by Allison Lane
She wrenched her mind from the past. Rafe had not betrayed her. Charm made him dangerous, but only time would tell whether he used it to promote dishonor as Alex had done. So far, it had only promoted the plan she’d stupidly accepted.
He’d charmed the clerk into issuing a special license even though they’d arrived at closing time. Then he’d hustled her down the street, where he’d played the ardent lover for the rector’s benefit. The man had been beaming when they left.
She’d been too surprised to protest. Not until Rafe whisked her into this hotel had she caught her breath enough to fear that Rafe, like Alex, used charm to glide through life with minimal discomfort. There was a reason why the law required waiting periods before marriage and why only the Archbishop of Canterbury could grant an exemption to that rule. Marriage was forever, so both parties needed clear heads. If they hadn’t been so near his office…
“Drunken foolishness,” she murmured, crumbling bread onto her plate.
“Did you say something?” he asked.
She shook her head – gingerly.
“What will you wear to the bank if you don’t retrieve your trunk?” He remained stuck on her wardrobe. “You can hardly call on your trustees dressed like that – not if you expect them to take you seriously.”
She glanced at her gown. She’d done her best to smooth snags and repair rips, but it remained ragged. “I will have to take that chance. You don’t know my uncle.”
“No. But I do know bankers. Tomorrow’s first call must be on a dressmaker. Mademoiselle Jeanette is the best. With luck she will have something made up that can be fitted for immediate use. You can’t arrive at the bank dressed like a beggar.”
Stubbornness glared from his eyes, but he was right. She knew better than to offer men an excuse to dismiss her. Even those who knew she was conducting legitimate business often ignored her. Men scorned any female who ventured beyond the drawing room, so she would need every weapon at her disposal tomorrow, including a well-cut, dignified gown.
“Very well, but that means rising at first light.”
He flinched, but returned his eyes to his dinner.
Raucous laughter erupted from a boisterous group in the corner. Four men sprawled in repletion. Their companion drained a tankard of ale, then slapped his thigh when his next comment drew more guffaws. They looked like poor merchants rather than gentlemen. It was a shock to realize that they fit the dining room quite well. She’d paid it little heed earlier, but shabby was the kindest description. Stains marred the wallcoverings. Mends dotted the tablecloths. The chairs were sturdy rather than stylish, and most needed refinishing. This was not a hotel that catered to society.
Helen dropped her head, unwilling to draw attention by staring at the other diners.
Rafe sighed. “I hope Jeanette can dress you quickly. If she has nothing made up—”
“All dressmakers keep mourning gowns on hand.” She shrugged.
“I thought your father—”
“True. Mourning is past for him, but my mother died last month.”
He eyed her gown, provoking a new blush.
“My uncle demanded that I wear yellow today.” Which should have put her on guard, but she’d been too immersed in her own plans to notice – a mistake that might cost her dearly. “I will switch to half-mourning in deference to our marriage, but black will do for tomorrow.”
“Of course. It might even aid you with the trustees.” His eyes gleamed.
His lack of questions seemed curious. He should be demanding details of her estate and trust. Gentlemen expected good dowries. Such silence raised alarms.
She quelled her sudden panic, for he was no fortune hunter. There was no way he could know about her inheritance, which was why she’d accepted him. The existence of a trust would seem routine since unmarried ladies could not own property. He knew she had an estate, so it must be in trust. He had no reason to expect more.
Her father had long feared that she would fall prey to a fortune hunter who would incarcerate or even kill her once he controlled her inheritance. Steven wasn’t the first to covet Audley and all that went with it. A dozen others had sniffed at her heels over the years. Even a sordid reputation did not deter the desperate. Her father’s fears had mushroomed as his death approached, prompting frequent warnings about men like Steven, who had married wealth, then locked his wife in an asylum the moment she produced a son.
