The Accidental Wedding

by Anne Gracie

  “I hope your face is not too sore, Mr. Rider?” Jane enquired once she’d helped Lucy into the chair beside Nash. “John says you were in a fight with Mr. Harris.”

  “Did you win?” Henry asked.

  “Of course he won,” John declared stoutly.

  Maddy placed a pot of honey, some cut lemons, a large jug of milk, and a bowl of cream on the table. “Don’t pester Mr. Rider at supper, boys.”

  “I wish I’d seen it,” Henry said.

  “Me, too,” John said. “I’ve never seen a proper fight.”

  “It was hardly a proper fight,” Nash said with an apologetic glance at Maddy. “Three punches only—and no, I didn’t knock him out.”

  “And it was only because Mr. Harris was nasty to me,” added Maddy.

  “If he was nasty to Maddy, I would have punched him, too,” John said darkly.

  “Me, too,” Henry agreed.

  “And me,” Lucy said.

  “Young ladies do not punch people,” Jane told her.

  Lucy pondered this. “Then I would have kicked him.”

  Nash tried not to smile as her sisters tried to explain to the little girl the error of her ways. None of their explanations pleased her.

  “But if I must not punch or kick or bite, what can I do when someone is mean to me?” she asked, frustrated. “Maddy?”

  They all looked at Maddy.

  “It’s most unjust, I agree,” she said. “My grandmother used to carry a stick and if anyone was nasty to her she would hit them with it, but I would not recommend you do that, Lucy. It’s something only for older ladies, not young girls.”

  “Did you hit Mr. Harris with a stick?” Lucy persisted.

  She hesitated, clearly debating the wisdom of telling them the truth. Nash waited, curious to see how she would handle the question. The question of women defending themselves was a thorny one; theoretically women—ladies, at least—were never supposed to find themselves in such a position. It was up to the men of her family to protect her. But when you had no man to defend you . . .

  What would she have done if he hadn’t been there? It did not bear thinking about. She had courage enough for two, but Harris was a big, strong man with an ugly temper.

  “No, I slapped him, hard across the face,” she told them. “But that was my bad temper showing. I should not have done it. Most of the time the best defense a lady has is her tongue. No, not poking it out, Lucy, I mean using words.”

  “Like when Maddy’s cross with us for being naughty,” Jane said.

  “Something like that, yes,” Maddy agreed. “Though if you are ever in real danger from some bad person, Lucy, you may punch and kick and bite. Now, that’s enough talk about fighting. Suppertime is for eating and conversation. Jane, will you pour everyone a cup of milk, please?”

  The table fell silent as the children drank their milk.

  Checking to see that Maddy was occupied flipping pancakes, John leaned over and whispered, “Will you teach Henry and me to fight? We need to learn. Some of the village boys—” He broke off as Maddy turned around.

  Nash knew what it meant. They were being bullied and keeping it from Maddy. Nash, to his shame, knew all about boys and bullying. “I’ll teach you.”

  At that, Maddy shot him a hard glance over the children’s heads. “Mr. Rider will be leaving shortly, John, so you mustn’t expect too much from his promises.” She hadn’t missed the exchange at all.

  “Leaving?” The children turned to him in dismay. “When, sir? Where are you going?”

  Nash found it surprisingly difficult to tell them. “I’ve recovered from my injuries,” he said apologetically, “and must be on my way.”

  “But what of your memory, sir?” Jane asked.

  “It’s returned.”

  “What, all of it?” Henry clearly hoped the answer would be no.

  Nash ruffled the boy’s hair. “Yes, every bit. My name is Nash Renfrew and I was coming here to visit my new home, Whitethorn Manor.”

  “Sir Jasper’s house?”

  “Yes, I’m his nephew. He left it to me in his will.”

  The children brightened visibly. “Then we’ll be neighbors, sir.”

  “Enough questions, children,” Maddy interrupted. She placed a platter of pancakes in the middle of the table. “Careful, the plate is hot.” She stripped off her apron and went to take her place at the head of the table.

