Wed Him Before You Bed Him

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “Well?” his father repeated. “I can see from your face that it’s about you.”

  He nodded, only half-conscious of doing so.

  “Am I to guess from the timing of it that it was written by Charlotte Page?”

  “Most assuredly,” he said dully.

  “So what have you to say for yourself? What did you do to that girl?”

  Heat rose in his cheeks. “I did nothing except ask her to be my wife.” And act like a besotted fool. And bare his heart for her dagger, which even now twisted in his breast. “She must have heard gossip about me after she returned to London.”

  But why had she believed it? That’s what sent the knife digging deep—the fact that she had learned some nastiness about his wenching, and instead of coming to him about it, had done this. She hadn’t even waited until she saw him again to accuse him. She had sent it to the bloody paper to be published! How could she?

  He’d known she was a bit high in the instep, that she had wild notions about him and his reputation, but he’d never expected something so inexplicably cruel. What sort of woman did such a thing?

  His only consolation was that no one would guess it was he who…

  The blood chilled to ice in his veins. He read it again, a glacier creeping over his body, freezing everything it touched. “Everyone will know it’s me.”

  “Ridiculous,” his father said. “She at least had the good sense not to use any names. The only reason I guessed it was the bit about your dressing gown.”

  David glanced up at his father. “Exactly. I wore that dressing gown at Cambridge many a time. I was known for it.” He let out a foul curse. “It won’t take long for word to get round that it’s me.”

  The color drained from Father’s face. “Where is it now?”

  “I gave it to Giles.”

  Father called for Giles. As soon as the young man entered, Father asked, “Where is the dressing gown your brother gave you?”

  Giles glanced uncertainly at David. “Why?”

  “Do you have it?” Father barked.

  “It’s in my dresser.”

  “Have you worn it publicly yet?”

  Giles swallowed, clearly afraid he was being accused of something. “No, sir.”

  “Good. Then burn it.”

  “What? Why?”

  David tossed him the paper, then turned to his father. “Burning it will do no good. Hundreds of chaps at Cambridge saw me in it.”

  As Giles read the story, David stalked the room, unable to get warm, unable to stop the ice stealing over him.

  “We’ll sue the Tattler for libel,” Father said.

  David whirled on his heel. “Thus confirming for everyone that it’s me? Are you mad?”

  “According to you, they’ll know that already,” Father bit out. “Besides, if the little bitch wants to ruin you publicly, she should suffer ruin as well.”

  For some reason, an image of a terrified Charlotte balking at going on the river swam into David’s mind. But of course it was a false image. If she truly feared her father, why send this letter to a newspaper? Surely she was clever enough to realize that Lord Page would recognize her hand in it. The man had seen David in the dressing gown one morning. He would put together the rest.

  David bit back a foul oath. Perhaps that was why she’d done it—to punish her father. That at least made sense. She wasn’t brave enough to identify herself, but she was brave enough to drag the son of her father’s friend through a scandal in order to destroy Lord Page’s scheme of marriage.

  Whatever her reasons, they were insupportable. He would never forget what she’d done. Or forgive it.

  The glacier stealing over his body now crept toward his heart. “As appealing as ruining Miss Page sounds to me at the moment,” David ground out, “that is the surest way to fuel the fire. She’ll be touted as a martyr while I am vilified in the press for my attempt to vilify her. Give the press even a morsel of the truth, and they will pounce on us like ravening dogs. They’ll unearth the fact that you wanted me to marry her for her fortune and that her father had hopes for political gain. We’ll be publicly humiliated as scheming scoundrels, which is probably exactly what she wants.”

  The arctic fury sliding over him was vastly preferable to that first white-hot lance of pain in his heart. He welcomed the frost, embraced it, letting it freeze his soul to a solid block of ice. “Silence is our best recourse. Silence, and a hope that no one connects me to this bloody letter.”

  His father glanced over at Giles. “What are you doing standing there like a slack-jawed fool? Go burn that dressing gown. That’s one thing we can do.”

  “Yes, sir,” he mumbled and fled the room.

  David stared after him, now numb to the very soles of his feet.

  “I’m sorry, son,” his father said in a low voice. “This is my fault, for bringing them here. For asking you to consider the chit as a wife. I had no idea she was such a mad-woman.”

  No, but David had known. Somewhere in the part of him that treated all people with caution, he’d known that she and her parents were an unpredictable lot. He should have listened to that instinct, instead of letting his cock lead him into trouble as usual.

  Much as he hated to admit it, Father had been right. Love was for fools and children. David should never have conflated the practical advantages of marrying Charlotte with some dubious and foolish emotion. Then he wouldn’t be standing here with his heart in shreds.

  Fine. He would weather this as best he could, but he would learn from his mistakes. There would be no more debauchery, no more whining about Father’s investments, no more drunken orgies with his friends. There would certainly be no more attempts at love matches. He was done with that. He would set the course of his life with the same ruthless efficiency as she.

  And after the gossip had died down, and he’d had time to develop a plan, he would make Charlotte Page pay for making a public laughingstock out of him. Just see if he didn’t.

