by Brenda Hiatt
"Your honor again," she retorted. "Clearly keeping that precious commodity intact matters more to you than my happiness."
"Your own honor is in a more precarious position than mine," he felt obliged to point out.
When she would have spoken again, he held up his hand. "Yes, I know you think you can simply flee England and leave all problems behind you, but it is not so simple as that. Your father informs me that no ship will be taking passengers to Baltimore for weeks. Nor can you travel alone. Surely your experience today has shown you that?"
Her eyes glittered with anger —and with unshed tears. He fought the urge to take her in his arms again, to kiss those tears away. She would not welcome his touch now, that was clear.
"I am aware that without your help or my father's, I can do nothing but accede to your wishes. But whatever he is paying you to go through with this marriage, I can assure you, my lord, that you will not find it a bargain."
With that threat hanging in the air, she rose and left the room, to head back upstairs. Marcus made no move to stop her, realizing that she was still more distraught over the day's events than he had at first perceived. Still, her final words augured ill for any chance of a happy marriage.
Leaving the parlor, he asked a passing footman to inform Lord and Lady Claridge that he would not be staying to dinner after all. Then, still trying to see any way he might have handled matters differently, he made his way out of the house.
Riding back to Grosvenor Street, he decided that he had nothing to feel guilty about, unless it was his increasingly strong physical attraction to Quinn— something he had not at all expected. If she was to be his wife, however, surely even that was no bad thing?
Turning the corner, the sight of a ragamuffin street sweeper suddenly reminded him of last night's foray, and the future ones he had planned —plans that might now have to be altered. He urged his horse to a quicker pace. If he was to marry in two days' time —and it appeared he was, whatever his or Miss Peverill's feelings on the matter —he had much to do first.
CHAPTER 7
The next day and a half were almost unbearable to someone so used to constant employment as Quinn had been. Her father and aunt both suggested she keep to her room until the wedding, and she had agreed, having no desire to face anyone.
Unfortunately, her enforced inaction gave her ample time to regret her final words to Marcus. She had behaved foolishly, and was largely to blame for her predicament, she had to admit. She couldn't help feeling, however, that Lord Marcus had been far too ready to take advantage of her situation.
Still, however mercenary his motives, she couldn't deny he had saved her from a fate that might have been far worse than death. And she had responded by flinging accusations in his face. Deserved or not, he must now think her the most ungrateful wretch in nature.
Would he really care, though, so long as her fortune was at his disposal?
"Thank you, Madame Fanchot, that will be all," she snapped impatiently at the modiste, induced by a fabulous sum to attend her here. The woman had lived up to her reputation, Quinn reluctantly admitted, turning a partially made-up gown into one fit for a wedding in less than a day's time.
"Of course, mademoiselle," responded the modiste with a respectful bob of her head. "You'll not worry about disgracing your relatives now, oui?"
Quinn grimaced, wishing she hadn't been so frank with the woman. Loneliness had led her into indiscreet chatter. It was a tendency she'd have to curb, as loneliness was likely to be a way of life from now on. A tear tickled the corner of her eye, but she dashed it away.
"No, I won't. You've done a magnificent job, and I do thank you."
The older woman smiled. "It was a pleasure, mademoiselle, indeed. I'll be seeing you again after your wedding?"
Though she winced at the reminder of that event, now scarcely two hours away, Quinn nodded. "You certainly shall, Madame. You have earned both my gratitude and my future business."
In a protracted argument with her father the night of her return from the docks, Quinn had forced him to admit that marriage to her would indeed make Lord Marcus's fortune. She might as well do her part in spending it.
With a final bob, Madame Fanchot gathered up her pins, scissors, and two assistants and left. Alone at last, Quinn turned again to the tall pier glass. The ivory silk was richly trimmed with Mechlin lace—an ethereal confection more suited to a fairy princess than a down-to-earth girl like herself. A girl who couldn't seem to go two days without landing herself in trouble.
