Laughing Dog Inn?” Esther had spent the wedding breakfast gazing in mooncalf adoration at her new brother-in-law.
“I’ll bet he’s a warm one,” Constance had murmured as she helped Caroline dress for the wedding. “Mark my words, you will bless the day you met.” Connie had been visiting the vicarage when they’d returned. As the prettiest of the Cummings daughters, she always attracted the attention of every male in the vicinity and had undoubtedly set those green eyes gleaming. Caroline had always wished she shared Connie’s looks.
“What a great gun!” eleven-year-old John had enthused. “He told me the funniest story about a curricle race!” And he’d launched into a confusing tale of barking dogs and frenzied poultry that left her laughing even though she had no real idea just what had occurred.
“He says his youngest sister is just my age,” Anne had reported longingly in the darkness of their shared bedroom. “Oh, I hope I can meet her. Do you suppose we could both visit you this spring? Imagine growing up on an earl’s estate. If only Grandfather had not disowned Mama, we might have managed a come-out!”
Caroline had listened, and wondered at their enthusiasm. Clearly he had charm to spare when he chose to exert it. He was probably one of London’s leading rakes, with half the ton at his feet. She must guard her heart against his wiles if she was to avoid a lifetime of misery. For she harbored no illusions. He would never love her. She was but the means to acquire a small fortune. And though he might treat her as a savior now, she must never forget that she was merely the lesser of two evils.
The coach hit a bump, drawing her eyes to the window. Thomas rode alongside, offering a partial view of his profile. He certainly cut a fine figure, sitting his glossy black stallion as though they were one, his own black curls a perfect match. Tonight they would discover whether he had ravished her. Not that it mattered. His mere presence was condemnation enough. She had seen it in her mother’s eyes, though the good lady believed that both were unconscious and blameless. But others would never consider mitigating circumstances. And he had not been unconscious.
She shifted her thoughts to the estate that was now her home. The house was fairly new, dating from the reign of Queen Anne, so should be free of most drafts. That alone made it attractive after the vicarage. Though Thomas called it a small manor, his description made it seem a veritable palace, at least double the size of the squire’s Grange. But she would manage, even if he had not exaggerated its deterioration.
She was less sanguine about meeting his family. None of them had returned with him from London. She didn’t even know if they had been informed of his hasty wedding. What would the earl think of this coil? His title was one of the oldest in England. And what about the countess? Would she look down on this vicarage upstart? Caroline’s breeding was hardly up to Marchgate standards, even if Thomas did consider her an improvement over his father’s choice. Then there was Lord Hartford – Thomas’s older brother – and his two sisters, the youngest poised to make her bows to society. Who knew how they would take the news?
She shuddered.
How would she cope? She hoped her lack of social graces wouldn’t embarrass him. Would his consequence diminish because she was too far beneath his touch? She would know in three months, for he intended to spend the Season in London.
In the meantime she must mold herself into a dutiful spouse. She enumerated her roles. The house would require hard work, but she was used to that. Caring for the tenants was little different than the vicar’s duty to his parishioners. Her biggest challenge was Thomas himself. The ultimate goal was friendship, but that lay far in the future. She must first learn to respect him, despite their disastrously vulgar introduction. They must achieve a workable partnership if they were to restore Crawley. She would remain matter-of-fact over their personal relationship, for he did not deserve a missish spouse. But above all, she must accept his behavior outside their home without comment or complaint, for he owed her nothing but his name. Please, Lord, let me never lose sight of that fact.
* * * *
Thomas was also using this time to assimilate his drastic change of fortune. The previous days had flown past in a whirlwind of arrangements giving him no time to reflect. And he still felt out of control. The biggest decisions had been made when he was too cupshot to think clearly. But little could be altered at this late date. For better or worse, his future was settled.
The interview with Vicar Cummings – Thomas’s first truly sober act – had gone well. There had been a momentary flash of anger at their compromising situation, but the vicar had agreed that no fault could attach to either of them, then blessed their forthcoming union. And his new father-in-law was undeniably relieved that Caroline’s lack of dowry posed no problem.
The interview with his own father had been far more painful. Having just been raked over the coals for excessive drinking, he dreaded disclosing how disguised he had been.
“You what!?” the earl had barked when Thomas admitted the entire, sorry tale – except just how thoroughly he had compromised her.
He patiently reviewed every detail until his father agreed that no other honorable course existed. At least he was suitably impressed by Caroline’s breeding and even volunteered to arrange the release of his inheritance. Nothing was said about his recent behavior.
Nor did either of them mention Alicia.
He’d returned from Doctor’s Commons and was strolling down St. James’s Street, deep in thought, when he bumped into another oblivious pedestrian. His eyes widened as he recognized George Mason, Lord Rufton, who happened to be his closest friend.
“George, what are you doing in town?” he exclaimed with pleasure. “I thought you were buried in the wilds of Northumberland until spring.”
“Mother invited the Coffertons and Delaneys for the holidays in an unsubtle attempt to see me leg-shackled.” George grinned. “I escaped just after Twelfth Night. After all, I am only six-and-twenty.” He cast a comprehensive eye over his fr
iend. “Good Lord, that must have been quite a mill. Is your opponent still breathing?”
Blinking his purpled eyes, Thomas ruefully shook his head. “No mill, George. Just a coaching accident.”
“You?” The incredulous voice carried, causing several heads to turn in their direction.
“I wasn’t driving,” he disclaimed immediately. “Come up to my rooms, and I’ll tell you about it.”
“Gladly. But injuries aside, you look better than I’ve seen you in months. Have you decided to rejoin the living?” The tone was bantering, but Thomas was embarrassingly aware of the serious concern that underlay George’s words. They turned out of St. James’s and headed for Albany, where both kept rooms.
“I fear so,” Thomas conceded with a shake of his head. “I have sworn off serious drinking – a little late, I must admit. You are looking at a man about to take personal charge of his estate in exchange for financial assistance from Father. I will be at Crawley in two days, as soon as I finish acquiring a wife. Would you care to stand up with me?”
If he had not still been dazed at the speedy upheaval of his own fortunes, he might have laughed at the way George’s eyes suddenly protruded from their sockets. Unlocking his door, he poured brandy and embarked upon the saga of how fate had tricked him.
George was a brick. The tale had spread no further. And he had indeed stood up. Thomas appreciated the gesture. It was especially fitting, since George had participated in every milestone of his life since they met at Eton.
But now he and Caroline were headed for Crawley. Alone.
The stone wall flanking the road gave way to wrought-iron gates marking the entrance to one of Picton’s estates, offering a view of well-kept grounds bordering an elegantly curved drive. Even in mid-winter, the sight drew his eyes, shooting envy through his breast.
He tried to picture Crawley as he had last seen it. Though he had inherited the estate some five years earlier, he had actually visited it only three or four times, leaving its supervision in the combined hands of his bailiff and man of business. The house would need a thorough cleaning, though the finished effect should be quite charming. Likewise, the grounds required attention. But there was less urgency about that chore now that Alicia’s beauty would never grace them. He had often pictured her presiding over al fresco entertainments along the lakeshore, her golden ringlets casting the sun into shadow.
