The Bridegroom (33 page)

Becky had not attended the supper preceding the St. John’s Eve dance, because Mick had declined his invitation, and she knew she was too excited to make idle conversation with company when she had not yet told him her decision. Mick was a guest at Blackthorne Hall, because he needed to be on hand to supervise the preparations for the outdoor St. John’s Eve festivities to be held later in the evening, which included a bonfire. He had a room upstairs where he stayed whenever his business with her father kept him overnight.

Becky sought him there.

She was wearing a gown of sapphire blue silk that matched her eyes, with a low-cut square neck, short, capped sleeves, and a flounced hem. She knocked on the door and waited with bated breath for Mick to answer it.

“Oh!” she said when he opened the door. “You look so … elegant.”

He was dressed in exquisitely tailored evening clothes, including a light blue coat in a shade that complemented her gown, a silver waistcoat, gray trousers, white stockings, and black patent leather shoes. He could
easily have passed for one of the noblemen dining downstairs. But he was not and never would be. Once she married him, her life would change forever.

Mick peered into the hall and said, “What are you doing up here, Becky? Someone may see you. Do you want to ruin your reputation?”

She grinned. “Since I have decided to marry you, I don’t give a fig what anyone thinks.”

Becky had not meant to blurt it out like that. When she saw the look of utter joy on Mick’s face, she was glad she had. He grabbed her by the hand, dragged her inside his room, and closed the door behind her. A moment later she was in his arms being soundly kissed.

It was a long time before they came up for air, and they were both grinning with delight when they finally looked at each other.

“I promise you will never be sorry,” Mick said, covering her face with kisses. “I will devote myself to making you happy. I will try to be a good father to Lily and our other children—you do want more, don’t you, Becky? We never spoke of children.”

“I do,” Becky said. “I want as many more as we can manage on your salary. I do not intend to let Papa discharge you if he disapproves of our decision to marry, even if I have to go to Kitt and ask for her help to make him keep you on.”

“About that …” Mick said. He caught her face between his hands. He was smiling, but there was concern in his blue eyes. “There is something I have not told you.”

“Whatever it is, I do not want to know,” Becky said,
suddenly certain it was not good news. “Please, Mick. Say we can be married. I don’t care how hard our lives will be. I am willing to endure any hardship, if only we can be together.”

“Oh, my darling. Heart of my heart. You have filled my cup to overflowing. It will
not
be hard. There is something I must tell you that—”

A knock on the door interrupted him.

“Your presence is requested downstairs in the dining room, Mr. O’Malley,” an underfootman said.

Becky exchanged an uneasy look with Mick. “I thought you had refused Papa’s supper invitation.”

“I did,” Mick said. “One of the guests has commanded my presence, someone I … never expected to see at Blackthorne Hall.”

“Who?” Becky asked.

Mick sighed. “I suppose you will have to know sooner or later. Will you come with me?”

Mick offered his arm and Becky took it, but she could tell from the grim look on his face that she was not going to like whatever was coming.

There was an even number at the supper table, even though Reggie had not made it after all. Another gentleman took up the extra setting needed to partner Trent’s bachelor friend Percival Porter, Viscount Burton.

“Tenby was telling us about your good fortune, Mick,” Uncle Marcus said. “Quite a coincidence, finding you after all these years. We all wanted to toast your good fortune.”

All the gentlemen stood, while the ladies raised their glasses.

“Please do not—”

Mick’s protest was drowned out by the Marquess of Tenby’s toast. “To my long-lost grandson, Michael Delaford, Earl of Stalbridge. Welcome back to the fold.”

“Here, here,” the gentlemen said as they emptied their wine goblets.

Becky had heard what the marquess said, but she was still not certain she understood what it meant. She turned to Mick and asked, “Are you Michael Delaford?”

“Yes, but Becky—”

“How long have you known?” she demanded, aware that she was making a spectacle of herself, but unable to stop.

“Since I was last in London.”

She felt her heart begin to ricochet. Felt her ears begin to roar. “And yet you let me believe that if I married you we would live as paupers?”

“We won’t be rich,” Mick replied. “I traded my inheritance to Penrith for your freedom.”

