The Seduction of an English Lady

by Cathy Maxwell

  “It’s not bragging when you are telling the truth,” her husband answered.

  “Well, if we can’t bring the parson to his senses, we’ll not be married at all,” Colin said. He took the tankard and dribbled a few drops onto the parson’s lips when the man was in mid-snore. To Colin’s surprise, his glassy eyes popped open immediately. His tongue searched out the drops.

  “You have it bad, don’t you, friend?” Colin murmured.

  “My best customer,” the innkeeper told Rosalyn.

  “Sad, isn’t it?” his wife echoed. She turned away to finish her cleaning, just as four gentlemen dressed for hunting came down the stairs.

  The innkeeper excused himself to see to his other guests.

  Colin waved his hand in front of the parson’s eyes. They didn’t move in one direction or the other. “Are you awake?”

  “I will be with a drop or two more” was the answer. The parson sat straight up. He reached for the tankard, which Colin managed to skillfully keep away from him.

  Rising, Colin said, “We need to have a wedding done, and then you can drink all you want.”

  “And pay off the tab from last night with your fee,” the innkeeper’s wife hinted. Obviously feeling a need to enlighten Rosalyn, she said, “Those gents are up here for the hunt. Hounds are being brought over. There’s a party of twelve.”

  “Fox hunt?” Colin asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Barbaric sport,” Colin answered, setting the tankard down on the table.

  “Only if you are the fox,” Lucas the innkeeper replied as he returned to join them. “Will you be needing a room? I have one left, and those gentlemen over there are saying they want it for this night. Turns out one of their number snores, and the others refuse to share a room with him if they don’t have to.”

  “We’ll take the room,” Colin said.

  “I thought you would,” the innkeeper said, but Rosalyn interrupted him.

  “I’m not certain.” Colin could almost hear her thought process. A room? Together? No one was saying anything about two rooms. “Don’t we need to get home?”

  Colin bit back his first response. “I’m tired,” he said simply.

  She nodded. She was, too. Tired and bedraggled…and that was what he was gambling on.

  “I want a drink,” the parson said, as if his opinion mattered. He scrambled to his feet on surprisingly short legs. His head barely reached Colin’s chest. He reached for the tankard.

  “After the ceremony,” Colin reminded him, sweeping the mug out and away from under the man’s grubby fingers. “We’ll take the room,” he told the innkeeper.

  Rosalyn told herself everything would be fine…including the room debate, because she didn’t want to argue in front of the hunters, who were now craning their necks to see what was going on.

  “A wedding,” the innkeeper helpfully explained to them, and Rosalyn could have cheerfully wrung his neck. Her affairs were none of these gentlemen’s business.

  They made it so.

  One hopped to his feet. “I say, I’ll be a witness,” he volunteered and crossed the room to join them. He clapped his hands together in anticipation. “This will make for a good story back in London. Galen,” he introduced himself. “Lord Galen.”

  “Mandland,” the colonel answered, “Colonel Mandland.” Was it Rosalyn’s imagination, or did she catch a hint of annoyance in the colonel’s voice? Was she starting to know him well enough to pick up the nuances in his speech?

  Lord Galen was oblivious. Two more members of their party made their way down the stairs, and he called cheerily, “Patterson, Tomblin! Look at me. I’m a witness at an elopement!”

  His friends grumbled a response, obviously done in by last night’s drinking and more interested in their breakfast than a wedding.

  The parson took advantage of Colonel Mandland’s diverted attention, snatching the tankard out of his hands and draining it dry. With a satisfied smack of his lips, he announced, “I’m ready to perform the ceremony.” He sounded surprisingly sober.

  Rosalyn didn’t know if she wanted to go through with it. Her wedding ceremony was not a novelty for a hunting party.

  Then Colonel Mandland took charge with more courage than anyone in the Valley would have had. “I appreciate your offer, my lord,” he said to Lord Galen. “However, you must remember, no matter where the ceremony is performed, it is a sacred moment.”

