Not Quite Married (6 page)

“Yeah? What would I have to do?”

“Marry up, old son. Ye just git ’itched, sign th’ papers, an’ then walk away.”

THE SOOT-BLACKENED BRICK church was small and looked all but abandoned by the light of the streetlamps. Located on the edge of Whitechapel, the Church of St. Agrippa of the Apostles was considered too gritty and forlorn for the city’s middle-class saints, and too grim and unwelcoming for its lower-class sinners.

The figure of the church’s namesake, Saint Agrippa, which stood in the niche above the weathered door, appeared to be trying to hide his face among the folds of his robes . . . whether from embarrassment at his namesake or horror at the travesty that was about to take place within its walls, it was hard to say. So it seemed to Brien as she stepped from the carriage onto the rough stones of the street before the church.

This was worse than absurd, this was madness, Brien told herself, pulling her cloak tighter about her. She was considering climbing straight back into the carriage, when the church door swung open and a skirted figure stepped into the open doorway.

“Hullo?” The man braced himself against the doorframe. “Are you the ones come to get m-married?”

Brien hesitated and after a moment Ella stepped into the void.

“I’m th’ one that come t’ see ye earlier, Vicar. My employer . . .

she’s come t’ speak vows an’ get proper wedded.”

The man edged out into the meager light of the streetlamps to reveal a disheveled split collar and rumpled cassock. It was indeed the vicar of the parish who was leaning against the doorframe, dabbing his forehead and upper lip with a handkerchief. He mumbled something that may have been a welcome, then pushed off and stumbled back through the darkened vestibule. After reorienting himself, he shuffled down the center aisle, going slower as he approached the altar. As he bent a knee before the railing, a coughing fit seized him and for a moment it sounded as if he were turning inside out.

Brien and Ella were halted halfway down the aisle by the vicar’s hacking and a thickening slurry of unpleasant smells. The church smelled musty and neglected; the air was sour and carried a taint of mold; and the acrid blend of illness and whiskey on human breath lingered in the vicar’s wake.

“What’s the matter with him?” Brien whispered, unaware that the acoustics of the church had lost nothing to age.

“Do beg pardon.” The vicar straightened and turned to them, dabbing his face and running his handkerchief between his rumpled collar and neck. “S-seems I’ve come down with a bit of the grippe. Nothing to be alarmed about, I as-s-sure you.”

But it was obvious as they approached the brighter light of the chancel, that the reverend’s face was overheated and he leaned on the altar for support.

“R-really, Vicar, if you’re not well—” Brien began.

“S-sound as a bell,” the man declared, his eyes brightened with feverish light. “I just need a bit of t-tonic to ignite these wretched humors.” He produced a metal flask from a pocket in his cassock, and tilted it to his lips.

Brien swallowed hard and looked to Ella, whose family and familiarity with the area had helped them locate this needy parish and its accommodating priest. But before she could think of an alternative to this unsavory turn, there was a noise from the rear of the church and they turned to find two figures approaching through the gloom.

Brien’s gaze fastened on the taller of the two: a neatly dressed man of more than common height, with broad shoulders and striking eyes . . . which at the moment were tightened into a scowl. His gaze darted over the altar, the vicar and Ella, and then came to rest on her. He paused several pews away and propped his hands on his waist.

“This ’im?” Ella demanded of the old man who accompanied him.

“As agreed,” Billy Rye declared, tucking his thumbs into his belt.

Brien’s mouth dried. In the scheme that had played over and over in her mind, the part of her bridegroom was always filled by a dark, insubstantial shape that was more vapor than human. Now confronted with this living, reactive embodiment of her plan, she found herself momentarily rattled. Whatever she had imagined, it was not a tall, well-knit man with coppery hair, striking features, and eyes filled with questions.

The man stepped farther into the light and turned toward her, baring a diagonal slash on his other cheek. A dueling scar. Like those that young noblemen brought back from universities on the Continent. She couldn’t swallow, much less speak.

Fortunately, Ella was not so affected. She approached the man and boldly appraised him, crossing her arms and walking to and fro to better view him.

