Susan Johnson (25 page)

D
uff came upon Annabelle’s carriage at the third coaching stop north of London, his swift ride made more manageable in terms of pain thanks to the copious amounts of brandy he’d imbibed. He recognized the yellow primroses painted on her carriage doors, those embellishments familiar to everyone of fashion in the city. And as though to put period to any doubts, Tom was seated beside the driver.

Handing Romulus over to an ostler, the marquis entered the busy inn. Moving directly to the portly man standing at a high counter in the lobby, he said, “Would you please direct me to Miss Foster and company?”

The man who designated himself the proprietor surveyed Duff with a jaundiced gaze. “I’m not right sure she wishes to be interrupted in her dinner.”

“I am a friend of hers.”

“You be a mite foxed, too.”

Duff almost asked if the man was her chaperone, but chose more wisely to hand over a large note. “I’m sure she won’t mind the interruption,” he murmured, “nor my current state of sobriety.”

The man’s expression changed at the sight of the banknote. Those exceeding twenty pounds were rare. “Miss Foster and her party be in the back parlor—last room at the end,” he offered, indicating the direction. “Would ye care to be announced, sir?”

Duff smiled. “That won’t be necessary. Do you have champagne?”

“Sorry, sir—we don’t have nothin’ so fine.”

“A good hock, then. As soon as may be,” Duff said, and strode away.

A few moments later, he was knocking on the door at the end of the hall and when Annabelle’s voice answered, bidding him enter, he smiled.

Suddenly all was right with the world.

Pushing the door open, he bent low to keep from knocking his head on the lintel and stepped into the parlor.

A chorus of gasps greeted him.

“I missed you profoundly,” he said, looking directly at Annabelle. It was the honest truth, and after drinking so long, he wasn’t capable of subtlety. “I hope I’m not imposing.”

“Not in the least!” Mrs. Foster exclaimed since her daughter appeared to be speechless. “Do come in and join us, dear boy!” she cried, jumping up and enthusiastically waving him in.

Candles had been lit against the approaching night, and in the flickering light, he found Annabelle more beautiful than ever—if that were possible, he thought. Her short curls gleamed pale and golden, her eyes were aglow, her lush mouth half-open in surprise. And if Duff had had any doubts about what he felt or wanted in the intervening hours, his uncertainties instantly vanished.

Mrs. Foster immediately gave up her chair so he could sit beside Annabelle. “Come, come, sit down, my dear boy,” she murmured, patting the back of the chair. “How very nice to see you again,” she added, since no one else seemed capable of speech. “Are you hungry?”

It was not a question he could answer without embarrassing himself; the hunger he felt was sharp-set and lustful. In lieu of the truth, he shook his head.

“Have a glass of wine, then,” Mrs. Foster offered, thinking she might have to orchestrate this entire scenario if these two young people didn’t soon find their tongues.

“I think I’ll take little Cricket for a walk in the twilight,” Molly interjected, leaping to her feet with Cricket dozing in her arms.

“I’ll take Betty and go with you,” Mrs. Foster said with a smile. “One’s legs become cramped after riding in a carriage so long. A little walk will do us good.”

If either of the principals had had their wits about them, they would have seen the conspiratorial smiles pass between Mrs. Foster and Molly as they exited the parlor.

But momentarily witless as they were, their gazes locked, they neither saw nor cared. Only when the door slammed did they seem to regain their senses.

“I feel as though we are in the midst of a romantic farce,” Annabelle murmured, nodding at the door. “Our erstwhile chaperones have run off.”

Duff grinned. “Remind me to thank them. And may I say, you look lovely—more lovely than ever, in that shade of rose.”

“I gather you missed me,” Annabelle noted playfully, feeling in control once again with Duff grinning at her. Feeling happy as well.

“I’m afraid I did.”

“How brusquely unromantic,” she teased. “You sound displeased.”

“I was at first. You shouldn’t have left.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” She could speak as plainly as he.

He frowned a little. “Because I didn’t want you to.”

“I don’t recall you saying so at the time.”

