The Outcast Earl (40 page)

She blinked at him, pursing her lips and stepping back. “It’s bad luck for the bridegroom to see his bride on their wedding day—before the wedding, I mean.”

Charles stared at her then rolled his eyes. “Gammon, Abby-heart. As far as I’m concerned, the only proper way to start a day is as we did this morning.” He faced her, watching with an inward grin as her gaze helplessly dropped to his erection.

A brilliant smile dawned on her face. “You’re right, of course you’re right,” she breathed. “It’s going to be a good day. I love you, Charles Wessex.”

“I know.” He grinned wickedly, his heart thumping harder in relief and something that might have been glee. “And I’ll say the words back to you, just as soon as I can use the name Abigail Wessex.”

She looked indignant for a bare moment, then pushed against his chest and started to turn, with a huff, to march away. Charles watched her carefully as she took the first two steps and realised the condition of the muscles in her thighs and groin, then moved more cautiously towards her boudoir.

* * * *

She wasn’t just a beautiful bride.

Abby was radiant with joy, glowing with the full promise of happiness and expectation.

He swept his eyes over her from hem to crown, where the Meriden coronet was carefully set around a braided circle of her curls. Beneath it, rioting, teasing curls bounced against her graceful neck.

Charles stood in wonder and watched her step towards him down the aisle as some music played in his ear. He heard none of it after her eyes met his, and his chest thundered with a mixture of pride and astonishment. He’d done nothing to earn this treasure he’d been given.

A knot formed in his throat. She was stepping towards him slowly, alone. Coming to him, alone, with no male relative to ease her path. The sudden notion of her alone in the world seared him painfully enough to nearly send him to his knees. Instinctively, he stepped out, then strode forward to meet her halfway up the carpet.

The crowd around them gasped at his unusual behaviour, but Charles couldn’t have cared less. The tradition of giving the bride away could be damned in this instance—Charles was perfectly happy with the notion of taking his. But when he stepped close and saw her eyes, alive with brimming emotion, he stopped. Instead of reaching out to her, he acted on instinct, and did something he would never have imagined.

He went down on one knee, heedless of the gathered guests and village, and said the simple words he’d never given her. “I love you, Abigail,” he said, his voice low and private. At her astonished face, he clasped her hands around the flowers she held, before raising his voice so that the others around her could hear. “Abby, my heart, will you marry me?”

Of course she’d nodded, unable to speak, and had let him take her arm and lead her to the altar. Abigail stared at him in awe as he spoke his vows, and she composed herself just enough to whisper hers. She was still staring as Danvers pronounced them man and wife. She’d forgone the traditional veil in favour of the treasured coronet, and there was nothing to do but respond to the pressure of Meriden’s hands and step forward.

He lowered his head and whispered, “I love you, Abigail Elizabeth Wessex, my Lady Meriden.” Then he touched his lips to hers with more tenderness than he ever had.

Tears flowed down her cheeks. She’d known when she’d stepped inside that the church was full, that he’d made his public stance before dozens upon dozens of witnesses. It seemed more real now to be looking out at the crowd who had wanted to come and see them wed. Fiona and Aunt Betsy were there at the front, and several pews were filled with the women and men she’d met over the last week, people who were certain to become good friends. Margaret sat with Dr Franklin, and Abby’s gaze glided over the Smarts with Mrs Peacock, Lady and Lord Kresley, and others. Past them, the servants sat and clapped, including Betsy’s coachman John, Jenna and Frenchie, Grady and his wife, Mrs Carlton, Annie, Robert, and more she couldn’t yet name. Then there were the villagers, tenants and farm workers, who’d crowded into the pews and the space at the back of the church.

Meriden was not an outcast earl. It was clear from the joy in the sunlit church that he was respected and appreciated, and valued for the good, responsible man he was.

The pews emptied quickly as they turned to Danvers. The rector congratulated them heartily, and finally looked Meriden directly in the face. “That took the courage of a Celtic warrior. What if she had said no?”

Abigail smiled, clearing her throat, and Meriden took her hand, raising it to his lips. “She’d never humiliate me in public, Danvers,” he teased, then added more seriously, “and it took no courage at all. She deserves to have me do that even in the middle of Hyde Park, with every blasted woman in London looking on.”