“Not bad,” she declared, then looked to the grizzled old seaman and tossed him a pouch that jingled as he caught it. “Did ye tell

’im th’ conditions, Uncle?”

“I did.” Ella’s uncle, Billy Rye, folded his arms in a parody of his niece’s stance.

“What’s this all about?” the bridegroom demanded of Brien, studying her with such intensity that her face reddened. “Who are you?”

“I-I don’ understand,” the vicar declared, rubbing his face and blinking. “You mean, you don’ know ’er name?”

“Just a moment, Vicar,” Brien declared, jolted to life by the vicar’s alarming question. “I must have a word with my bridegroom.” She strode up the center aisle, ordering him to follow with the wave of a hand. When the man settled in front of her, she found herself overwhelmed by the height and heat of him and engulfed by the smell of whiskey coming from him. He’d been drinking. She steeled herself and looked up.

“You’ve no need to know more than my name.” She found her voice. “You need only know that you are being paid a thousand pounds to wed me.”

“There”—he raised a finger of exception—“we may have a problem. You see, I require four thousand.”

“
Four
thou— Don’t be absurd.” She lowered her voice and tossed a nervous glance up the aisle toward the feverish vicar, who was swilling from his flask again. If they didn’t conclude this business soon, the man might collapse altogether on them!

“In truth, I’m being quite reasonable. Four thousand is my price.

You’re obviously a lady and in trouble of some sort . . . perhaps in a family way . . .”

“I am
not
pregnant.”

“No? Well,
something
has made you seek out a disposable husband. A man willing to speak marriage vows and then just walk away from them. A man willing to sell his matrimonial future for a pittance.” All trace of taunting drained from his face and tone. “A man willing to forfeit all chance of ever having legitimate offspring.” He studied her for a long moment, seeming sobered by his summary of the requirements of his role here. She caught a flicker of unsettlement in his eyes before he straightened and rolled his shoulders. When he met her gaze again, all hint of misgivings was gone.

“It would seem, my lady, that at this moment and in this place, I’m the best that’s available. And I’ll cost you four thousand pounds.”

He had her. And he knew it.

Brien jerked back and for a moment it was all she could do to resist the urge to slap him. The smug look on his face was bad enough, but there was something else, something alarmingly personal in the insistent, physical curiosity he displayed toward her. She felt exposed . . . as if he might see through not only her cloak and her clothing but her predicament as well.

Four thousand. She called for Ella, whispered frantic instructions, and sent the maid and her uncle back to the town house for the money she had stowed in her trunk. Then while she waited for them to return, she drew her cloak closer about her and took a seat on a front pew. He stared at her; she could feel him visually probing the folds of her cloak, analyzing her features, examining her hands as they lay in her lap.

Aaron sat on the pew opposite the one where his bride sat and wished he were a great deal drunker. Half a quart of fine Irish would have made this whole thing more bearable. As it was, with this interminable delay, he had time to think about what he was doing and consider just how much he might come to regret it.

Stop mewling, he told himself. Say whatever you have to say, take the money, and
run.

Four thousand. It would probably pay for the rest of his materials. It was an unbelievable stroke of fortune. Just when he needed it. A godsend, really. He glanced at the young woman who would soon be his bride. Did that make her an angel? She certainly had the eyes for it. He stared at her slightly rounded shoulders and tried to dismiss his curiosity about what lay beneath that cloak. But every time he pulled his gaze from her, it found its way back.

“Do you mind?” she snapped, turning partway to avoid his scrutiny.

“If I’m to both gain and lose a wife in the next two hours, I intend to make the most of it,” he declared, then glanced at the vicar dozing in the chancel chair and lowered his voice. “Take off your cloak.”

“I will not.”

“I’d at least like to see what color hair you have . . . to see if it goes with those icy gray eyes of yours.”

Brien couldn’t help turning a bit and since she was turned, she couldn’t resist looking across the aisle. He was relaxed, almost sprawled in the wooden pew.
His
eyes were light, she noticed, but far from blue. In the candlelight they had a metallic glint . . .

light bronze . . . even gold. Whatever their exact shade, they did indeed compliment his coppery hair. Just as his neatly trimmed hair set off his angular features, his smartly cut coat emphasized the breath of his shoulders, and his expensive boots showed off the elegant strength of his long legs. He was a specimen. No doubt about that.