“It might have had something to do with the very public venue in which you made your announcement.” He gazed at her from under his lashes. “And the surprise of it.”

“Let’s just say, I didn’t want any problems.”

“Such as?”

“Such as you asking me to stay, if you must know,” she said with a twitch of her lovely nose.

“Arrogant puss.”

“Duff, darling,” she said with a small sigh, “we are neither of us neophytes. You and I know exactly how the game is played. And this
is
a game, whether of short duration or long.”

“What if I’m interested in changing the rules?” he drawled. “What do you think of that?”

“It’s still a game, darling, and frankly, I don’t choose to play.”

“Then marry me and we will make our own amusements in our own way, with or without rules.”

“You’re drunk.” The scent of brandy on his breath was strong.

He shrugged. “That may be, but I’m well aware of what I’m doing.”

She gave him a dubious look. “Come morning, you may not think so.”

“Do you want me to beg? Is that what you want? I’m more than willing.” It was curious-strange how love could turn the world upside down.

She smiled. “Please don’t.”

He laughed. “Good. I’m not altogether sure I could.”

“Because you’ve never had to,” she said coolly. And perhaps that was the rub—that great divide of wealth and privilege that separated them.

“Nor have
you
ever begged for love, so don’t look at me so critically. Look, I brought you something,” he added, deftly reverting to familiar habit when under the squinty-eyed gaze of a woman who was speaking to him in that cool tone. Fumbling in his coat pocket, he pulled out a small red leather box. “See, I am dead serious about this.” Flipping open the lid, he pulled out an enormous pink diamond ring, reached for her hand, and slid the ring on her finger. “It fits. Obviously, it’s meant to be as in kismet, fate, whatever you want to call it. Now, let’s get married. We should be able to find a minister around here somewhere.”

She was trying very hard to resist his blandishments, casual as they were. She was telling herself he was drunk and would surely regret this in the morning. She was reminding herself of her long-held reservations about marriage between unequal classes and all the misery associated with such unions. “We can’t,” she said, keeping her voice deliberately temperate. “Have you forgotten? You need a license.”

“No, I have not forgotten,” he cheerfully replied, pulling a rumpled sheet of paper from his other coat pocket. “
Voila
! And, darling, I’ve only drunk two bottles at the most, so I am quite rational. I’m never foxed until at least the fourth.”

She didn’t know if she should be relieved or not by his casual disclaimer. “Think of your parents,” she added further, feeling at least one of them should be responsible. “They certainly won’t approve of what you’re doing.”

“My God, you are difficult to convince,” Duff grumbled. “Here—my parents have sent you their most obliging felicitations.” Digging in his pockets once again, he came up with a scented note that he handed to her. “Now, then,” he muttered when she’d finished reading his parents’ good wishes, “do you require the approval of the Regent as well, because I will damned well get it for you if need be!”

“I accept.”

“Maybe you require the mad king’s signature as well, or the queen’s, who fortunately can still write her own hand. Give the word and you shall have their approval as well,” he proposed heatedly.

“I said yes.”

“I hope you realize that I’ve never so much as
thought
about asking anyone to marry me and now when I have, all I hear is a great deal of—” He suddenly met her gaze. “You said
what
?”

“I would be happy to marry you, Lord Darley.”

“Finally,” he growled, although his mouth twitched into a smile. “You are a most vexing woman. Although I say that with the highest regard and affection.” His smile widened. “Actually, if you must know, I find not only your vexatiousness, but everything about you, vastly agreeable.”

She laughed. “Nevertheless, I give you one last chance to change your mind, for I bring a good deal of vexation in my wake. I come with an entourage, you know.”

“At the risk of offending you, darling,” he teased, “Cricket figured rather largely in my decision to propose to you.”

She hit him.

Or tried. Even half drunk, his reactions were superb; he caught her hand just short of his face. Then, swinging her onto his lap, he pulled her close. “You could come with an army and I’d have you,” he whispered. “Satisfied?”

She nodded, tears welling in her eyes.

He gently kissed her; then, framing her face between his large hands, he smiled. “We will be happy, you and I. My word on it.”