  Nash rose, but John was there before him, holding Maddy’s chair to seat her. It was part of the boy’s training, he saw. Henry, too, stood by his chair, waiting for Maddy to be seated before sitting down.

  She smiled at both boys and caressed John’s hair briefly as she sat and began serving out the pancakes.

  A small gesture of approval and affection, and so everyday neither of them even seemed aware of it, but it struck Nash that he had no memory of either his father or his mother doing such a thing to him or Marcus.

  His father would have scorned it. Children were born as savages and weren’t to be coddled: they needed harsh discipline and rigid training to turn them into civilized beings.

  His mother used or withheld her affection as a reward or punishment, to her sons and her husband, and there was never any predicting which it would be. Mama like to keep men on their toes, and that meant keeping them guessing. Even her sons.

  Maddy kept these children on the lightest of reins without any of the intimidation or discipline Nash had experienced. She assumed they’d behave well and most of the time they did. When any correction was needed, she did it with the raising of a brow or a quiet word. And still with affection.

  Extraordinary.

  These children were less perfectly behaved than he or Marcus had been, but there was a relaxed, pleasant charm about them. If anyone had informed him a week ago that he would be dining at table with a bunch of lively young children, he would have been appalled. It would be an event to be endured.

  Now . . .

  “Mr. Rid—er, Mr. Renfrew,” John asked, cutting into Nash’s reverie. “Will you be bringing more horses like Pepper to Whitethorn?”

  “Pepper is actually my brother’s horse,” Nash explained. “I generally use his horses when I’m in England.”

  John wrinkled his brow. “When you’re in England, sir?”

  Maddy said, “Mr. Renfrew has just returned from St. Petersburg. That’s in Russia.”

  “Why were you in Russia, Mr. Renfrew?” Jane asked.

  “I’m a diplomat,” Nash explained. “That means I do a lot of traveling in different countries. I’m hardly ever in England.”

  “Don’t you keep any horses in England?” John asked in dismay.

  “No, I’m not here long enough.”

  “But now you’ll be living at Whitethorn Manor, that will change, won’t it?”

  “I’ll certainly be seeing to the running of the estate and making a few changes,” Nash agreed. “But I doubt I’ll be purchasing any horses. I’ll be returning to St. Petersburg in June.”

  “But that’s just over a month away.”

  All talk and clattering of cutlery ceased. John said, “You’re not going to live at Whitethorn?”

  “You won’t be our neighbor?” Jane said.

  Lucy clutched his sleeve with a small hand. “You’re not going to leave us, Mr. Rider, are you?” she said in a tragic little voice. “But you’re s’posed to be the prince.”

  Nash looked at the sad little faces ranged around the table. Good God, he hadn’t even known them a week, and for most of that he’d been unconscious. He liked them, too, but surely they could see . . .

  No, they were just children . . .

  “I must,” he explained gently. “It’s my profession. It’s how I serve my country. I only came to England to settle my uncle’s estate and to—” He broke off. He didn’t suppose they’d be any more amenable to the idea of him finding a bride. Lucy had said it all: Maddy was Cinderella and he was supposed to be the prince.

  He and Maddy knew better
.

  Rain set in during supper, cold and steady. Maddy glanced outside. There was no sign of it letting up. She wouldn’t send a dog out in this weather, let alone a man who’d been sick so recently. She glanced at Nash. He knew it, too.

  “With your permission I’ll stay one last night,” he said in a low voice.

  Maddy gave him a doubtful look.

  “I promise I’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

  She nodded. He’d misunderstood. She didn’t doubt his sincerity. She had every faith he’d leave in the morning. He had the look of a man who was ready to get on with his life. To sort out his new estate and get back to St. Petersburg. Marrying the “right sort of girl” along the way.

  “Are you expecting the Bloody Abbot to come again?” she asked quietly. She didn’t want the children to hear.

  He shrugged. “I dare not risk it.”

