by Jenna Jaxon
She crossed to her room in two swift strides. What a morning. Before she entered she turned back to Tris’s door. What a night. Humming, she continued into her room, stripped off her gown and darted behind the screen to wash. By this evening she wouldn’t have to sneak into Tris’s room, thank God.
The door opened.
“Oh, miss. Wherever can ye be?” The maid’s soft plaintive cry hung in the air.
“I’m here, Betsy,” she called, trying to put the right amount of nonchalance into her voice.
“Oh, Miss Carlton!” Betsy popped her head around the screen.
Startled, Violet attempted to unsuccessfully cover her nakedness with her hands.
The girl had dressed in haste, her cap askew, apron hanging to the side of her skirt. “Wherever have ye been, miss? I been searching for ye all morning long.”
“I went down to the privy earlier. You were still asleep. Then I came back up here, just now, but you had gone.” Violet grasped the pitcher. “Can you fetch me some warm water? The cold is brisker than I thought.”
“Of course, miss.” Betsy seized the pitcher and disappeared.
“And please order breakfast laid in the parlor for me and Lord Trevor. I’ll step across and invite him as soon as I’m dressed.”
“Very good, miss.”
The door closed and Violet slumped. She simply wasn’t cut out for a life of intrigue.
Chapter 32
Tris sat savoring his coffee after a very enjoyable breakfast. Not that he could say exactly what he had eaten; it could have been shoe leather for all he cared. His full attention had been taken up with staring at the beautiful woman across the table from him, the wonder that she would soon be his wife stealing all awareness of the food placed before him. Which brought them to the next matter. “If you are quite done, my dear, we have an errand to attend to.”
Violet beamed at him over her teacup. Her eyes were rimmed with dark circles, testament to the lack of sleep they’d gotten. Still, the glow in those amber orbs sent a bolt of desire straight to his groin. They’d get precious little sleep for a long time to come after the wedding. “Where are we going, Tris?” She set her cup in the saucer and clasped his hand. “I’d hoped we might…rest a while after breakfast.” The rush of pink to her cheeks belied that resting was on her mind.
“Perhaps we may ‘rest’ this afternoon, love,” he said with a rueful smile. “This morning I propose we seek out the parish vicar and arrange to be married as soon as Duncan arrives with the special license.”
The broad smile that burst forth made her face glow, as if happiness itself shone there. “Then I will get my cloak while you order the carriage around, my lord. We must make ‘haste to the wedding.’” She leaned closer and whispered, “I would not waste a precious moment in making our marriage come to pass.”
“Neither would I, sweetheart.” He dropped his napkin on his plate and rose. “I will get my cloak and meet you downstairs.” The closeness of her drove him wild. Every time he looked at her, his desire to possess her sweet body must show clearly on his face. The sooner they married, the sooner he could stop feeling guilty about their illicit liaison.
He spent the short ride into Devizes mooning over Violet, who sat beside him chatting animatedly about their return to London, and dreading the upcoming interview with the vicar. The niggling fear the man would refuse to marry them, special license or not, ate at him like a cankerworm. She must become his wife before that blasted duel. He would not risk leaving her destitute once more should Harper somehow manage to best him and take his life.
“You look rather grave, my love.” She grasped his hand and drew it onto her lap, the warmth of her stealing into him. “Does the thought of returning to London distress you?”
“There could be no greater joy for me than to enter a London ballroom with you on my arm, my sweet.” There was nothing he looked forward to more than presenting her to London Society as his viscountess. Pray God he would be able to do so. Still, he wouldn’t alarm her with morbid speculations. He raised their clasped hands and kissed hers, tingling with the anticipation of further delights when they returned to the inn. “No, I merely wish these preliminaries done and over so we may celebrate the beginning of our life together.”
“Ummm. I like the sound of that.” Violet raised their hands and returned the kiss. When he thought she was letting go his hand, she instead stripped the glove from it, made as if to kiss it again then licked the flesh on the back of his knuckles.
“Good God, Violet.” His cock stiffened as if by magic. “Where did you learn to do that?”