After signing the register, Abigail turned back to the church. The congregants had departed, so Meriden turned her and looked down the aisle into the sunshine. “Are you ready, my lady?”

They were going to run the gauntlet of rice thrown at their heads, ending at the open carriage that would drive them around the lanes for a bit, then on to Meriden Park. The servants had already hurried away, their guests would go on ahead, and after half an hour of exercising the horses, the coachman would deliver Abigail and Charles to the front door of Meriden Park.

“I am,” she said, taking her flowers from the altar rail and waiting while Danvers ducked out of the door. “Let’s run, Charles.”

And they did run. Her flowers and skirts clutched in one hand, and Charles’ hand clutched in the other, Abigail ran down the aisle into her new life.

The crowd cheered and they were hailed with tiny pellets of rice as they raced to the lychgate, where the carriage was waiting just past. Looking forward, Abigail could see Fiona and Betsy waiting to give them a last happy shout of encouragement before Meriden would toss her up into the seat.

Then her world reeled onto its side. Again.

She saw the blur racing towards them only a half-second before Meriden. “No!” Abigail screamed, shoving her husband out of the path of the man barrelling down on them. He’d been hidden among the carriages drawn up behind theirs, and Abigail knew a brief moment of terror she would never forget as she realised she had saved Meriden from the man’s knife, and would face it herself, instead.

Milton Wessex careened into her. The knife, intended for Meriden, was too high to hurt Abigail, and lunged harmlessly past the side of her head. Milton must have been aiming for Meriden’s neck. Their collision instead knocked Abigail into the frame of the lychgate, then down onto her bottom. Around her she heard screams and shouting, but Milton was scrambling to balance himself on his knees and raising his knife to plunge it into her neck.

Charles’ roar was as loud as a lion’s, she thought, watching the scene as if it unfolded in slow motion. He slammed into Milton, knocking the knife from his hand.

Now this was a fisticuffs affair, Charles had the advantage of size.

Milton didn’t fight fairly. Charles knocked him to the ground a yard from Abigail, and Milton pulled a pistol from inside his coat pocket.

Abigail had already dropped the lilies and grabbed the smooth ivory hilt strapped to her leg above her slippers. With a scream welling in her throat and without even a second’s hesitation, she rolled towards him and pushed the flat edge of the knife to Milton’s jaw. “Don’t move,” she nearly shrieked, then inhaled deeply and added, “Or you’ll bleed.”

He froze, and the crowd gasped with astonishment.

“Drop the pistol,” she said evenly.

“Maybe that would be for the best,” he gasped, still levelling the pistol straight at her new husband’s head.

“I don’t think so,” said a dry, familiar voice. To Abigail’s astonishment, Betsy was there behind them, rapping her cane down on Milton’s hands, hard. He howled, dropping the gun, and Charles reached down to drag him up and shake him in furious temper.

The crowd, which had watched in horrified fascination, parted to reveal the blacksmith and tavern keeper, two burly brutes who both outweighed and outsized Milton Wessex. “We’ve a’ got ‘im,” the blacksmith huffed, as Charles relented and lowered him to his feet. The blacksmith bent him forward and captured his hands behind his back. “Johnson here’ll lock him in a room at the tavern till ye can decide what to do, and keep ‘im locked up, like. No sense at havin’ him in yer own house, not on yer weddin’ day.”

Johnson was already pulling the rope that served as his belt from around his waist. “You tie that blighter’s hands, my lord, and we’ll haul ‘im off.”

Silently, Meriden did as they suggested, and let the two men haul him away. Beside him, Fiona was inspecting the damage to the back of Abigail’s hair and gown. She still sat on the gravelled path, and he looked down at her, then to Fiona.

“She’ll be fine, my lord,” Fiona assured him. “She’s bumped her shoulder a bit and lost some pins, and I imagine the dress is a lost cause, but otherwise, no harm came of it.”

Abigail slid the ivory knife into its case as Meriden knelt down and lifted her into his arms, pressing his forehead to hers. “He could have killed you, Charles. I can’t lose you now, you know.”

“I know, Abby-heart, I know,” Charles replied, standing. Ignoring the rumbling cheers that rose as soon as they were standing, he turned to Fiona and Betsy. “Thank you,” he said simply, glancing from one to the other.