She sighed. Though she couldn't quite suppress a thrill of feminine satisfaction at her appearance, the dress was just one more attempt to force her into an unnatural mold and tie her irrevocably to this alien land. No number of fashionable gowns could make her fit into English Society.
Though she'd thought she wanted time alone, she was actually relieved when a tap at the door interrupted her dismal thoughts, even when it opened to admit her aunt and cousin, as well as the Captain.
"Oh, my Quinnling!" he exclaimed, stopping with one hand on his heart. "You're every bit as lovely as your mother. Who would have thought—" He broke off with a misty smile of such paternal pride that Quinn nearly forgave him.
"It's a lovely dress, Cousin," Lady Constance said then, the admiration —and glint of jealousy —in her fine blue eyes proving her sincerity.
"Of course it is," her mother snapped. "Madame Fanchot would never risk her reputation by putting her in anything shabby. Are you nearly ready? I've arranged to have the coach at the door in an hour."
Quinn nodded. "Monette still has to pin up my hair, but that is all. I'll be ready." She steadfastly tried to ignore the sudden trembling in her stomach. Everything was happening so quickly, and she was powerless to stop it.
"I'll send her to you at once, then. And pray remember that even at a private, family ceremony, gossip has eyes and ears everywhere. Society would love to see the daughter of Lady Glynna create another scandal for their amusement. Pray try not to give them the satisfaction."
With that admonition, Lady Claridge swept the others from the room before Quinn could formulate any sort of response. When Monette entered a moment later, she was still seething.
"Did you decide upon the ringlets we discussed, mademoiselle?" the maid asked, picking up a brush as Quinn seated herself at the dressing table.
"Ringlets, curlicues, frizz—I don't care. Do what you will," she said shortly, determined that no one, not even her maid, would see her cry. "It won't matter anyway."
No one but the Captain had the spirits for conversation during the brief carriage ride. Lady Claridge and Lady Constance rode in censorious silence and Lord Claridge appeared more nervous than ever, alternately patting Quinn's hand and shooting worried glances at his wife, while nodding at the Captain's pleasantries.
"Another fine, fair day," Captain Peverill declared as they turned into Grosvenor Square. "A good omen for your marriage, my dear. A very good omen indeed."
Quinn found his cheerfulness oppressive. She felt as though a cage was closing about her, inescapable and inexorable. Once married, she would never be able to return to America, to the home and work she loved. Despite her best efforts, a tear slipped down her cheek. If anyone in the carriage noticed, they ignored it.
They pulled to a stop and stepped to the pavement, one by one. Quinn was last. She stared up at the Marland ducal mansion in mingled awe and terror. She could not go through with this. She could not!
As though sensing her urge to flee, her father placed a large, firm hand upon her elbow, guiding her up the broad marble steps to the imposing double doors, held wide by a pair of bewigged and liveried footmen. Quinn proceeded, each step more reluctant than the one before.
A soberly clad retainer led the party to a small chapel at the rear of the house, where the ceremony was to take place. Frantically, Quinn's chaotic thoughts beat against her skull, seeking a way of escape. She could refuse to say the vows. This was 1816, not the Dark Ages. No one cou
ld force her to marry against her will . . .
The chapel seemed filled with people, dozens of eyes turning to condemn her upon her entrance. Wasn't this supposed to be a private ceremony? she wondered wildly. Then, forcing herself to a degree of calmness, she was able to focus upon those present.
That elderly, autocratic-looking man must be the Duke, Marcus's father, and the lady beside him the Duchess. Robert, Lord Bagstead, looked as disapproving as he had two days earlier, and his plump wife appeared to share his sentiments. The two unfamiliar gentlemen were presumably Marcus's other brothers, and she was relieved to see that they, and the lady she presumed was the wife of one of them, looked more curious than condemning.
Lord Peter grinned when she caught his eye, and winked encouragingly, bolstering her courage somewhat. Finally, she looked at Marcus, waiting at the far end of the chapel, next to the clergyman who stood ready to perform the sacred rite.