  Charlotte was about to enter the breakfast room when her father’s raised voice wafted out to her in the hall.

  “I tell you, this time she’s gone too far!” Papa shouted.

  Her heart racing, Charlotte slid up next to the door to listen.

  “You don’t know that it was her,” came her mother’s timid voice. “Truly, Rowland—”

  “What? You can defend her after this travesty?” There was a rustle of paper. “She sent it to the Morning Tattler, of all things! I saw young Masters in that dressing gown one morning—I know he’s the one who is meant in the letter.”

  Charlotte’s heart nearly stopped. A letter? They’d got hold of her letter? No, that wasn’t possible. It wouldn’t be in the newspaper.

  “It does sound like him,” Mama said, “but I’m sure it was some other girl who wrote to the paper. He does have a reputation, you know.”

  “What about this line here: ‘as fickle and deadly as the waters of the Thames’? It’s something she would say. And she actually called him an ‘unrepentant libertine’ before we arrived in Berkshire. Don’t you remember her terming his friends ‘debauched’?”

  Fear crawled up from Charlotte’s belly, clawing at her, making her sway on her feet as she recognized phrases from her letter. Oh god oh god oh god, how had it ended up in the Morning Tattler?

  “I don’t think our Charlotte would—”

  A smack sounded, then a sharp cry from Mama. Charlotte stilled, panic gripping her. Papa had never hit Mama that she knew of. If he were to start now, because of Charlotte’s stupid, stupid letter…

  “Rowland, please,” her mother said in a low voice, “hitting the furniture will accomplish nothing. The servants will hear. Besides, you can’t be sure that it was her.”

  Relief coursed through Charlotte, but it was only temporary. Papa’s temper was sure to be ungovernable after this. And what would he do to her? He would never forgive her for this, never!

  “I’ve asked her three times since we returned how it went
with him,” he cried, “and she got close-mouthed about it every time.” The paper rattled again. “That’s because she was plotting this, damn her! I won’t stand for it, do you hear? She will apologize to him in person. I’ll see her grovel before him and all his family if that’s what it takes to make this right! Because if she doesn’t, I’ll suspend her by her damned feet from the London Bridge until she does!”

  The very idea sent horror slicing through Charlotte.

  Papa continued to curse as he tramped about the room. “I swear to you I’m never letting her leave this house again. She will stay locked up in her room until hell freezes over! I’ve had enough of her impudence!”

  She was done for. Fearing he would burst into the hall any minute and find her skulking there, she crept toward the back entrance to the house. Once she got outside, she ran for the furthermost corner of their little garden.

  She paced beneath her favorite willow, frantic to figure out what had happened and what she should do. How could her letter have gone to a newspaper? Oh, if she ever saw that Tom Dempsey again, she would box his ears! She’d known something was wrong when he never returned for the other ear bob.

  “Miss Page!” hissed a voice from behind her, making her start.

  Turning toward the iron bars of the fence, she was shocked to find Captain Harris sitting astride his charger in the alley. Color crept up her cheeks. She’d scarcely thought of him in these past few days, too caught up in her pain over David’s betrayal.

  “What are you doing here?” she whispered, hurrying toward the fence.

  Before she could stop him, he’d vaulted off his horse and over the sharp-tipped bars to land on his feet before her.

  “I came to pay a call on you,” Captain Harris said, “but the butler told me you weren’t home to visitors. So I rode back to the alley, hoping for a glimpse of you.”

  Under the circumstances, she didn’t know whether to be flattered or alarmed. “I-I suppose you read the letter in the paper.”

  His eyes narrowed. “So I was right. It was you who wrote it.”

  She dropped her head in shame. “I didn’t mean for it to go to the papers, I swear. It was supposed to be private.” A thought occurred to her that chilled her blood. “How did you know it was mine?” If he had known, others might know, too.

  She had kept David’s name out of it, so no one would guess about him, but they might figure out that it was she who’d written it. She would never be able to marry! Who would marry the woman who wrote such a letter, no matter how justified?

  Catching her by the chin, Captain Harris lifted her head until her gaze met his. “I was so utterly miserable after you’d gone that I paid one of the servants to tell me where you were, and they said your family was in Berkshire visiting the Masters family. And word is already spreading around town that young Masters is the man who was meant in the letter. But I have not told a soul about your connection to this, I swear.”

  His expression growing even more solemn, he seized her hand. “Indeed, I have come to save you. I won’t let your father marry you off to such a cad. I won’t!”

  She caught her breath. “What do you mean to do?”

  “To marry you myself, dear girl.” Dropping to one knee, he pressed a fervent kiss to her hand. “I adore you. Could you not tell?”

  Come to think of it, no. In light of her explosive kisses with David, her brief flirtation with Captain Harris now seemed more like a courtly minuet than the prelude to a love affair.

  She frowned. Of course it did. For all his easy manner, Captain Harris wasn’t a rakehell and a scoundrel. He hadn’t practiced for years at breaking young ladies’ hearts, nor was he capable of insulting a woman with fiery but decidedly improper kisses. If that made him a tad less interesting, it was only because villainy could be awfully enticing. But villainy was villainy, and the captain’s appearance here despite her disgrace showed that he was not a villain.

