The Notorious Scoundrel (23 page)

D
uring the wedding luncheon, Amy sat at the head of the reception table, next to her surly husband. She fidgeted with the fare spread out across her willow-patterned plate, pushing the roasted ham from one end of the dish to the other, staring at the carved morsel with apathy.

“Eat something, Lady Gravenhurst,” the marquis whispered into her ear. “I won’t have you faint at our reception.”

“I’m not hungry,” she gritted, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the blue-and-white earthenware, ill at ease with her new title.

He murmured, “You’ll need your strength…for tonight.”

Amy cringed.

The foul cur! He had promised her a lifetime of pain—and he intended to keep his word. He intended to torment her with thoughts of their distasteful wedding night.

She tightened her fingers around the silver fork as
vile images entered her head, polluted her soul. She then remembered Edmund’s sweet touch…and the recollection compounded the gloom in her breast, for she wouldn’t know such passion and tenderness again, not from her wicked husband.

Her belly empty, she still sensed the queasiness in her innards. She stabbed her food with the cutlery, imagined the meat Edmund’s fickle heart. He had abandoned her, the bounder, and the truth of it still curdled her spirit.

“A toast.” The Duke of Estabrooke lifted to his feet and hoisted a sparkling glass. “To Lord and Lady Gravenhurst.”

The myriad guests in attendance raised their glasses, too. The room was filled with luscious floral arrangements, cascading from stone urns. White linen covered the tables, the furniture forming an elongated U-shape, with the newlyweds at the head of the proceedings.

Amy smiled in a polite manner at the gathered company. She scanned the amassed crowd and spotted James and Sophia Hawkins, and the Duke and Duchess of Wembury. As she eyed the scoundrel’s odd yet loving family, there was sound pressure building within her skull. They might have been
her
family if the blackguard hadn’t run off, deserting her.

Her father resumed the blessing: “The scripture tells us: if we suffer, we shall also reign with Him.”

Amy’s heart cramped at the biblical words. She would suffer, she thought. She would suffer greatly for keeping her parents content, for keeping the Esta
brooke name unsullied. As harrowing as the circumstances seemed to her now, she comforted herself with the knowledge that she had protected her family from scandal.

“The duchess and I have suffered these many years, but our suffering is at an end; our daughter restored to us and to her rightful husband.”

Amy looked at her husband—for better for worse. Might they form a truce? Might they come to terms with their wedded union and find civil ground?

But she quickly dismissed the fanciful thought, for her spouse clutched his table knife and glared at the duke with such icy regard, she shivered.

“From the beginning of creation God made them male and female. For this cause shall a man leave his father and mother, and cleave to his wife; and they twain shall be one flesh.”

The words “one flesh” had goaded the marquis, for he stiffened, firmed his jaw bones. He was likewise put off by their joining, it seemed.

“What therefore God hath joined together, let not a man put asunder.” The duke smiled, ending the toast with “To the Marquis and Marchioness of Gravenhurst. Love is eternal.”

The glasses clashed all around them, a chiming symphony of well wishes, but the last remark about eternity, coupled with the snarling expression across her husband’s lips, tossed Amy’s spirits even deeper into the doldrums.

She was married.

Forever.

She dropped her fork and napkin on the table, her breastbone smarting. She had performed her duty as an obedient daughter. She was now a suffering wife.

She needed air.

Her husband reached for her, but she snatched her wrist away before he yanked her back to his side. He offered her a cutting glance as she bustled off, but she ignored his darkening expression. The cursed devil owned her. There was plenty of opportunity for him to heap more misery upon her. She would take one last breath of freedom before she confronted her doom.

She bunched her fingers into fists, burrowed her fingernails into her palms. As she hastened through the room, she passed the row of tall windows, the sunlight piercing. She moved quickly through the patches of warm rays, disregarding the whispers and curious looks that followed her silk-slippered steps.

The Duchess of Wembury intercepted her hustling footfalls, offering her a small smile, her lips uneven as her umber eyes revealed an uneasiness.

“Are you well, Amy?”

“I’m fine,” she said succinctly, a storm of feeling in her breast, for it was the woman’s wretched brother who’d condemned her to a miserable companionship with the marquis.

