“Speak clearly, man. What are you saying, exactly?” Bradford’s countenance settled into sharply hewn angles. Though not easily riled, his patience appeared at an end.
The cleric gulped and sucked in a large breath. “Simply put, the contract states that Viscount Kingsley will join with the Lady Victoria Southwark within one week of Parliament’s recessing.”
Chapter Seven
“Preposterous and unenforceable.”
Bradford shook his head and flipped open the jewelry box. He removed the garnet circled in seed pearls and held it up. The crimson jewel glittered in the candlelight, a vivid flash of hope amongst darkness and despair. “I mean to marry Philomena.”
“But, my lord—”
“Nothing this side of the Good Lord descending from heaven and trussing me like a turkey will stop me.” Undeterred, he slid the ring onto her slender finger. “And even then, He and I would have a fierce go round.”
“Blasphemous.” Reverend Archer sputtered, shaking his finger at Bradford. “You should do penance for such profane irreverence.”
“Nonsense. I have no intention of martyring myself by marrying a chit I’ve never met to preserve family honor I didn’t taint.”
Uncle Herbert could bugger on in his grave, and Southwark could work his wiles somewhere else. No erroneous sense of duty compelled Bradford to toddle down the aisle with an insipid stranger. Not now that his beloved Phil had been returned to him.
“It’s quite exquisite.” Philomena fingered the slightly loose ring, wonder and disbelief, wreathing her face.
He’d been drowning in similar sentiment since discovering she lived and wasn’t about to let her escape him this time.
Another emotion lingered on her features as well. He looked closely. Yes, there about her eyes. Discomfit? Uncertainty? About what?
Women of Philomena’s ilk were rare and irreplaceable, and she was so entangled in his being that, for the first time in a great while, he felt whole once more. Marry her first, then worry how they’d get on, for if he lost her again, he’d become a shell of a man with nothing to live for.
Besides, they loved each other, and this past week and a half had been the happiest he’d experienced in the past seven years. Everything about her fascinated and enthralled him, and he held no doubts that his love for her would only grow.
“It belonged to my mother, Bradford and Olivia’s grandmother. She was a Prussian princess, you know.” A faraway look entered Aunt Muriel’s eyes. “Now that’s a lovely story. Father rode his stallion right into church, swept her onto the saddle, and kissing her passionately, galloped away. The gossip was deliciously scandalous.”
“I’d like to know how Grandpapa managed the kiss, the horse’s reins, and the pews all at once. Some feat, that. Were his eyes closed? I always kiss with my eyes closed.” Bradford’s quip earned him a dark look.
“Do shut-up, Bradford.” Aunt Muriel motioned toward the ring, the tiniest hint of censure pulling her mouth downward. “Daventry’s bride wanted something more modern—to the tune of five hundred pounds more—my Isobel was gifted a familial ring from her husband, and Olivia has her mother’s ring, one similar to the garnet.” Vulnerability bathed her expression for an instant. “I understand if you prefer your own, but I thought for today’s ceremony ...”
Now cancelled for lack of a clergyman.
Caressing the ring, Philomena shook her head. “Your Grace ...”
“Pooh, none of that nonsense.” Aunt Muriel flapped her hand as if trying to swat a pigeon-sized fly. “We’re to be family. Aunt Muriel, please.”
“Aunt Muriel.” Philomena’s pretty mouth bent upward. “I am honored beyond measure you would gift me with something so precious.”
Aunt Muriel beamed and tutted a bit, before surreptitiously patting the corner of her eye.
Philomena compassionate gaze met Bradford’s.
No, by God, nothing and no one had better attempt to keep him from taking this thoughtful, enchanting woman to wife.
“Sir, perhaps you should view the agreement?” Archer shifted from foot to foot, not quite daring to meet his eyes.
Hand on his hips, Bradford curled his lips contemptuously. “My uncle may have thought himself clever, but that contract is worthless and will not stand legal examination. No one with a modicum of common sense would expect me to honor it.”
“Hence why that lackwit, Southwark, thinks you will.” Aunt Muriel ran ringed fingers over the drowsy cat, now sprawled on his back, purring. “The man’s not given to common sense.”
