The Marriage Bargain (2 page)

She spat in his face. “You disgust me!”

He glared down at her, holding her with one strong hand as he wiped his cheek. “You have much to learn, Isobel. And I shall be only too happy to teach you. But why wait for our wedding night to enjoy such delights? We can get started right now. Then you’ll have no choice but to marry me. What other man would want you when you’re no longer a virgin?”

Isobel flailed against him, but he held her fast. He laughed as she tried to break free.

“You can never escape me, do you hear?” His voice rasped in her ear. “There is nowhere to hide, Isobel.

I can find you anywhere. Don’t you see? It’s useless. Face your fate!”

“That’s what I’m doing,” she ground out, and brought her knee up hard between his legs.

Instantly, his grip broke and he doubled over in pain, cursing loudly. Isobel spun away from him, but one hand shot out and caught her dressing gown. The delicate fabric ripped, but not fast enough to set Isobel free.

In desperation, she reached for a heavy crystal vase, still full of the white roses her guardian had brought into the house that day. She turned and sent the vase flying at Sir Harry’s face. He tried to duck, but the vase caught the side of his head, and he reeled backwards onto the floor.

Without waiting to assess the extent of Sir Harry’s injuries, Isobel fled.

She dashed down the hall and cold stone steps of the house, and as she ran into the night she heard Sir Harry’s voice on the wind yelling after her.

“I’ll find you Isobel! No matter where you go—I’ll find you!”

Quite entirely against his wishes, Lord Beckett Thornby sailed through the doorway of the Goose and Gunner and landed facedown on the damp cobblestone street.

A moment later, his friend Alfred landed squarely on top of him.

“And don’t come back, ye young lords!” the portly owner bellowed from the pub’s arched doorway. “I don’t care whose sons ye are!”

“Does this mean we are no longer friends?” Beckett punctuated his soft question with a hiccup.

“That’s right. That’s exactly what it means!” the innkeeper yelled.

Alfred rose to his feet and reached down to pull his friend up.

“I’ll send someone ‘round tomorrow to pay for the damages.” Beckett’s head rang like the bells of St.

James.

“That’s what ye said last time, m’lord, and your notes of credit were refused.”

“A mistake, surely.” Beckett chuckled.

“It’s not me place to say, Lord Thornby, though all o’ London knows ye haven’t a pot to piss in. And I can’t be rebuilding me taproom every time ye challenge Lord Fanshaw to a boxing match. So, I’ll thank ye kindly if the next time ye be wantin’ a drink, ye take your business elsewhere.” The pub-owner wiped his sweat-covered brow and marched back into the Goose and Gunner, slamming the door behind him.

“A fine end to a fine evening,” Alfred said sarcastically. “The only thing missing is your bride. Who, I may remind you, we came out to find.”

Beckett dusted off his buckskins and regarded his friend with narrowed eyes. “Well, if we had gone to Lady Tippington’s assembly as I’d wanted, I might have found the wealthy bride I seek. Instead, you dragged me here.”

“Maggie McDuff seemed keen.” Alfred gestured toward the tavern. “Had her hands all over you—her lips, as well. And she does pour a grand glass of ale. And there was Hester Scrimshaw, the amply endowed washerwoman. At least you could look forward to a lifetime of clean clothes. Of course, you could always go crawling back to Cordelia.”

Beckett gave him a look.

Alfred smirked. “Perhaps my Great Aunt Withypoll could find a suitable bride for you.”

“Oh, no. Not after the last offering she made to you. Lady Hortense Higginbotham? I tell you, I did not know it was possible for a woman to giggle uninterrupted for almost an entire day—without hurting herself.”

“Beckett, how cruel!” Alfred admonished.

“Well, I didn’t see you offering for her hand.”

“No. I was afraid if I asked her, she’d just laugh.”

The men chuckled and thumped each other on the back.

“I suppose we’ve worn out our welcome, Alfred, old man,” Beckett said, looking forlornly back at the inn. “You really must stop getting into rows with that Fanshaw fellow.”

“Don’t go blaming this on me, Beckett. I distinctly remember you calling him a… what was it, now? A

‘mutton-headed squeaker.’ Oh, and also a ‘windy, weasel-gutted jingle-brains’.”