  Rosalyn was touched until his lordship mugged a face, showing his concern to his companions, who snickered.

  The colonel ignored him. He motioned for the innkeeper’s wife to come forward. “Will you be our other witness?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, tucking her wash rag in the waist of her apron. She came to stand beside Lord Galen.

  One of the hunters who sprawled at their table yawned, and Rosalyn had to stifle one herself. If she wasn’t so tired, she’d march out of this farce.

  The colonel looked at Rosalyn. “I know this is unusual,” he said in a voice for her ears alone, “but please trust me.”

  Had he known she was tempted to turn tail and run? She should. A wise woman would.

  She didn’t. “Let’s get on with it.”

  He rewarded her with a kiss on the forehead. “That’s my girl.” To the parson, he said, “We’re ready.”

  “My throat is dry,” the parson complained.

  “After the ceremony,” the colonel reiterated.

  The parson frowned but reached into his dirty coat with the torn sleeves and pulled out a Book of Common Prayer.

  At least the ceremony would be Anglican. Colonel Mandland noticed he held the book upside down and turned it right side up for him.

  “Oh, thank you, sir,” the parson said. “Thought I needed my spectacles, and I haven’t seen them in a month. We would have been in trouble, wouldn’t we?” he asked rhetorically, smiling at his own humor. Rosalyn took a side step to avoid his breath.

  “Very well,” the parson went on when he saw no one was smiling. “The fee is two guineas and my drink for the day.”

  “I’ll pay you three guineas and a pint of stout at the end,” Colonel Mandland countered. “I’ll come out ahead.”

  The parson didn’t look pleased, but he didn’t argue either.

  Two more members of the hunting party strolled down from upstairs. They greeted their comrades, who shushed them so they could witness the ceremony. The innkeeper poured tankards of ale for their breakfast, and the gentlemen sat down happy.

  Rosalyn suddenly found herself so nervous that it was difficult to breathe. From someplace in the inn, the scents of baking bread and frying sausages being prepared for the breakfast trade drifted to her. She stood in what had been, at the beginning of the trip, her best dress. Her bonnet was a shambles, but she had not bothered to take it off. Its presence provided a modicum of respect.

  Her groom didn’t look much better. He was unshaven, and his dark hair was in need of a cut. His clothes would have looked better if he’d slept in them.

  The parson begged her attention. “My lady, is this marriage of your own free will?”

  “Why, yes,” Rosalyn answered, a bit startled by the question.

  “It’s the law,” the innkeeper’s wife explained. “To prove you aren’t being forced.”

  Rosalyn nodded, appreciating the clarification. “I’m here of my own will.” Her voice didn’t sound like her at all.

  Colonel Mandland took her arm. She didn’t know if it was because he knew she needed bolstering, or he feared she’d bolt for the door.

  The parson didn’t waste time on a preamble but plunged right into the heart of the matter, needing to use his finger to read the words on the page. “Marriage was instituted by God in paradise and first celebrated by Adam and Eve,” he droned.

  Rosalyn frowned. She’d not heard these words before.

  “It was adorned and beautified by Christ at Cana,” the parson “read.” “And must not be entered upon for the wrong reasons—�
��

  A flash of guilt added to her discomfort.

  “—The right reasons being procreation of children, con-tin-ence,” he sounded out, “and mutual society, help, and comfort.”

  One of the party of hunters had fallen back to sleep and had started to snore.

  Colonel Mandland pulled the book out of the parson’s hands. He turned several pages and said, “Start here.”

  “Oh, yes,” the parson answered, squinting to read the words. “Good place to start.”

  “I thought it was,” the colonel said under his breath, and then, seeing the question in Rosalyn’s eyes, he confessed, “You are right. My brother will want to shoot me.”

  “Maybe we should stop here,” she suggested in an equally low voice and would have pulled away, save for his hold on her arm.

  “We’ve come too far,” he answered, and Rosalyn realized he was right. She was six and twenty. The future held nothing for her except for the misery of Aunt Agatha’s company. He was her only option.

