Carnal Deceptions (20 page)

She agreed readily, thankful that she’d been able to dissuade him from intimidating the man with his pistol.

Her legs were wobbly as she stepped out of the coach. He secured her to his side as he led her up the path to a modest little house by the side of the inn.

“What type of document will you have him prepare?” she asked. “A marriage certificate.”

She stumbled. His arm tightened around her.

“A certificate produced by a master forger. You can’t think it will have any validity.

It will be a worthless piece of paper, nothing more,” he assured her.

The door of the house burst open and a couple came springing out into the drizzly morning. They could not take their eyes from each other.
Is this what uncomplicated love looks like?
Tess wondered as they passed.

She grabbed at Lord Marcliffe’s lapel. “We should tell them they are not really married.”

He inclined his head in the direction of the house. A man garbed in a long black coat stood in the doorway. “Not a wise thing to do at this moment.”

As they approached, the man offered them a generous, mostly toothless smile. “Joseph Kerr, at your service. A darling day for a wedding. It is a wedding you are after, right, sir?”

Lord Marcliffe nodded without hesitation.

The man ushered them into the small, dank home. With Lord Marcliffe’s grip on her arm, Tess had no choice but to enter. A smoky haze hung over the room, making her eyes water.

Two older men with pipes clamped between their teeth got to their feet.

“I need a little fortification before I perform the next ceremony,” Mr. Kerr said, and disappeared behind a partition of hanging blankets. The other men toddled after him.

She balked, refusing to move farther into the interior. “He is dressed like a cleric.” “He also reeks of drink, and clearly he’s gone off to get more. It is a costume. He is

playing at being a preacher.” His fingers wrapped tighter around her arm and propelled

her forward. “Just think, the next time you come to Gretna Green you will be quite familiar with the proceedings. Not near so nervous.” His gaze fixed on her trembling lips.

The trio pushed through the gap in the blankets and Mr. Kerr took a seat at a makeshift desk fashioned from an ancient door.

Lord Marcliffe placed a packet atop the scarred wood surface. The man tipped the packet, spilling out the gold coins. It looked to be a hundred guinea or more. It struck Tess that Mr. Kerr was not used to such a generous payment. He tested one coin between his teeth, ironically trying to see if it was counterfeit, before slowly and methodically stacking the coins.

“Mr. Kerr, I’d appreciate it if you’d get on with this.” Lord Marcliffe tossed a few more coins atop the pile as an incentive. “My betrothed is getting a little anxious.”

The man dipped his pen and held the quill poised above the certificate. “Your name, sir?”

“Tallon Michael Hawkes, the Earl of Marcliffe and Viscount Bromley.” She was shocked to find he’d provided the man with his real name. “And yours, lass?”

“Horten—”

“Tess Starling,” Lord Marcliffe spoke over her. His breath was warm against her ear. “Don’t fret so. You will make him suspicious.”

“’Tis your own free will that brings you here, lass?” Mr. Kerr asked.

The whole thing seemed too real. She scrutinized Lord Marcliffe’s face for signs of deceit. He appeared as innocent as a dark angel. No different, actually, from how he always looked.

“Pardon us for a moment,” he said, and pulled her aside. “Haven’t you heard that Gretna Green marriages are always performed by a blacksmith?”

She could vaguely recall hearing something like that. “Mr. Kerr, what is your primary occupation?” she asked.

The old man looked up from his treasure. He’d begun counting his coins again. “I’m a saddler, Miss Starling.”

Lord Marcliffe winked at her. “Forger, saddler, anvil priest. The man’s a jack-of-all-trades,” he whispered in her ear.

She remained unconvinced. His answers were too glib. But her naiveté about elopements put her at a disadvantage. If a man was desperate to bed a woman, but averse to marrying her, wouldn't a sham preacher be just the thing? When the rakehell's lust was slaked, he could simply dispose of the certificate, and it would be his word against hers.

Perhaps she was being too cynical. She glanced at Mr. Kerr. Sot or not, there was something sincere in his bloodshot eyes. Lord Marcliffe made a show of removing his pocket watch from his waistcoat and glanced from it to Tess. Still balancing the watch on his palm, he shook his head indulgently. It was certainly a grand performance he was putting on for Mr. Kerr's benefit.

