“So, you wish to marry me?”
Lydia’s pale face was even whiter in the moonlight, her violet eyes sparkling like stars. Gabe had never seen her look more beautiful, and for a moment he was annoyed at her for her beauty, for it was turning him into a gibbering wreck.
“Yes.”
He said this firmly, to steady his head which was filled with the sound of his heartbeat, thumping wildly in his chest.
“Why?”
A simple question, but Gabe scrabbled about in his brain for an answer that might convince her to say yes.
“Well firstly,” he said pompously, whilst wondering why he had settled on pomp for the tone of his speech. “You need the protection of my name, Lydia. Word will have gotten out about Zitelli’s dastardly deeds, and although you had naught to do with the elopement you will be shunned. You’ll never be received anywhere again, and my favourite part of going anywhere is the thought that you might be there too.”
He finished his speech lamely, knowing that he had messed it up thoroughly. Emotive words did not come easily to the Marquess, and he was useless - he knew - at verbalizing his feelings into anything that might actually be construed as persuasive.
“So, you wish to marry me to save my reputation?” Lydia asked quietly, after she had digested the thick, congealed, porridge like soup that was his proposal.
“Yes, I mean…No.”
The Marquess shook his head solemnly, sensing that he must speak now or forever hold his peace. He had heard the question within her question, and now or never he would answer her truthfully; he just hoped he wasn’t going to mess it up - again.
“Marry me because I love you, Lydia,” he said, sinking to one knee on the dusty ground of the yard, not caring for his breeches, though no doubt Wilkes would upbraid him furiously later. He reached out and took her small, gloved hand in his, as much to steady his own nerves as hers.
“I love you Lydia,” he spoke again, his eyes locking with her own violet ones. “I have cause to believe that you love me too. If you would consent to marry me, you would make me the happiest man in the world.”
“And if I don’t?”
The words were like a stab in the ribs, twisting in his very heart, but the Marquess sensed the worry behind them. It was not malice or cruelty that made her speak, but fear.
“If you don’t,” he said slowly but no less sincerely, “Then I shall just have to settle for the honour of being your friend. I could not live a life without you in it, Lydia. I’d infinitely prefer to have you as my wife, and could think of no better place for you to sleep than in my bed. But if friendship is all that you feel for me, then I will gladly accept that too.”
He watched her breathe, usually an involuntary act, that one did without thinking, but at that moment Lydia seemed to be struggling with mastering it.
“What if you become bored of me?” she asked after a minute’s silence, that stretched for the Marquess like a week, though her hand was still in his. “Or if I become bored of you? Look at Lady Sotheby; she goes through more footmen in a week than most people have hot dinners.”
“We won’t get bored of each other,” Gabe swore, his heart racing with excitement at her words; it seemed he might win yet. “And if you do, down the line, decide that you want a dalliance with a footman, I’m not averse to dressing up as one. The uniform would suit me, I’m told I have very admirable calves, I’ll have you know.”
“Oh, I know,” Lydia nodded with fervent agreement, her eyes dancing now. “Though perhaps we shall wait for a time, before you play dress-up for my amusement. We shall have to cover the basics first.”
The basics?
The Marquess’ eyebrows rose sceptically; he doubted that anything about making love to Lady Beaufort would be basic.
“So, we are agreed, that this marriage shall be one of love, and not convenience?” he questioned.
Lydia nodded her head.
“And I shall be able to insist on my conjugal rights?” Gabe asked, hopefully.
“Insist?” Lydia arched an eyebrow perfectly.
“Well, beg,” Gabe amended, with a rueful smile, “Beg on my knees, if needs be.”
“It probably won’t come to that, my Lord,” Lydia’s voice was shy, “The begging, I mean.”
It was like a pistol shot at the start of the race. Once he was certain that, yes, she had consented to be his wife, and yes, she would allow him into her bed, Gabe jumped to his feet and drew her toward him.
His arms encircled her completely, and he gently pulled her toward him, lifting her onto her tippy-toes so that she was pressed against his chest.
