The Wedding Escape (35 page)

Rosalind was relieved by the suggestion. “Thank you, Mademoiselle Colbert. You will, of course, be compensated handsomely for your trouble.”

“Ce n'est pas nécessaire,”
Annabelle informed her, telling her it wasn't necessary. She turned toward the stairs so Rosalind would not see her smile as she finished sweetly, “I do it for Mademoiselle Amelia.”

Chapter Fifteen

T
HE CROWD OUTSIDE THE BELFORDS' LONDON MANSION
was growing restless.

According to the newspapers, the wedding between Miss Amelia Belford and His Grace, the Duke of Whitcliffe, was scheduled to take place at St. George's Church in Hanover at precisely half after two o'clock. Yet here it was, already past two o'clock, and still no sign of either the bride or any member of her family. Even more peculiar, the Duke of Whitcliffe himself had arrived in his own carriage earlier that morning, reputedly looking flustered and angry. What was the groom doing there? everyone wondered. Had there been some last-minute change to the marriage contract? Was His Grace asking for more money? Or was that rich American, John Henry Belford, demanding more than a title in exchange for his only daughter? Perhaps the foolish girl had run away again. Or been abducted. Or attempted suicide by throwing herself down the stairs, or slashing her wrists, or eating poison. Maybe she had lost her virginity during her so-called abduction, and Lord Whitcliffe was refusing to marry her. No, that was not reasonable, everyone swiftly agreed. After all, the dowry attached to Miss Belford was rumored to be in excess of some five hundred thousand pounds.

No man would refuse to marry such a staggering fortune, even if the bride carried a bastard in her belly.

Suddenly a dark carriage turned down the street and came to a stop in front of the house. The crowd drew a suspenseful breath as the old driver climbed down from his seat and opened the passenger door. Out stepped the pretty, honey-haired maid who had been seen leaving from the servants' entrance shortly before. Surprise rippled through the crowd. Who or what could this young woman have been sent to fetch that would have necessitated a return in a carriage? Before they could reflect on this a nurse appeared, her face obscured by the plain gray wool of her hooded cloak. She was evidently ill at ease before the enormous, gawking crowd, for she kept her head bent and her face hidden as she turned to offer assistance to the next passenger.

An elderly, spectacled man with a wiry bush of snowy hair seeping from beneath the brim of his tall hat climbed slowly from the vehicle. He was dressed entirely in black, which might have meant only that he had an aversion to colorful clothing, but everyone interpreted it as a bad sign. When the nurse reached into the carriage to retrieve his heavy leather bag, the crowd gasped. A doctor, just as everyone had suspected. It could only mean one thing.

Someone was dying.

The journalists shouted at him: What was his name? Who had fallen ill? What was wrong with them and did he expect them to live? as if they believed he should be able to render a diagnosis without actually seeing the patient. The old fellow ignored them as he mounted the steps, accompanied by the maid and the nurse, who apparently suffered from a limp. The front door swung open and the trio was whisked inside by Belford's dour-looking butler, who cast the mob a look of acute disgust before slamming the door shut once more. Undeterred, the journalists surged toward the carriage driver, demanding to know the names of his passengers and what he knew about their visit. The old driver raised his whip and flicked it menacingly over their heads, telling them to stand back, and saying if they so much as dared breathe on either his carriage or his horses he would make the whole blithering lot of them bloody sorry for it. At that point the police intervened, but the journalists were already retreating, madly scribbling notes into their journals. Two things they knew with absolute certainty:

The driver was bad-tempered.

And Scottish.

 

D
R. CHADWICK, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR COMING
on such short notice,” said Rosalind, greeting him in the entrance hall.

“I was in surgery,” the old man snapped, crushing his white brows together with irritation. “Cutting out an abscess in the liver. Ghastly sight. The whole organ was green with bile. The moment I sliced into it, it burst and sprayed all over my assistant. I expect he's still trying to clean up the mess. Of course it didn't help with him vomiting all over the bloody place. That's the way it is sometimes, with surgery,” he continued, scowling now at Freddy and William. “A damned messy business. I told the young fool he should wear a cap, but we can't tell you young people anything these days, can we now? Your grandfather here knows what I am talking about—don't you, sir?” he shouted, having decided that Lord Whitcliffe was deaf. “You don't get to be eighty years of age without learning a thing or two, do you?”

“I'm not eighty,” protested Lord Whitcliffe, outraged. “I'm only sixty.”