  “It’s my home,” she reminded him. “You don’t have to stay and protect me. I’ll manage. I always do.”

  “I’m your landlord,” he countered. “Your safety is my responsibility.”

  It wasn’t true, but if he wanted to pretend, Maddy didn’t mind. Truth to tell, she was glad he was staying another night. There was so much more she wanted to know about him before he left forever. She was under no illusions about neighborly popping in and such in the future.

  Even if he did come to Whitethorn Manor, she wouldn’t be living here. She’d be at Fyfield Hall.

  “You don’t mind another night on the floor?” She needed to make it clear that was all she was offering.

  She might wonder, and wish, and maybe even dream about having a last night together in her bed, but she couldn’t bring herself to offer.

  If he tried to seduce her . . . well, she’d face that then, see if there was any resistance in her. She doubted it. What virtue mattered now?

  Maddy had promised the children a story before bed, but instead, Mr. Renfrew ended up telling them about some of the places he’d visited: St. Petersburg, Venice, Zindaria, Vienna, where the waltz had been invented.

  He told them of traveling in a coach without wheels, zigzagging across great, frozen lakes, feeling the ice shift beneath them. He told a story about a journey through a still, dark, snow-covered forest, with a pack of wolves baying at their heels, of wild Cossacks who rode like the veriest daredevils and danced squatting down and leaping up with whoops and shouts, of peasant women who wore as many as sixteen skirts, one on top of another—Maddy wondered dryly how he’d learned that last little fact.

  They were all enthralled; it was like another world.

  It was another world. His world.

  At bedtime the children said their good nights with somber little faces. They knew he was leaving. Lucy, of course, wanted Mr. Rider—she refused to use his real name—to carry her up to bed, but Maddy vetoed it, saying his leg was too sore, but really, she knew it would just stretch things out.

  She stayed with the children until they drifted off to sleep.

  By the time she came down, he’d banked the fire for the night, placed the screen in front of it, and was stretched out in the makeshift bed in front of the hearth.

  That was one question answered. There’d be no need to battle with her conscience and resist seduction tonight. It was probably just as well.

  Probably.

  She bathed quickly in the scullery, changed into her nightgown, and wrapped a warm shawl around her. She set her candle on the table and blew it out. The wick was still smoking by the time she was in bed.

  She lay on her side with the curtains open, watching the glow of the fire and the silhouette of the man who lay before it. Despite the long day and the disturbed previous night, she wasn’t the slightest bit sleepy.

  Outside the wind soughed through the branches of the trees, reminding her of when she was a little girl listening to the wind, imagining she was on a boat at sea.

  “Will you sail from England direct to St. Petersburg?” She spoke softly in case he was asleep.

  “Yes. It’ll be summer when I return. In winter it’s a different story. The Baltic Sea is often locked with ice.”

  Some coals fell in the fire, sending a twirl of sparks up the chimney. The rain beat steadily down.

  “I’ve been thinking about the rent,” she said after a while.

  He shifted, turning on his side to face her. “I suspect Harris has been fiddling the books for some time. I’ll wager he planned to grab what he could and disappear before anyone found him out. He didn’t expect me until the summer.”

  Maddy pondered that. There was more to it, she was sure. “He was quite taken aback when I produced the note you gave me. He didn’t expect me to pay. I think that’s what made him so angry.”

  “That you paid?”

  “Yes. He was in quite a good mood until I produced the money. And then suddenly he began to insult me. He never has before. He’s been arrogant, but not insulting.”

  “He dresses very fine for an estate manager,” Nash observed after a moment. “Bit of a ladies’ man, is he?”

  “Perhaps, but he’s never shown any interest of that sort in me. He must know I’d never consider such a thing. Though if he thought I had such an arrangement with your uncle . . .”

  Nash raised himself on his elbow. “But his original plan was to evict you. That’s what I don’t understand. If he was charging extra rent and pocketing the difference, why evict you?”

  “A lesson to others?”

