Ever His Bride (6 page)

“Let it be known from this moment that
Article Two—your freedom to travel—depends entirely upon your
actions. Should my name enter the newspapers for any reason, you’ll
wish you’d been sent to prison instead.”

You’ll have to find me first,
she
thought but didn’t dare say.

“Do you understand me on this point?” When
she nodded, Claybourne scrawled the additional article into the
contract. “Sign here,” he said, consulting his pocket watch.

She carefully read Article Five, then signed
her name beneath his own, glad and grateful to be done with his
inquisition.

“I shall have my clerk make a copy of this
for you.”

“And I’ll have my solicitor keep it safe,
sir.” It would be safer in her portmanteau with her gazette
articles, since Biddle would probably use it for a handkerchief.
But Claybourne didn’t need to know her plans.

He yanked on the bell rope behind his desk.
“It is time, Miss Mayfield.”

“Time for what?”

“How easily you forget: we shall be married
today.”

“How can we today?” Claybourne’s
pronouncement brought her up short. “What of a license?”

“A civil ceremony will suffice. Did you
expect a reading of the banns and a stroll down the aisle at St.
Paul’s?”

“Frankly, Mr. Claybourne, I had assumed that
when I did marry, the reason would be to love and to cherish till
death did my husband and I part. But this is no marriage; it’s a
business transaction. I don’t care where or how it happens. In
fact, why not seal the bargain at a clerk’s stall in the lobby of
the Bank?”

Claybourne arched a skeptical brow. “What a
ridiculous idea.”

So, the man lacked a sense of humor as well
as a sense of humanity.

The office door opened to the clerk. “Yes,
Mr. Claybourne?”

“Bring in Biddle and Mr. Denning, then remain
here yourself, Tilson. I’ll need you as witness.”

Tilson was brushed aside by an angular man
who tossed his hat and cane onto a chair as he breezed into the
center of the room, and met Claybourne with a hearty handshake.

“Hunter Claybourne, you old dog! Getting
married—I never would have thought it.”

The man’s attention darted toward Felicity,
and a huge grin brightened his already florid face. “Ah, but now I
understand your reasons. She’s a beauty!”

“That’s enough, Denning,” Claybourne said
with enough distaste to include the entire room.

But Denning had already lifted Felicity’s
hand to his lips. “Tell me your name, miss, and I will ever
treasure the privilege of knowing it.”

Before she could respond beyond a simple
blush, Claybourne stepped between them, presented his broad back to
her, and growled something unintelligible at Denning.

Denning laughed and went briskly to the desk.
“In a hurry, old man? I shouldn’t wonder why.”

Claybourne ignored the man as he would a
fly.

“Who is this man, Mr. Claybourne?” she asked,
not really expecting him to answer.

“Madam, I am Gordon Denning, the super-
intendent-registrar. I record all of Claybourne’s business
transactions.”

“Denning is here to marry us,” Claybourne
said, as if he did this sort of transaction on a weekly basis.

“A business deal. You are very sure of
yourself, Mr. Claybourne, were very sure of my answer!”

“Here, Miss Mayfield,” he said, pointing to
the floor beside him.

“Don’t you mean ‘heel’?” she asked, returning
the unyielding edge in Claybourne’s voice. He looked thunderous,
this future, if fleeting, husband of hers.

“Trouble, Claybourne?” Denning asked through
a half-smile. He seemed to be enjoying himself enormously at
Claybourne’s expense, which didn’t seem to be a wise thing to
do.

“Mr. Denning,” Felicity said, moving toward
the windows, and away from Claybourne. “Is there any law that
governs the proximity of the bride to the groom during the
ceremony?”

Denning studied Claybourne for a moment, then
lifted his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “None that I know of,
Miss Mayfield. As long as the bride and groom are in the same room.
Unless, of course, the deed is done by proxy, and then—”

“Then I choose to stand here by the—” But
Claybourne had taken two long strides and grabbed her elbow.

“You will stand here,” he said, possessing
her, drawing her with him to the desk. “We will do this correctly,
Miss Mayfield. There will be no question as to the legality of our
union. Does the State require anything else, Denning?”

Denning looked even more amused as he peered
around Claybourne at Biddle and Tilson, and then counted with a
finger, “Two witnesses, a bride, a groom, and a registrar.” He
smiled brightly. “Everything seems to be in order.”

“Then proceed. I haven’t got all day.”
Claybourne cleared his throat and straightened. His warm fingers
brushed past hers, then fled to the folds of his coat.

His fleeting touch aroused a measureless,
unasked for yearning inside her, a desire for something warm to
hold on to. This ought to be a joyous moment in her life. Getting
married. The room ought to smell of roses and heather, not of book
leather and ledger paper. The man standing beside her ought to be
the treasure of her heart, not a prison warden. But this wasn’t a
true marriage, and she set the discomfort from her mind, hoping
that Claybourne wouldn’t notice the absurd tears gathering in her
eyes.

Fewer than a hundred words later, she found
herself married to Hunter Claybourne and signing her name in
Denning’s marriage registry. Her temporary husband hovered over
her, making sure she signed correctly.

He’d made no move to kiss her, had even
scowled at Denning when the man had begun to mention the fact. And
now she felt more than a little brazen for even thinking about such
a thing. A kiss? She tried to dredge up a measure of disgust at the
thought, but instead found herself following his capable hand as he
dipped the pen into the well then scrawled his name above hers.

“Done,” he said, jamming the pen back into
its holder and straightening to his full height. He smiled down on
her in stark animosity, firing off the opening salvo.

Living with Claybourne would be like living
inside a storm cloud: she’d be constantly dodging his lightning
strikes and his drenching moods. With any luck at all, and a
creative travel schedule, she would rarely see the man.