“I love you, Lady Lydia Beaufort,” he said.
“And I love you, Gabriel Lucifer Livingstone,” she replied, a smile on her plump lips.
Gabe’s head swam with desire, as finally, he captured her wicked mouth with his own. It was clear that Lydia had never been kissed before, for she was nervous and hesitant, but this only fanned the fires of Gabe’s ardour. He struggled to contain his growing desire, as he pulled her roughly against his chest, trying to temper the strength of his grip by making his kisses soft, sweet, and sensual.
He growled as Lydia’s lips parted to allow him entry, and his tongue gratefully explored the soft recesses of her warm mouth. He plundered her with his tongue, like a pirate having boarded a Queen’s vessel, exploring, tasting, teasing. His arousal was quite evident, pressed as it was against Lydia’s stomach, and Gabe was sure he would have lost the run of himself completely, if it wasn’t for the discreet coughing of the driver who had finished his ale.
“Gretna is it, my Lord?” the driver asked, with a cheeky grin.
“Yes,” Gabe exhaled, still holding Lydia close, “And I dare say you’d best be quick about it.”
“Right you are guv,” the driver tipped his hat, and opened the door of the carriage for Lydia. Gabe remained outside, first to pay a messenger to send word back to London that Lydia was safe with him. Then to assist the man with tethering Eros with the other horses. The great stallion gave a neigh of displeasure at having been reduced to the status of working horse, and Gabe patted his neck consolingly.
“It’s all for the greater good, old boy,” he said, to which the driver snickered.
“Shall we get a move on, my Lord?” the driver asked, shivering in the night’s cool air. The inn was closing, and the sky was the inky black of midnight.
“Yes,” Gabe tried to sound decisive and commanding, “There’s a lot at stake.”
Namely a young woman’s virtue, he wanted to add, but refrained. The ride to Gretna would take a few hours, and he would try to refrain from ravishing Lydia before he made her his bride. No matter how hard a task that might be.
This thought soon met a hurdle when he alighted the carriage. Lydia was slumbering peacefully on her seat, and as Gabe sat beside her he lifted her head from the rather uncomfortable position she had fallen asleep in, so that it rested on his shoulder. As the carriage drove off, it jostled from the many potholes in the coaching-inn’s yard, and Lydia shifted in her sleep, so that her head lay on his chest, her bosom pressed against his arm.
“I suppose I deserve some sort of penance,” Gabe said aloud in a mocking whisper, conversing with the ceiling of the carriage for his bride to be was fast asleep.
Gabe took the coarse woollen blanket from the back of the seat, and covered the two of them with it, before he closed his own eyes. He wouldn’t sleep, he knew already that it would be impossible, but didn’t really mind, for he already felt as if he was in a dream, with the woman he loved asleep in his arms.
Chapter Twenty
Lydia had never been to Scotland, though she reasoned that Gretna Green, the first town one encountered after crossing the invisible border with England, wasn’t exactly Scotland proper. There were no loughs, or sprawling mountains, or purple heather coated hills, rather a small quaint village, with low, whitewashed buildings all huddled together.
“We’re here,” she s
aid lightly to Gabriel, who at some point during the trip had fallen asleep on top of her, lightly snoring in a way that Lydia found ridiculously charming.
In a few years, I’ll probably try to smother him with a pillow when he does that, she thought astutely. Or perhaps in a few years they would be sleeping in separate rooms, like most other married couples.
Bar Isabella, who had declared her Duke the best warming pan her cold feet had ever known.
And Aurelia, who had said that Sebastian would not countenance the idea.
Lydia cheered, perhaps there would be years and years of her watching Gabriel snore.
“We’re what?”
The Marquess sat up straight, his face boyish and confused. He blinked slowly at Lydia, and then a grin spread across his face, stretching from ear to ear, presumably as the events of the previous evening came back into his recollection.
“Are we here already?” he asked with astonishment. “That didn’t take long.”