The blood leached from Becky’s face. “How could you?”

“You are still rich, my boy,” Tenby volunteered. “I forced my solicitor to reveal what you intended to do and bought off Penrith myself. Sent him out of the country for good, so he would never cause another worry to you or your lady. Your inheritance is intact.”

It was Mick’s turn to blanch. “Becky, I had no idea—”

“Do not speak to me,” she said. “I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for what you’ve done. Or trust you.
Or love you. And I most certainly will not marry you!” Becky turned and fled from the room.

“What was that all about?” Blackthorne asked Mick.

“It appears your daughter has just refused my proposal.” Mick met his grandfather’s penitent eyes and said, “I didn’t ask for your help, and I don’t want it. Stay out of my life. You’ve done enough damage!”

Mick pivoted on his heel and left the suddenly silent dining room, desperate to find Becky and make his apologies. But he did not hold out much hope that she would forgive him anytime soon. “Damn, damn, damn!”

“Why do I think that is
not
a toast to your coming nuptials.”

“Reggie!” Mick cried. “Thank God you have come. You must talk to Becky.”

“Why? What is wrong?” she asked, stopping inside the door to hand her cape to the butler.

“A stupid misunderstanding.”

“I presume you are the one who has been stupid.”

“Do not play games with me,” Mick snapped. “My whole life is at stake—and both Becky’s and my happiness.”

Reggie eyed the butler and said to Mick, “Perhaps we should go somewhere private to continue this conversation.”

“The drawing room should be empty,” Mick said, leading her in that direction. Once they got inside, Reggie settled onto the sofa, while Mick paced before her.

“The last time I spoke with Becky, she had made up her mind to marry you and live a life of sacrifice. What has happened since then?” Reggie asked.

“I have become an earl as rich as Croesus,” Mick retorted.

Reggie was startled onto her feet. “What? You cannot be serious.”

“When I was last in London I met with a solicitor who informed me I am Michael Delaford, the long-lost grandson of the Marquess of Tenby. Because of his shabby treatment of my mother, I wanted nothing from my grandfather, so I pledged my inheritance to Penrith in exchange for Becky’s freedom.”

Reggie gasped and sank onto the sofa.

“A moment ago, Becky found out everything.”

“And refused to marry you,” Reggie said.

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you say something to her sooner?” Reggie asked.

“It seems foolish now, but I wanted her to give up everything for love.”

“And she did, and then found out you had made a fool of her. I cannot blame her for being angry,” Reggie said rising again to confront him. “I am furious with you! How could you go to Penrith without asking Becky first? I thought her marriage wretched, but it should have been her choice whether to remain in it.”

“I cannot be sorry for ridding her of Penrith,” Mick retorted. “I cannot even be sorry for testing her as I did. It is a sweet thing to know one is loved for oneself, not for any title or fortune. Surely Becky can forgive me.”

“How can she trust you after this?” Reggie asked. “After you manipulated and deceived her so cruelly?”

“I love her, Reggie. Tell me what to do. Tell me what to say.”

Mick looked so miserable that Reggie took pity on him. “I saw Becky walking in the garden when my carriage arrived. If you want her back, I suggest you beg her pardon and promise never to mislead her again. It cannot hurt if you point out that you will be wealthy enough to support her comfortably, and that when your grandfather sticks his spoon in the wall, she will become a marchioness and take precedence over me when we go in to supper.”

Mick grinned. “You are incorrigible, Reggie.”

“I know. Hurry, Mick. You have a lifetime of love to arrange.”

Mick kissed her on the cheek. “You have been a good sister, Reggie, to both me and Becky. Is there anything I can do to help you in return?”

Reggie shook her head. “Go. I am bound to see Papa at last. Then I will deal with that beast I have married.”

“You will deal with me now,” Carlisle said.

Reggie turned and saw the devil had come to life. Carlisle was dressed entirely in black, with a cape that covered even his white linen.

Mick put himself between Reggie and her husband and said, “You will have to go through me to get to her.”

“Please go, Mick,” Reggie said, adroitly stepping around him. “I need to speak with my husband alone.”

“I don’t trust him not to hurt you,” Mick said.