“Ah,” Beckett replied, “but you’re forgetting that he first called you a ‘gawky, rattle-pated gollumpus,’ which, as you know, is a contradiction in terms. I was merely leaping to your defense, old boy, if not the defense of the King’s English.”

Beckett and Alfred continued down the dark street, toward the corner of Poole and Lansdowne. They finally reached the intersection, and waited for a coach in the misty lamplight. A fine drizzle dampened their clothes and turned the cobblestones glossy.

Beckett leaned up against the cold lamppost, folding his arms across his gray and black-striped waistcoat. The jacket had disappeared long ago, whether before or during the fisticuffs, he couldn’t remember.

He cocked his head—was someone moaning? Certainly he was in his cups, but that had never before affected his hearing. Beckett listened again for the strange sound.

“There it is again!”

“Wha—”

“Shh!” Beckett hissed.

The two men held on to each other unsteadily and listened as the sound seemed to emanate from a pile of rubbish alongside the gutter. It sounded like an animal in distress. Beckett crept toward the source of the sound, and in the dim lamplight, he saw a bedraggled cat hunching over a pile of fish heads in the trash-strewn alley.

Beckett held out his hand to the animal, carefully moving closer to it. But as he neared, the skittish cat sprang away, revealing a sight that made Beckett stumble backward in surprise.

In the misty lamplight, he saw the face of a young woman lying motionless, surrounded by a stinking pile of rubbish that covered her like a vile blanket. Her eyelids were closed and dirt smeared her cheek… but even in such a condition, she possessed an ethereal beauty that made his gut tighten to look at.

A small bare foot stuck out from under a ripped sack. Beckett gingerly lifted the sack away, wrinkling his nose at the smell of decaying fish and cabbage that rose from the gutter. The stench made his stomach roil.

The girl’s only clothing was a dirty, damp nightdress, which was molded like a second skin to her body beneath. Black grime and dried blood covered the soles of her feet. Her head rested at an awkward angle, and her arms and legs were askew. She looked like a doll that had been thrown away by a careless child.

A surge of protectiveness rushed through his veins, and he fought against it. He didn’t want to feel anything for any woman, least of all this mysterious girl. And yet the urge to take her into his arms, to shield her from whatever had brought her here lingered. Unable to stop himself, he reached out to touch her face.

“It looks like some unfortunate trollop has been thrown out for the night,” said Alfred. “Cover her back up and let’s go.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” Alfred stepped back and crossed his arms. “Let’s go. I’m tired and I’m wet, now leave the wench where she belongs, in the gutter!”

Nausea washed over Beckett in waves as the odor of excrement and rotting meat filled his nostrils. He couldn’t believe his friend was immune to the danger this girl was in, foxed as he was or not.

“Alfred, are you blind? She’s not from the gutter! Look at her nightdress. Lady Granville has one that is quite similar, if memory serves me right.” Beckett fingered the detailed embroidery on the collar.

“And how would you know what Lady Granville’s nightdress looks like?

Beckett rolled his eyes heavenward. “Nothing but flim-flam, Alfred, I assure you.”

“I’ll wager you know more about Lady Granville’s nightdress than Lord Granville does, and about what’s under it, as well!” Alfred kicked Beckett’s shin lightly in admonishment. “But the fact remains that the girl must be a harlot.”

“What of it? You should have no prejudice against her if she is, having gotten to know a few quite intimately yourself. It’s no reason to leave this poor girl to die.”

“Well, what would you have us do, Beckett?”

“We can’t leave her here.

“Oh, can’t we?” Alfred sighed, folding his arms. “At least try to wake her and see if she’s alright. If she is, we’ll go on our way.”

Beckett nodded. His head was still slightly fuzzy from drinking and being tossed into the street, and the obvious had escaped him. If the girl was fine, they could be good samaritans and help her home. Yes, that was a good plan.

“Miss… Miss?” Beckett reached down and touched her cold, bare arm. There was no reaction from the unconscious girl. He tried again, shaking her shoulder with a little more vigor. “I say, are you alright?”

Still, she did not move.

“Perhaps she’s dead, Beckett,” Alfred whispered, as if his words might offend her should that be the case.

Beckett grasped a clammy wrist and felt for a pulse. He found a strong heartbeat.

“No, she’s quite alive, old man. But she might not survive the night if we leave her here. Help me get her up.”

“Oh, why don’t we just leave well enough alone? What business is it of ours?”