“Need you ask, my lord?” The mischievous twinkle in her eyes gave away the answer.
“I suppose not, although I will insist on exploring more of your erotic knowledge later…in our chamber.”
She kissed his hand again, a quick peck that did nothing to dispel the discomfort in his breeches. “I shall await that encounter with great anticipation.”
An urge to turn the carriage around and head back immediately seized him. His blood had heated to a feverish boil the instant she touched him. Where else might she employ that tongue? Damn. He scooted an inch or two away from her enticement. Not since Bathsheba tempted King David had a man faced worse torture. They must present themselves before the vicar if they intended to be married. Pray God the interview was short.
Fortune shone on them in the person of Mr. Ezekiel Curry, the vicar of St. Mary’s. Once the little man understood what they wished, he agreed to hold the wedding in the event the special license was properly presented with witnesses. After this agreement had been reached, in a mercifully short time, Tris and Violet were left to inspect the stained glass windows behind the altar.
Unfortunate he and Violet could not be married with all the pomp and circumstance of a proper wedding at St. George’s in London. Dressed in a spectacular gown, with a bevy of attendants also in their finery, she would have been the talk of the town. An equally impressive wedding breakfast with all their friends and family—quite half the ton would be in attendance. He’d wager a good horse on it. Did she mind having to settle for him, Duncan, and Manning? If only they need not make haste. He would make it up to her somehow.
They left the church arm in arm. The sun showed brilliantly, though the bitter wind had picked up. Tris put his arm around her to help shield her from the chill. He started toward the carriage, glad to be heading back to the toasty inn.
“Tris!”
“Duncan!” Tris had jerked his head up, instinctively drawing Violet behind him, though he recognized the voice almost immediately. He leaped forward and clasped the man standing in front of a strange carriage about the neck. “By all that is holy, how do you come here so soon?”
* * * *
Violet’s heart lurched, startled by the unexpected appearance, then beat furiously as Tris eagerly greeted the man who had killed her cousin. She dropped her gaze to the slate-gray pebbles and dead grass at her feet. Although she’d heard much of the Marquess of Dalbury, she had not seen him before. In the end, curiosity outweighed animosity. She raised her head just enough that she could assess him without a direct gaze.
An inch or two shorter than Tris, and with a slighter build, the marquess’s imposing demeanor still proclaimed his air of command. Authority emanated from his casual stance as he leaned back, surveying her and Tris with one penetrating look. Even the offhand way his cloak draped over his shoulders gave him the appearance of someone whose word was obeyed without question. He clasped Tris’s shoulder, pleasure in their meeting drawn in every line of his smiling face. Like one would greet a brother.
She’d never pressed Tris for details about his friendship with the marquess, but from what she’d gleaned, she’d thought theirs a mere friendship. The devotion evident in Dalbury’s face, however, had her revising that opinion. The connection between them seemed close as a blood relation. Without a doubt the man would be a part of their lives and she couldn
’t imagine having to endure his presence in their home, perhaps on a regular basis. If she were to judge from Tris’s reaction right now—his face animated, his stance close to the marquess, his conversation which hadn’t stopped in five minutes—she’d have to learn to mask her feelings for the marquess.
“Violet…Miss Carlton.” Tris took her arm, pulling her forward to stand before the marquess and his companion.
Her legs trembled. Hopefully they’d blame it on the cold. She was about to meet the father of her misfortunes, like it or not.
“Miss Carlton, may I present Lord Dalbury?”
“My lord.” She cast her gaze down and curtsied to avoid meeting his eyes.
“Duncan, I think you have not met my betrothed, Miss Carlton?”
“No, we have not met, although I believe we have a connection through tragic circumstances.”
Violet jerked her head up at the gentle, respectful tone. Somehow she’d expected surliness or mockery from the despicable man. Instead, his rich brown eyes held compassion, his demeanor a gravity bordering on regret.
