by Anne Gracie
Maddy gave a sort of a shrug. She knew.
He must have seen something in her expression, for his frown deepened. “You have other desirable qualities.”
Maddy was suddenly breathless again. “Really?”
“Yes, indeed. The ability to cope with difficult and unexpected circumstances is important for a diplomat’s wife. In the last week we two have managed to rub along in a cramped cottage under stressful conditions. You keep a cool head and respond practically, rather than with a high degree of sensibility, as most ladies of my acquaintance do.”
Oh. He meant she didn’t scream or become hysterical in a crisis. True enough. She was boringly practical.
A high degree of sensibility was something only a pampered lady could afford. As a tactic, it was wholly dependent on having someone ready and waiting to come to your rescue. Nobody ever rescued Maddy; she’d always had to rescue herself.
Until Nash Renfrew came into her life, she reminded herself. And now he was offering to take all her troubles away and marry her.
Marry her. Marry her. The reasons didn’t matter, Maddy told herself. The words didn’t matter. Only the fact.
Nash took her hand. “I believe we will deal well together.”
Deal well together? Maddy tried to reconcile the man who’d made shiveringly hot, luscious love to her through the night with this cool-voiced stranger who proposed marriage with a recitation of her deficiencies and her qualities.
“It’s not a love match, Maddy,” he said gently. “Don’t mistake what passed between us last night for, for love. It’s . . . it’s just how it is between a man and a woman. Sometimes. If they’re lucky. It’s a healthy expression of desire, that’s all.”
Perhaps, Maddy thought. She couldn’t speak for his feelings, only hers.
He tucked a curl behind her ear and even such a light brush of skin against skin left her melting inside. He said, “You have romantic notions, I suspect, but believe me, this practical arrangement is far better than a love match.”
At her doubtful look, he explained further. “I told you that my parents made a love match. The love of a lifetime, they called it. Every interaction was overly passionate and rife with . . . emotion.” His eyes were somber. “It tore our family apart. Such a liaison would be anathema to me.”
Anathema? It was Maddy’s turn to stare. He couldn’t possibly mean it.
This, from the man who had caressed her breasts when he was barely conscious? Who, even when he didn’t know his own name, curled his big warm body around hers, protective and loving, even in sleep. Who slept with his hand cupping her breast? Who could make her weep in the night with the beauty and the power of his lovemaking? And who made her insides melt with pleasure even when he was absent.
He wanted a passionless, emotionless marriage?
She would promise nothing of the sort. But now was not the time to confess it. She folded her hands and tried to look demure. And suitably emotionless. Her heart was pounding.
“So, what do you say, Maddy Woodford? Will you marry me?”
A better person would refuse him. It wasn’t fair to reward his gallantry knowing, despite his reassurance, that his world would see marriage to her as a mésalliance.
But life wasn’t fair.
It hadn’t been fair to Grand-mère, it hadn’t been fair to Mama, and it hadn’t been fair to Maddy or the children.
Nash had had his chance. Of his own free will, he’d asked her a second time. That was his folly, to live with or regret.
She would seize this opportunity—and this man—with both hands.
Grand-mère, are you watching? Maddy took a deep breath and uttered the fateful words, “Thank you, Mr. Renfrew. I would be honored to accept your proposal of marriage.”
“Excellent,” he said and kissed her hand.
He kissed the back of her hand slowly, and with a burning look from those intense, blue eyes. And it sent a hot shiver through her, collecting in the pit of her stomach.
She wanted him to kiss her mouth and leaned forward, inviting it.
He rose to his feet and took a small notebook and pencil from his pocket, saying, “I’ll make all the arrangements.”
Perhaps proper kissing was to be restricted to the bedchamber. It didn’t matter, Maddy decided, as long as there was kissing.
She was going to marry Nash Renfrew.
Grand-mère would be delighted: the marriage would return Maddy to the status her ancestry and birth, if not her upbringing, entitled her to.
