by Tarah Scott
“And speak the vows for me,” Caroline muttered. He would deliver her in a hearse, if need be, and have the coffin carried to the altar. He intended to be the Viscountess of Blackhall’s uncle—the Countess of Blackhall’s uncle, once the earl died and Taran took his place.
“Do not complain. He is seeing to your best interests.”
“And that of his own.”
Mabel tsked as she tucked the blanket a little tighter around Caroline. “You need to eat.” She crossed to the hearth. “I will not have you faint during the ceremony.” She knelt in front of the dying embers and pulled the ash tin from the corner.
While Mabel shoveled ashes from the fireplace, Caroline surveyed the tray. Her stomach unexpectedly growled and she realized she was famished. She picked up a roll and began buttering it. Mayhap she would choke on the bread and end her misery. She reached for the hot chocolate as she took a bite. Her thigh muscles protested the movement and she froze. She hadn’t considered the possibility there would be any lasting effects to lovemaking—other than the loss of her heart and a possible child in her lover’s image. She nearly laughed aloud at the ridiculous thought. A broken heart and a son to remind her of the man who had moved her beyond words were two things she could live with. That man despising her would be her undoing. If he suspected she was his Aphrodite…his Aphrodite. For one night she had been his Aphrodite.
What a fool she had been. Had she not attended the masque, she wouldn’t have seen this passionate side of him until it was too late. Like most women married off for a price, she would have learned hate before love, and her hell would be only the smell of brimstone, instead of its heat.
Caroline took a swallow of the chocolate, then stuffed the remaining bread into her mouth before tentatively stretching her legs. Thigh muscles screamed—the grating of the ash tin across brick made her jump. She jerked her gaze onto Mabel and saw a fire burning in the hearth.
The housekeeper rose and faced her. “By now your bathwater—what in the world?”
She scowled and Caroline froze. Had Mabel somehow guessed she wasn’t the innocent Lord Blackhall expected in his bed tonight?
Mabel crossed the room to the bed. “You are no child to be stuffing your mouth. Is this how you plan to conduct yourself at the breakfast reception?”
Frustration welled up in Caroline. Uncle had arranged this marriage. He could live with the consequences. She swallowed a large chunk of the bread, forcing the lump down her throat despite the discomfort. Mabel lifted both brows.
Caroline washed down the remainder with the hot chocolate, then reached for a second roll. “I am hungry. Ham and eggs, if you please.”
“Before dawn, and with the breakfast you will be expected to partake of after the ceremony?”
“Every condemned man and woman is allowed a last meal.”
The housekeeper’s eyes narrowed. “None of your drama, Miss.”
“I will have my breakfast.”
“That you will, after the ceremony.”
Caroline stuffed half the roll into her mouth, swallowed, and bit back a gag Undaunted, she set the tray aside, then threw back the covers and grabbed her robe from the edge of the bed.
She stood. “I am capable of fetching my own breakfast.” Caroline slipped her arms inside the sleeves as she strode to the door.
“What’s this?” Mabel said.
Caroline grasped the doorknob as she glanced over her shoulder to see Mabel reaching for the edge of the purple sash sticking out from beneath the pillow. Caroline sucked in breath. Mabel grasped the sash and pulled it and the dress free. The costume fell to full length in front of the housekeeper. She squinted at the dress, clearly confused, then understanding dawned on her features.
She swung her gaze onto Caroline. Caroline stood immobile. The jig was up. Uncle would—Uncle would what? Her fingers tightened on the door handle. Why hadn’t she seen it before? Her uncle had never cared for her fortune. He was wealthy and, unlike so many of his contemporaries, managed his wealth well.
He intended to buy his way into the most elite circles of London with her fortune. If the new Lord Blackhall called off the wedding because his bride-to-be had defiled herself by attending the masque, Uncle would be furious, but he would simply find another noble in need of money. The scandal wouldn’t be enough to stop a desperate suitor from taking her as wife, and would be forgotten inside a month—just enough time for a quick wedding and honeymoon.
Her heart twisted. A honeymoon without Taran. Was a life with his disdain better than life without him? A tremor rocked her belly. Was she willing to have him at any cost, even trickery? Another thought chilled her. Betrayal or no, Taran Roberston, Viscount of Blackhall, would satisfy family obligation and marry the woman wealthy enough to restore his family’s finances. His father, the old Earl, would see to that.
Caroline ran her gaze across the length of the costume, then looked at Mabel with a raised brow. “What does it look like?”
Mabel’s lips thinned. “Looks like a costume intended for a masque.”
Caroline shrugged. “‘Twas my last night of freedom. What did you expect?”
The housekeeper startled her with a loud snort. “You will not be fooling me or your uncle so easily.” She strode to the fireplace and threw the dress into the hearth.
Caroline lunged forward. “Mabel!” She reached the maid’s side and tried to snatch the dress from the blaze of blue flame.
Mabel seized her arm and yanked Caroline around to face her. “No one will believe you attended that masque any more than I do.”
Caroline twisted and looked at the dress. Marred beyond recognition. Another instant, and it would be gone altogether.
Mabel released her.
Caroline stared at her. “Why?”