“Allow me to extend my belated condolences on the deaths of your brother, your cousin, and your grandmother. Tristan has told me of the misfortunes my encounter with Mr. Davies and Mr. Carlton have cost you. I wish, for your sake, the outcome of that meeting had been much different.”
Uncertain how to respond, she drew into herself, murmuring, “Thank you, my lord.” She could hardly rail at him in front of Tris, and of course, the circumstances were not completely his fault. No one had forced Kit to insult his family.
Brows swooping down into a scowl, Lord Dalbury’s face darkened. “I have since discovered the author of those unfortunate events was one Thomas Redmond, who used your cousin most cruelly to strike at me. I can tell you, although he has not been brought to the justice he deserves, he has suffered a loss.” The marquess shot a look at Tris, who turned away smiling. “Still, if there is any service I may do you, Miss Carlton, you have but to name it. I am yours to command.”
On the tip of her tongue to tell him to jump in the ice-caked River Avon, she took a breath instead and settled. It would do no good to disparage a man so obviously Tris’s friend. Best then to make him help her in the only way that counted. “Thank you, my lord. My one request is that you keep Lord Trevor safe during this hideous duel tomorrow. I would have him come back to me whole and well.”
He bowed, an elegant gesture full of charm and grace. “I will do everything within my power to return him to you unscathed.”
Violet nodded her thanks and breathed easier. Lord Dalbury would protect Tris with his life, she was sure of it.
So taken up with the shock of meeting the marquess, she’d paid no attention to the stranger he’d brought with him. Blond hair, a shade or two darker than Dalbury’s, of the same height, though perhaps a bit bigger boned. Not as well dressed as the marquess, yet a gentleman certainly.
The careful way in which he scrutinized her, however, made the hairs on the back of her neck rise.
Why on earth was he here?
“Where is Lord Manning?” she whispered to Tris.
“Good question,” he murmured in return. “Has some tragedy befallen Lord Manning, Duncan?” He gave a short nod toward the blond stranger. “And I don’t believe I’ve met this gentleman.”
“Manning has been unavoidably detained in London on business I am not at liberty to disclose.” The marquess’s eye twitched, though his face otherwise remained unmoved.
She shuddered to think what could have been so dire it prevented his lordship from coming to her defense.
“But allow me to present Mr. Reginald Matthews, Miss Carlton. And Lord Trevor. Mr. Matthews is a relation of my wife’s and a man of great discretion.”
The stranger bowed, a subtle air of command in him.
“Tris, a word if you please.” Lord Dalbury pulled him aside, leaving her to entertain Mr. Matthews.
She curtsied, curious at his keen gaze that seemed to take in her every aspect. “You are kind to have taken on this arduous journey with no notice, Mr. Matthews. I must thank you for assisting Lord Trevor in the odious duel.”
The man smiled, immediately transforming his rather severe countenance into a handsome, jovial one. “I seem to be constantly embroiled in duels on account of the marquess despite my profession.”
“Your profession?” Was the man a lawyer?
“I’m a Bow Street Runner, Miss Carlton. And dueling is illegal under the law. By rights, I am bound to stop them whenever I am able.” His almost merry attitude all but belied his statement.
“And are you come to stop this duel?” Hope leaped in her chest. If this man could prevent the duel, Tris would be safe.
“Well, Lord Dalbury made me swear an oath not to interfere, especially as I have been pressed into service as a second in the duel. I assure you, it would not appear favorably to my superiors, in light of the fact I am being considered for the position of magistrate. And Dalbury assures me they will be informed if I lift a hand to prevent the altercation other than my duty to attempt a reconciliation.” A comic roll of his eyes and he chuckled ruefully. “I’m enjoying the irony. I don’t suppose Lord Trevor wishes to reconcile?” he called to Lord Dalbury.
“I’d as soon shoot Duncan here,” Tris interrupted smoothly, coming to stand by her side. “Or you, my love.” He nodded to Matthews. “You can tell Simon Harper, short of someone presenting his head on a pike to me, I’ll meet him at first light tomorrow as promised.”
“Duly noted, my lord.” Mr. Matthews bowed and retreated to the carriage.