Grand-mère would also approve of the way the man filled a tight coat and a pair of buckskin breeches, not to mention his pretty blue eyes. Grand-mère had ever an eye for a handsome young man and a particular soft spot for a blue-eyed man. She’d passed both on to Maddy. Her French side . . .
Nash Renfrew in a tight coat and a pair of buckskin breeches was a fine, handsome man. Naked in a bed he was downright beautiful.
Would she marry him? Try and stop her.
Would their marriage be the cold-blooded arrangement he said he wanted? Not if she could help it.
Would they be happy? She hoped so. She would certainly try.
Would he ever love her? Ah, that was the question . . .
“Now,” Nash said, pencil and notebook at the ready, “Who should I notify of our betrothal?”
Maddy thought. “Nobody,” she said finally. The few scattered relatives who remained had been uninterested in Maddy and the children when they needed help; she wanted nothing to do with them now her luck had changed. And her only friends were in the village, and she didn’t know yet how they’d respond to the gossip about her.
He frowned and glanced at the unfinished letter to Mr. Hulme on the table. “Not even that fellow?”
Especially not that fellow, Maddy thought. “No. He doesn’t know where I am, and I’d rather he didn’t know I was getting married.”
Nash frowned. “But weren’t you engaged to him?”
Maddy shook her head. “No, never. He asked me to marry him two years ago, but I refused. But he said at the time the offer would remain open indefinitely, so when I was . . . was . . .”
“Desperate, you decided to change your mind,” he said softly.
“Yes.”
He hesitated, as if about to say something, then changed his mind. He said briskly, “Very well. So, a small, quiet wedding, yes?”
She nodded.
“And would you prefer to be married in the church here, or somewhere else? The alternatives are the family chapel at Alverleigh, St. George’s, Hanover Square in London, or another place of your preference.”
“In the village church, I think, with Rev. Matheson.” At least then there would be some people she knew at the wedding, even if they were just Lizzie, Mrs. Matheson, and a few curious villagers come to gawk and whisper.
“Good, then I’ll arrange it for as soon as possible. I’ll go and see him now.” He picked up his gloves.
“I’ll need a new dress,” she blurted. “I had to receive a marriage proposal in my old blue dress but I refuse to be married in it.”
He waved a careless hand. “Of course. All that will be taken care of.
“And new slippers. These have a hole and when I kneel at the altar rail in the church, everyone will see—”
He glanced at her slippers and frowned. “Good God, I wouldn’t dream of letting you be married in those old things. You’ll need a whole new wardrobe, of course.”
Illogically, his condemnation of her attire annoyed her. She’d tried so hard to maintain a respectable outward appearance and—suddenly she realized what he’d said. “A whole new wardrobe?”
He looked up from his list. “Naturally. After the wedding, we will travel to London where a mantua maker will fit you with everything you need.”
A whole new wardrobe? She swallowed. For a girl who’d been fretting about how to pay for a new pair of children’s shoes, it was all moving so fast. But a whole new wardrobe. She could adapt to that. Clothes. Bea
utiful, new clothes. How long since she’d had new clothes?
He added in a reassuring voice, as if shopping for a whole new wardrobe would be difficult, “My aunt will help you with that aspect of things. She has excellent taste and she adores shopping.”
His aunt. “Would that be the aunt who’s been searching for a suitable bride for you?”
He nodded. “Yes, my aunt Gosforth, Maude, Lady Gosforth. Our father’s sister, she’s been widowed these many years, and was childless. She is excellent ton, knows everyone, and is completely à la mode. She’ll be delighted to show you the ropes.”
“I see,” Maddy said cautiously. “You don’t think she might resent me?”
He looked at her in surprise. “Resent you? Why should she?”
“Perhaps because after all her work in searching for an eligible bride you went ahead and chose me.”
He shrugged it off. “Any coals of blame she’ll heap on me, not you. Aunt Maude never holds a grudge. She’s very fond of me—of all her nephews—and can never stay cross for long.”
Maddy gave him a doubtful look. She wasn’t so sure.
