by Sophia James
Mrs Jackson sanctioned her husband’s review by nodding vigorously. ‘I’d take the rum, Miss Chapman,’ she gave her verdict on the beverages. ‘I’m having a nip. The way that wind is howling down the chimney the afternoon is sure to turn colder.’
The younger Miss Beresford slid forward on the worn hide of her armchair to whisper to Fiona, ‘Pardon me, but are you absconding to elope?’
‘No! Indeed, no...’ Fiona choked on a half-laugh, glancing urgently about to see if anybody had overheard. Only a serving girl was behind, clearing tables of used glasses, and she seemed more interested in gazing through the window and flirting with the stable hand out in the yard. ‘Do I give the impression that I might be a runaway bride?’ Fiona whispered.
‘I just thought it would be exciting if you were... What an adventure that would be.’ Ruth Beresford gave a giggle that sounded odd coming from a woman who seemed at least thirty years old.
‘The Duke of Thornley’s daughter is getting married.’ Mrs Jackson had caught the gist of the young ladies’ conversation and thought she’d take up the challenge of prising some information from Miss Chapman. ‘His Grace is rumoured to be generous and will doubtless treat his estate workers to a feast during the celebrations.’
‘Let’s hope he serves pheasant, then,’ Mr Jackson said drily. ‘The Thornley estate is overrun with the creatures—they’re a blasted nuisance, squawking and wandering on to the roads,’ he explained when Fiona looked mystified.
‘A society wedding!’ Ruth Beresford breathed, and gave Fiona a wink as though they shared a confidence.
‘I shall see if our host has a pie kept warm,’ Mr Jackson said, changing the subject. He could tell that Miss Chapman was becoming increasingly embarrassed at Ruth’s hints she might be eloping. A similar thought about Fiona’s lone journey had run through Peter Jackson’s mind, but he would never have aired it. ‘Would you like to eat something?’ Peter asked his wife while traversing the room to the bar.
‘Oh, yes, indeed,’ Mrs Jackson said.
‘I fancy a beef sandwich if the landlord can rustle up such a thing,’ Ruth Beresford told her elder sister. ‘Might I have my coins?’ Valerie Beresford delved into a pocket and drew forth a little pouch she’d been keeping safe.
Fiona was also feeling hungry. She put her reticule on her lap and opened the strings to find some money. The thought of a beef sandwich, with horseradish, was making her mouth water. She decided to add her order to her companions and take up Mrs Jackson’s idea of a rum toddy to wash it down and keep the chill at bay. Now out of the coach and relaxing with her travelling companions, she felt her misgivings about her new life fading away. Everything would be fine as long as she kept her mettle...
* * *
‘What in damnation are you doing here?’ The gentleman’s harsh demand suggested an imminent display of anger, but he remained lounging at ease in his chair. A slight hardening in his handsome features was all that attested to his annoyance.
Oh, but he was furious... Becky Peake knew that very well. He hadn’t shouted at her, although she knew she deserved it. His voice had been stone cold and so were those eyes that resembled chips of charcoal.
‘Don’t be cross with me, Luke,’ she begged. The landlord of the tavern had shown her to the back room and Becky now skipped over the threshold, closing the door behind her. ‘I don’t want to be left behind in town when you’re so far away.’ Approaching his chair, she attempted to perch provocatively on his lap.
But he got up from the table with a muttered oath and walked away.
Becky, always pragmatic, looked at the appetising plate of food he’d abandoned. ‘I’m famished...might I tuck in if you’ve finished?’
He flicked a hand. ‘Help yourself.’
Becky untied her bonnet strings, allowing her dark curls to bounce to her shoulders. Loosening the cloak fastened at her throat, she settled down to enjoy the cold meats, springy aromatic bread and cheese piled on to the plate. Suddenly aware that her lover was gazing thoughtfully at her, Becky used the snowy napkin to dab her pout. ‘What is it?’ She dimpled. ‘Do you forgive me? You look as though you do...’
‘Well, that depends,’ he said with a fractional smile.
‘You always overlook my peccadilloes when I’m attentive to you.’ Becky sounded confident and got up to sashay towards him, then coil her arms about his strong neck.
‘Your impertinence is not a peccadillo and I won’t forget it, sweet, but now you’re here perhaps there’s a way you could make up for it.’
Becky unhooked a few more of her cloak fastenings and shrugged out of the garment. Beneath it she wore a flimsy lemon gown that clung to her curvaceous figure. ‘I’ll do whatever you say...’ she purred suggestively.
‘Good...’ he growled, removing her arms from about his neck. ‘Let me put a proposition to you...’
Copyright © 2015 by Mary Brendan
ISBN-13: 9781460387580
Marriage Made in Shame
Copyright © 2015 by Sophia James
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