“Duncan has carried out all my commissions with his usual dependable thoroughness and speed. The fool actually set out this morning at five o’clock—after terrorizing the Archbishop of Canterbury—and drove all through the day, arriving at the Black Horse only to find us gone.” Tris chuckled. “He tracked us here on Mrs. Cheeley’s advice, to deliver this.” With an exaggerated flourish, he drew a piece of parchment from his jacket. “A special license. We can be married whenever we wish.”
“Not the easiest document to obtain in the dead of night. Saunders staggered into my house at three o’clock.” The marquess cocked his head. “You must raise the man’s wages a sovereign or two, Tris. He rode straight through, stopping only to change horses and down a pint of ale along the way. Made it in eight hours, which I didn’t believe possible. Must be a record of some sort. In any case, I am fortunate my Aunt Phoebe is godmother to His Grace, the Archbishop. The man didn’t hesitate to see me even at that ungodly hour. At least he hadn’t gone to bed yet. I suppose he’d rather deal with me than have my aunt knocking on his door to find out why he didn’t accommodate me.”
“Shall we go in this minute, my love, and be married before another hour passes?” Tris took her hands, staring at her with so much love tears started from her eyes.
“Oh, yes, Tris.” Heart beating a tattoo, Violet squeezed his hands and they turned toward the church once more.
“Oh, no you don’t miss.”
Violet whirled around.
Leaning on a black hawthorn cane, her left ankle in bandages, Susan stood in front of the marquess’s carriage. “You will not go to your wedding in a brown wool gown suitable for travel and nothing else.”
“Susan!” Violet rushed forward, throwing her arms around her friend. “How wonderful to see you. But how do you come here?” Reluctantly, she released Susan and stood back, taking the woman in with a hungry gaze. The bandaged foot peeped out from beneath her striped skirts.
“His lordship,” she nodded toward the marquess, who was again deep in conversation with Tris, “knocked on my door just before five o’clock—I’ve no idea how he found me—and told me of your circumstances. Of course, I had to come.”
“But your foot—”
Susan waved the objection away. “I stupidly tripped coming down a narrow flight of stairs at my lodgings. My landlady helped me bandage it
and called the surgeon. He says it is not broken, but I’m to rest it for at least a month.”
“And here you are traipsing across the countryside clear to Wiltshire. Come into the church and sit down.” Violet took her arm, but Susan winced and stood her ground.
“I’ve been sitting for nigh on ten hours, miss. I could do with a stretch.” The penetrating way she looked Violet over, head to heels, made her suddenly feel like a small child being inspected before going to Sunday service. “I see my work is cut out for me. I’ve brought your blue silk with the darker stripe. Do you remember it?”
Completely awed by her maid’s efficient, no-nonsense manner, Violet nodded.
“Then let us return to the inn and I will turn you out for your wedding as though we were in London and this St. George’s.” Gingerly, Susan eased her weight from her injured ankle and leaned more heavily on her stick. “Lord Trevor, you, Lord Dalbury, Mr. Matthews, and Saunders take Lord Dalbury’s carriage. I’ll take yours and accompany Miss Carlton back to the inn and get her ready. If you wish to stay, we will return within the hour.
“What do you say, Duncan?” Tris looked eagerly toward his friend “Shall we head for The Swan, grab a pint, and discuss this duel tomorrow?”
“I’d rather confront Mr. Harper now, if possible,” Mr. Matthews said, moving toward the marquess’s carriage. “How far to his residence?”
“Harper’s Grange is only about two and a half miles farther on. You could make it there and back in an hour or so.” Tris grinned at them all. “I suspect the meeting will be of short duration.”
“I believe, as I have time now before the wedding, I will do just that.” With a bow, Matthews opened the carriage door, then turned back. “Your terms, all joking aside?”
All humor left Tris’s face and he grunted. “The terms stand as they did the last time he was challenged to a duel. He apologizes to Miss Carlton privately and upon pain of exposure never speaks to her or of her ever again. Otherwise, I shall meet him in the morning.”