Reggie saw the flash of affront in Carlisle’s eyes. He had never physically harmed her, though he had not
made her life as easy as it could have been. “You have business of your own that must be tended,” Reggie reminded Mick. “My husband will do me no harm.”

Reggie worked to keep her demeanor calm, knowing Mick would make his judgment whether to leave or to stay, based on her behavior. “Go,” she urged. “Becky is waiting.”

A moment later Mick was gone, and Reggie was alone with her husband.

“What are you doing here, Reggie?” Carlisle asked.

“I was invited,” she replied flippantly. “Though you neglected to advise me of the fact,” she said in harsher tones.

“I have forbidden you to see your father. You must know he is here tonight.”

“Yes. And a great many other friends with whom I hope to visit,” Reggie agreed. “Now that you are here, I will be able to dance. I have missed dancing with you, my lord.”

“I did not come to dance.”

“Neither did I,” Reggie admitted. “I came with the sole purpose of seeing my father. You cannot keep us apart forever, my lord.”

“Come home with me, Reggie,” he said, holding out his hand to her.

“And if I refuse?”

“I will carry you out of here kicking and screaming, if that is your choice.”

She believed he would do it. It was dreadful to get so close, and yet not speak with her father. If Mick had not delayed her, the deed would have been done, and she
would not have been left with the choice that Carlisle now gave her. If she did not go quietly, her husband intended to forcibly remove her from her father’s house. If she resisted, he would doubtless make a scene and create a scandal and perhaps even provoke her father into a duel.

It would not be hard to do. Both men were proud and stubborn and opinionated.

“Very well, my lord,” she said. “I will postpone my visit to Papa until another time.”

She was not giving up. She was only giving in for the moment. At least she had gotten her husband to cross the threshold of Blackthorne Hall. That was a feat she would have believed impossible, except he was standing in her father’s drawing room. It was a small step, but enough small steps might eventually get Carlisle where she wanted him to go.

Her husband escorted her directly back to the door, where the butler returned her cape. Carlisle draped it over her shoulders and said, “I have brought my carriage to take you home.”

“I have transportation of my own,” she replied.

“I have sent Terrence home with your carriage. You will need to ride with me.”

Reggie bit back the unladylike word that was trying desperately to get out and allowed Carlisle to escort her to his waiting carriage. Before she stepped inside, the elderly coachman, a retired army sergeant whose name she remembered was Dick Hobson, but who only answered to Sergeant, handed her something wrapped in linen.

“Terrence left this for you, my lady,” Hobson said. “It is a piece of cake from the St. John’s Eve celebration. He was sorry he could not stay to give it to you himself, but he thought you might like to have it.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Reggie said. Terrence had surely divined, when Carlisle ordered him home, that she would not be allowed to stay and enjoy the festivities. The thoughtful gesture moved her almost to tears. She opened the small napkin and stared at the moist, fruit-laden cake.

Her stomach suddenly rolled, and she knew she would never be able to eat it. She handed it back to Sergeant Hobson. “You enjoy it, Sergeant. I have no appetite now, and it will be better eaten fresh.”

“Thank you, milady,” Hobson said. He picked up the square of crumbling cake from the linen and shoved the whole of it into his mouth. “Delicious,” he said, grinning wide enough to reveal mushed-up cake between his teeth.

Reggie was afraid she might cast up her accounts and hurried to step inside the carriage door, which Carlisle held open for her.

“Are you unwell?” he asked as he sprang into the carriage and sat down beside her.

“I am sick at heart,” she retorted, though her stomach was none too steady.

“We will be home soon,” Carlisle said.

“Home?” she replied sharply. “I have tried to make it that. But so little light seeps in beyond the ivy choking the windows, that it remains a dark and gloomy place. Won’t you at least allow me to purchase windowpanes,
my lord? I cannot bear the darkness,” she cried. “I cannot bear it anymore!”

He lifted her onto his lap and held her close enough to hear his heartbeat, while she quivered with tears she refused to shed. It was Carlisle’s darkness she could not bear. His black soul that so desperately needed light. But she had found no way so far to free either of them—the house or the man—from the crippling wounds of the past.