  “We will leave for Scotland this very hour,” he went on, staring up into her face with a look that did seem rather adoring. “Even now, a friend awaits us with a post chaise that will outrun anything your father can send after you. We can be in Gretna Green in a matter of days, and you will be safe once and for all from the cruel marriage your father seeks to arrange.”

  It was a bold plan of action, a decidedly romantic plan that would have had her throwing herself into his arms two weeks ago. But David’s betrayal had made her cautious. Even as she thrilled to the captain’s offer, her father’s cold words about the man’s intentions trickled into her mind, insidious in their poison.

  “This is rather sudden,” she said.

  His face darkened. “Perhaps you still have feelings for this scoundrel.”

  “No!” She squeezed his hand. “No, never.”

  With an earnest glance, he pressed her hand to his chest. “If you’re worried about your past with him, I swear you need not. I will never reproach you for anything that you and he might have done in the heat of the moment.”

  “My past? Done?” When it dawned on her what he was saying, she blushed violently and attempted to pull her hand free. “I assure you, sir, that I am still chaste. I would never allow—”

  “Of course not, dearest Charlotte, I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.” Refusing to relinquish her hand, he scattered frantic kisses over it. “You will let me call you Charlotte, won’t you?” His eyes raked her with a tenderness that soothed the insult she’d thought he was offering her.

  “You know that Papa isn’t likely to give you my dowry,” she cautioned him. “He’s very angry over what I wrote.”

  “I don’t care,” he said, with a lofty air that sounded sincere. “It is you I want. We will live on love.”

  The idyllic promise made her wince. She wasn’t sure what love was anymore, but she was fairly certain she didn’t feel it for Captain Harris. Still, if he felt it for her, that was more than she could expect now that she’d destroyed her life. Indeed, he was risking everything to have her. If anyone ever learned that she’d written the letters, he would be publicly mocked. For a man to take such a chance on her behalf surely showed deep feeling.

  And what choice did she have, anyway? If she didn’t marry Captain Harris, Papa would make her life hell. He would force her to apologize to David, which was unthinkable. As mortified as she was that the letter had ended up in the papers, she saw no reason she should apologize when David was the one who’d wronged her.

  Besides, if the press discovered that she had written the letter, everything would turn even uglier. It would mean a huge scandal, and Papa would make sure she suffered for it.

  But if she ran off with Captain Harris, Papa could never hurt her again. She would have her own household and a dashing husband who cared about her. In time she would surely come to love him.

  When she smiled faintly at the thought, Captain Harris clutched her hand to his heart. “Is that a yes, dear Charlotte?” he asked, his eyes almost as lovely as David’s.

  Thrusting the traitorous comparison from her mind, she covered his hand with hers. “Indeed it is, sir. I accept your proposal.”

  Chapter Eight

  Richmond, England

  November 1824

  Shaken by her encounter with the ghosts of her past, Charlotte stood at her office window watching David ride off in his carriage. He had not changed. He was still as aggressive and bold as ever.

  She rather liked that about him.

  In recent years, she had grown used to making men dance to her tune. From the moment she had established this school, she had sworn that no man would ever bully her as Papa had done. No man would ever use her for his own purposes as her late husband had done. In her little domain, she was in control.

  Even Cousin Michael had respected her boundaries. It had been wonderful to have a friendship with a man who knew the difference between dictating and advising, whose very anonymity made it easy for her to talk honestly with him. And to keep at a distance.

  David had
never kept her at a distance—until she’d mailed that stupid letter that had cut them off forever.

  She still couldn’t believe no one else had ever learned who had written the thing, but within days the world had figured out for certain that David was its subject. That cursed dressing gown had said it all. Who could have known he was the only viscount’s son from Cambridge who’d ever worn a striped dressing gown?

  By then, Charlotte had been newly married to Jimmy, and in no position to do anything about it. So she’d had to watch in abject mortification as David was vilified in the press. Even though she had still hated him for his betrayal, she had not wanted him to suffer public humiliation.

  There had been mocking caricatures printed for the shops, irate letters to the paper. He had been given the cut direct by half the ladies in good society. After all, it was one thing for a well-born buck to live a dissolute life—it was quite another to do it so indiscreetly that young ladies wrote letters to the newspaper about him.

  Although his friends had rallied around to protect him as best they could, every barmaid he had ever drunkenly bussed had told her story for the press, and every sin he had ever committed was trotted out for the public’s amusement.

  Through it all, David had remained utterly silent, never revealing her name. At the time, she had assumed it was because he had not wanted her to tell her side of the story, making him look even worse than he already did.

  Now she knew better. Years later, she had learned that Giles, not David, had been the one wearing the robe on that awful night. And her shame had been complete.

  It still filled her with horror to think of what she had done so impetuously. Granted, her fear of her father had been very real, and she had truly believed that David was toying with her affections. Still, she should have taken proper care to make sure the letter never fell into the wrong hands. Her pique and cowardice had ruined David’s reputation for a long time.