  “Are we ready?” the parson asked peevishly.

  “We’re ready,” the colonel said, and Rosalyn agreed by nodding her head.

  With a great show of how terribly put out he was, the parson lifted the book eye high, but paused. “You know, this is easier for me with a pint,” he suggested hopefully.

  “After the ceremony,” the colonel said, and the hunting party stifled their laughter.

  “Very well,” the parson answered, resigned to his fate. He addressed Rosalyn, “Do you—?”

  He stopped, stumped…and she realized he didn’t know her name. “Rosalyn Clarice Wellborne.”

  “Yes, Rosalyn Clarice Wellborne, take this man—” He paused.

  “Colin Thomas Mandland,” the colonel supplied.

  One of the hunters said in surprise, “Mandland? The war hero? I say, Harry, isn’t Mandland the one Wellington was talking about last Wednesday—?”

  The colonel shut the man up with a glare. He turned to the parson, took the book out of the drunk’s hands, and, with a snap, he faced Rosalyn. “This is not how I imagined it.”

  “Me either,” she agreed with relief and a bit of disappointment, too. They weren’t going to get married. She started to move away, but he didn’t release his hold. Instead, he laced his fingers in hers.

  Looking directly in her eyes, the colonel said, “Repeat after me. I, Rosalyn Clarice Wellborne.”

  She hesitated. His gaze held hers, and she realized he was most serious. Slowly, she said, “I, Rosalyn Clarice Wellborne.”

  “Take you, Colin Thomas Mandland, for my lawfully wedded husband.”

  Oh dear. “Take you, Colin Thomas Mandland, for my lawfully wedded husband.”

  “In sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer.”

  These words were easy to say. “In sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer.”

  “To honor and obey.” She couldn’t stop the smile as she said, “To honor.” She dared him to ask more.

  He didn’t. In fact, there was a glimmer of respect in his eye as he continued, “Until death we do part.”

  “Until death we do part,” she repeated.

  He set the book aside on a table so he could take both her hands in his. “I, Colin Thomas Mandland, take you, Rosalyn Clarice, to be my wife. I will give you my name and my protection. I will honor and cherish you all the days of my life—until death we do part.”

  He sealed his troth with a kiss so quick that Rosalyn didn’t have time to react. Lord Galen led the hunters in applause.

  “There, it’s done,” the parson said, rubbing his hands together and practically stepping between them. “That’s three guineas and a pint.”

  “Not until the witnesses have signed a document of some sort,” the colonel answered.

  In short order, a certificate was found behind the pub’s counter. It was grease stained but legal enough once all names were signed.

  Rosalyn moved as if she were in a dream. She was married—and not just married to anyone, but to a man whom others knew as a war hero. Wellington spoke of him. He was a man who would be sitting in the House of Commons. A man who had in the space of a minute given her his name and his prestige.

  A man who had left out the promise to “love” in his marriage vow and had not asked it of her.

  So great was her disappointment that she could not smile. Before she realized what was happening, the colonel had taken her arm and, amongst the well-wishes of the hunters and the innkeeper and his wife, directed her up the stairs and to a room at the end of the hall.

  He had a key in his hand, and he opened the door to a good-sized room. The window was open to let in fresh air. The sky was blue, birds were singing, and all she could see was the ancient four-poster bed dominating the middle of the chamber.

  Rosalyn’s feet turned to lodestones. Perhaps marriage wasn’t such a good idea after all. But before she could protest, Colonel Mandland swept her up into his arms and carried her into the room.

  Chapter Ten

  Rosalyn stiffened like a board in his arms, and Colin knew he was going to have trouble coaxing her into consummating the marriage. All through the ceremony, he’d half expected her to either bolt or pass out.

  She hadn’t done either—yet.

  He kicked shut the door, and they were alone. She stared up at him with eyes that threatened to swallow her face. She still wore that ridiculous bonnet, the brim hopelessly misshapened, and he had the urge to kiss her properly. Not the peck before strangers that he’d given her downstairs after they’d exchanged vows but the full, demanding kiss of a man who wanted to make love to her.