“Thank you, Mr. Denning,” she said, as she
left her new husband’s side to picked up her portmanteau and
shawl.

“The pleasure was mine, Miss Mayf . . .
excuse me . . .” He beamed a goading smile at Claybourne. “I mean,
Mrs. Hunter Claybourne.”

She shot a glance toward Claybourne and
caught his forbidding frown, pleased that his dark mood matched her
own.

But at least now she was free of his threats;
she had fulfilled her part of the bargain. She’d return to Beacon
Chase today and attempt to convince Mrs. Duffle that her arrest had
been a dreadful case of mistaken identity, then to spend a few days
of quiet while she polished this month’s gazette articles, and
still have plenty of time to meet her Friday deadline to Mr.
Dolan.

She crossed the floor and stuck out her hand
toward Claybourne. When the lout didn’t take her it, she shrugged
and started toward the door. “I’ll be in touch.”

She couldn’t think of a single agreeable
thing to say to Mr. Biddle, so she walked past him and through the
outer office to the mezzanine, feeling no more married than she had
when she arrived.

Which was a very good thing, because she had
no intention of actually getting married to anyone, any time soon.
She was immensely happy in her life, and felt her very best when
she was traveling.

She stopped long enough at the top of the
stairs to slip her shawl over her shoulders and take the bonnet
from her portmanteau. She touched the purse at her waist and
decided to make a quick visit to her emergency funds while she was
so close by the Bank of England. Her uncle had only deposited the
money there the day before he left, and she wanted to assure
herself that it was still safe.

And that Claybourne couldn’t reach it.

Hunter Claybourne. She hurried down the
stairs, chilled by the startling realization that her new husband
hadn’t shaken her hand in farewell, because he was a man who never
let go of anything.

“T
ake care of the
matter, Tilson,” Hunter said, dizzied still by the scent of the
woman’s unwelcome sunlight. “Miss Mayfield and I have business at
the Bank. As for you, Biddle, get out of my office.”

The still-quivering solicitor had retreated
to the farthest reaches of the room. Another two steps and the man
would have cocooned himself in the drapes.

“This way, sir,” Tilson said firmly, handing
Biddle his coat as he ushered him through the door to the outer
office.

Hunter cursed himself for being a damn fool.
He’d expected a damp-browed, wilted wildflower, but Miss Mayfield
had defied him outright through the whole of their negotiations.
She had weakened his judgment just as artfully as her uncle’s
simplicity had swindled him.

And now he was married to the chit.

“
I’ll be in touch
?” Denning sputtered,
then pointed toward the door like a baboon. “Egad, man! You just
married the woman! And she’s already leaving you?”

He had forgotten Denning was even in the
room. Damn the woman for her distractions, for the gold of her hair
and the changeable green insolence of her stare. At least he hadn’t
forgotten the other business of the morning, Lucius Treadmore’s
failed shipping concern. “Did you bring me a copy of Treadmore’s
deed?”

“Of course, Claybourne. But where the devil
is your wife going? You should be with her! What about the wedding
breakfast?”

He ignored Denning, tolerating his irritating
exuberance only because he was forced to do so in the course of his
work.

“Who is she?”

“Forget it, Denning. Give me the deed. Or do
I have to turn you upside down and shake it out of you?”

Denning’s insufferable grin collapsed, and he
presented the deed with a snort. “Registering your marriage and a
foreclosure in the same day? Your new wife obviously approves,
Claybourne, or she’d have protested your doing business on her
wedding morn. She certainly seems the sort to rise up in
defiance.”

Denning walked to the window and lifted aside
the drapes, allowing a shaft of morning sunlight to spear the
carpet.

Hunter turned from the sudden brightness and
unfolded the deed to be certain that all was in order. The property
was a fine dockland holding he’d purchased years before. What a
pity Treadmore had no sense of enterprise. But no harm done—after
this morning, Fanno Pier would belong again to the Claybourne
empire, and he would sell it to another, hopefully wiser,
investor.

“Is she an heiress, Claybourne? Is that why
you can’t tell me who she is?”

His marriage to Miss Mayfield was a private,
personal item of business, and he refused to speak of her to
anyone.

“Whom I marry is none of your business,
Denning.”

“It is my business when you register your
marriage in my book.” Denning squared his shoulders. “I’m an
officer of the court, Claybourne. I can ask any question I
please.”

“Have I made an illegal breach?”

Denning gave him the once over, then went
back to his window gazing. “I don’t know. Have you?”

He dropped the deed on his desk and picked up
the marriage contract. The document was frivolous and impotent, but
Miss Mayfield’s demands had been sound in the glaring light of her
situation: her freedom, her future, her preposterous concern over
the lot of any children they might conceive. But he hadn’t figured
her stunning beauty into the equation, any more than he had her
bullheaded cunning. Damn it all, what had he brought down upon
himself?

“There’s your bride now, Claybourne! Tying a
hideous bonnet over all that magnificent hair.” Denning thumped
twice on the pane with his fingertip. “Damn the bonnet, she’s
beautiful! And you’re letting her escape!”

Hunter stopped himself from going to the
window. He’d wasted enough of the day on the woman, would waste
enough of his life in the next year and a day. “And is she getting
into a carriage?”

“Yes.”

“And is that carriage mine?”

Denning turned slowly and studied him,
obviously looking for a cleft in his certainty. “What if I said it
wasn’t?”

He lifted a shoulder. “I’d be damned
surprised, and Tilson would be unemployed.”

Denning vented a grunt and dropped the
curtain into place. “Tilson can relax.”

“And you may leave, Denning. I’m finished
with you. Here.” He shoved the register under Denning’s arm and
sent him toward the door.