She started at the realization that she was staring at him and turned so that he could see only her back. The movement dislodged the hood of her cloak and she felt it sliding down her head and coming to rest on her shoulders.

“Ahhh.” She could hear his smile in his voice. “Now why would a woman with hair like honey and eyes as clear as a summer brook need to buy herself a husband?”

She hesitated with her answer, trying to decide whether it would make any difference if she told him the truth. “That shouldn’t be so difficult to figure out,” she finally said. “I’m marrying you so that I won’t have to marry another. Ever.”

“‘Ever’ is a very long time, my lady. What if you decide someday you’d like to marry and have children after all? How will you find me? How will you know if I am alive or dead?”

“I won’t know.” She met his gaze. “That is precisely the point.”

“If you won’t know where I am or if I’m alive or dead,” he said, the sense of it dawning, “then you’ll effectively be wedded to me until the day you die.”

“It would take an act of Parliament to declare otherwise,” she said, feeling an odd tightness gripping her throat. Another layer of understanding settled over her; this marriage of defiance would change her life irretrievably. Wasn’t that exactly what she intended? Yes, but she hadn’t understood fully, until now, that even if she never married, she could never go back to the simplicity and innocence of her former life. Assuming that her father allowed her to retire quietly to Byron Place for the rest of her days, she would still have to deal with the memory of kisses and caresses, of stirred desire and crushing betrayal, of possibilities that had died before being fully born.

And what would she do with the rest of those restless and unsettled days?

Ella and her Uncle Billy returned from Harcourt House with enough gold and folding money to meet the bridegroom’s demands. When the funds were duly transferred, Ella and her uncle roused the vicar. The little cleric was growing steadily more feverish and disoriented; he could scarcely stand on his own. Ella and her uncle planted themselves at his sides to keep him upright, and with some prompting, he recalled that he had left the marriage documents on the desk in his study. They escorted him into the small vicarage nestled behind the church, and returned shortly with the documents and a pot of ink and quill.

After watching his hapless attempts, Brien took the quill from the vicar’s clammy hand and wrote her full name, Brien Elaine Weston, on the proper space. She glimpsed a worrisome flare of interest in her prospective husband’s eyes as he watched, but at least he made no comment on her name. It reassured her to think that her father was generally known by his title, “Southwold.”

She could only hope her avaricious bridegroom was not well versed in commerce and names of trading companies. After a pause, her bridegroom wrote his name beside hers on the parchment: Aaron Thomas Durham. It had a solid, dignified sound. Fortunately, too, since from that day forward she would be known as Mrs. Durham.

Soon the bridal pair were standing before the wilting vicar, being admonished in rambling terms to observe all manner of sober respect for the union into which they were entering. They were advised to honor and cherish and support each other, forsaking all others, through all the “toils and condi-ssshuns” of life.

With her hands captive in Aaron Durham’s, Brien struggled to concentrate on the vows she was asked to repeat. To love, honor, and obey . . . for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health . . .

for as long as they both would live . . . She felt her blood draining from her head as she ended with the words “I do.” The rest of it—the blessing and the declaration of them as man and wife—seemed to take place at a distance and to be happening to someone else.

When it was over, Aaron Durham seized her by the shoulders, lowered his head, and kissed her full on the lips. She was too stunned at first to protest. Warm, soft, a bit spicy . . . she realized with vague surprise that his impulsive action was satisfying her curiosity about what it would be like to kiss those firm, neatly bordered lips. As he raised his head, she swayed and grasped his coat to steady herself. Interpreting that as an invitation to more, he slid both arms around her and kissed her as if both their lives depended on it.

She gasped and then had difficulty expelling that breath. She was engulfed in a tempest of sensation . . . soft lips, demanding kiss, whiskey scent . . . warmth, intimacy . . . wet-velvet tongue teasing her lips, then tracing the inner contours of her mouth . . .