The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)

by Grace Callaway

  Lightheaded, she raised her glass to the crackling fire. “Cheers to me: the new Lady Daltry.”

  The words echoed hollowly in the room. Time slowed as she sipped the wine and brooded into the flames. The door opened sometime later, startling her from her stupor.

  “You’re awake, m’dear,” Daltry said.

  From his slurred accents and the way he fumbled to close the door behind him, she guessed that he had, indeed, been cavorting in the tavern below. She rose—and had to steady herself against the table when she swayed.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said.

  “Eager for the proceedings, eh?” he leered. “What a good wife you are.”

  She decided not to disabuse him of the notion, especially since uncharitable thoughts had begun to play in her head again. She’d managed to keep them in check during their long journey—no easy feat. For one, the earl wasn’t renowned for his wit or conversation. While his mind stayed well within the boundaries of convention, one couldn’t say the same of his hands. It had taken no small amount of maneuvering on her part to finish the journey in the same intact state with which she’d started it.

  Experience had given her insight into the workings of the male mind. As the saying went, no man would buy the cow when he could have the milk for free. (See? She had learned from her mistakes.) Ergo, she’d remained firm in her stance that there would be no preview before their wedding night.

  Now that she was legally bound him, however, he had husbandly rights. Tipsy as she was, she saw her situation with sudden clarity. It was… disheartening. Daltry had never been the most prepossessing of men. Around her height, thinning on top, and protruding in the middle, he looked every day of his two-and-fifty years.

  She told herself that his physical characteristics mattered not: his title was his redeeming attribute. Yet she couldn’t help but wish that he would take a tad more care with his personal appearance. That he’d try to, well, do better with what Nature had seen fit to give him.

  Instead, he seemed to have some aversion to personal hygiene. What hair he had lay in limp strands across his bald pate. His complexion was both florid and greasy, his light blue gaze bloodshot. His cravat was splotched with stains, and several buttons had popped off his waistcoat. As he closed in on her, it became obvious that he hadn’t bothered to wash since their arrival. He reeked of sweat, dirt… and, Dear Lord, vomit?

  Her stomach lurched.

  His hand shot out, his stubby fingers grabbing her braid. “Always had a liking for blondes.”

  To avoid smelling him, she tried breathing through her mouth. “Thank you. I managed best as I could without a maid.”

  “Good thing you didn’t bring one. Only get in the way, eh?”

  Tamping down nausea, she said, “I had a nice bath after my nap. Perhaps you’d care to—”

  “No need.” He let go of her hair, began shrugging out of his coat. “Not when I’m ’bout to get dirty again.”

  Her belly quivered at his coarseness. Daltry had never been a refined man; now that they were married, he was apparently going to drop any pretense of being a gentleman.

  “Perhaps we ought to have a glass of wine first,” she said faintly.

  “Don’t play coy with me, young lady.” He fumbled with buttons, managing to divest himself of his waistcoat. “The fact that you’re a shameless doxy is why I married you in the first place.”

  Her cheeks flamed. “I’m not—”

  “I ain’t deaf; I’ve heard the rumors about you. And you approached me, brazen as can be, making me an offer I couldn’t refuse. What does that make you, if not a trollop?” He smirked, his hands on his waistband. “But worry not: I like a hot-blooded wench in bed. And it’ll amuse me to watch those uppity relations of mine swallow their spleen when I parade you in front of them.”

  He’d married her to annoy his family? The revelation was unsettling, to say the least. Especially given the social influence wielded by the dowager countess, Lady Charlotte Daltry, and Mrs. Antonia James, Daltry’s formidable aunt. The ladies hosted a salon so exclusive that it made getting vouchers to Almack’s seem easy by comparison. If Rosie wished to have the ton at her feet, she would need the dowager and Mrs. James as allies not enemies.