  “Possibly, but Harris wasn’t the only one trying to drive you away.”

  Maddy sat up in bed, pulling the bedclothes around her. “You think Harris is the Bloody Abbot?” It made sense, and yet . . . “How would he benefit from a vacant cottage?”

  She could almost feel his shrug as he said, “It’s a mystery. How long have you lived here?”

  “Not quite eighteen months. It was vacant and quite tumble-down. The children and I had to clean it up and whitewash it.”

  “You didn’t find any secret hidey holes or hidden trap-doors?”

  “Nothing. Not even a loose floorboard. I assure you, if there was any hidden treasure here we would have found it.”

  They lay staring at each other across the darkened room, pondering the problem. The darkness seemed to thicken.

  Their last night together and they lay on opposite sides of the room discussing a crooked estate manager and hidden trap-doors.

  Maddy sat with the bedclothes huddled around her, willing him to rise from his bed and come to her.

  Nash shifted. She tensed.

  He lay back down and said, “Well, whatever it is, we can investigate further in the morning. I’ll get the story out of him one way or another.”

  Maddy reluctantly slid back down in her bed. It wasn’t Harris she was worrying about.

  She lay listening to the wind in the trees. Sleep was still no closer. She was too aware of the man at the hearth.

  Maddy’s dream, back when she was a girl, was to fall deeply, madly, wholly in love. To be swept off her feet, and to walk down the aisle toward a man who waited with love shining from his eyes.

  She gazed at Nash’s silhouette, limned by the glow of the fire. Had he ever dreamed of love? Why make a practical arrangement when you didn’t have to? The Honorable Nash Renfrew had all the choices in the world. Even as plain Mr. Rider of just around the corner, he’d have no trouble finding a wife, no trouble finding love.

  He wouldn’t have to look very far, either.

  But he was not plain Mr. Rider and he never would be. A marriage between them was out of the question. She’d spend the rest of her life in the bed of an old man . . . and here was the man of her dreams, lying uncomfortably on her cold, hard floor.

  But she could love him, just once, for one night. Couldn’t she? Her reputation was already ruined.

  What did she have to lose? Only her virginity. Her heart was already lost to him. She stared across the room at Nash’s profile. His last night here. Her last chance.


  Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.

  “Are you cold?” she whispered into the darkness.

  “A bit, why?” The question hung in the air.

  “You can sleep here if you like. With me.” There, she’d said it.

  There was a long pause. She wondered if he’d heard. Then the deep voice came out of the darkness. “If I sleep there with you, I won’t be able to resist.”

  Maddy swallowed. “I don’t want you to resist.”

  Fourteen

  He was silent. Rain hammered on the windows in a steady drumming. His silhouette against the dancing flames of the fire was motionless. Tension thickened in the air.

  “I know nothing can come of it,” Maddy said. “I know you’re leaving in the morning. I want nothing from you . . . nothing but this one night.”

  “And afterward?”

  “I will return with the children to Leicestershire.”

  “But—”

  “This isn’t a discussion!” She was unable to stand the suspense, unwilling to think about the future. “If you don’t want me, then—”

  “I want you.” His deep voice cut her off, sure and strong, leaving her breathless.“I want you,” he repeated. “So are you sure about this? Because once I’m in your bed, there’s no going back.”

  “I’m sure,” she half whispered, and she was, despite her doubts and fears. The fear that she would live the rest of her life in regret for not making love with Nash banished all lesser anxieties.

  She heard the rustle of fabric as he pushed aside the bedclothes on the makeshift bed and braced herself for his arrival in her bed. He surprised her.

  “I’ll build up the fire. You won’t go short—I’ll send a man over with a load of firewood in a few days.”

  It was an unconscious reminder of his new lord of the manor status. Such a gesture, well meant as it was, would only confirm her status as his mistress. “That would be lovely,” she told him. He could burn all her wood—she didn’t care. She would be leaving soon.

  Burning her wood, burning her bridges, it was all the same.