Secrets of a Scandalous Bride

by Sophia Nash

  P.

  Elizabeth forced herself to address all the anxious faces surrounding her. “It’s all right. I’ve taken my decision. I think I’ve known all along what I would do.”

  They all started, and began talking.

  Ata won out. “Whatever you decide, we will follow through. Grand wedding, grand escape.”

  “I’m tired of hiding, Ata,” she murmured, her sadness escalating.

  The petite lady heaved a sigh of what appeared to be great relief. “Well, still…whatever you decide. I’m very good at planning weddings, you know. We will—”

  “Hello, Elizabeth.” The voice echoed from above them and they all glanced up. Pymm stood at the gilt railing in all his magnificent regalia, his scarlet coat encrusted with such medals, ribbons and gold braid signifying a great warrior in his prime, enjoying success at his leisure. Sunlight from a round window above scattered across him, leaving him bathed in golden light, his blond hair dazzling.

  “I require your presence now, if you please.” His voice commanded in the same odd fashion as always, cracking to a different pitch on the occasional syllable, as if he were regressing to the higher voice of his boyhood. It caused a shiver to wend its way down her spine.

  Ata’s mouth clamped shut. It was the first time Elizabeth had witnessed the dowager effectively silenced. As the group began to move to the stair, one last word floated down.

  “I would beg a private interview.”

  They all paused, discomfited by his request.

  “I beg your pardon,” the general chuckled, a smile carved from his thin lips. “I, of course, do not mean to imply that one of her friends should not accompany her. Propriety must be ensured, especially for a future duchess. Mrs. Winters?”

  “Of course, sir,” Sarah replied, her voice clear.

  Elizabeth and Sarah ascended slowly, Ata’s whispered words following them, “A tea tray shall be ordered, and…” Eliza heard no more.

  The touch of Leland Pymm’s very white gloved fingers unnerved Elizabeth as he bent over her hand before leading her beyond the frescoed gallery into the most formal drawing room of the famous residence. The Duke of Helston’s spirit emanated from every last detail in the ancient yet elegant Graeco-Roman–inspired room.

  Pymm indicated a high-backed chaise with gilt serpents supporting dark chocolate cushions. Eliza sank into the corner as the general’s determined eyes and languid hand motioned Sarah toward the front-facing windows at the other end of the long room filled with antiquities of generations of Helstons. Sarah’s eyes offered a silent apology to her friend.

  He arranged himself and the plumage of his regimentals on the same chaise, far too close for comfort.

  He began quietly. He always did. “My dearest Elizabeth,” he said, his upper lip pursed in a weak fashion. “I am impressed by your efforts, my dear. You have no idea how much I delight in a good chase.”

  “So happy I could oblige,” she said, her voice strained. She forced herself to look him full in the face. Had she ever thought him remotely handsome? Oh, he was well-enough formed. Indeed, many women following Pymm’s divisions had been attracted to the gleam of his blond hair and his blue eyes. Yes, appearance was such a deceptive quality. As she examined him now, she wondered what was beyond the smirk of his half smile.

  “What? No conversation? No more outrageous games? Hmmm. But you know how much I always liked your fire. Although I would insist that you not incense me by kissing the scum of the earth ever again.” He laughed awkwardly. “But I suspect I shall miss that playful nature of yours when we are wed.”

  “You are too fast, sir,” she whispered. “I’ve not yet given you my consent.”

  “No? I rather thought you did when you walked into this house.”

  She knew it would go better if she did not incense the beast straightaway. And so she bit her lip to keep from blurting out that the only reason she was here was that it had been obvious that he would follow and keep Sarah under his watch until Elizabeth appeared.

  She looked beyond his shoulder to see Sarah suddenly smile; her face lit by the sun streaming through a far window. Sarah drew closer to the sill, her hand resting on the deep brown velvet drapery trimmed with a Greek key pattern.

  Elizabeth fended off Leland Pymm by playing to his vanity, for his success was his favorite topic. “You are to be congratulated, sir. I understand the Prince Regent is giving an event in your honor at Carlton House, where the duchy will be conferred.”