The housekeeper started for the door. “Your bathwater is ready. The men will bring it up. I will return presently to help with your hair.”
Caroline jumped with the light click of the door shutting behind Mabel. She lowered herself onto the bench at the foot of the bed. What had just happened? Her beloved Mabel had just sealed her fate, that’s what had just happened. When the bath was filled, perhaps she could drown herself in the water.
Chapter Seven
Taran set his plate of eggs and sausage on the breakfast table, then seated himself opposite his father. “Never fear, Father, unlike John, I shall pay the mortgage on Strathmore and purchase the two Friesian stallions you have your eye on before I break my neck.”
His father stopped short in placing a napkin on his lap and met Taran’s gaze. “Do not speak ill of the dead.”
“Ah, yes.” Taran reached for the cup of coffee before him. “I will be sure to get my bride with an heir before my untimely death—cannot have her marrying some other hapless viscount before her property is firmly seated in the Blackhall family.” He lifted the coffee cup in salute and took a sip.
The earl laid his napkin over his lap. “Foul this up and I will be forced to marry the girl myself.”
Taran looked up from setting his cup on the table. “Why did you not marry her?”
“Her uncle felt she would look more favorably upon your suit.”
Taran watched his father pick up fork and knife and begin cutting the sausages on his plate. He hadn’t hesitated in his answer. The fact he was thirty years the girl’s senior meant nothing. She was a commodity, and John Blackhall, Earl of Blackhall, had the price her uncle sought—an earldom. Lady Caroline Whitmore would someday be the Countess of Blackhall. He pitied the girl, though wondered if his brother John would have been any better to her than their father.
Taran picked up his fork. How much better a husband would he be? Today, their wedding day, he could think of nothing, save last night and the woman he’d bedded—no. Being bedded required a four-poster bed and a large feather mattress in front a crackling fire. He had fucked her, though not properly. The private admonition didn’t stop his cock from hardening at the memory of how she’d cried out when he
’d entered her.
The vixen was made for a man’s touch, and touch her again he would. Once the honeymoon was over, he would find her. Surely by then she would be married and have fulfilled her duty to her husband. Tension tightened his gut. She belonged to another man.
No, she was to wed another man. She belonged to him.
The door to the breakfast room opened, and William entered. “My lord,” he nodded to the earl, then to Taran.
Taran pointed to the seat to his right with his knife. “Sit. Have some breakfast.”
The viscount nodded towards a servant standing near the sideboard as he lowered himself into the chair. “Coffee, if you please.” William looked at Taran and grimaced. “How in God’s name can you eat? You are to wed in two hours, and the breakfast to follow is sure to be a feast. Lady Caroline’s housekeeper is rumored to be a cook fit for a king.” William added cream to his coffee. “Where did you get off to last night?”
The earl looked up. “Last night? Taran, if you—”
“If I what, Father? I am here, alive and well, the Viscount you need to acquire a fortune.” He forked eggs into his mouth.
“I want a grandson by August.”
Taran raised a brow. “At your service, my lord.”
The earl buttered a piece of toast. “Once you have fulfilled your obligation, you may do as you choose. With the money your marriage brings into the family, I can see your sisters well married, as well as run Strathmore and all our other affairs.”
“All? I am sure my wife will be pleased to learn you will see to her needs while I am doing as I choose.”
His father gave a mirthless laugh and Taran realized the earl had no compunctions about stepping in should a grandson not be forthcoming. For the thousandth time since learning the title had fallen to him, Taran considered defying his father and not marrying Caroline. The tactic had worked when Taran had insisted the earl close the illegal gaming hall he owned. The earl had refused until Taran had announced he would not wed the needed heiress while the threat of scandal hung over his head. The gaming hall had kept the estate out of the tax collector’s hand, but couldn’t compare to the twenty thousand pounds a year Caroline Wilmont brought to the marriage.
Sadly, his father’s entrepreneurial enterprise drove the final nail into Taran’s coffin. If he didn’t marry Caroline, his father would reopen the gaming hall. Once the Crown got wind of the illegal operation, it wouldn’t matter that Taran had no part in the business, he would end up in Newgate. His two sisters would be destitute, doomed to spinsterhood, or worse, marriage to squires and living in some Godforsaken part of the country where they would breed children who then grew up to become squires themselves.
Caroline Wilmont was destined for a life with him and his father—for this she may not forgive him—but the girl was doomed in any case. Wealthy heiresses were to be bought and sold, and if he didn’t marry her, another would. Perhaps another man would be a better man than Taran.
* * * *
The rolls Caroline had stuffed into her mouth that morning twisted in her belly with a vengeance, but she surprised herself by giving a calm nod to her uncle as he released her elbow and took his place to her left at the altar. The low hum of chatter in the chapel rose to a slight pitch and she knew the guests were in awe of the corseted bridal gown she wore. Like the Aphrodite costume, the bodice dipped nearly to her nipples. A small tremor radiated through her. Would sight of her breasts remind Taran of last night?
She inhaled a deep breath—as deep as her dress allowed. Despite the low bodice, the muted red of the corseted top and the pale gold skirt said nothing of passion. Lady Caroline Wilmont was a woman who demanded she be in the first order of fashion. A gown like this was not to be abused as the Aphrodite costume had been.