“That may be, sir, but I cannot, in good conscience, perform the ceremony.” The cleric half-turned to the door, reminding Bradford of a cockroach scuttling back to its hidey-hole. “You may encounter difficulty in finding someone to marry you until you clarify you are not already betrothed, my lord.”
“Humph, sounds suspiciously like a threat to me, you little weasel. Southwark probably greased a scoundrel’s fist to spy on my nephew and follow him around with orders to report back when Bradford saw the archbishop.” Aunt Muriel stomped to the cowering parson, giving him a crushing glare.
“Is that why I just happened to run into you, Reverend?” Bradford stepped forward a pair of paces, threateningly. Would he burn in hell for shaking a man of God until his teeth clacked?
“Isn’t Southwark part of your congregation? Which did he do?” Aunt Muriel prodded the man of God’s chest none-too-gently. “Bribe you to not perform the ceremony, or threatened to take his patronage elsewhere, you grasping little toad-eater?”
Archer, quailing under her scowl, recoiled as if shot and bumped into the bed.
Lord, but Bradford admired his spirited aunt.
Socrates flopped onto his stomach and, letting loose a reproachful yowl, swatted the reverend’s back end. Archer howled and jumped, grabbing his injured buttock.
Bradford chuckled.
Liked his sister's damn cat, too.
“Undoubtedly he did both, the wretch. Probably hovered about like a bat waiting for Bradford to approach his eminence.” Philomena regarded the cleric with the same favor she would a piece of moldy fruit. “Despicable behavior from a man of the cloth.”
“How do you live with yourself? As a representative of God’s house, you should be above such unscrupulousness.” Reprove curled Olivia’s mouth and narrowed her gaze.
The color drained from Reverend Archer’s face, and he swiped a hand across his beaded brow. With a show of bravado, he thrust his scrawny chest out and lifted his nose. “I am a servant of God, and I resent your scurrilous accusations.”
“Scurrilous? Surprised he even knows the word,” Giles mumbled, cracking his eyelids open for an instant. “How about charlatan and fraud? Pharisee?”
Archer pursed his thin lips, giving Giles a haughty look. “Have a care, sir. You should be asking for absolution, not tossing names at God’s appointed servant.” He turned his disapproving, bug-eyed scrutiny on Philomena. “The Church takes a dim view of hasty marriages. Perhaps, if you spent more time on your knees in prayer rather than aspiring to a station above you and making plans to gallivant off on a honeymoon when your brother lies dying—”
“Rubbish and rot!” Aunt Muriel claimed the cleric’s elbow and hauled him to the door. With a less then gentle shove, she thrust him over the threshold.
Damn good thing she’d reached Archer before Bradford did. He itched to break the cleric’s bulbous nose or ring his skinny neck.
Philomena canted her head, her gaze shooting green daggers. “And what is the Church’s view on corrupt, immoral clerics?”
“Mayfield.” Aunt Muriel bellowed for the butler. “I’m clearing the premises of vermin. Show Reverend Archer the door.” Before the majordomo arrived, she slammed the door in Archer’s flabbergasted face then swung round to face the others. “I know a rat when I smell one.”
“What now?” Philomena folded her arms and thrummed the fingertips of one hand on her arm. Not precisely fretful, but not unaffect
ed either. Truthfully, she appeared quite agitated.
Aunt Muriel waggled her eyebrows and rubbed her hands together gleefully. “It’s very simple. Bradford cries off.”
“I do?” Understanding dawned. “Indeed. I do!”
His long gait carried him across the room to his grinning aunt. Giving her an exuberant hug, he laughed in delight. “Oh, the scandal! The cut directs. The on dit. Marvelous. We’ll be ostracized. I can retire to the country and retain someone respectable to sit in my place in Parliament. What a fortuitous development.”
“Bradford’s not overly found of the beau monde set.” Aunt Muriel’s droll observation earned her another embrace.
“He rather likes to stir the waters, if you take my meaning.” Olivia’s eyes danced with amusement. “At times, it proves most offputting, and I wonder that I call him brother at all.”
“Don’t try to frighten my bride away with your flimflam.” Striding to Philomena, he extended his hands. “I’ve never hidden my disdain for those affecting superior airs.”