“Think of what might happen to the girl if we don’t take her with us,” Beckett insisted.

“Think of what might happen if we do. ‘Zooks, man—do you really want to be responsible for some wayward girl, whatever her story is? Can’t we leave her at one of the hospitals?”

“Alfred, I wouldn’t leave one of my worst enemies in one of those hospitals, and you know it. It’s too late to call a physician. That will have to wait until morning. Now, you lift her shoulders and I’ll take her feet.”

Alfred groaned, putting his hands under the girl’s arms and lifting her upper body. Beckett took her ankles.

“This is a bad idea, old man.”

“You never want to do anything heroic.”

“No, I never want to do anything utterly stupid, that’s all. I still remember how you insisted it was our duty as officers to save those kittens from Napoleon’s guns in Salamanca. It wasn’t enough that you’d rescued a convent full of virgins, oh no! You had to save their cats, too. I still have the scars from that little escapade. And then there was the cow that we helped to give birth—a very messy episode, as I recall.” Alfred shifted the girl’s weight and leaned closer. “And need I mention that irate goose who tried to peck us to death when we rescued its eggs from being Wellington’s breakfast?”

“Oh, quit complaining. You couldn’t turn your back on any of those creatures any more than I could—just as you can’t turn your back on this poor girl now. Besides, we’re going to be heroes, you mutton head.”

Beckett saw the girl’s head droop to the side. A mass of damp honey-blond curls fell away from her face and revealed a nasty bruise near her hairline.

The thin nightdress clung wetly to her body, so that it was almost invisible. Beckett wanted to be a gentleman and avert his eyes from this involuntary display of her charms. He wanted to ignore the effect such sweetness was having on his own body. He wanted to tell himself she was just another stray, like the swan he had found walking down the middle of the Strand, or the puppies he had rescued from the pond in Hyde Park. But she wasn’t.

Her innocent beauty, her vulnerability overwhelmed him.

Beckett adjusted the weight of her in his arms. Though she was far from heavy, his muscles strained to keep her aloft. The fisticuffs at the inn had exhausted him.

A coach slowed beside the curb and stopped, the black horse stomping its hoof impatiently. Steam blew from its nostrils into the cold, damp night. The two men gingerly placed their silent cargo inside, under the driver’s suspicious gaze.

“Take us to Covington Place!” Beckett yelled to the white-haired coachman.

As the vehicle rumbled down the street, Beckett quietly gazed at the girl across from him. He watched her face in the moonlight as her head jiggled against the side of the cab, and he fought the desire to pull her into his arms and cradle her.

What was he doing rescuing this strange girl in the middle of the night? This was no stray kitten he was bringing into his home. She could be anything from an innocent lost lady to a killer, for heaven’s sake.

And yet, he’d never been able to turn away a creature in need. But would he later regret this penchant for rescuing strays?

He laughed at himself. He already had so many regrets, what was one more?

As the coach turned onto Curzon Street, Beckett ran his hands over his face, trying to wake himself up.

He felt so tired that he was almost nauseous. His head pounded like a drum and his belly burned.

Luckily, they wouldn’t be returning to the Goose and Gunner anytime soon. The rot-gut he drank at that inn would surely kill him one of these days.

The coach came to a jolting halt in front of No. 10 Covington Place, and Beckett felt his stomach lurch like a ship on the high seas. He gazed down at the mysterious girl before him. How was he going to get her inside when all he wanted to do was crawl into his bed and stay there for at least twenty-four hours?

Beckett groaned and opened the door of the coach, stepping out. He reached back in to receive the girl’s feet as Alfred lifted her shoulders. Finally, they managed to get her out and entirely into Beckett’s sagging arms, and headed up the walk.

The ornately carved door of the townhouse opened silently, as if by magic. Beckett’s valet, Hartley, stood behind it as they entered the foyer. Since Beckett could only afford one manservant, the long-suffering Hartley assumed the duties of butler, as well. Sitting on the man’s shoulder was Beckett’s African gray parrot, Caesar. Both looked at Beckett with interest.

“The lady, sir?” Hartley asked.

“A poor woman in distress. We will be looking after her for a few days. Let’s get her upstairs.” With a nod to the valet, Beckett commanded him to light their way.

“Hello. You’re a pretty bird,” said Caesar.