But what if he did recognize her? She gave herself a mental shake. Foolish. His encounter with Aphrodite had been in thin moonlight, then a dark carriage. Gone was the blonde wig. Her raven hair lay atop her head in a fashionable bun, accented by ringlets framing face and neck.
The minister emerged from a door behind the pulpit and strode towards her. At the pulpit, he set a small hymnal on the stand, then smiled with the benevolence only the clergy owned. Caroline gave him a nod in return. To her relief, her nerves remained steady. The goddess of fortune hadn’t favored her this last day, but that good lady held no more sway over Caroline Wilmont. Today would end as best it could, but in disaster. But Taran would be free of her.
The low hum of chatter abruptly ceased. Lord Taran Blackhall had arrived. Caroline kept her gaze straight ahead. She had remained calm, but wouldn’t risk losing her nerve in this last hour. Despite her efforts, her heart beat like a drum. If he recognized her immediately, he would refuse to marry her on the spot. At least that would end this farce.
He had no proof she was Aphrodite. Would he openly accuse her? No, not Taran. John would have publicly humiliated her. Whatever Taran Blackhall was, he was not his brother. He appeared beside her. She felt his gaze on her, but kept her attention forward. He couldn’t see her eyes. Not yet.
The reverend cleared his throat. “All rise.”
A unified shuffle sounded, then silence reigned.
“Dearly beloved,” the minister began, “we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony.” He glanced down at his book and Caroline reached inside her bodice and pulled free the black, lace handkerchief she’d stuffed there earlier. Her heart pounded in anticipation of the moment the minister caught sight of the black handkerchief that openly stated the bride still mourned the groom’s brother.
His head lifted as he continued, “which is an honorable estate, instituted of God in the time of man’s innocency, signifying unto us the mystical union”—his gaze fastened onto the cloth—“that is betwixt Christ and”—he swallowed hard—“his Church.” The last word died on his lips and Caroline felt all three men staring at her.
With a steady hand, she dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief.
“Er.” The minister dropped his attention back to the book. “His—His Church, which holy estate Christ adorned and beautified with his presence, and—” He flicked a glance at Caroline. She clasped the handkerchief to her breast and released a melodramatic sigh. The reverend’s eyes widened.
A murmur rose in the chapel behind her. Strong fingers seized her hand and forced her palm face upwards. She snapped her head up. Taran stared at the black cloth, his furrowed brow and dark eyes betraying…amusement? He released her and looked at the reverend who stared open-mouthed at them.
“Please continue, Minister,” he instructed.
The man remained motionless.
“Have you not seen a woman in mourning before?” he asked.
The minister looked at him. “I-well, I, of course, but—”
“But what?” Taran demanded.
The minister glanced helplessly about, then his gaze shifted to the hymnal, searching briefly for the words before he continued, “Which holy estate Christ adorned and beautified with his presence, and first miracle that he wrought, in Cana of Galilee—”
Caroline tore her gaze from the reverend who was droning on with the vows, and stared at Taran. He turned his head to reveal a slightly arched brow. The scoundrel was challenging her.
Fool, she mentally telepathed, this is for your own good.
The handkerchief was abruptly snatched from her grasp. Caroline jerked her attention to the left. Her uncle stared at the minister, the last of the handkerchief being stuffed neatly into his breast pocket. His hand dropped back to his side.
She had prepared for this. Eyes locked on his profile, Caroline reached into her bodice and pulled free a second black handkerchief. His head shifted and his gaze met hers. She turned towards Taran before her uncle had a chance to snatch the second handkerchief from her and came face to face with her soon-to-be husband. His bland expression didn’t disguise the faint twitch
at the corner of his mouth. Her tummy flipped. What would he do when she displayed the remaining black she wore? With her free hand, she grasped her skirt and lifted the hem an inch.
A collective gasp went up and a woman’s low wail sounded in the front pew.
“Silence,” her uncle hissed.
A tremor passed through Caroline. Courage. It didn’t mattered what her uncle thought. Taran’s gaze dropped and both brows shot up. Satisfaction surged through her. This is what mattered. The dear viscount couldn’t ignore the black, quilted underskirt accented with black, silk stockings. What man would want a woman who publicly announced she preferred his dead brother? Caroline abruptly realized the chapel—including the minister—had gone silent.
Taran seemed to notice it as well, for he looked at the minister. “What did you say?”
The minister’s eyes were glued to Caroline’s ankles, where the edge of the underskirt and stockings were still visible.
“Minister,” Taran said in a firmer tone.
The reverend’s head jerked up.
“What did you say?” Taran repeated.
The man cast Caroline an uncertain glance, then straightened and said in a clear voice, “Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy state of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
Caroline’s breath caught when Taran looked at her and said with conviction, “I will.”
The reverend shifted his attention to her. “Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”
Love, honor, care for him, yes. Obey and serve? Caroline wadded the handkerchief in her fist. “I am uncer—”
Viscount Blackhall yanked her against him, forcing the last of her sentence into an indistinguishable squeak.