Dressed in a dark blue coat that mirrored his eyes and tight-fitting buff breeches, Marcus looked more handsome than she had yet seen him—and impossibly remote. The idea of being the wife of such a fine gentleman seemed suddenly ludicrous to Quinn. He turned slightly, and their gazes met.
For a moment, Quinn thought she must be about to faint. Why else would she feel so lightheaded? But before she could analyze the odd warmth in her midsection, her father pressed her elbow again, leading her down the center of the room toward the small altar at the far end. Toward Marcus.
Quinn moved forward mechanically, her gaze still locked with Marcus's. When he turned back to the clergyman, she felt as though a prop had been withdrawn. Desperately, she glanced about, catching Lord Peter's eye again. Even he looked somber now, though he nodded encouragement.
On reaching the altar, her father released her arm, removing her last vestige of support. Gone were her rebellious plans to refuse to speak the vows. Before the unified dignity of the entire Northrup family, she could do nothing but what was expected of her, however much she might regret it later. When the clergyman asked her to repeat the words that would seal her fate, she did so without a quaver, her head held high.
Lord Marcus spoke his vows steadily as well, his voice giving no hint of conflict or regret. Not until they were pronounced husband and wife did Quinn look at him again. To her surprise, he appeared as stunned as she felt.
* * *
Married? How in blazes can I be married? Marcus wondered dazedly. The whole ceremony had seemed surreal, more like a dream than reality. Especially the part when Miss Peverill —now Lady Marcus —had first entered the chapel and their eyes had met.
For a confusing instant he'd felt as though he'd known her for years, instead of just five brief days, despite the fact that she appeared more mature and, yes, lovely, than he'd ever seen her before. It was as though something within him had been waiting for her, coiled tight, releasing only when she arrived.
But now that moment was long past, or seemed so, though in truth it was only a few minutes ago. Now she was a stranger again, young, scared, but also headstrong and American. And she was his wife. The families converged to offer well-wishes with varying degrees of sincerity, and he had no more time for reflection.
"Well done," exclaimed Peter, a welcome relief after his parents' frosty felicitations. "Well done indeed, both of you." He dropped a quick kiss on Quinn's cheek, reminding Marcus that he had yet to kiss his new bride himself. This did not seem the time, however.
"Quinn—may I call you Quinn?" Peter asked. At her shy nod, he continued. "Marcus may not have had time to tell you, but Anthony and I have vacated, so that you two can have the house to yourselves. Don't know if you planned any sort of wedding trip—" he looked questioningly at Marcus.
"Ah, no," he responded. "Not just yet, at any rate." He glanced at Quinn, to find her looking more frightened than ever. "We scarcely know each other, after all. No need to rush things."
She relaxed visibly, and he was startled to feel a pinprick of hurt. That's why he'd phrased it that way, after all, to reassure her that he didn't mean to force unwanted attentions upon her. She turned her green gaze up to him, but before he could decipher the expression there, she withdrew it again.
"No, no need at all," she echoed to his brother. "You've been very kind, Lord Peter, and I thank you."
Captain Peverill descended upon them then, and his joviality more than made up for the reserve of some of the others. "Short but sweet—just the kind of wedding I like to see," he boomed. "You've snagged yourself a rare treasure here, Lord Marcus. Mind you treat her like one."
To Marcus's surprise, the gruff Captain's eyes glistened with the threat of tears. "I will, sir. That's a promise," he said. Though the words were automatic, forced from him by the older man's emotion, he discovered he meant them. He would do all in his power to keep Quinn from being unhappy in her unwanted marriage.
They were summoned then to the lavish wedding breakfast the Duke had ordered for the occasion. Though the food was excellent, the conversation was strained, and Marcus was relieved when it finally ended. Bidding polite farewells to the company, he prepared to take Quinn home.
His bride's farewells were equally polite, and even more aloof, though she listened patiently to some parting admonitions from her father.
"Mind you behave yourself, Quinnling," the Captain said at last, enfolding her in a bear hug. "You'll do your family proud, I don't doubt."
