Belhaven glanced fondly at Miss Watson. “Your sister and brother-in-law have been kind enough to allow Miss Watson residence so she can have the wedding she wishes. May we expect to see you? I understand the Grange isn’t very far from there.”
Rayne said “no” at the same time Julia said “yes.”
Their gazes locked. She knew Rayne and Bromton had yet to mend their rift, of course, but she’d thought, now that she and Rayne were to be married, Rayne wouldn’t—couldn’t—intend to keep his distance from his own brother-in-law.
Could he?
She thought quickly. “What my husband means to say is that we expect the Grange will, at first, require much of our attention and time. The manor was closed, you see, while Lord Rayne was abroad. But I, of course, would not miss your wedding for the world.”
“Thank you.” Miss Watson cupped her cheek. She exchanged another loving glance with Lord Belhaven. “Shall we leave the newlyweds to their repast?”
“Yes,” Lord Belhaven replied. “Yes, of course.”
“Do call at the Castle when you have the chance,” Miss Watson added. “But that’s unnecessary of me to ask, isn’t it? Naturally, you will visit your sister as soon as you are able.”
Rayne paled.
“As soon as we are settled,” Julia replied.
The couple completed their farewells and departed. Quietly, Julia closed the door. She rested her forehead against the jamb, feeling Rayne’s consternation pulse like a living thing.
“Why is it”—he found his voice—“that I can exit any room where you’re present, reenter, and find myself in a completely altered landscape?”
Just a diversion. A slightly altered path. Only the destination matters.
“Oh!” She swiveled around and smiled brightly. “Isn’t it heavenly? Miss Watson is to become Lady Belhaven after all! And, just like you said, she’s not elderly. Why, she looks almost young! An omen, I think. A blessing for our wedding day.” She spread her arms wide. “Love has done the impossible!”
“Love,” he repeated, searching her face.
She couldn’t tell if his tone was mocking or desperately daring to hope.
“Yes, love. Love that bears all things”—even enraged loved ones, as her brother was surely going to be, even if Bromton and Katherine seemed to have accepted her decision—“and believes all things”—like all would be well.
She caught his waist and rested her cheek against his chest. “They’re going to be happy. We’re going to be happy. And you and Bromton will be friends again.”
He did not contradict her. In fact, his resistance gave way. He rested his hand between her shoulder blades, holding her close—close enough for her to dare to believe her wildly optimistic suggestions could actually come true.
“Well,” he sighed roughly. “One thing’s for certain. It’s past time we make this official.”
…
Rayne gazed down at the rumbling waters of the river Stark as they crossed over the bridge into Scotland. Once again, he’d left England behind. But this time, his escape would be limited to a few hours.
Then he’d plunge straight into the heart of everything he’d avoided, this time with no possible escape. Julia. The Grange. The rest of the card suit—each a different facet of his past failures.
Good omen, indeed.
More like portended doom.
When he’d signed their names to secure tonight’s lodgings at The Bush—Lord and Lady Rayne—he’d been filled with a sense of rightness and anticipation. He’d placed the quill back into the holder, and wet, bubbled black ink dried into flat, indelible grey, and, there they were, respectably rendered in the book, no longer running, lying, and hiding, but clearly spelled out for anyone and everyone to see.
He’d been satisfied.
Even proud, for some incomprehensible reason.
But why? Because he’d managed to keep himself from acting the cad for the space of one whole morning? Because he’d had the sense to send the head waiter to inquire after the comfort of his wife? Men did such things without thought every day.
Halesome men.
Men of good character.
When he’d sought Julia out after signing the book, he’d been pondering the effects of her goodwill on his expectations, marveling that her belief in him had sparked a belief in himself, a belief that he didn’t have to remain frozen in his misdeeds but could change. Grow.
Atkinson had directed him to the private parlor. Then, he’d opened the door to greet Julia with his preferred, lascivious endearment—the one that heightened her flustered blush—but, instead of receiving a passionate welcome, he’d found himself gazing directly into the aghast countenance of Southford’s resident spinster.
Not just aghast but accusing, too.
From there, he’d plunged into the molten middle of an exposition eruption he barely grasped. Lesson learned. Behind Julia trailed a cloud of disruption.
Always. Full stop.
Then Cracked-skull himself had joined the fray, acting everything a gentleman should be, of course. The rapid-fire exchange between the three of them had been too much to comprehend at once, though certain words had snagged Rayne’s attention: Wedding, Bromton, and Bromton Castle.
He’d responded with an instant, ingrained no.
No to his real existence—to the realities he couldn’t deny.
No to facing Julia’s family.
No to returning to the Grange.
No to calling on Bromton as if their mutual betrayal had never happened.
Impulsive of him to refuse a wedding invitation, of course. Rude beyond tolerance. And no to any and all of the above, at this stage, was simply out of the question.
So, he’d fallen silent while Julia smoothed his way. As if he were a child. As if he needed her to explain his actions.
Even though he had.