  Tentatively, she said, “Perhaps our marriage will help mend fences—”

  “To hell with those bleeding hypocrites!” Daltry’s words boomed with drunken belligerence. “Treated me like dirt ’til I got the title. The smell of trade offends them, but that don’t stop ’em from asking for handouts. Well, they ain’t as lily-white as they seem. Got mud on their shoes like everyone else, and I know that first-hand. Know all their dirty secrets.” His lips stretched into a satisfied smile. “Now they’ll have to kowtow not only to a merchant—but to his trollopy bastard of a bride as well. Hah!”

  Rosie cringed—and that was before Daltry shed the rest of his clothing.

  Dear God. Even the hazy focus of wine didn’t improve her first view of a naked male body. Then he turned, giving her a full view of his backside. Eww. She’d had no idea that a man was that hirsute… all over.

  With shaking hands, she reached for her wine glass and polished it off.

  “Enough delay. Time to pay up, young lady.”

  “Could we… dim the lights?” she whispered.

  “I told you to dispense with those virginal sensibilities—”

  “I am a virgin,” she burst out.

  “We’ll find out if that’s true soon enough. Not that I’m particular—as long as you’re a fine breeder, eh? But all right,” he muttered, “just this once. Off with those clothes and into the bed, you hear?”

  He went to douse the lamps, stumbling along the way. The moment darkness blanketed the room, Rosie disrobed with unsteady hands and rushed to the bed, jumping under the covers. She lay against the cold sheets, her heart thumping.

  You made this bed, the unsympathetic voice in her head said. Now you have to lie in it.

  The bed creaked in protest, the mattress sagging beside her.

  ~~~

  Near dawn, Andrew strode into the inn, removing his hat and shaking off the rain. Vicious storms had delayed his journey by half a day, forcing him to take shelter at inns on the way to Gretna Green. He’d barely slept the past three days, catching a few minutes here and there in the carriage, always awakened by a sense of pounding urgency.

  Where the devil are you, Primrose?

  He’d arrived at Gretna three hours ago—after the closing of the blacksmith shops. He could only hope that the inclement weather had delayed Primrose and Daltry’s journey, and they hadn’t yet had their anvil wedding. He’d gone through the inns one by one, knowing that if the pair had arrived, they would need a place to stay the night. His gut tightened, his boots taking him to the innkeep’s desk, where he rang the bell.

  A few minutes later, a bleary-eyed man shuffled to the desk, wearing a dressing gown and sleeping cap. Taking quick stock of Andrew’s garb and bearing, he perked up. “Coming in a bit late, are you, sir? Never fear, I ’appen to ’ave a braw set o’ the rooms suited to a gentleman such as yourself. The name’s Alfred McCready, owner and proprietor o’ the Galloway Arms, where we offer the finest in Scottish ’ospitality—”

  “I’m looking for a couple,” Andrew said impatiently. “An older man and a young lady. Have you seen them?”

  McCready’s wary expression betrayed that he’d likely been confronted with this scenario before—no surprise since eloping couples formed the backbone of Gretna’s economy. “’Fraid I won’t be much help, sir. It’s been a busy few days on account o’ the weather—”

  “Perhaps this will jog your memory.” Andrew dropped a coin purse on the counter. “His name is Daltry; the lady is Miss Kent.”

  The innkeep weighed the purse, which quickly disappeared into a drawer. He opened his registry, running a finger down the lines of ink. “No, sir. I don’t see those names.”

  “He’s in his fifties, short, balding. Sh
e’s blonde—beautiful,” he said tightly.

  “Come to think o’ it, that does fit the description of Mr. and Mrs. Jones, sir. They arrived just after noon today and booked the newlywed suite.”

  The knot in Andrew’s chest tightened. “Show me to their rooms.”

  “Now ye ken I don’t want any trouble—”

  “If you do not show me the way immediately, I will bring a wrath down upon this place such as you’ve never seen nor will you see again,” Andrew vowed grimly.

  “Yes, sir.” McCready grabbed a metal ring of keys and a lamp and scurried from behind the counter. “Right this way, sir.”

  Andrew followed the proprietor up a narrow flight of stairs to the first floor, the latter’s candle casting ghostly shadows over the dark wood interior.

  “Their suite is at the end of the hall—” McCready began.

  A scream shattered the night.

  Chapter Eleven

  Panic propelled another scream from her throat.

  “Shh, love, it’s all right.” Hands gripped her shoulders. “Are you hurt?”

  Her mind wouldn’t function. Numbly, she stared up at the face whose lines were achingly familiar in the moonlight. “A-Andrew?” she said uncomprehendingly.

  “Yes, sunshine. What’s happened? I heard you scream…”

  He trailed off, his gaze suddenly shifting to the figure beside her on the bed. The unmoving form whose blank eyes had greeted her when she’d suddenly come awake. A buffle-headed feeling swathed her. Perhaps this was all a dream… oh, please, please, please…

  “What’s amiss, sir?” A man wearing a sleeping cap—the innkeeper, she recognized—peered around Andrew, his lamp casting a bright glow. “Holy Mother of God, is he—”

  “What happened, Primrose? Tell me,” Andrew commanded.

  This wasn’t a dream, then. Nausea surged, and she swallowed thickly.

  “I don’t know. When I w-woke up a few minutes ago, he was like this.” She was so cold… and shaking. She couldn’t seem to stop. “H-he was fine when I f-fell asleep…”

  “I understand.” Andrew removed his jacket, placed it over her shoulders. “I’ll take care of everything.”

  She drew the warm, spice-scented wool closer around her. Gathered her wits enough to ask, “Wh-what are you doing here? H-how did you find me?”

  “I’ll explain everything later.” He turned to the innkeeper. “McCready, send for a maid to escort Miss Kent to a new room. Have food and brandy brought as well.” His mouth was a grim line. “It’s going to be a long night.”