  Pymm lifted his square jaw, and lowered his heavy eyelids slightly. “You heard correctly. And you shall have an excellent view of the proceedings for you shall be by my side, my dear. As my beautiful new—”

  The door to the drawing room opened without the preamble of a discreet knock. The man who was determined to confuse her until the end of time entered, carrying the largest tea service she had ever seen. Elizabeth half rose before she saw Leland Pymm’s hand, reaching to stop her. She dodged his touch and quickly sat back down.

  “Ah, what have we here?” Pymm asked with ill humor. “A bastard come to serve us? The same spawn who had the audacity to kiss a lady in church?”

  Rowland Manning, a white damask napkin decorating his arm, set the enormous silver tray down on the low table with expert flare and the merest bit of sloshing of the milk. Only one biscuit tumbled from the highest plate of the tiered silver stand.

  “Actually, she kissed me,” Rowland said, without even a sliver of a gentlemanly attempt to defend her behavior. “I had very little to do with it.”

  Pymm’s voice rose. “Can’t Helston do any better in the hiring of servants?”

  Rowland silently strode to the fire grate and picked up a massive winged chair as if it weighed but a feather and carried it over his head to plunk it down right beside her. He perched on the end of it like a delicate debutante.

  “Helston can, and he does,” Rowland said. “But you see, he has the damnedest old hatchet-faced crone for a grandmother, and well…who am I to say, but she seems to scare off the help in droves. Droves, I tell you.” He splashed a dollop of tea into a dish, and looked at Pymm with an innocent expression.

  An irritated shuffling noise came from beyond the door, and Elizabeth bit her lip to keep from laughing—or perhaps it was to keep from crying. Her nerves shredded, she pressed her palms together.

  Pymm cleared his throat. “I would ask you to leave us, Manning. I have something very particular I want to discuss with Miss Ashburton.”

  “Really? Let’s hear it.”

  “Confound it, man. Go away. You’re not wanted here.”

  Rowland ignored him. “Sugar, Miss Ashburton? Or let’s see. We also have honey—an unusual choice. Milk?”

  “Leave off, Manning,” Pymm warned quietly.

  “Impatient, General? Have no fear, you’re next. You can use the time by considering whether or not you would like a plain biscuit or one of these”—he sniffed the tray with disdain dripping from him—“chocolate affairs.”

  “I don’t want any blasted tea,” the general retorted.

  “Suit yourself,” Rowland replied. He then turned to look at her expectantly, the small silver milk pitcher in midair.

  “Milk, please,” she said. “No sugar.”

  “Really? No, I think you should have sugar, Miss Ashburton. I’ve not forgotten your fondness for sweets such as gingerbread, you see.” She watched his full lips form the smallest smile as he placed enough spoonfuls in her tea to make a West Indies sugar-cane plantation owner happy for a decade. He handed it to her with a gesture that was extraordinarily feminine.

  She had the hysterical urge to laugh in the face of the tension in the horrid room. The Earl of Wallace had the right of it. Rowland Manning was the greatest chameleon, mimicking the actions of a grand hostess. And yet, his eyes were like a black panther’s—in a roomful of rabbits.

  “Oh, Mrs. Winters, do join us, won’t you?” Rowland curled his little finger as he poured another cup. “My dear, I simply mus
t insist. Come, I think I can guess exactly how you take your—”

  “Enough!” Pymm roared.

  Rowland stopped pouring. “Oh…perhaps you’re right. That is a bit too much tea in the cup. Come, Mrs. Winters.”

  Sarah moved forward and accepted the tea, amusement showing in her face.

  “Oh, do let me get a chair for you.” Again Rowland crossed to the grate, only this time he paused before returning with a delicate rocking chair. “Hmmm. This will not do. General, you are going to have to sit over here since you refused tea. Mrs. Winters cannot possibly drink while seated in this sort of chair. Far too messy a business.”