Was that the life they’d lead from now on?
Julia, wasting all her considerable talent making overly cheerful excuses for everything he lacked? Him, standing silently by, befuddled and wary?
How long would she last before he drained her belief in love?
How long would he last in the accusatory glare of her family?
And you and Bromton will be friends again, she’d said. As if everything could be easily smoothed.
Why had he believed pleasing Julia in bed would be enough?
There, at least, he wasn’t inadequate. There, at least, he knew he satisfied. And so far, he’d managed to fully pleasure and indulge without subjecting her to mortification.
Over time, would he ruin that as well?
The carriage pulled up alongside the white, expanded farmhouse now known as the infamous Gretna Hall.
Though not as infamous as the old blacksmith’s shop, Gretna Hall provided a slightly more respectable alternative. Their wedding would not be the wedding Julia’s loved ones would have wanted, but at least they’d be married in a hall, by a proper parson, followed by a decent repast with wine.
This much, he could and would give. The rest, he could not predict.
John Linton, the landlord of Gretna Hall, greeted the carriage. After Linton assured Rayne the parson could be summoned in a little over a quarter hour, Rayne agreed to a sum for his services, which was, no doubt, much higher than most.
No matter.
Wealth, he had. And though wealth could not correct his worst deficiencies, a flash of coin was more than capable of altering most tangible realities. He could buy fawning, if not respect—a knowledge he’d once used to excess.
But he’d wanted to be different.
He’d wanted to be different for himself and for her.
A servant showed them into a drawing room already lit with a fire. Clearly, they weren’t the first couples to have passed through this day. For now, however, th
e parlor was empty and quiet. Linton offered the services of his sister so Julia could “refresh.”
She glanced at Rayne inquiringly.
He nodded, mystified by her new penchant for seeking permission.
Once she set foot inside the Grange, she’d instantly know…understand. He wasn’t fit to be anyone’s authority. He could barely hold his own.
He paced the room until the clock chimed the half hour. The clang reverberated—signaling the approaching apex of their adventure. Soon, Julia would be his wife, first in name, then in body.
And when her inevitable disappointment arrived, he’d remind her—he’d tried leaving, tried frightening her away, tried revealing his basest nature. But she’d worn him down with her cheerful persistence, her absolute refusal to give up.
Like being repeatedly whacked over the head by a bouquet of fragrant flowers.
He slid his hand into his pocket and closed his fingers around the ring James had fashioned.
Transformation. Change.
They weren’t just ideas. With the right inspiration and effort, they became realities. He must remember. He had to believe.
Julia reappeared in the doorway with a woman of middling age. She introduced him to the sister Linton mentioned, Frances. An awkward silence followed. He invited the ladies to sit, and then forced himself to stillness in a chair across from them.
Julia’s hair was tucked up and tidy beneath her hat, but she’d lost her glow. Her skin had grown parchment-ivory thin.
Don’t. His turn to protest. Don’t doubt. Not now.
If they were alone, he’d draw her back onto his lap and stroke her until she whimpered against his neck, as he had this morning—distracting them both from the impossible questions she’d posed. He could hardly do so now, while Frances stood by Julia’s side silently holding Julia’s hand, her coolly assessing gaze making him itch.
He drummed his fingers against his knee.
He couldn’t be worse than the untold number of grooms who’d passed through these doors.
He wasn’t after Julia’s dowry—he didn’t know, nor did he care, if Markham intended a marriage settlement—he’d provide for her whatever she wished within his means. He wasn’t forcing Julia against her will—she’d set out to abduct him, after all. And he could—to the best of his ability—keep her protected, and, at the very least, thoroughly pleasured.
None of which he cared to explain to Frances, who seemed to perceive in him Hades, calling Persephone against her family’s will, to descend with him into a lightless place… Or, maybe that wasn’t Frances’s castigation but his conscience.
“Mr. David Laing,” a servant announced.
A coarse-looking septuagenarian entered the room. The three of them stood together, exchanging greetings. When Julia reached for Rayne’s arm, her hand shook. He laid a steady hand over her fingers.
Don’t doubt. Please.
Laing took one look at Julia’s expression and launched into a boast meant to calm her nerves. He said he’d been performing marriages since 1792 and not one had yet been declared invalid. Reassuring, though Rayne doubted Laing had come up against a brother as angry as Markham was going to be.
Julia asked what vows they would make.
“You needn’t make any,” Laing replied. “Just state your intent to wed, take an oath that there are no impediments, and then sign your full names to the register. Once your signatures are witnessed by Mr. Linton and the postboy, I’ll make the declaration. Allow me to guess.” He winked. “You’re having a little trouble with the obey phrase, aren’t you?”
“You mean”—her gaze slid to Rayne’s—“I don’t have to promise to obey?”
Rayne warmed at this glimpse of the Julia he’d come to know. “I never expected you would.”
“I like this one,” Linton said.
Rayne’s heart jerked in his chest. “I like her, too.”
“Do you, Rayne?” she asked quietly.