“Besides,” he added, “even if she were furious, she couldn’t resist the prospect of outfitting you and the children.”
“The children?” Well, of course he’d want the children to be properly dressed, too, she chided herself. It was all so sudden; she hadn’t quite taken in the magnitude of change in her life yet.
He misunderstood her. “Aunt Maude is very fond of children, so don’t worry about a thing—I’ll arrange everything. You just finish the packing and get ready. We leave this afternoon, as soon after luncheon as I can manage.”
“Leave this afternoon? Why? And where—”
At that moment someone knocked at the door. She hesitated.
“Get the door,” he told her. “I’ll explain after that.”
But it was Lizzie, big with news.
“Oh, Lizzie,” Maddy exclaimed. “Could you wait a mom—”
“Nonsense,” Nash interrupted. He nodded to Lizzie and gestured her to come in. “I’ll be off now. Don’t worry about the whys or wheres, just get ready.” He glanced at Lizzie and added in an undertone, “And not a word to anyone about leaving, not even Lizzie, understand?” He picked up his portmanteau and hat.
“But—”
“Trust me.” He left, closing the door behind him.
She turned to find Lizzie eyeing her quizzically. “What’s going on Miss Maddy?”
“Make us a cup of tea, will you Lizzie, and I’ll tell you all about it. It’s been an eventful morning.”
“You!” the vicar exclaimed with loathing when he opened the door to Nash. His thick eyebrows gnashed together, like angry gray caterpillars. “You dare to show your face here when you’ve caused that poor girl—”
“I’m here to arrange a wedding,” Nash said crisply.
“Ah. Indeed? Harrumph. I suppose you’d better come in then.” The vicar ushered Nash into a small, cozy study. Books and writing paper were spread over a small side table, and from somewhere outside, the sounds of children’s voices floated. Presumably they were taking a break from their studies.
“Is it true?” the vicar demanded.
“Is what true?”
“That you’re the brother of the Earl of Alverleigh. And the heir to Sir Jasper Brownrigg’s estate. Sit down, sit down,” the vicar added testily, waving Nash to a worn but comfortable-looking chair.
“It’s true.” Nash sat in the seat indicated and crossed his legs.
The vicar eyed Nash’s boot with the black ribbons tied around it and snorted. “I suppose that’s all the rage among London dandies.”
Nash smiled. “No, it’s a fashion all of my own.”
The vicar snorted again. “But you’re going to make an honest woman of that poor girl?”
“She was never anything else,” Nash said silkily. “Never.”
The vicar’s thick brows beetled upward. “I see.” He scrutinized Nash’s face for a long time. “She’s ruined as far as the village is concerned. Don’t take a fire to make smoke. Reputation is all in the imagination, never mind about facts.”
“Indeed,” Nash countered smoothly. “Which is why I’m here. A wedding, as soon as can be arranged.”
The vicar gave a curt nod. “As it happens the bishop is coming this afternoon for a short stay. He can issue you with a license. Save you a trip into Salisbury.” He opened his diary and perused the entries. “You cannot marry until ten days after the license has been issued. That brings us to Friday week. If you want to marry any sooner, you’ll need a special license, which will involve a trip to London.”
“No, Friday week will be soon enough.” Nash paused. “How long does the bishop plan to stay?”
“A week. Why?”
“Could he be persuaded to stay on for the wedding?” A bishop’s presence would be to Maddy’s advantage, make the marriage look less hasty.
The vicar gave him a shrewd look. “Will any of your relatives be attending? Your brother, the earl, for instance?”
Nash nodded. “My brother, the earl; my aunt, Lady Gosforth; my half brother and his wife, Lady Helen; and some others. And a small reception afterward at Whitethorn Manor, to which the bishop, yourself, and Mrs. Matheson would be invited, of course.”
The Reverend Matheson nodded. “Then I believe the bishop would indeed be interested.” He slanted Nash a speculative look. “A wedding conducted by the bishop and attended by such exalted guests would also have the village ladies in a tizz of excitement.”