Mirabelle cupped her hands in a gentle embrace. “I had a talk with Quincy. He seems to think…Oh, this isn’t the right time.” She huffed. “Hell’s fire! Do you have feelings for my brother Edmund?”

Amy was curt: “I assure you, I do not!”

“Good.” She sighed. “I’d hate to think…Congratulations, Amy.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she returned stiffly.

The duchess squeezed her fingers with firmer pressure. “You and I are friends, my dear. If you ever need an ear…”

Amy winced at the kind offer of friendship, the balm stinging the wound on her heart, for the woman’s compassion contrasted with her brother’s indifference and the marquis’s brutality, making her woeful situation all the more unpleasant.

“If you will excuse me, Your Grace.”

She pulled her hands away and dashed off again, the looming doors so alluring, but her flight was stymied once more as the Duchess of Estabrooke stepped beside her, pale green eyes glossy with tears.

She simpered, “Oh, my dear, you’re wed!”

Aye, Amy was wed. It was a foul, wretched truth. She needn’t hear about it at every opportunity. She needn’t be reminded she was the Marchioness of Gravenhurst.

Ugh! Even the title sounded abysmal. She munched on her bottom lip, seeking escape, peering at the doors over her mother’s head.

“I want you to enjoy yourself on your wedding tour; visit all the best shops in Paris…and I need to talk with you about the wedding night.”

Amy hardened as more unpleasant images settled in her head, making her sweat.

“A wife has certain duties she must perform…”

The conversation stalled as the duchess stuttered, and Amy gazed at the doors with longing, her toes restless.

“Yes, Mother,” she said brusquely after a few minutes, her ears burning. “I understand. If you will excuse me.”

Once more, she hurried for the doors.

Once more, she faltered.

The Duke of Estabrooke stepped between her and the exit. The man’s tall figure eclipsed the doors, snuffing her hopes. She gnashed her teeth.

“I am well pleased in you, my dear.”

She shifted. “Thank you, Father.”

“You have made me very happy. The years of anguish I endured at your loss are naught more than a dream.”

He embraced her.

She stiffened.

He had not hugged her since her return from the underworld, and at such an inconsolable moment in her life, the gesture wasn’t welcome.

“If you will excuse me, Father. I must prepare for the wedding tour.”

He bowed. “Yes, of course, Lady Gravenhurst.”

Amy almost tripped; the title ringing in her ears. She scuttled through the doors at last and breathed with more gusto, her corset pinching. In the cool passageway, she fanned her features with her fingers, rubbed her clinched midriff.

She moved off a little more, one step…two, her eyes fixed on the next set of doors in the offing. Air.
She needed air. Space, too. The road wasn’t too far from the front entranceway. If she slipped through it surreptitiously—

“I’d like a word with you, my lady.”

She cringed as she sensed the rough pressure on her arm, the man’s clipped words. Slowly she turned around and glared at her husband.

He offered her a scornful smirk. “Do not scowl at me, Lady Gravenhurst.”

As his fingers burrowed into her arm, she girded her muscles.

“I’d like a moment alone, my lord.”

The man’s stormy eyes pegged her. “I don’t think so, wife. Fetch your bags. We have a ship to catch in the morning…and a long night ahead of us.”

The town house doors opened wide as the cheerful wedding guests streamed from the belly of the prominent estate.

Edmund, unobserved, regarded the party of merrymakers from across the street, sheltered by his anonymity. He spotted his sister, Mirabelle, and her husband. His brother, James, and sister-in-law, Sophia, appeared next to the Duke and Duchess of Wembury, sporting their finest attire. Although not of the peerage, the couple had “saved” Amy from destitution, hence their inclusion in the nuptial affair as a show of gratitude.

A crescendo of cheers and applause filled the air; as did a swarm of white rose petals, showering the newlywed couple.

He stood, transfixed, like a condemned convict standing at the chopping block, watching the executioner sharpen his axe blade. In a shimmering, pale blue pool of fine linen, with flaxen curls and bejeweled headdress, Amy radiated in the sunlight—and severed the veins in his heart.

A darkness rolled over him as he watched her slim figure descend the grand house steps, her hand intertwined with her husband’s, the Marquis of Gravenhurst. At least, Edmund assumed she’d married the marquis. It was unlikely she’d found another man to marry her in such a short period of time.