  Leland Pymm’s face became contorted with a sea of fury. Waves of anger clashed with unrestrained annoyance. Yes, this was how Elizabeth remembered his face the time she had secretly spied him berating a young drummer boy who had lost his brother in an earlier battle. It was the incident that had solidified all her growing fears about the general.

  Sarah stood patiently before Leland Pymm, until with extreme exasperation, the general gave up his place on Elizabeth’s chaise.

  But while Pymm was humorless and narcissistic, he was not without tactics. He eased the anger back behind a mask, and waited until Rowland had worn himself out playing the hostess. Finally he asked, “What are you doing here, Manning? Did you not already cause enough trouble? I shall just warn you this one time, you are not to ever get within ten feet of my fiancée again or you shall answer to this.” He caressed the large ruby on the end of the hilt of his sheathed silver-and-gold dress sword.

  Rowland raised his eyebrows. “Oh pish, General. We both know that rusty thing hasn’t seen any use in the last century. But may I offer my sincerest congratulations, Mrs. Winters? General? I had no idea you were to be married. Mrs. Winters, may I offer my services as escort as you trot up the aisle toward your future happiness with the general? I’ve now acquired quite a knack for it. What?”

  Sarah’s eyes were brimming with laughter. “I’m sorry, Mr. Manning, but General Pymm has not asked me to marry him.”

  “Well, for goodness sakes, General, what are you waiting for? Mrs. Winters appears very willing.”

  Leland Pymm jumped from the absurdly feminine rocking chair, and seething, nearly tripped over his decorative sword.

  Rowland ignored his misstep and casually retrieved a plate from the tiered silver stand. “Biscuit, Miss Ashburton?”

  She shook her head, her mouth as dry as straw.

  His eyes narrowed. “No? Oh, but I must insist. I saw to the baking myself. You do know that a cook’s only pleasure is the joy others take in consuming what they have so painstakingly prepared, don’t you?” He transferred five biscuits to a small plate and forced it on her.

  He was a mind reader. Had she not had that very same thought as she had tried to force her food on him?

  “I would take a biscuit, if you please, Mr. Manning,” Sarah said. “My appetite has returned.”

  He smiled radiantly. “Why, of course, madam. Strawberry, General?”

  “Get up, Manning,” Pymm insisted, with his usual lack of wit. His voice cracked again. “I shall see to you at the front windows. Now.”

  “Oh, of course, General. I never refuse an order, as you know. You do remember that about me, don’t you?” Rowland rose slowly, dwarfing the tallish Pymm by four inches. “All those horses you ordered from me over the last few years? The ones I delivered promptly and in excellent health and trained for every possible need of your cavalry?”

  Pymm’s eyes narrowed and he rudely pointed toward the distant bank of windows, which would afford them a degree of privacy.

  Elizabeth watched the two men cross the room, and had the oddest thought. She had not failed to notice that throughout the acts of Rowland Manning’s play, he had not taken a single sip of tea or one bite of a biscuit.

  Rowland stared at the vainglorious man responsible for providing a large portion of the funds necessary through the years for the purchase and erection of the stately buildings that now dwarfed every other stable and equine auction house in England. He had always known this man was a fool—a bloody powerful fool with an inordinate amount of luck glued to his aristocratic hide. But then luck, richesse, and power had a way of riding together through select lives.

  “What are you doing here?” Pymm asked, his fury barely leashed.

  “Trying to have a word concerning payment for eight hundred twenty horses you ordered, General.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Pymm steamed.

  “Your underling, that corpulent prick, Lieutenant Tremont? He had the audacity to suggest that this contract”—he withdrew the wrinkled document from his coat—“is no longer valid.”

  “You’re here because you want payment for horses?” Pymm asked, incredulous.

  “Yes.”

  “Really? This has naught to do with my fiancée?” Doubt and a peck of unheroic uncertainty darted across his expression.

  “Have you ever known me to give a damn about a female?” Rowland asked.

  Leland Pymm barked with a grating sound that barely resembled human laughter. “Quite right.”

  Rowland hated the man more than he had at any point during their dealings.