Nash smiled. “One hopes it will turn their minds to more . . . pleasant topics.”
The vicar said frankly, “Nothing more vicious than a clutch of genteel tabbies turning on one of their own.”
“Quite. And, of course, Miss Woodford would invite those she considers her friends.”
The Reverend Matheson smiled for the first time. “Oh, that would change their tune, indeed it would. Very well, I’ll relay your request to the bishop.” He glanced at Nash and gave a small nod, as if confirming something to himself. “My wife and I will do what we can to persuade him to stay. Hasty it may be, but that little gel deserves as fine a wedding as we can give her.”
“Excellent, we understand one another then.” Nash stood. “I’ll be taking Maddy and the children on a visit to meet my family later today, but I’d appreciate it if you kept that to yourself. We’ll be back in a week, but in the meantime, I want people to think Maddy is at home as usual.”
Rev. Matheson agreed, and looked intrigued, but Nash didn’t explain.
The vicar led him toward the front door. “My wife will be thrilled to hear about the wedding. She’s very fond of that gel and the children. Anything we can do to help, just you ask.” He held out his hand to Nash.
Nash shook it firmly. He’d misread this man in so many ways. “There’s just one small misapprehension: the bishop can say a prayer or perform a blessing or some such, but we want you to perform the actual ceremony.”
The vicar’s eyes almost popped from their sockets. “Me? Instead of the bishop? Bless my soul, why?”
“You’ve been a staunch friend to Maddy and it will mean more to her to have you marry us than a dozen bishops or even an archbishop.”
The vicar stared for a moment and his face slowly flushed. He pulled out a large white handkerchief and blew fiercely into it. “I’d be delighted, my boy, delighted,” he said in a thick voice.
Making his third journey that day to his new home, Nash stopped in the village, famished, and ate two meat pies washed down with an ale at the village inn. To the girl who brought the pies and the man who drew the ale, he casually dropped the information that he’d be back next week to attend his wedding. Yes, to Miss Woodford. A secret, long-standing engagement. These last two years she’d been waiting for his return from Russia. Yes, she was very patient, he was indeed a lucky man. And yes, Russia was a long way from here. Foreign parts indeed.
And th
at, he thought as he rode toward Whitethorn, should deflect the gossip nicely.
Next, to take control of his inheritance.
Seventeen
Word had obviously reached Whitethorn Manor that Nash was in the district, for by the time he rode down the long drive that led to the house, a handful of staff had lined up at the front door to meet him.
He recognized Ferring, the butler and Mrs. Pickens, the housekeeper. They looked so much smaller and older than he remembered. Ferring had to be in his seventies, and Mrs. Pickens perhaps sixty. With them stood a stocky, middle-aged woman and a young girl of about sixteen. As he dismounted, a wiry, gray-haired groom appeared from around the side of the house.
“Grainger, isn’t it?” Nash dragged the name out of his memory and handed the groom the reins. On his rare childhood visits to Uncle Jasper’s, he’d haunted the stables.
The man gave a quick smile and bobbed his head in a kind of bow. “Aye, sir. I’m surprised you remember; it must be twenty years or more since you was here last.”
Nash smiled back. “I was nine. But how could I forget your patience with a pestilential brat?”
“You was never a brat, sir, just a lad with a passion for horses and a knack for mischief.” The groom slapped the horse’s neck. “I see you’ve grown into a fine judge of horse-flesh.”
“Alas, this fine fellow belongs to my brother. Take good care of him, won’t you? I’ll need him later on. And have my baggage brought into the house—yes, the cloth bundle as well as the portmanteau.”
The elderly butler had been waiting stiffly at the top of the steps during this exchange, a worried look on his face that intensified as Nash drew closer. “Welcome to Whitethorn Manor, Mr. Renfrew. I’m sorry—if we’d had a little more warning—”
Nash shook the old man’s hand. “How do you do, Ferring? You look the same as ever. The lack of advance warning is deliberate. The estate is just as I want to see it—unprepared. Mrs. Pickens, good to see a familiar face.”