“Well, you’ve been asleep for the past six hours,” Lydia, who had woken at dawn and whose bottom ached, reasoned.
“Ah,” Gabe smiled ruefully, and took her hand in his, holding it against his chest.
“In truth, I could not stand another second of being awake whilst not being your husband,” Gabe said seriously, though his eyes danced.
“It must have been a true burden, my Lord,” Lydia teased, “For you slept like the dead, apart from the snoring.”
“I do not snore,” Gabe looked aghast, his handsome face horrified at the thought that he would do anything so crass.
“I beg to differ, sir,” Lydia responded, “I was only just thinking that we might have to have separate wings in the house just for sleeping, you snore that loud.”
“Never.”
Lydia squeaked as the Marquess lifted her bodily, so that she was sitting on his lap, facing him.
“We will never sleep in separate bedrooms,” Gabe said lightly, dropping a kiss onto her lips. “For I won’t allow it. Though I can’t promise that once I get you into my bedroom, Lady Beaufort, that we will get much sleeping done. For I have plans for you -”
What plans these were remained unvoiced, and for that a nervous Lydia was thankful. The carriage drew up outside the Blacksmith’s Shop, the famed building where self-appointed Anvil Priests, joined runaway English couples in marriage. Lydia could hear the sound of metal on metal, ringing out through the early morning air.
“Alright guv,” the tired looking driver opened the door, “This is your stop. There’s an inn at the top o’ the road, I’ll be sleeping there tonight and can meet you tomorrow morning for the trip back to London, if you like.”
“Wonderful,” Gabe shook the man’s hand, though not before Lydia observed the pound notes in his palm, which he discreetly slipped to the driver.
The couple, for that’s what they now were, descended from the carriage with creaky, aching bones after their long trip. The clanging sounds emitting from the Blacksmith’s Shop, were louder now that they were outside it, and Lydia began to feel nervous again.
“Shall we?”
Gabe extended his arm to her, and Lydia took hold of it, grateful for the strength and support he offered.
“Hullo?”
He knocked loudly on the low, black, wooden door of the shop, which was soon opened by a tall, sallow man.
“Aye?” the man asked.
“We’re here to get married,” Gabe said, gesturing to the rather dishevelled Lydia. The man, presumably an Anvil Priest, didn’t bat an eyelid.
“Weddings are expensive,” the priest stated simply, taking in Gabe’s expensive - though rather rumpled - attire.
“I’m sure they are,” the Marquess replied smoothly, in his most haughty tones. “Though I’ve no doubt the experience will be worth every penny. It’s not every day that I decide to make a woman a Marchioness.”
Lydia bit back a laugh as the man’s sanguine expression turned to one of rapt awe. Though the awe was patently not for Gabe’s title, but rather the money behind it.
“Well, my Lord,” the man opened the door fully, and ushered Lydia and Gabriel inside. “You did nae say you were a Marquess. Come, come. Do ye have witnesses?”
“No,” Lydia said, her voice faltering. They hadn’t even thought of that.
“Do nae worry,” the man said, his smile growing even wider. “I can provide ye with two upstanding citizens. Though, witnesses are expensive, of course.”
“Oh, of course,” Lydia relied, and she felt Gabe shake with mirth beside her. They were being blatantly fleeced by this tall man, whose serious, pious way of speaking was completely obliterated by his scheming smile.
“Mary,” the man roared, and a woman in an apron came scurrying in from a back room. “We needs you to witness the wedding between this here Marquess and, and -”
“Lydia,” Lydia supplied with a smile.
“Aye, Lydia.”
The man beckoned for a youth of about eighteen, who was busy hammering a red-hot horse shoe, to come over.
“This here is Jack,” the priest stated simply, “He’ll be your second witness. If you’ll both step this way please.”
Lydia and Gabriel were shepherded to the centre of the workshop, to where a large anvil sat atop a stone table. This was the famed anvil, featured in the wedding of so many elopements; Lydia felt giddy just looking at it.
“Now to legally wed here in Scotland,” the man began, “You both have to declare in front of witnesses that ye are free to be wed.”
