Not Quite Married (9 page)

“But the vicar’s signature on the certificate— We could show it to the bishop—”

“And have him see my daughter’s name on a spurious marriage document? I have no reason to doubt my own two eyes. There is no clergyman at the church. Therefore, there was no legal marriage ceremony!” He stalked closer, crumpled the marriage certificate in his hand, and threw it to the floor at her feet.

“Which leads me to the inescapable conclusion that you are not now, nor have you ever been married.”

The impact of it blew through her middle like a cannonball. She felt suddenly empty from chest to knees. There was no proof of her marriage. No proof of what had happened to her the previous night . . . except in her very flesh.

He shoved his face down into hers.

“You lied to me and set me running all over London on a fool’s errand. Well, you’ve played out your little game and it’s gotten you nowhere. I’ve spoken with Raoul and he has agreed to go through with the marriage—though it took additional coin to persuade him.” He jabbed a stocky index finger at her. “You will wed him as planned, in ten days’ time . . . and thank God that word of this has gone no farther than this house.”

As the earl pulled down his waistcoat and stalked back to his chair behind the desk, Brien thought of Raoul’s brooding eyes and sneering countenance that afternoon and her blood drained from her head. Sick with desperation, she scrambled for a rebuttal.

“Do you not even care that I detest the man?” She rushed to the desk and gripped the edge of the wood. “You might have employed your talent for investigation
before
you sold me to him.

If you had been half so thorough then, you would know that he has several bastards. From his own mouth I learned that he has ruined the daughters of some of Paris’s best families, and his father was all too happy to send him to England to rid the family of the disgrace. He cares only about your fortune!”

“Enough!” he roared. He paced away and rubbed his hands over his craggy face. “Where on earth did you hear such things?”

“I told you: from his own mouth. I heard him bragging about it to a ‘Cornelius’ something . . . in the library one night. He was drinking and—”

“Bragging? You heard him drinking and bragging?” He threw his arms wide in outraged disbelief. “Are you so ignorant that you don’t know that men in their cups brag about conquests never made and exploits never undertaken? Good God—you’d have me break legal and binding marriage agreements because you heard the man brag a bit?”

“But the other man—Cornelius—believed him. He seemed to know all about it . . . even the name of a girl Raoul had gotten with child.”

The earl’s hot gaze raked her, assessing her words and sincerity.

“Well, at least he convinced
you
. Why didn’t you come to me with these ‘foul revelations’?”

“I didn’t—” She halted, anguished by the admission she was about to make and by the fact that she had been right in her assessment: He didn’t believe her any more now than he would have then. “I didn’t think you would believe me.”

The depth of the gulf between them was etched in stark relief on his face. Beneath the outrage and incredulity, there were traces of loss and pain . . . which were slowly banished as the earl made his decision.

“Well, you were right. I do not believe the man is the monster you make him out to be . . . any more than I believe you would marry and submit to a total stranger. No matter what the man’s faults and flaws, they cannot be worse than your betrayal of him.

And of me.”

He turned his back on her and braced his arms and fisted hands on the top of his desk.

“You will see this marriage through. You will wed Raoul Trechaud and honor the agreement between our houses. Is that clear?” His voice had the muted, emotionless ring of frozen steel.

“He waits outside. You will see him and apologize and begin to mend whatever differences lie between you. And henceforth, you will behave toward him as a proper and devoted bride.” He wheeled on her, his eyes blazing. “Because if you don’t—”

He bit off the rest, but the threats her own mind conjured had more of an impact than any he could have uttered.

Brien had never seen him like this—quaking with rage. The weight of what she had done settled on her, rounding her shoulders and weakening her knees. She was to be wedded after all to the man she mistrusted and despised.
And had betrayed.

That unpleasant fact was brought home to her when her father stormed out of the study, and she looked up to find Raoul leaning against the doorframe wearing a faintly ominous smile.

“Well, well.” He pushed off and strode toward her, his eyes glinting with triumph. “It seems we are to be wedded after all.”