Ah, minx. “I do.” More than a bedded seed liked sun. He threaded his fingers through hers. “I like you silent or chattering. In breeches or bedgowns. In livery or in silk.”
“That’s all I’ve wanted.” Her eyes watered. “And, though I’ve told you before—I like you, too.”
His swallow caught in his throat. She blushed and looked away, directing Laing to proceed.
Laing asked them their names and places of abode, which Linton recorded. Both affirmed they had never been wed and knew of no impediments to their marriage. When Laing questioned if both had come of their own accord, Julia held her breath.
Rayne winked, she exhaled, and they both answered yes.
He would manage. No, he would thrive. He had no other choice. He wasn’t sure he could live without her, now.
Laing, with a magnified somber air, picked up his Bible and turned to Rayne.
“Do you take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife, forsaking all others, keeping only to her as long as you both shall live?”
Something bubbled up in Rayne’s throat as he answered, “I will.”
Laing turned to Julia, asked—and she answered—the same.
“The ring?” Laing inquired.
“The ring!” Julia’s eyes widened. “How could we have forgotten—?”
Her question faded as he withdrew the small box from his pocket. He lifted the lid, carefully watching her face. At Rayne’s request, James had reworked his diamond—now a small, glittering jewel at the end of the twice-spiraled gold pin.
“Rayne! Your pin!” She recognized the piece at once. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” He closed her fingers over the ring. “You’re far more of a diamond than I am.”
Holding his gaze, she handed the ring to the parson for his blessing.
“Now,” Laing said, “place the ring on the fourth finger of the lady’s left hand and repeat these words. ‘With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, with all my worldly goods I thee endow in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen.’”
His voice—Lord help him—quivered as he repeated the vow.
“Now, you”—Laing turned to Julia—“take hold of his right and say, ‘what God joins together let no man put asunder.’”
She emphasized no man.
Indeed. No man…including her brother and brother-in-law.
Including himself.
Laing continued, “Forasmuch as this man and this woman have consented to go together by giving and receiving a ring, I, therefore, declare them to be man and wife before God and these witnesses in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen.”
Julia gaped at the sparkle on her left hand.
Just a few days past, he’d seen the diamond as a symbol of his worst excess. Now, the small rock would represent his best. He’d given her a part of himself—a part that wasn’t pressed and polished and molded but was still struggling to evolve.
But would she regret her decision?
He forced himself not to wonder.
They were legally wed, though the wedding bore little resemblance to the warm, bright affair between his sister and her brother.
And, no matter what his intentions, that was enough to make him fear he’d done her wrong.
Chapter Fifteen
Inside the carriage, Rayne tilted his head and studied his wife, half-smiling, bemused. Sometime after their first watering stop, Julia removed her glove, and she had since spent an inordinate amount of time gazing down at her diamond.
For the first time since he’d known her, he’d managed to stupefy the minx.
Truth be told, he, too, relished the way his diamond wrapped around her narrow finger—an external symbol of an internal change.
Nonsense, really. A mere token—not a sign he could as easily remake himself into someone she would admire. But, admirable or not,
he was now her husband.
Strange things, vows before witnesses. You could say the same words at any time, any day, any place, but speak them before a man with a book and an official air, and suddenly, Julia was endowed with all his worldly goods.
And, though the worldly goods portion of his vow kept food on solicitors’ tables by necessitating lengthy marriage contracts, Rayne could hardly bring himself to care. Right now, his main concern was the forthcoming body worship.
His wealth, he’d inherited. He’d worked for his scars. The same scars and quirks that frustrated his attempts to be gentle. Careful. Kind—all of the things due a romantic bride on her wedding night.
As they pulled into the courtyard of The Bush, Julia replaced her glove, laid her hand against his knee, and squeezed—an intimate gesture. The gesture of a wife.
He kissed her glove, just over the protuberance beneath the leather.
We’ll learn as we go.
He’d borrowed Farring’s certainty of his worth to ask her to wed. He’d make it through the rest of the night by borrowing her optimism.
Atkinson, the same head waiter they’d met earlier in the day, greeted them at the carriage. He introduced them to Sarah, the proprietress, who requested the privilege of escorting them to a room she’d specially arranged—her very best, she assured.
Rayne directed Julia through the crowd with a hand on the small of her back. Touching Julia’s spine renewed his unjustified feeling of pride. Unjustified, in this case, for subjecting Julia—on this momentous occasion—to a rented room.
No matter the excuse he’d given, the master’s rooms at the Grange could have been aired and prepared in time. But the five-hundred-year-old bed, dour bed curtains, thin-windowed darkness, and hideous tapestry weren’t likely to ease Julia’s strain or enhance his forbearance.
Gentle. Careful. Kind.
The very opposite of everything the Grange embodied.
And, since he could offer her no comfort akin to Southford or even Periwinkle Gate, he arranged ahead of time to make this alternative as pleasing as possible.
Diamond in the Rogue Page 19