  ~~~

  Later that morning, he found Primrose in her new suite. Fully dressed, she sat in a chair by the window, her arms hugging her raised knees. A pang struck his chest: as a little girl, she’d often curled up just that way. A posture both innocent and guarded. Her head turned as he approached, and there was no mistaking that she was a woman now. The eyes that met his held too much worldly knowledge.

  Pain that he was powerless to erase.

  Insides clenching, he noted the untouched glass next to her. “You didn’t have the brandy.”

  “I didn’t want any. I’m muddled enough as it is.” She lowered her feet to the ground, sitting up straight. “What did you do with Daltry?”

  “The undertaker is preparing his remains. I’ve arranged transport of the body back to London.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He gave a gruff nod. “How are you faring?”

  “It feels like a dream… a nightmare. This cannot possibly be happening.” She rose, pulling her shawl tightly around her shoulders. “We weren’t even married for a full day.”

  “I know.” He’d gotten all the details from the innkeeper. In fact, he’d gotten more than he’d bargained for.

  I’ve seen it before, the innkeeper had confided. Older gent elopes with a young thing, thinks he’s won the prize. But then the business proceeds and the sod’s old ticker can’t handle the excitement. Mark my word, sir: wedding nights can be dangerous.

  “And now Daltry’s dead. I’m a widow.” Her voice hitched.

  Swiftly, he went to her. Held her as the tears began. The shock was wearing off, reality wracking her slim body with sobs. He stroked her hair, murmuring soothing nonsense until she calmed. Her fragrance curled into his nostrils: Pears soap, feminine sweetness, temptation itself. He was acutely aware of how well she fit against him. The perfection of her curves nestling against his own hard edges… which were getting harder by the moment.

  It was wrong, of course. Yet of their own accord, his fingers tangled in her silken tresses.

  “Once we return to London,” he said hoarsely, “your family can get you an annulment.”

  She stilled. A heartbeat later, she pushed at him.

  It took everything he had to let her go.

  “Why would I want one?” Her voice quivered, her gaze remaining steady.

  “Because…” He caught himself in time. “Because you were only married a matter of hours. You could argue that the consummation didn’t take place. You would be a free woman.”

  “And why would I want to be free?”

  He couldn’t look away from the vulnerable gold swirling in those pure green depths. His lungs strained. He knew what she was asking.