“I remember.” At once, she gracefully rose and grasped his fingers.
Nevertheless, he detected the merest hint of reticence amid the eyes gazing so trustingly back at him. What went on in her head? She had always been one to speak her mind before. But then, she’d suffered greatly, still did for her brother, and misery altered a person. He knew that full well. “Tell me, darling, would you be terribly put out with me if we didn’t remain in London?”
A beatific smile swept her features, her nose crinkling adorably in more enthusiasm than he’d seen since their reunion. “Not at all. I’m more suited to country life, in truth. I’ve seen as many fops, dandies, coxcombs, and supposed ladies acting the part of light skirts than I care to in a lifetime.”
“There is still the matter of marriage. If the reverend spoke true, and I believe he did, Southwark has likely made the rounds and intimidated all the clerics who are malleable.” Giles tiredly rubbed his beard-stubbled jaw. “We are new to Town as well, and I haven’t any idea whom to approach.”
“You could elope to Scotland.” Shrugging, Olivia gave a tight, apologetic smile. “If all else fails, that is.”
“But that means leaving Giles.” Philomena sank onto her brother’s bed, and after giving him a falsely cheerful smile, clasped his hand. Her expression took on a stubborn set.
There’s the old Philomena.
“I cannot go to Scotland, Bradford. I’m sorry.”
“Of course we won’t. It shall not come to that.” Giving a sage nod, he drew his brows together in concentration and paced beside the bed, rubbing his chin. He swiveled in his aunt’s direction. “Surely there is an honest cleric in all of London. If not, then a neighboring town.”
“I have it.” Aunt Muriel snapped her fingers, her expression exuberant. “I know a new vicar ... Alexander Hawksworth. He’s the rector of a large parish outside London. Knew his father and mother. Much too handsome for a man of the cloth. His church pews don’t stand empty on Sunday mornings, I can tell you. Though, how the man can preach over the tittering, whispering, and indelicate display of bosoms, I’ll never know.”
Philomena cast Giles a troubled look. His grayish skin and hollow cheeks bespoke a man not long for this world. She exchanged a pained glance with Bradford.
When her brother passed, she would grieve profoundly. They’d be making arrangements for a different type of service in the near future unless God intervened and performed a miracle. Why did this decent man have to suffer an early death while lickspittles like Underhill went about their merry, depraved lives?
Knowing someone you loved would soon die was excruciating. Bradford had gone through this very thing with Father, yet, at least his sire had lived a goodly number of years. If only Bradford could spare her this anguish.
“Do you think he would be willing to perform the ceremony, Your Grace?” Toying with the ends of her hair, Philomena hid a yawn behind her hand. The slight slump of her shoulders and faint bluish shadows beneath her eyes revealed her exhaustion, no doubt the result of sleepless nights.
“Indeed.” Aunt Muriel delivered a shrewd smile and secured her fringed shawl more firmly. “He and my son were wont to get into all manner of mischief together at university. Hawksworth isn’t cut from the typical cleric’s cloth. When his Anglican priest uncle hied off to Gretna Green with a French nun, Hawksworth was expected to fill his uncle’s shoes. He did so, rather reluctantly, I might add. I would wager my favorite Maid of Honor tarts, Hawksworth would jump at the chance.”
Olivia made for the door. “Well then, Aunt, let’s see about penning him a letter. He sounds like such a fascinating fellow. I want to ask Allen if Reverend Hawksworth might officiate at our wedding too.”
“How soon can he come?” Giles’s hoarse question immediately sobered the atmosphere. Socrates chose that moment to crawl onto his chest and gently bat Giles’s face. “Seems even this portly feline worries for me.”
Touching her chin, Aunt Muriel pondered for a moment. “If I send the letter with a trusted footman immediately, perhaps tomorrow afternoon? I’m sorry, Mr. Pomfrett, but I cannot be positive Hawksworth will be in residence or able to leave at once. I will make certain he’s made aware of the urgency of the situation, however. I can also send word about Town that I seek him. He may be frequenting one of the gentlemen clubs, and I believe he’s particularly fond of the theater.”