Fiona just shook her head but Betsy smiled and snorted, in fine form. “Always glad to help an earl in distress. Get on with you now. We have a party to enjoy.”

And they did, very much.

Epilogue

Entering his sitting room from the corridor, Charles stopped and stared at the vision before him. Abigail was there, nude on the chaise, silk wraps draped haphazardly over her. She was on her stomach, her legs bent at the knees and her ankles up in the air, delicately crossed. Her hair fell in long, heavy locks of curly abandon, tempting him. She faced the foot of the chaise and the fireplace, and she was flipping through a book.

His glance drifted to the portrait over his mantel and he smiled. “Hello there,” he murmured.

She smiled up at him and moved to sit up, but he shook his head. “No, no, like that.” Dragging the armchair, he moved it to a position in front of her, and sat down. “How was your day, Abby-heart? Were you too lonely without me?”

He bent down and removed his shoes, then untied the stock around his neck while she rested her chin in her palm and watched.

“Actually, Mrs Carlton has been waiting all week to corner me, so she was exceedingly glad you went off and left me alone. I spent nearly all day with her, and even made her have dinner with me so I wasn’t lonely. We’ve covered two weeks of menus, made arrangements for that man to come from Birmingham about refurbishing the drawing room and music room, looked at the stillroom and the preserves and the nurseries, reviewed what will need to be done for the plum harvest come Monday and gone through the linens. Apparently you and I need more sheets if you want the silk ones every day. I thought linen would be fine but she said you’d expressly ordered those from London. It seems as though you should have bought eight sets instead of four, at the rate they are changed.”

The censure in her voice was tinged by amusement and a little shy embarrassment. Charles wondered if he should be repentant but just said audaciously, “I’ll give you the draper’s direction to order more. I wonder if you can get them in scarlet. You’d look marvellous—”

“Charles!” His heart laughed. “Stop. Anyway, after dinner I bathed, then did what you said and went to bed. It was cold and lonely and could do with the great improvement of my husband’s presence. So I rang for Robert to come up and light the fire, and here I am. Now, tell me what happened.”

“He would have been transported or hanged if it had gone to trial.” Charles shrugged, trying not to remember the moment when the knife had whizzed past Abigail’s ear. “He agreed to exile. He’ll be headed to Australia under supervision. I have some business interests there and an agent whom I’m going to have watch him, as well as the Governor’s office. Obviously, we’ll want to know if he disappears. He has an allowance from his parents and our grandfather, and it will support him adequately if not luxuriously there, provided he stays away from the gaming tables.”

She raised an eyebrow, mimicking the facial gesture he associated with his family. “And where is he now?”

“On a ship awaiting departure. Under guard, Abby.” He stood, shrugging out of his jacket and unbuttoning his waistcoat. “Did you read the letter from Fiona?”

“Yes, she wrote it as soon as they all got to Libby’s. It really was unnecessary of them to insist on saying goodbye on Wednesday. Aunt Betsy has asked Fiona that all of the fiasco with Winchester remain our secret. She didn’t even want Libby to know. Fiona, of course, is scheming to work out how to change her name to something else—anything else. She can hardly keep from flinching whenever she is introduced or announced. And, after talking it over with Betsy, Fiona does think she’d like to visit us at Christmas, and that we’d work out the details later.”

Down to his trousers and shirt, Charles returned to the chair and considered her. Before he could speak, Abby went on, “I also had a letter from Genevieve. It came today. She assured me that Sir Peter has been nothing but the perfect gentleman, doing nothing more than calling a half-hour a day and visiting in the drawing room, with his mother as chaperone. Lady Theresa has watched over her fiercely, even more a mother hen than Fiona was—guarding her for Devon’s sake as well as Genevieve’s, I suppose. Apparently Mother came to beg forgiveness, although Genevieve couldn’t understand why.” Her eyes clouded. “I am wondering if we shouldn’t expect Mother on a mercy trip, and I do wish Gloria would write.”

Serious now, Charles sighed. “I suppose Devon could effect an annulment when she’s older, given the care they’ve taken to make the point that she’s untouched.”

“I don’t think it’s a proper discussion to have for at least five years, until she’s turned twenty-one.” Abby sighed. “To annul the marriage would put her straight back into Winchester’s power.”