by Allison Lane
“Write to Hastings. The staff should come to London so they are available to testify – they can corroborate that Barnett is a liar, for example. And tell Hastings to bring all your financial statements. It’s time to audit your accounts.”
She glared at him, though he was right. She should have demanded an audit years ago – certainly when she came of age. “Very well.”
“Good. But none of this will help unless we postpone the proceedings, and that means marriage.”
She shook her head. Before they could discuss his proposal, he had to understand that marriage was more than a weapon. “I know you were planning to fall over the cliff that day, Jack.”
He blanched. “You can’t have known—”
“Of course I knew. It would have been obvious to the most simpleminded child. If you hadn’t been so mired in melancholy, you would have realized that. So don’t think you can use marriage to defeat Barnett, then stage another accident. I won’t stand for it. If we go through with this, you had better plan to face me across the table for at least fifty years.”
He rubbed his hands over his face as he paced the floor. Time stretched. Finally he met her gaze. “All right.”
“Whatever possessed you to jump, anyway?”
“Nothing that matters now,” he said wearily, then added, “Don’t press, Marianne. There won’t be another accident.”
She frowned. Both tone and eyes seemed honest, yet she sensed that something was still wrong. But he had clearly closed the subject. And he’d promised. Jack would never break a vow.
“You have two choices,” he continued, deflecting further thought. “You can marry me tomorrow, or you can walk into that hearing on Friday with little chance of winning. Bishop’s Court has very stringent standards for annulment suits. They hate setting aside vows. And unless the bishop truly believes you are mad, Barnett has no standing, for his guardianship ends with your marriage.”
Marianne paced to the window and back. Jack’s honor was getting in the way of his sense – her fault. When she had asked him for help, she’d had no inkling that the situation would explode out of hand so quickly. But having vowed his help, he would do anything to provide it – even marry an emotionally crippled stranger. War made for strange alliances – on both their parts.
She had no wish to wed where there was clearly no love. Her parents had shared a rare communion that she had dreamed of repeating. Yet Jack was right. If she appeared in court on Friday, she would surely lose. And marriage might let her help him. If it was a good weapon against Barnett, it was an equally good weapon in her war against Jack’s melancholy. Surely as his wife, she would have a better chance to discover the cause.
But if she cured his melancholy, would he resent her? Being tied for life to so heavy a burden might give him a new reason for suicide. No one could want a wife as inept as she – lacking social graces, ignorant of all but basic manners, unable to function without clinging to his arm. How could she ask him to sacrifice everything to save her from an asylum?
He promised not to stage another accident, Hutch reminded her. This isn’t a whim for him.
Which meant they would have a lifetime together. She shivered at the thought, for Jack was the dearest man she had ever known.
That’s not saying much.
Perhaps not, but he was special. Few men would bother helping someone like her. And even fewer would go to such extremes.
Maybe he wants your inheritance, too.
Marianne nearly smiled at the absurdity. The one absolute was that Jack had no interest in her money – or even her estate. Seacliff had come with a fortune, and someone preparing to die had little use for worldly goods. But it was a question they must consider.
“Won’t marriage give Barnett a new weapon against me? He will accuse you of scheming for my fortune, then claim that my acquiescence proves that I am incompetent to manage my own affairs. A hurried marriage will cast doubts on your testimony anyway, and charges of avarice can only make that worse.”
“We can claim that the betrothal is of long standing, with the actual wedding moved up because of his abduction. And he will look foolish when he discovers that everything remains in your name. Marriage is necessary to obtain the delay we need, but I cannot deprive you of the independence you have been anticipating.”
“Wha— How? Everything goes to you if we wed. The trust was established as a dowry, terminating upon marriage. It only reverts to me if I remain unwed at twenty-five. But even an elderly spinster loses control of her possessions upon marriage.”
“True, but I can create a new trust, naming you as sole trustee and beneficiary with the right to appoint your successor. That will give you complete control.”
“It seems you have thought this out.”
He nodded. “I suspected that Barnett would take his petition to trial before your birthday. It is clear that you are not ready to face him. This is the only course that gives you more time.”
He made it sound inevitable, and perhaps it was. If only he cared for her. But she doubted that he did. Jack was a warrior. Once he embarked on a campaign, he cared only for victory and would do whatever was necessary to achieve it.
Then why did he kiss you?
Her lips tingled at the reminder. But one kiss meant nothing. He had been trying to entice her away from Halworth and had been drunk enough to think that seduction might help.
Yet the hope that he might care remained. Perhaps they could build a reasonable partnership. Friendship was a better foundation than many couples had.
She still feared that he might circumvent his promise to stay alive, but she had to consider marriage as the serious step it was – not merely a quick solution to an immediate problem, but a commitment for life. Jack would make a good husband once he banished his demons. To be worthy, she must banish her own.
Two long breaths set her mind at ease.
“Very well, Jack. I accept. But I hope you know what you are doing. Defeating Barnett in Bishop’s Court means we can never annul this match.”
“Thank you, Marianne. You have made me the happiest of men.” He placed a chaste kiss on one cheek, then squeezed her hand and left.