She shot him an annoyed look. She was not done thinking yet. It would behoove her to ask the most relevant question. It was at the tip of her brain, but she could not bring herself to voice it. It would be supreme conceit to think the earl had actually gone to such lengths to wed her. To ascribe such romantic motives to a man who bent her to her knees to fulfill his desires was beyond absurd. She turned back to Mr. Kerr. “I am here of my own free will,” she said with a sigh.

Lord Marcliffe put the quill to paper then handed it to her. “It won’t hurt to sign it. It is, after all, a worthless document,” he said, his lips so close they grazed her ear.

By now Mr. Kerr was beginning to look a bit uneasy with all the whispering. Tess was worried he would figure out why they were really there, so she complied.

Her signature looked frail beside Lord Marcliffe’s bold scrawl. The certificate was impressive. Mr. Kerr had filled out their information in a beautiful calligraphic hand.

“Put the pipes out, boys.” Mr. Kerr motioned to the old men smoking in the corner. Mr. Kerr began to recite the marriage ceremony from a battered book. Lord

Marcliffe was right, he looked anything but a man of God. On closer inspection, she

noticed the patches and oily stains on his coat. Though Tess stood more than an arm’s reach from the man, the alcohol on his breath assaulted her nose.

For no reason she could gather, the faux ceremony made her nervous. Watching Mr. Kerr with his facial tics did not help. After finding that a corner of her lip was twitching in unconscious imitation, she turned her head and peered up at Lord Marcliffe. He looked far too relaxed to her way of thinking. What an unhappy day, she thought, to be pretending to marry the person you loved. With a gentle squeeze of her hand, he prodded her to repeat her lines.

She recited her vows as though listing ingredients from a recipe. “Have you a ring?” Mr. Kerr asked.

Lord Marcliffe removed a heavy ring from his finger. It was inscribed with a coat of arms. She had never seen him wear it before. “I hope this will do,” he said to her.

“You are oddly prepared for this.” Doubt of his motives continued to plague her. To keep the huge ring from sliding off her finger, she folded her hand into a fist.

At the end of the ceremony, the three old men stared at Lord Marcliffe and Tess as if waiting for something. Mr. Kerr mumbled something under his breath.

“What was that?” Lord Marcliffe asked. “The kiss, man, the kiss.”

Tess froze, and it seemed her partner had gone just as rigid. They had clearly not thought out the entire ruse. He leaned over and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. The expression on Mr. Kerr’s face crumpled with disappointment. The witnesses shook their heads. Lydia Midwinter had been right. He had no inclination for kissing.

Tess pushed his guiding hand away as they walked back to the carriage. Endless days on the road and all they had to show for it was a fake certificate. She did not even get a proper kiss for all her troubles.

“What a ridiculous charade,” she complained as she climbed into the coach. “I hope that was worth it.”

“It was,” Lord Marcliffe said, and patted the document in his pocket. “You are so sure of yourself. What if you have the wrong forger?” He smiled. “No, he was the right man. I’m certain of it.”

She looked wistfully at the ring still enfolded in her hand. With reluctance, she handed it to him.

“You keep it safe for me.”

Bloody wonderful. No kiss, but now she had a souvenir to remind her of the wedding that would never be. She wrapped it in a linen handkerchief and placed it in her reticule.

*

The sun was still high in the sky when Tess woke from her nap and found herself alone in the carriage. She rubbed the kink out of her neck. They were stopped in front of a small inn, its stone exterior covered with moss. She found Lord Marcliffe inside making room arrangements.

“We are through traveling for the day?” she asked him. “There is still so much daylight.”

“I’ve grown weary of the road,” he said.

A servant picked up their bags and led them upstairs. The boy pushed open the door of the first room they came to, and Tess entered. Lord Marcliffe followed her into the chamber.

“If you prefer this room, Lord Marcliffe, I have no problem taking another.”

He dismissed the boy then pushed the door shut with his foot and stared at her. The situation seemed suddenly awkward. “You do realize that even these small inns have their gossip channels to town.” Though it was a little late to worry about her reputation, seeing how she had just traveled nearly the length of England unchaperoned.

He grabbed her to him. “Let them talk. What could be interesting about a man spending the night at an inn with his wife?”

“Very amusing.” She tried to push out of his iron clasp.