Lydia nodded.
“There’s no husbands waiting for ye in England?” the man prompted.
“Oh no,” Lydia said abashed, looking imploringly at Jack and Mary to believe her, though to be quite truthful the pair looked a tad bored. They must have witnessed hundreds of these weddings, for Lydia could swear that Mary was stiffing a yawn.
“And you sir?”
“Free as a bird,” the Marquess quipped. Lydia waited for him to make a joke or a jest, but he didn’t and when she glanced at him she saw that he looked as nervous as she felt.
“Wonderful,” the man clapped his hands together. “Now we shall preform the hand fasting ceremony. Join hands over the anvil, if you will.”
Gabriel reached for Lydia’s hand, and looked into her eyes. His gaze held hers as they both declared, before their bored witnesses, that they wished to be husband and wife.
“Your wish,” the priest said dryly, as they each finished their piece, “Is my command.”
To Lydia’s surprise he reached for a hammer and brought it crashing down on the anvil so heavily, that the sound reverberated through the little workshop, and surely through the village of Gretna itself.
“That was surprisingly easy,” Gabe said, looking a little bemused.
“Aye,” the man grunted, “The weddings the easy bit, it’s the marriage that takes work.”
With this sage advice, and after parting with a considerable sum of money, the newly minted Marchioness of Sutherland and her husband left the Blacksmith’s Shop in a daze.
“Well,” Gabe cleared his throat, looking at Lydia in wonder, as though she was a newly discovered exotic creature and not the girl that he had seen nearly every day for the last few months. Lydia stared back nervously; the man before her was now her husband, and she felt as though she was in a dream of sorts.
“Shall we?’ Gabe gestured toward the top of the village, to where the carriage driver had said there was an inn. “We shall wash, and get some food.”
Lydia nodded, and followed him dumbly. She had just married her best friend, and now she was his wife, with wifely duties to attend to. She gulped, for though she desired Gabriel totally, the sum of her knowledge of marital relations came from her Aunt Tibby, who had simply stated that relations were much easier if one simply closed one’s eyes.
Tibby married an eighty-year-old Duke, Lydia reminded herself sternly, as she slipped her hand into Gabriel’s, though still her nerves lingered.
“I have the perfect room for newlyweds,” he said, lifting a key from a hook on the wall. “Very far away from the other guests - you can make all the noise you like. It’s expensive, of course.”
“Of course,” Gabe and Lydia nodded; the population of Gretna Green was really making a fortune from the wedding business. Husband and wife followed the inn-keeper up a rickety flight of stairs, to a quaint room on the first floor. The ceiling was sloped, and the windows looked out on the small courtyard, where chickens pecked the ground searching for scraps, and small children - presumably the inn-keepers - played.
“My wife would like a bath,” Gabe said.
“I’ll send one of the girls up straight away, my Lord.”
The inn-keeper left, presumably to inform one of the girls to fetch some water and then the rest of the village that today’s wedding had featured a Marquess, for he had been suitably impressed by Gabe’s title. No doubt the broadsheets would be full of the tale upon their return to London.
“So,” Gabe said, as the door closed behind the rotund man. “Here we are…”
In a room with a bed, Lydia thought, but she didn’t dare say that aloud. She was nervous, her hands felt tingly and her feet were restless; but there were two things causing her distress. The thought that Gabriel might insist on his conjugal rights, right that very second, and the thought that he wouldn’t.
“Yes,” Lydia echoed, stupidly, “Here we are.”
She stood, stock still, in the centre of the room, nervously fidgeting with her hands. She wished that whatever was going to happen, would just happen quickly so that she could stop existing in this state of fearful ignorance.
As though reading her thoughts, the Marquess stood and crossed the room in two long strides, catching her face in his hands. He held her still as he dropped a most chase kiss upon her lips, and when he was done he smiled shyly.
“You’re probably as nervous as I am,” Gabe said gently, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled down at her.
A Lady Like No Other Page 15