Chapter Eleven
Standing at the window on his wedding night, Jack watched a carriage race around and around Grosvenor Square, its lanterns dancing wildly as it clattered across the cobblestones. He could identify with its occupants, for his life was on a similar journey to nowhere. And today had been the most bizarre yet.
After Marianne had agreed to the only counteroffensive he could devise, Jack had sent Jones back to Essex to investigate Barnett in greater depth, then dispatched a letter to Poole. It enclosed Marianne’s letter to Hastings and ordered Poole to fetch her staff and send them to London without alerting the guards.
Fitch had returned to London to open Blackthorn House, procure a special license, and find Francine Dubois. Devall had sent others to investigate Carey, gather detailed evidence of Barnett’s finances, and enlist the aid of his most powerful friends to counter Barnett’s gossip, lest society reject Marianne before giving her a chance. Barnett was probably using the gossip to keep Lady Barnett at home. He had no need to hurt Marianne, who would never hear the stories if he was successful in court.
To avoid spending the night at an inn – something Marianne was not ready to face – they had risen well before dawn and set out for London. The journey had been arduous, making him grateful that Marianne had been unconscious the night he’d brought her to Wyndhaven.
Marianne had tensed as they’d approached the carriage, clearly bothered by the horses, though once inside, she was able to relax. But the first time they’d stopped for a fresh team, she had nearly fallen apart. He could only pray that Barnett had not recognized her aversion to stables. She had already been so hysterical from the abduction that he might not have made the connection.
Jack had stayed in the carriage with her at each stop, holding her, murmuring soothing sounds, and burying her fac
e in his coat so his scent could dispel the memories. Twice, he had stopped well away from villages so they could walk through meadows and spinneys as they had so often walked at Halworth. It had seemed to help.
By the time they’d reached London, both had been exhausted, but Jack had immediately fetched a vicar. Within the hour, they were wed. Come morning, he would launch the next phase of their campaign.
Jack closed the draperies, blocking further view of the still-circling carriage. He had no idea what its drunken occupants were doing, but a wager doubtless lay at the bottom of it. Number of circuits in an hour, perhaps. Waiting until the wee hours reduced competing traffic.
Marianne was asleep in the next room. At least, he hoped she was asleep. Old fears might be keeping her awake, nightmares brought on by the hard journey. But he couldn’t go to her. Nor would she expect it. Claiming her would revive her terror.
He cursed. Even a kiss had precipitated flight, so he dared not consummate the marriage – not that he could risk inflicting the Caldwell weaknesses on another generation anyway. But Marianne didn’t need to know that. She was still too fragile. Revealing that her white knight was a dishonorable rogue with the blood of a thousand felons flowing in his veins would destroy her growing confidence. So he would have to work harder to hide his own problems.
He couldn’t believe she had read his mind so clearly yesterday. How could he have been so careless? Masking his thoughts was a habit he’d learned in childhood, yet she had known that marriage meant little because he would be gone as soon as she was safe.
The condemnation in her eyes haunted him, stripping away the platitudes to expose the ugly truth – suicide was dishonorable, even if disguised as an accident.
Yet it was necessary.
He shook his head as he poured brandy. As long as he had lived in honor, an honorable path had always been available. Now that option was gone. His own dishonor tainted everything he touched. Suicide might add a new stain to his soul, but it was better than bringing shame to the army he had served so long.
Yet marriage made suicide more difficult. He must see that Marianne was strong enough to weather the gossip his death would provoke. Because protecting her was more important than protecting a name already renowned for scandal, he must admit his guilt publicly. If anyone suspected the intention behind an accident, they might blame her, tarnishing her reputation. Confession had other benefits, too. People could rejoice at the end of the Caldwell line, for no Caldwell was worthy of life.
I know you miss Charger, Reeves had said the day he’d found ten-year-old Jack weeping in the stable. But he broke his leg. When the problem can’t be fixed, it’s best to end the misery. You would not want him living in constant pain.
Jack now faced the same fate. His breeding couldn’t be fixed, so he must end his misery.
He shuddered.
Marianne’s eyes had pinned his during their brief wedding ceremony, as if daring him to make their marriage real. Something in those blue-gray depths had stirred his senses, reviving the lust he’d felt in the forest.
It was far too easy to imagine her in bed, her breasts nestled snugly in his palms as she writhed beneath him. That kiss still haunted him, her taste so achingly sweet that his soul clamored for a repeat. And the image of her clad in nothing but a thin shift was etched on his mind.
Her breasts were firm globes topped with rosy crowns that would harden into ripe berries under his lips. Her waist was slender, begging to be spanned by caressing hands. Those long legs – his mouth watered at that memory alone – met in a luxuriant pelt of tawny curls several shades darker than her hair.
His shaft swelled, pleading for a taste of what was now his.
But he couldn’t. Marianne was a beautiful woman who could lighten his spirits merely by being there. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted anyone. But he could not take her. He had to stay as far from her as possible, and not just to avoid making a child. Attaching her affections would make his death more painful for her.