His smile twisted into a full smirk. “Lucky you.”

“If you were any sort of a gentleman, you would release me from a betrothal I so clearly do not want.”

“Ah.” He chuckled. “But as you seem to have learned . . . I am not a ‘gentleman,’ I am a nobleman. Personally, I find the notion that you detest me rather stimulating.” He reached for her hand and when she tried to withhold it, he seized it forcibly and held it in a punitive grip. “Cooperation in a bride is greatly overrated. A bit of loathing and disdain makes the game so much more interesting. I must say, I wouldn’t have expected such spirited resistance from you.” He placed a suggestive kiss on the back of her hand before he let her yank it back. The reddened imprints of his fingers were clearly visible on her pale skin. “I promise to show you my full appreciation on our wedding night.”

MOMENTS LATER, THE earl stood in the drawing room by the hearth, sipping a brandy he had just poured and watching the main hallway through the arched doors. He saw Brien exit his study with her head high and face flushed, and hurry up the stairs toward her rooms. Shortly afterward, Raoul appeared in the drawing-room doorway looking thoughtful. Then he strolled over to the liquor cabinet to pour himself a brandy.

The earl studied him intently, marking his darkly handsome features and effortless ease of movement. The man was worldly and something of a sensualist; that was clear to anyone with two eyes. It wasn’t beyond belief that he’d left a bastard or two in his wake. But to brag about it to his cronies—while drinking his future father-in-law’s brandy, under his future father-in-law’s roof—betrayed an arrogance the earl wouldn’t have believed possible . . . until now . . . until he saw that smug hint of a smile on Raoul’s handsome face. What kind of man smirked and swaggered as he came from a meeting with a fiancée who found him so repellent that she faked another marriage to be rid of him?

His heart beat faster.

What had he just done?

“How is she?” he asked.

“Stubborn,” Raoul said, studying the amber liquid in his glass.

The earl thought on that for a moment, then turned to his future son-in-law in deadly earnest.

“I fear I must take the blame for that. She was left alone for too long . . . allowed to make her own choices and run her own life.

But what is done is done. She is all I have left, Trechaud, and I would not have her hurt in any way.” He gave Raoul a meaning-filled stare. “You are not without persuasions. I suggest that you use them in the time that remains before the vows, to see that she is well reconciled to this marriage.”

In the silence that followed, each man appraised the other.

Raoul smiled. “But of course.”

THEY LEFT LONDON for Byron Place two days later and plunged into a whirl of social engagements that carried them to the eve of the wedding. Raoul was ever present and ever genial.

His charming attentions to the ladies—especially his bride—won him the admiration of the county’s female contingent, and his shrewd grasp of financial dealings made a strong impression on the male population, many of whom were hard-pressed by losses.

Brien watched in growing despair as he entrenched himself with the local gentry and turned charm that she knew to be false and mocking upon her at every opportunity.

But truthfully, her forced proximity to Raoul was only a part of the cause of her deepening mood. Since the day her father returned with evidence that her marriage to Aaron Durham was a sham, she had felt a gulf widening between herself and her one true friend and support, Ella.

The little maid had been unable to believe the news that there was no record of the marriage or even of the clergyman who married Brien . . . that her uncle had played her false. She had rushed down to the docks to find him, but the patrons of his usual haunts declared they hadn’t seen him in days, that he was most likely hiding to escape paying some gambling debts. She returned in a haze of disbelief. Then as they packed Brien’s new garments and wedding gown to leave for Byron Place, she burst into tears and apologized repeatedly for the harm she had unwittingly caused. Since that day, she had seemed increasingly estranged and tentative in performing her duties.

Brien felt utterly bereft. She now had no one in whom to confide her deepening fears about what would happen after the vows were said, and her father and local society ceased watching every word and glance that passed between them. Raoul had promised that she would pay for her dramatic attempt at escaping marriage to him. His recent pleasantries and graciousness would undoubtedly melt away the moment the door closed behind them on their wedding night. And adding to the anxiety that knowledge caused, was the fact that she still had one more devastating revelation to make.