  What you can’t give her, you bastard.

  “Because you are young and have a whole life ahead of you,” he forced himself to say.

  Her bottom lip trembled. “What place do you have in this plan for my lifelong happiness?”

  “I want what’s best for you, Primrose.”

  “And that is not you?”

  “No.” A single syllable—and it killed him to say it.

  She drew herself up. “Well, then, thank you for your help. I can take things from here.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said shortly. “I’m escorting you home.”

  “If you don’t want me, why won’t you just leave me be?” she cried.

  “What I want is irrelevant,”—he shoved a hand through his hair—“because I cannot give you what you need. Hell, I can’t even keep you out of trouble.”

  “I’m not your relation, pet, or property, sir, and, therefore, not your responsibility.” In a blink, she transformed from vulnerable girl to outraged siren. Her eyes glinted like gilded emeralds, her full bosom surging with passion. “What I do—and who I do it with—are not your concern. But it does beg the question: how did you find me?”

  He reckoned this wasn’t the time to tell her that Odette worked for him. “I have contacts.”

  “What are you—some kind of a spy?” she said with derision.

  “No. But in my business I have access to a great deal of information.” Not a lie, certainly.

  “What business are you in?” When he didn’t answer immediately, she folded her arms over her chest. “Let me guess: it’s better for me not to know.”

  “You’re catching on,” he muttered.

  “And you’re insufferable, do you know that?” She looked ready to stomp her foot in frustration, and his lips twitched despite his bleak mood. Her next words, however, chased away all traces of humor. “Well, Mr. Andrew Whoever-You- Are, I want you to stay out of my life from here on in. As the Countess of Daltry, I do not need the services of some stranger who fancies himself a knight-errant.”

  “Are you the Countess of Daltry?” he said curtly.

  After a moment, her chin angled up. “Yes.”

  The affirmation punched him in the gut. After the undertaker had removed the earl’s body, Andrew had checked the sheets. No blood—but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. As a pimp, he had an insider’s knowledge of just how fragile virginity could be. Horseback riding, for instance, could divest a female of her maidenhead. And the reverse was also true: he knew wenches who’d managed to successfully auction off their virginity half a dozen times.

  But hearing Primrose admit the truth stirred a myriad of emotions. Jealousy, possessiveness… anger at himself for bein
g a bloody fool.

  “I see,” he said quietly.

  “I see, my lady.”

  Irritation joined the fray. “Then I suggest you pack up, my lady,” he said coolly, “and we head on our way. No doubt your family will be beside themselves. Having lost you once before, your mama—”

  “What did you just say?” Her eyes widened.

  Instantly, he recognized his mistake.

  “How do you know that my mama lost me? Only my family knows that,” she said in low tones. “Everyone else thinks Mama placed me with country folk until she married Papa and he adopted me.”

  Faced with her scrutiny, he faltered. “I meant only that your parents must be worried—”

  “That is not what you said.” He could almost see the gears turning in her head. “We knew each other in the past, didn’t we? That’s why you’ve always seemed… familiar.”

  He didn’t want to lie to her. Nor did he want to tell her the sordid truth. “Primrose, I—”

  The rapid approach of footsteps made him whip around. A fist pounded on the door.

  “Rosie, are you in there?” a man’s voice bellowed. “Open this door at once!”

  “Papa,” she breathed.

  She dashed over to the door, threw it open. Two men stormed in, and she flung herself into the arms of the first. “Oh, Papa!”

  “Poppet—thank God. We’ve been looking all over for you!” Ambrose Kent enfolded his daughter in a fierce embrace. “Are you all right?”

  The second man looked over at Andrew.

  “By Jove,” the Earl of Revelstoke said. “What the devil are you doing here, Corbett?”

  Chapter Twelve

  As the carriage bounced over the roads the next day, the storm eased, sunlight slanting through the fogged windows. Maybe the heavens had temporarily run out of rain—the way Papa had of words. Rosie’s ears were still burning from his latest lecture. His relief at finding her unharmed had swiftly transformed into parental wrath.