He crushed her tighter to him. “There is nothing amusing about it, Tess. We are married.”

She wriggled angrily out of his arms. “You are not making the least sense.”

He leaned back against the door and folded his arms across his chest. His eyes hooded, he studied her through his long black lashes. “I think I’m being quite clear. We’re married, Tess, simple as that. The ceremony was no hoax.”

“But that man was a forger.”

“I lied. I saw the fancy script Mr. Kerr used to advertise his business. I thought perhaps he’d show the same skill filling out the marriage form, and, thankfully, he did.”

“Why?” was the only word she could muster, her voice sounding thin and reedy. “Because you would have gone through with it—you would have married Sloan. I

needed to protect you from yourself. I tried again and again to warn you, you have no

idea how dangerous a man like Sloan is.”

Of course she knew how deadly Sloan was. His threat against Lord Marcliffe was chillingly clear in her mind. Tess would never allow Sloan to destroy another man she loved. She’d kept her neck swathed in fabric the entire trip, hiding her secret beneath fichus and shawls or high-collared jackets. Today she was wearing a Spencer over a scoop-necked muslin, the only thing she’d had left in her valise that was presentable. With reluctance, she removed her jacket. “I know very well how dangerous a man he can be.” She whipped off the fichu. “And I find it rather exhilarating.”

“Christ.” His eyes narrowed to furious slits. “So you prefer sexual intercourse to be a little more
punishing
.” His fingers pressed not so tenderly on the three fading spots circling her neck like a hideous necklace. “Marking his property, was he?” he sneered. “And you, aren’t you the cunning one?”

“We could rip up that license, and no one would be the wiser.” Her heart was breaking, to give up the man she cherished.

“Burn it for all I care.” He took the license from his pocket and flung it at her. “Thank you for a memorable wedding night,” he said, his gaze shifting away as though he couldn’t bear to look at her.

He stalked to the window and threw it open. “Hold the carriage, man,” he shouted down to the courtyard. He strode past Tess. “I’m leaving. If you want a ride back to London, you’d best hurry.”

The moment the door shut behind him, she muffled her sobs with her fichu. She cursed her revenge-fueled obsession with Sloan. It had been the cause of so much pain. With care, Tess picked up the parchment and folded it before slipping it into her reticule. The glint of the ring inside caught her attention. She pulled it out and placed it on her finger. She felt an ache in her chest. For reasons she could not explain, she plucked out a hair ribbon from her reticule and slid the ring onto it. The yellow satin tickled the skin on her neck as she tied it hastily and dropped the heavy ring down her chemise.

A sprinkling of raindrops dampened her hair as Tess walked to the coach. Once seated, she made herself small in the corner opposite from Lord Marcliffe. Without sparing her a glance, he rapped the ceiling and the horses were off. How would she survive this torturous trip home? She congratulated herself for being a terrifically intuitive spy. In Gretna Green, she’d fretted that there was trickery afoot. But her suspicions had too conveniently reflected her own romantic yearnings so she'd given them short shrift. And the man who’d put to rest her qualms had been far too convincing. Now he was her husband.

The world outside darkened into a somber shade. Soon rain slashed against the windows. Even with the rainfall and solid ceiling of clouds above, Tess thought it would still be less gloomy sitting alongside the driver on the box than being locked inside with Lord Marcliffe’s black mood.

Tess believed it was only concern for the horses that finally made Lord Marcliffe order the carriage to a stop. Otherwise, she was certain he would have risked traveling blind in the pitch-black night if it would get him to London faster.
And away from her.

The next morning, after exiting another stone cottage more moss-covered than the last, Tess braced herself for another day closeted with a man who wished her to hell.

He looked away as she climbed aboard the coach. His jaw was set and his fingers, curled into loose fists, rested on his spread thighs. Chilling anger seemed to radiate from him. Thankfully, she’d thought to wind a scarf around her neck. In his temper, there was no point in reminding him of the bruises.

The road had been beaten by the night’s heavy rain and every hole and rock had been exposed. The driver seemed to be taking malicious pleasure in hitting every single one of them. The carriage took a dip at reckless speed, and Tess banged her head against the edge of the window. The driver seemed to be feeding off Lord Marcliffe’s to-the-devil attitude.