“I’d be very grateful, Your Grace. I worry that I may experience another episode and fall insensate again.” Giles turned his head in Philomena’s direction. “Promise me, Phil, if I do, you will proceed with the marriage.”
Shutting her eyes, Philomena nodded, but her lashes trembled against her cheeks. Poor darling. This ugliness had taken quite a toll on her. He couldn’t help but think rushing into matrimony added more strain, even if they were in love.
“A moment, Aunt Muriel, if you please.” Bradford cupped his nape, and pulled in a hefty expanse of air. “I hesitate to bring this up now, but I want to know, and I’m sure Philomena and Giles would as well.”
“What is it, dear?” Aunt Muriel peered up at him, her expression open and inviting. She’d always been like that, never one to shy from the truth.
“Do you know why my uncle held the Pomfretts in such contempt? He was a self-seeking crotchety boor to all but an elite few, but his animosity toward them seemed beyond his normal spitefulness.” He clasped Philomena’s hand, needing to touch her, to reaffirm she was truly going to be his wife at long last.
Consternation swept his aunt’s features as she slowly nodded. “It’s an age old tale of thwarted love. He had a tendre for Mary Pomfrett, and when she publically chose a lowly vicar over him, well, it turned Herbert—always privileged and spoiled—into a bitter man.”
“So rancorous he would deliberately set a fire to keep me from marrying Philomena? One that killed her parents and scarred her?” Bradford shook his head, unable to procure a speck of empathy or pity for the old viscount’s plight. “Pray God forgave his acrimonious soul, for I shan’t.”
“Yes, even I struggle to believe he stooped to such unsavory methods.” She opened the door, Olivia right behind her. “Don’t bother to dress for dinner. Philomena, do you intend to join us, or would you prefer a tray in here?”
“A tray, I think, if you do not object.” Regarding her brother as he lay sleeping, Philomena’s usually smooth brow furrowed. “I’ll help feed Giles, too. Would you send Robins to sit with him for a spell first, though?”
While the maid monitored Giles, Bradford and Philomena had strolled in the quaint courtyard together every afternoon since her arrival, spending a pleasant half an hour reminiscing and renewing their friendship. He’d been hard-pressed to refrain from sweeping her into his arms and kissing her breathless each time, except that instinct warned she needed time to adjust.
“Certainly, my dear. I’ll send her at once with fresh linens, too. Come along, Olivia. We’ve much to plan for your nuptials.
I was pondering the menu for the wedding breakfast and ...” Sweeping from the room in a flurry of skirts, she continued to issue orders until the women were out of earshot.
Philomena stood and, after stretching her arms overhead, petted the cat whose contented rumbles increased in volume. “Doctor Singleton should be here shortly. If you don’t mind, I should like to seek some air in the garden.”
By herself?
Her falsely merry tone didn’t fool Bradford. On the cusp of weeping, she sought privacy. Did she fear Giles wouldn’t survive until she and Bradford had wed? Didn’t she know he didn’t give a tittle what the ton thought? They would be married straightaway, even if the unthinkable occurred, if Giles died, protocol be hanged.
He scooped the cat into his arms rather than crush Philomena to his chest and banish her fears. “A grand notion. I shall accompany you.”
“There’s no need,” she demurred, her gaze cast to the floor.
Yes. By herself.
A kernel of an idea took root. “Why don’t we go to Reverend Hawksworth, with a letter of introduction from Aunt Muriel? We would be gone an hour or two at most.”
She touched a knuckle to the corner of an eye. “I ...”
Tears. Admirable, her self-control.
“I must speak with you.” Seizing his arm, she dragged him toward the open door.
Trepidation sank her talons deep. Philomena didn’t want her brother overhearing whatever she had to say. Giles didn’t stir as she towed Bradford along. Had he sunk into oblivion again or had the exhausted sleep of the ailing claimed him?
Closing the door behind them, Philomena canvassed the hallway. She clasped her hands beneath her chin and shut her eyelids, dragging in a ragged breath. Her lashes slowly eased open, her turbulent gaze a mélange of anguish and regret. “I’m not positive we should marry at all.”
Her Scandalous Wish (A Waltz with a Rogue Novella Book 3) Page 7