How likely was he to forgive so grave an insult as wedding and giving her maidenhead to a perfect stranger, just to avoid giving it to him?

BRIEN’S WEDDING DAY dawned to an unseasonably cool drizzle from a tired gray sky. Her spirits and physical stamina were at low ebb; four weeks of constant tension were taking their toll and she was beginning to suffer increasing periods of distraction and malaise. To make matters worse, Ella had been stricken ill the previous day. As Brien spent the night before her wedding sitting in a chair by Ella’s bed, applying cold clothes and administering medicine, she realized that Ella’s symptoms were alarmingly like those of the man who claimed to be a vicar. She felt her own heat-reddened cheeks and prayed the wretch hadn’t come off a ship from some exotic port and given them all the plague.

By the time dawn came and the chambermaids designated to stand in for Ella came to help her bathe and dress, Brien was afraid she might not make it through the ceremony, much less the horrors she expected to face later. But it wouldn’t matter if she
did
faint from illness; her father was so determined to see this wedding take place that he would probably just haul her down the aisle on a stretcher. Her only support had been the knowledge that Ella would be with her as she faced Raoul. Now even that was gone.

The picturesque stone church in the local village was hung with garlands of fresh-cut greenery and decked with baskets of flowers imported from all over the countryside. As she stood at the back of the packed church and glimpsed Raoul standing by the altar, waiting, she felt her stomach deflate and slide toward her knees. All she could think was that she had been in the same position and spoken the same words a mere ten days ago, and look where that had gotten her.

There was a collective “ahhh” from the assembly as she and her father started down the aisle, but her attention was riveted on Raoul’s duplicitous smile. Each step that brought her closer to him seemed to raise the temperature of the air around them. By the time he took her hand from her father and turned to the vicar, her face was bright red and she was glowing with unwelcome warmth.

Increasingly, as the reverend droned on, she was distracted by physical distress. There were too many people in the church, all staring and breathing out excess heat. She felt a trickle of moisture down the nape of her neck. Why did she have to wear a gown with long sleeves and so many layers of silk and veiling?

She was suddenly aware that the vicar and Raoul were staring expectantly at her. Raoul squeezed her hand sharply and the vicar repeated the first line of the vows she was to speak. She repeated the words without looking at Raoul.

When it was his turn, he reached for her chin and turned her face to his. Caught in his searing gaze, she felt as if the fires of perdition were licking at her feet. Every word, every glimmer in his fathomless black eyes said that he hadn’t forgotten and the time of retribution was at hand. She felt hot and dizzy and looked around for an open window.

Then suddenly, she was in Raoul’s arms and feeling the press of his lips against hers. It was over. A moment later she was being escorted back down the aisle by her new lord and master, who squeezed her arm tightly and cast her a smile that grew faintly ominous. As they stepped out of the church, she gulped fresh air and used her fan briskly. She had survived. She looked at Raoul, who was busy accepting the hearty congratulations of their neighbors, and vowed she would survive him as well.

The rest of the day whirled on about her, the bridal dinner was served immediately upon their arrival at Byron Place. There were toasts and more toasts, each requiring her participation. The sips of wine she couldn’t avoid consuming made her feel the heat, and Raoul was everywhere with his hot hands and simmering looks.

His behavior was clearly interpreted by those present as husbandly eagerness; they made jests and sidelong comments to that effect. She wished they would all just go home.

But as the afternoon wore on and the guests actually began to leave, she regretted those sentiments and wished her father had planned for a much longer celebration. Too soon the sun was lowering, the last guests were departing, and her father was calling for his own carriage. She was being left alone with her new husband . . . in their isolated country house. . . .

STRIPPED OF HER elegant gown, Brien collapsed on the bench of her dressing table, and cradled her head on her arms. She was feverish and miserable and beginning to tremble all over. The chambermaid insisted on bringing her some cool water and then wetting some toweling to wash her face and cool her throat.