He swallowed deep mouthfuls of air, expanded his breastbone in savage gluttony, taking in every bit of breath that filled his lungs, and still he starved for oxygen, drowned in a thick, murky mire that filled his soul and squelched his dreams.

“She looks beautiful.”

Quincy stepped beside him, his expression somber, his eyes thoughtful.

“Aye,” he said in a strangled voice. “She’s beautiful.”

In an idle gesture, Quincy kicked a pebble, sending it skipping across the stone pavement. “I thought I’d find you here. Where have you been these past few days?”

Imprisoned
, he thought bitterly.

“I figured you’d gone off to get foxed.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t sure, though. I wanted to look for you, but James insisted we leave you alone, that we stay out of your affairs.”

Edmund raked his molars together, for the one time the pirate captain had listened to him, obeyed his wants, Edmund wished to the devil he hadn’t. If his brothers had searched for him, found him in the crypt, he’d have escaped sooner…and saved Amy.

“I had a talk with Belle.” After a short pause, Quincy said, “Amy will be taking her wedding tour in Paris; she’ll stay the night at the Montgomery Inn in Dover before setting sail for the continent.” Quincy folded his arms across his chest. “She doesn’t look like a blushing bride, though. She looks forlorn, don’t you think?”

Edmund’s heart twisted. He looked at her from across the street; she had not perceived his presence as she entered the gilded carriage with the Gravenhurst coat of arms, but he’d noted the frown that had touched her brow, her lips before she’d settled inside the vehicle.

It knotted his innards to witness her in a sorrowful frame of mind, and he gathered his breath, his wits. “I’m too late.”

He observed the splendid vehicle as it set off down the street amid a hail of flickering white kerchiefs.

Quincy patted him across the back. “It’s why I prefer the opium dens; the smoke helps. Come. Let’s have a drink.” He sniffed. “And a bath.”

An hour later, Edmund stared at the glass of rum; ignored the hecklers, the foul scents that filled the flash house. The seedy patrons caroused; their guffaws and
tasteless antics permeated the atmosphere, deepening his frown.

“And you think this queen sent the attackers after you?” said Quincy as he twirled an empty glass between his fingers, frowning.

“Yes.”

Edmund glowered at the dark drink in his hand. At least Amy was alive. Unharmed. Perhaps she’d offered the rogues payment, ceasing the harassment. She was a resourceful lass; she’d have found some way of obtaining the necessary funds.

“Were you really going to marry her, Eddie?”

He fisted the cup. “Yes.”

The word resounded in Edmund’s skull, making him disoriented with vertigo. A heaviness pressed on his breast, his lungs. He breathed deep, easing the pressure, the dizziness.

“I’m too late, though.”

He swigged the last of the rum, strummed his finger across the glass lip. He needed to forget that he had lost Amy, that she belonged to another man. The blood in his skull pounded like bare-knuckled pugilists. As another haunting reflection wedged itself in his head, he imagined smashing the glass against the table and taking the lacerated edge, carving out the marquis’s throat.

“If the swine makes her unhappy, I’ll kill him.”

Quincy eyed him thoughtfully. “The marquis’s a respectable gentleman; I’ve never heard a lick of gossip about him. I’m sure he’ll take good care of her.”

Edmund glared at his brother, his vision starting to turn hazy. “He frightens her.”

“How?”

“He’s a lout, apparently.”

Quincy set his elbows on the table. “The couple might live apart after the wedding tour; it’s not uncommon. If she keeps her own house, you can still be together.”

He pinched the throbbing bridge of his nose between his fingers. “I won’t live as her lover.”

“You can’t live apart from her, either.”

The sage truth gripped him with such gusto, he was breathless. “I think I’ll put a bullet in my head.”

“It’ll end your suffering, but what about Amy’s pain?”

He growled, “What would you have me do? Poison her husband?”

“Swallow your pride and take care of the girl; give her whatever she needs to make it through her miserable marriage to the marquis.”

Edmund burrowed his fingers into his burning eyes. A bleak sentiment possessed him. Without Amy at his side, he hadn’t the desire to even breathe. He would for her sake, though. He would live in torment alongside her. Together. In hell.