Helen knew of worse examples. Her closest friend had been swept off her feet by a fortune hunter, accepting his protestations of love as genuine. But a month after their hurried wedding, Clara had fatally fallen from a cliff – despite that she hated walking and never went out alone. Charles had sworn through his tears that it had to have been an accident, for Clara would never have taken her own life. His insistence might fool the magistrate, who had done everything possible to cover her suicide, but Helen knew it had been murder. Barely a fortnight later Charles had wed a dowerless childhood playmate, who gave birth to an eight-pound boy five months afterward – a scant seven months after he’d met Clara.
Nightmares had stalked her ever since – terrifying dreams in which greedy hands threw her over cliffs, shoved her into burning buildings, held her under icy water…
At least she needn’t fear murder with Rafe. Ignorant of her fortune, he had wed her solely from chivalry. I’ll protect you, he’d vowed as they’d entered the church. Your uncle can’t touch you now. It was a heartwarming thought. She’d been in charge for so long, with no one she could rely on to—
“Are you finished?” he asked, again interrupting her thoughts.
She nodded. Did he intend to spend the night here? He’d murmured instructions to the porter on the way in. Perhaps his rooms disallowed women.
The thought reminded her how little she knew of the world beyond Somerset. Though she’d lived in London as a child, the memories were hazy. Her mother’s instructions for her aborted come-out had focused solely on the Marriage Mart and had described gentlemen only in terms of matrimonial prospects. Their lives remained a mystery. But greed was not the only trait she should fear. Some men were cold. Others brutal. A neighbor had reduced his wife to quivering silence by flaunting every mistress in her face while belittling her own charms to all and sundry.
She studied her enigma of a husband. Dishevelment stripped away his suave elegance, revealing a man who might prove dangerous if thwarted. For the first time, she wondered how he had gotten that scar. In lamplight, it gleamed brighter than ever. It might be too late for second thoughts, but that did little to steady her.
Rafe steered her toward the street. “My carriage should be waiting.”
Carriage? But her voice wouldn’t work. His touch was making her dizzy. His silvery eyes held an unmistakable spark – Alex had sported that same look on occasion. This was her wedding night. Rafe would expect her to—
Of course, he will, snapped her conscience. Single-minded drunkards. The goal hasn’t changed. If he hadn’t recognized your innocence, he’d have taken you in the street. Just be glad he married you first.
Her panic redoubled. If all he wanted was coupling, what hope did this union have? He would tire of her by the time he was sober. And when he discovered her reputation…
“Are you all right?” asked Rafe, sliding an arm around her shoulders.
“Tired. It’s been a long day.” Suppressing panic turned her voice wooden.
“Of course, it has. But you can rest soon. Here. The fog is moving in.”
He pulled a man’s cloak from a plain black carriage and wrapped it around her. Its satin lining brushed softly against her skin.
Rafe settled her inside. Before she realized his intentions, he’d tucked her firmly against him, cradling her head in the hollow of his neck.
“Relax, sweetheart,” he murmured. “We’ll be home soon.”
She wanted to ask where home was but knew her voice would shake. At least he attributed her tremors to cold, giving her time to exert control over
her growing panic. She had walked willingly into marriage. Balking now could cause only trouble.
The coach bucked as a wheel hit a broken cobblestone, stabbing new waves of pain through her head. She bit back a moan.
Rafe’s arm tightened.
Fainting was not an option. He had wed her to bed her. Denying him his rights, however inadvertently, could prove dangerous when he was drunk. But she could manage. Unlike Dudley, Rafe’s touch raised desire. And even if he wanted nothing more, there was no reason to vilify his motives. Hers were no better. Against all sense, she had wed a perfect stranger to obtain protection against Steven’s scheming and Dudley’s lust. She could only pray that they could form an amicable partnership come morning.
To restore her receptiveness, she recalled the moment when Rafe had swept her into his arms. His kiss had stirred feelings she’d not experienced in four years. His tongue had darted into her mouth, exploring more boldly than Alex had dared.