He had no idea how much his offer of happiness meant to her. But she’d lived too long in the fashionable world to naively accept such a premise. “Everyone will talk. The gossip will be brutal. You know that.”

He held her gaze. “Let them talk.” His smile was benign. “As the Marchioness of Darley, you may give the direct cut to whomever you please.”

She shook her head. “I don’t wish that.”

“Even the Harrisons? Surely you would take pleasure in giving them the cut.”

She grinned. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“You will find I am generally right,” he noted roguishly.

“And you will find that I generally dislike men who think they’re always right. I am independent in every way.”

“Hmm…Perhaps we should define some of the perimeters of this marriage. I am a fiercely possessive man.”

Her brows rose. “Since when, pray tell?” Darley’s habit of flitting from woman to woman was well known.

“Since I met you,” he declared crisply.

“Then, for the record, may I state that I am equally possessive.”

“But that’s not possible,” he replied waggishly. “Don’t you know this is a man’s world?”

“Then you may have your ring back, and your proposal. My answer is rescinded.”

“Perhaps we can come to some agreement,” he interposed smoothly.

“An agreement on fidelity.”

“Yes, on that. I fully concur. Is that better?”

“Very well, then.”

“Very well, what?”

“I will marry you.”

“I’m finding a minister before you change your mind again,” he said briskly, lifting her from his lap and setting her on her feet.

“And find Mama, Molly, Tom, and the babies, too.” She felt as though she was alight from within, she was so happy.

He was partway to the door when he turned back. “We’re going to have to be married again,” he said, temperate and measured. “My mother will be distrait if she can’t marry off her eldest son with full pomp and ceremony.”

“Why don’t we talk about it?”

Half drunk or not, his skill at reading women was unimpaired. He understood this was not the time to press the issue. He smiled. “Whatever you say, darling.”

T
he Marquis of Darley, long thought inexorably opposed to marriage, wed Miss Annabelle Foster, the most beautiful woman in England, in the back parlor of the White Horse Inn with her family in attendance. For a goodly sum, a minister had been found forthwith, the vows read, and before Miss Foster could fully debate all the ramifications of such an unequal union, the ceremony was over.

Which was the point, as far as the marquis was concerned, wanting what he wanted as he did.

In deference to Annabelle’s apparent aversion to a fashionable wedding under the scrutiny of the entire
Ton
, a compromise was reached between the duchess’s enormous guest list and Annabelle’s reservations.

Duff and Annabelle were married again a month later at Westerlands Park with a select number of guests in attendance. The Regent came, making the wedding the preeminent social event of the season, but even without him, the occasion was splendid beyond belief.

And on Duff’s second wedding night, when his bride told him she thought she might be with child, the marquis at first blanched. “Are you sure?” he asked, not certain he was entirely ready for fatherhood. “How can it be?”

“Surely, you jest. You have been most assiduous in your attentions of late.” Her brows rose an infinitesimal distance. “Is there a problem?”

What could he say?
I just found out I could actually fall in love? Don’t rush me
. “No, not at all,” he murmured. “It’s not a problem.”

“You have eight months to get used to the idea,” Annabelle said with a benevolent smile.

“Thank God. I mean—wonderful…perfect—really…absolutely perfect.”

She laughed. “Is the pressure too much, Duff?”

He smiled. “Not with you beside me.” And if he was uncertain of other things, of that he was not.

“You will be the best of fathers,” she whispered. “Just as you are the sweetest of husbands,” she added, basking in the warmth of his affectionate smile.

“And you are my own precious wife,” he said, knowing he was the most fortunate of men, having found not only love but peace.

Prior to their marriage, no one in the fashionable world would have bet a penny on the Marquis of Darley marrying any time soon. Nor would those in the
Ton
have given any odds on Annabelle Foster finding a man who pleased her.

If not for that village horse fair, who knows if they would have met as they did?

But then, the Darley luck was much intertwined with horses and beautiful women; perhaps the hand of fate had intervened.

Would fate intercede once again with the next Lord Darley?

Years later in the Crimea, in the midst of war, the question is answered.