"Of course, Papa," she responded quietly. It appeared she had not yet forgiven him for forcing her to this step. Marcus wasn't sure he had, either, come to think of it.
Peter was the last to bid them good-bye. "I expect you to treat this little lady properly, Marcus," he said, serious behind his grin. "You tell me if he doesn't, Quinn, and I'll thrash him for you."
To Marcus's surprise, she dimpled up at his brother. "It relieves me to have such a champion, Lord Peter. Thank you." Standing on tiptoe, she kissed him on the cheek, then turned to Marcus, her smile quickly fading. "Shall we go, my lord?"
An absurd wave of jealousy washed through him. Would she ever look to him with the trust and friendship she had just shown his brother? He recalled her relief Thursday, when he'd rescued her from the docks, the softness of her against his chest, and, again, that perky little breast, sprung free from her dress . . .
"Yes, let's go," he said, more brusquely than he'd intended. Peter frowned at his tone, but Quinn did not react at all. Placing her fingertips on his sleeve, she allowed him to lead her through the house, out the front door, and down to the waiting carriage that was to bear them around the corner.
"Silly to ride such a short distance on such a lovely morning," he commented as a footman lowered the carriage steps. "Would you care to walk instead?"
"Whatever you wish, my lord." Her voice held no emotion whatever.
Dismissing the carriage with a nod, Marcus turned his steps to the left, toward Grosvenor Street. "Well, for good or ill, we've done it," he said, once they were out of earshot of the servants. "Now it's up to both of us to make the best of it." It was a mere platitude, something to break the awkward silence, but she stiffened beside him.
"I consider this marriage my just punishment for exhibiting such poor judgement on two occasions, my lord. Making the best of it would seem to undermine my repentance."
He swallowed, ignoring the sting of her words. "Your father had no intention to punish you, as I'm sure you know. Nor have I."
They turned the corner and headed east, already halfway to his— their— house. Marcus realized they were both walking quickly, as though doing so would shorten the awkward moment, when of course it would do no such thing.
"Intentional or not, I am prepared to accept the consequences of my actions."
Nettled by her determination to play the martyr, he said nothing more until they reached the steps to his townhouse.
"Your dungeon, my lady." With a mocking bow, he motioned for her to precede him to the door.
The glance she shot him held alarm, but al
so a trace of something that might have been amusement. Head held high, she marched up the steps and through the door, which was flung open by a footman as she approached it. Halfway down the front hall, however, she stopped her haughty procession, clearly at a loss as to which way she should go.
"Your abigail can show you to your rooms when you are ready. She has already put away your things, I believe. But perhaps you will join me in the drawing room for a glass of sherry first?"
Quinn glanced up the stairs, where her maid hovered, then back at Marcus, her small frame quivering with tension, indecision plain on her face. Finally, she gave a slight nod. "Very well, my lord. For . . . a moment."
Despite the elegant wedding gown and the elaborate, upswept hair, she suddenly looked absurdly young, like a girl playing dress-up. She turned toward the door he indicated and one long, dark ringlet bounced against her cheek.
Marcus felt an almost irresistible urge to touch that ringlet, that soft cheek, to soothe the fear and worry from her brow. Instead, he turned to the hovering footman and directed him to bring the sherry decanter and two glasses to the formal drawing room—a room he rarely used. When he turned back to Quinn, she was perched on the edge of a chair, as though ready to flee at the slightest provocation.
Cautiously, he moved to the chair opposite. "I thought we might talk for a bit—get to know each other," he began. She tensed again, and he sighed.
"No, this isn't a seduction, if that's what you're thinking. But incredible as it seems, the fact is that we met for the first time only five days ago and have had but one or two opportunities for private conversation since. Hardly a basis upon which to build a marriage."
"I suppose not," she agreed, watching him warily.
The footman appeared then with the sherry. Marcus took the tray and dismissed him, then poured out two glasses. "I thought this might help us to relax a bit," he said, handing her a glass.
Though she still looked suspicious, she took a sip. "It . . . burns."