Warmth swirled into her womb as if he’d again caressed her breast. She could almost feel his erection pressing—
Very good. Just keep your heart intact. It’s the only way to survive the next betrayal. You know there will be one. Men care for little beyond their own desires. Remember Alex’s lies…
She nodded. Duty demanded that she accept whatever intimacy Rafe wanted. But while a marriage of convenience was a time-honored tradition that often led to love, she must not expect miracles.
Men were notorious for ignoring consequences when pursuing their desires and for abandoning old interests when a new diversion appeared. Alex wasn’t the only man who had betrayed her. Her father had vowed to protect her, yet Steven had circumvented his arrangements in less than a week. Her trustees had sworn to uphold her father’s wishes, yet they had leaped at the chance to remove Audley from female control. And despite being her guardian, Lord Alquist had not written once since her father’s death, even ignoring her plea for help. So she could not count on Rafe for more than he’d already given. By morning, he might despise her.
Or she might despise him. Why had he offered for a stranger? Even oceans of brandy shouldn’t wash away his duty to the title that would one day be his. Duty was ingrained from birth. Yet he’d offered, knowing nothing beyond her claimed breeding, which was considerably below his.
“We’re home,” Rafe murmured.
“Right.” Heart pounding, she patted the handkerchief she’d pinned into a cap. What would his staff think? The irregularity of this match would raise eyebrows even among the servants. Thank heaven he had provided a cloak. It lent her some semblance of propriety.
But her spirits tumbled when she emerged in front of a shabby rooming house. He was penniless! Dear Lord. What had she walked into? She hadn’t thought him a fortune hunter, but to a man with nothing, even the most marginal estate could beckon. Knowing that Steven was scheming for hers told him it was beyond marginal. Rafe would expect to own it outright now that they were wed. What would he do when he learned the truth?
Dizziness engulfed her. If only she could escape this nightmare…
* * * *
Rafe inhaled, then let the air out slowly as he helped Helen from the carriage.
Married.
The reality had yet to set in.
The details were lost in the wine fogging his mind, but the license in his pocket was real enough. He had no idea whom the rector had found to act as witnesses, but everything had been done according to law, so the marriage was now immutable fact.
Not until Helen had stumbled on the church steps had he thought beyond the ceremony. Despite hurried repairs, she still resembled the street prostitute he’d first thought her. And if she hadn’t had that thread—
Leave it to a female to retain her reticule while fleeing for her life. He nearly chuckled. But it was good that she had. Without needle and thread, the rents in her gown would have drawn unwanted attention. She’d also applied more of that enchanting perfume. He could hardly wait to reach a bed and—
He dragged his mind onto more prosaic matters.
If they’d ridden directly to his rooms, they would have met society denizens returning from the fashionable hour in Hyde Park – not the ideal way to announce their marriage.
Stopping for dinner had given him time to summon his carriage and had allowed society to disperse to evening entertainments, clearing the streets. Not that it guaranteed secrecy, he admitted as Mitcham emerged three doors down.
Rafe hustled Helen inside, praying they hadn’t been spotted. Rumors that he’d brought a light-skirt home would make the inevitable scandal even worse. His reputation didn’t need embellishing.
Which raised another problem. He had to warn Helen about the betrothal announcement.
She already had too many grievances – his assault on a public street, his insistence on marriage when she was too terrified to refuse, casting up his accounts… She must despise him, so how could he admit that the protection he’d promised her was meant to protect himself? He should never have embroiled an innocent in his war with Hillcrest.
But the deed was done. Easing her obvious nerves was tonight’s concern. Tomorrow they must come to terms about the future. For better or worse, she was his. But it would be all right. Her easy agreement to his arrangements promised congeniality, unlike the constant warfare his parents had endured.
“Where are we?” she murmured as they mounted the second flight of steep, grimy steps.
“Maddox Street. My rooms are on the top floor.”