  And he did want to make love to her. He was surprised by how much. His weariness evaporated at the thought of it.

  This was his wife. Someplace, deep inside him, a hardness that had carried him through life until now softened at the word wife.

  He’d never thought he needed one. Funny, the twists life took, and he wanted to kiss her until she stopped being so foolishly defiant and realized this was an amazing moment in their lives.

  He also knew ravaging her was the one thing she feared he was about to do.

  So, he couldn’t.

  He wanted his Rosalyn willing, and he hadn’t lied when he’d bragged that he’d never forced a woman. He also believed that he could bring her around—eventually.

  Colin walked to the bed and tossed her on it. The ropes providing the foundation for the mattress were a bit loose and swayed gently back and forth. True to what he had anticipated, Rosalyn rolled off the other side of the bed and onto her feet. Her silly bonnet fell over her face, and she pushed it back.

  “What do you think you are doing?” she said, indignation covering every single word.

  “Carrying my wife over the threshold of a new life,” he replied. Her face was pale, and her fists were doubled. Colin sighed. Why did he have to have married a strong-willed woman?

  “It’s tradition,” he said. “Perhaps not in your family, but it is in mine.” He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on a chair in front of a small desk. No fire had been set for the hearth, which was fine. He’d keep Rosalyn warm, and there was a hooked rug on the floor to ward away chill.

  “You see,” he explained, “in the old days of the North country, there was such a thing as marriage by capture. If a man liked a woman or coveted her lands—or her sheep, mustn’t forget her sheep—he would kidnap her.”

  “I was not kidnapped,” she informed him coolly.

  “No, you weren’t,” he agreed, tugging the knot in his neck cloth. “I’m just telling you the history.” He pulled his neck cloth free. It felt good to open his shirt. He placed his hands on his hips to finish telling his story.

  “Occasionally a bride, understandably, did not want to be captured and therefore refused to go peacefully with her bridegroom. She knew if she went into his house, all was lost. So, unfortunately, more than one bridegroom had to drag his wife across the threshold. Being men, it took awhile to r
ealize it was easier just to pick her up and carry her across, and that is how the tradition was born.”

  He sat down in the chair and started to pull off his boots.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded suspiciously.

  “Getting ready for bed,” he said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to do.

  She backed away into a far corner. “Our marriage is one of convenience only.”

  “Yes, with sex,” he agreed amiably, knowing what havoc such a bald statement would have on her.

  Her eyes widened to the size of saucers. “I don’t want to share a bed with you.”

  There, she’d finally said it. He’d expected it. One thing about Rosalyn, she could be predictable. But Colin found himself wondering why she resisted his bedding her. They were attracted to each other. Even now, he could almost see her heart pounding against her chest, and the air between them was filled with the sort of tension that made for great sex.

  Oh yes, she was aware of him as a man, and he certainly knew she was a woman.

  He decided to ignore her declaration. He dropped one boot to the floor and started to pull off the other, saying, “There is another reason a man carries a woman over the threshold. It’s a tale my mother used to tell. She wasn’t a very educated woman. When my father met her, she worked in the dairy.” He stopped, suddenly seeing his mother as if he’d conjured her presence out of thin air.

  “My mother had the strongest, most capable hands I’ve ever known,” he continued softly. “She could do anything with her hands and worked alongside my father.” The scent of tanning leather and the grease used to make it supple permeated the senses of his mind. It mingled with memories of the meat pies she made every other day. How strange to be thinking of that now, and yet he could not stop himself.

  “Her voice was soft,” he told Rosalyn, “with a lilting Yorkshire accent. When she sang, which she did all the time, it was the loveliest, most melodic sound on earth.” He grinned. “Matt inherited her talent…but I still got a piece of her. I enjoy music. I’m not good,” he admitted candidly. “Can’t carry a tune, but it is as if a bit of my mother’s spirit can be found in a song.”