  “Knew it was just one of her flirtatious games. She excels in boiling a man’s blood. It’s a good thing I like her tactics. Well, look. Since we’ve known each other for all these many years, and you’ve been a decent-enough sort when it comes to providing cattle when needed, I shall personally see to the payment, under one condition.”

  “Dare I guess?” Rowland lifted a brow.

  “Bastards should know their place, even if they’re rich bastards. I meant what I said about Miss Ashburton before. I don’t want your filthy hands touching any part of her—ever again. She is mine.”

  He swallowed the urge to laugh. “A bit overdone—just a tad, don’t you think, General?” He raised a brow. “But then again I suppose—”

  “You know, I’ve allowed you to overstep yourself, Manning, in private on occasion, because you’re one of the more reliable tradesmen I know. But take warning, I’ve no burning need for your horses now. If you want me to take possession of this herd of yours, I will, but only if my demands are met.”

  “All right,” Rowland murmured. “Name your requirements.”

  “The price is small. You shall keep away from Miss Ashburton. I will not have you sully her reputation or mar my wedding plans. Then, and only then, shall I accept those bloody horses I don’t need and you shall have your”—he scanned the contract and placed the paper in Manning’s outstretched hand—“seventy thousand pounds as agreed.”

  “Very good of you, General.” Rowland played into the man’s love of gratitude. “And the cost of boarding such animals for the last three months will be included.”

  Leland Pymm smiled, his thin lips stretching over his long teeth. “Of course, dear boy, of course. Oh, and by the by”—he winked with a smirk—“if you see fit to lose the Royal Ascot Gold Cup on Ladies Day, I shall make it worth your while. Shall we say a little bonus of several thousand pounds, then?”

  Pymm’s outrageousness caused not one hair to rise along Rowland’s cold body. He was far too inured to the ways of gentlemen. Indeed, he almost enjoyed watching Pymm’s presumption of victory.

  “Who knows what could happen, General?” He paused, causing Pymm to lean forward in anticipation. “But since we’re bargaining, I suppose I should mention that the bastards’ code of conduct may or may not force me to reveal to all and sundry that your bride has been serving as my personal cook until very recently.”

  Pymm lurched forward a step before Rowland’s hand stopped him. “But I am a generous man, General. I shall promise that my thirty-eight stable hands and drivers won’t breathe a word of it to all their cohorts in the great houses in town as long as I receive payment for the horses and their care for the last few months.”

  “You are a scoundrel, sir. A disgrace to gentlemen everywhere,” Pymm said
haughtily.

  “What? No invitation to duel?” Rowland said casually, fully aware the general didn’t have it in him.

  “You’re not worth it. You’ve not the slightest notion of honor.”

  Rowland smiled. “On that we’re agreed, General.” Pymm’s blustering reaction bored him to the extreme. The gentleman was just so damned predictable. Was there not a man alive who could provide the least bit of entertainment? But then, Rowland was willing to endure anything at this point to get his hands on blunt before the auctioneer appeared on his sprawling property.

  He refused to consider Elizabeth Ashburton and her bewitching green eyes, which had lost their spark when confronted by Pymm. He hated the submission he’d seen in her face—so like his sister’s expression all those years ago.

  Elizabeth had caught but a phrase or two of the conversation across the long room. She knew, without a doubt, that Rowland Manning could not save her. And actually, she didn’t really want him to. She was tired of being beholden to people. She wanted nothing more than to save herself, even if the enormity of the task appeared completely beyond the itch of a chance.

  She studied Rowland’s extraordinarily tall, powerful frame, and felt heat rise to her décolletage as she remembered how it had felt, her body molded against his. Standing there, Rowland Manning served to make Pymm look everything ridiculous, like a boy berating a man. The austere cut of Rowland’s blue superfine coat stretched across his massive shoulders, tapering down to his hips. Buff-colored breeches defined his muscled thighs, while black boots gleamed in a superior spit-and-polish high gloss. Rowland’s profile bore the marks of an aristocrat; the clean, chiseled jut of his jaw, the blade of his long nose above his full, wide lips. At one point he leaned back and smiled, his white teeth flashing against his sun-bronzed face.