Her foot slipped on a worn tread.
He bit back a curse. This was hardly a suitable place for a well-bred bride.
Keeping rooms on Maddox Street was as deceitful as the rest of his life. For most of its inhabitants, Maddox Street provided temporary shelter as their fortunes waxed or waned. Rafe was one of the few who stayed. He didn’t belong here, but then he didn’t really belong anywhere.
Ten years ago a top floor suite on Maddox Street had been all he could afford. Though a hand of cards with Portland had changed that, he’d kept these rooms. Now they were yet one more deceit atop the reputation he didn’t deserve, the political aspirations he’d kept hidden, the wealth few knew he commanded. He should have moved out the day he’d come of age.
There had been little incentive, though. Where would he go?
He would never be satisfied with the life of idle pleasure enjoyed by other heirs to titles. And though he liked dabbling in finance, he would never be as astute as his man of business. Now he’d jumped into marriage with both feet, then done everything possible to disgust his wife.
“We’ll find better quarters tomorrow,” he promised.
She nodded.
It was only fair. His rooms were small and sparsely furnished – he spent little time here, often sleeping at the house he kept for his mistresses. With only one bed, he couldn’t even offer Helen her own space. His staff consisted of a valet, secretary, and footman, but the secretary occupied rooms elsewhere.
Barnes must look for a town house tomorrow. Maybe Priestley’s place. Rumors claimed Priestley was rolled up and would have to rusticate for the foreseeable future. He might welcome an offer.
But Rafe’s immediate concern was his wedding night. Desire had been building from the moment they had met. Even embarrassment hadn’t dimmed it. Anticipation had made dinner stretch interminably. Now that he could have her, his loins strained for action.
He must break her in carefully, though, nurturing her passion so she experienced all the pleasure he could give. He prayed that his control was up to the task.
* * * *
Helen’s head pounded by the time they reached the top floor. She need spend only one night here, thank heaven. Once she dealt with her trustees, they could move to her town house.
Her father had let it since buying Audley, so she had no idea what condition it was in, but it had to be better than this. Chunks of plaster had fallen from the ceiling. Wall cracks were wide enough to see through. Several treads we
re so worn that she had to fight for balance. How a drunkard could live here without breaking his neck—
She bumped into Rafe when he stopped before a door. Her mother had once claimed that she thought too much, which seemed to be true. Her best course was to concentrate on the moment and let tomorrow take care of itself.
“We’re here,” he announced, urging her through the door. Two servants stood inside. “Helen, my footman, Paul, and my valet, Jameson. My wife, Helen Thomas.”
She murmured greetings, but inside she quailed. No housekeeper. No maid.
One glance at the furnishings confirmed that this was, indeed, his entire staff. No one of means presented a shabby face to the world, thus Rafe must be destitute. The door opened directly into a sitting room containing only half a dozen chairs and a small chest. To her right was a dining room, to the left a bedroom. That appeared to be it.
Tomorrow’s meeting with the trustees would be trickier than she’d feared. Lust for wealth could drive men mad – witness Steven. Rafe would be irritated enough to learn that Audley would remain under her control. Few men would stand for a wife who controlled the purse strings as well. So she must hide the full extent of her fortune until she knew Rafe better. Building the sort of partnership her parents had enjoyed would take time. Introducing contention too soon might doom the process.
He dismissed his servants and escorted her to the bedroom. “I will have to maid you tonight,” he announced calmly.
“If you could undo the ties…” Her voice trailed off, for the mere thought of his hands on her back made her dizzy, which was good. A willing wife might mitigate his fury when he discovered the terms of her trust.
His hands moved seductively, with nary a fumble as he dealt with hidden pins and ties. Unlacing her stays, he teased beneath the edge of her shift. Heat flowed from the contact, flushing her face and building a fire in the pit of her stomach.
“That should do it.” His voice had deepened. “I will be back shortly.”