He finished the brandy, then reluctantly undressed. He had to sleep if he was to manage tomorrow’s business. Winning the first battle meant little, for Marianne would remain at risk until the war was over and Barnett vanquished. He would need a clear head.
Which wasn’t likely, he acknowledged. Nightmares were inevitable after the turmoil of the day.
Reviewing tactics had calmed him in the past, so he listed the most urgent steps he must take on the morrow. The first was to notify her trustees of her marriage and demand an audit. If Barnett had withdrawn so much as a farthing, the trustees would have to recover it or face charges of malfeasance. Richard’s will forbade access to the trust by Lord Barnett – a copy of the document had been on Devall’s desk when they’d arrived, compliments of Fitch’s efficiency. It explained why Barnett hadn’t killed Marianne after losing his original suit. The residual beneficiary was a school.
Then he must see his solicitor, set up Marianne’s new trust, and revise his will so she would inherit Seacliff and his own fortune. It would not atone for the unpleasantness of his death, but it would protect her from blame and prevent his family from benefiting from his demise.
Notice of his nuptials must go to Barnett, the newspapers, and the Chancery judge. If there was time, he would take Marianne shopping. She needed her own wardrobe. Angela could choose styles and colors, but he must be at hand when the dressmaker measured her.
Few aristocrats were in town this time of year – which was a godsend – but he must introduce Marianne to society as soon as she was fashionably clad, starting with Lady Beatrice, the most avid gossip in England. Gaining her support would nullify the rumors Barnett was spreading and protect Marianne’s reputation from further claims.
In the meantime, he must sleep.
* * * *
Marianne lurched upright, stomach churning as she gasped for breath. What had awakened her?
“Move! … Break, damn you! … Out of my way! … No!” Gasps and pants interspersed the shouts and sobs, the whole coming from Jack’s room.
Grabbing a dressing gown, Marianne rushed to the connecting door, praying that it was not locked.
Jack had escorted her upstairs after dinner, kissed her lightly on the forehead, then left her alone. She had known that their marriage was merely a weapon against Barnett, but his indifference still hurt. She wanted a real union with a chance for a real future. But though he’d been as caring as possible on the interminable journey to town, he’d grown increasingly aloof in the hours since they’d arrived. By the time he’d deposited her in this room, a wall of ice had separated them. Did he think her mad after all? She was beginning to think only a madwoman would have agreed to this farce.
But he hadn’t been gone five minutes when the truth slammed through her head. While he had vowed not to stage another accident, he’d said nothing about deliberately blowing his brains out. He still meant to die. In the meantime, he would keep her at arm’s length so she wouldn’t grieve. Idiot!
Don’t let him, Hutch had ordered.
“I can’t watch him every second,” she’d whispered in despair.
Then change his mind.
Easier said than done. How could she change the mind of a bullheaded, mule-hearted warrior?
She’d fallen asleep without finding the answer.
Now Providence offered hope. Not only was the connecting door unlocked, it stood open a crack, as if he’d checked to see that she was safe. It was a start.
Another shout filled the room. She flew to the bed where Jack thrashed in agony.
“Shh,” she soothed, shaking his shoulder. “Wake up, Jack. It’s only a dream.”
He froze.
“Wake up, Jack,” she repeated softly.
“Marianne? What are you doing here?” He blinked as she pulled the draperies open to let moonlight into the room.
“You were dreaming – and shouting.”
“What – what did I say?” He was still groggy. Perspiration stood out
on his forehead, though the room was icy.
“Why don’t you tell me?” She pulled a chair close to the bed and sat. This might be her only chance to learn what bedeviled him. When awake, he kept his defenses up. And now that his nightmares had attracted attention, he might well move to an isolated bedchamber. Blackthorn House was huge.
“I don’t remember.”
“You’ve never lied to me, Jack, so don’t start now. Talking about problems reduces their power.”
“Ha!”
“That’s a direct quote from you. And it worked. Telling you about that day opened the door to healing. If you had not forced me to discuss my family’s death, I would still be hiding in a mental closet, terrified of everything new or different.”
Jack swore under his breath. “You have enough nightmares of your own. You don’t need mine.”
“But yours would not affect me. You don’t share my nightmares.”
He said nothing.
“Talk,” she ordered. “Or should I summon Devall? You cannot think he would be harmed by your dreams.”
Pain ripped across his face, making her wonder if perhaps he was right. But she could not save his life until she knew what threatened it. This had to be it. Anything powerful enough to drive a man like Jack to suicide had to cause nightmares.
“You don’t know what you are asking,” he finally said. “I doubt that my nightmares would invade your dreams, but it would pain me to lose your respect.”
“Jack.” Shaking her head, she grasped his hand with both of hers. “You are the most honorable man I have ever heard of. Nothing you say could diminish my respect.”
“Then your imagination is woefully lacking,” he snapped, trying to retrieve his hand.
She refused to release it. “Tell me what is wrong, Jack. I do not believe for an instant that it is as bad as you think. You are turning a mote into a tree.”
He snorted. “Marianne—” Another choking sob burst out. “You don’t understand.”
“Then explain. I won’t leave until you do. The only way to settle this is to drag your demon into the light and examine it.”