“Of course you are.” The doctor winked at him, amused. “And you look damned fine for your age, as your grandsons will attest.”

“They are
not
my grandsons.” Lord Whitcliffe's face was turning purple.

“Don't worry, your father's episodes of dementia are quite common in someone his age,” the doctor told Amelia's father. “Best to just humor him, and keep him away from strong spirits. Next thing you know, he'll be telling me he's the bridegroom!” He barked with laughter.

“Actually, he is the bridegroom,” William informed him tautly.

Dr. Chadwick blinked in amazement. “Really? Well, then, sir,” he shouted, “aren't you the lucky one? Let's see what we can do about getting your lovely bride feeling better, shall we?” He turned to Rosalind. “Tell me, madam, how was your last bowel movement?”

“I beg your pardon!” Rosalind managed, shocked.

“How was your last bowel movement?”
he bellowed. “Seems your father's bride has a little trouble hearing also,” he told Amelia's father. He shifted his attention back to Rosalind and yelled, “Was it loose or formed?”

“Frederick,” she began, struggling to maintain a dignified composure, “would you kindly show Dr. Chadwick upstairs to Amelia's chamber?”

“This way, Doctor.” Freddy gestured for the elderly man to follow. “I'll take you to see my sister—she is the one who is ill.”

“Well, then, what the devil are we doing blathering about here?” the doctor demanded impatiently. “Don't worry about your granddaughter,” he shouted at Lord Whitcliffe. “I'll have her ready to watch you marry this grand old lady in no time.” He tilted his head at Rosalind.

Rosalind gasped.

“What you need, madam, is a good purgative to clean you out,” Dr. Chadwick advised. “Damned messy, but well worth the trouble. Remind me to give you one before I go.”

He shuffled after Freddy up the staircase, oblivious to the outrage he had caused.

“I'll need plenty of hot water, soap, towels, a glass, and a good bottle of whiskey, Sister Cuthbert,” he told his nurse as Freddy opened the door to Amelia's chamber. “Perhaps these two ladies will be good enough to assist you,” he suggested, drafting Annabelle and Grace into service. “You go on downstairs, young man, and help to keep your grandfather calm,” he added to Freddy. “Poor old chap seemed rather agitated. Be a damned shame for him to drop dead of a heart attack before his wedding night. Of course, given his considerable age and his weight, I wouldn't be at all surprised if he dropped dead after.”

“One can only hope.” Freddy cast a concerned look at Amelia, who was lying utterly limp upon her bed. “You will do everything you possibly can for her, Doctor, won't you?”

“She will have all the benefits of modern medicine,” Dr. Chadwick assured him, setting down his enormous black bag. “Leeches, blood transfusions, surgery—what-ever she needs. Just keep everyone out of my way while I'm with my patient.” He closed the door.

Then he turned.

The room was dark and his disguise extraordinary, but it didn't matter. Amelia could feel his powerful presence filling the chamber, as surely as she could feel the anxious beating of her own heart. She sat up on the bed and stared at him.

“Hello, Jack,” she said quietly.

Jack stayed by the door, suddenly uncertain. There was so much he wanted to say to Amelia, and yet he had no idea where to begin. And so he said nothing. He merely stood there, studying her through the darkness. She was dressed in an ivory nightgown trimmed with yards of delicately wrought lace and satin ribbon. The neckline was low and the sleeves barely skimmed her elbows, revealing the soft paleness of her skin, which was generously dotted with alarming pink spots. Annabelle and Grace had done a fine job of making her look deathly ill, with her feverishly damp hair curling around her and dozens of small, ugly lesions rising upon her flesh. Even a real doctor would have been fooled, at least from a distance. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and bury his face against the velvet cream of her throat, to breathe in the honey-sweet fragrance of her as he held her close. But a crippling insecurity froze him. He had begged her not to leave him, and she had.

He could not bear losing her a second time.

“I'm sorry.” His voice was low and filled with regret.

Amelia regarded him in surprise. “For what?”

“For everything.” He shrugged helplessly, knowing that was not an answer. Inhaling a deep breath, he struggled to find the words to make her understand.

“That day I found you trying to steal my carriage, you asked me if I knew what it was to be desperate enough to risk everything for the chance to find another life. And the truth was, Amelia, I did know. But I wouldn't admit it—not to you. Because you thought I was like the other guests at your wedding: people from privileged, decent backgrounds, who haven't had to live on the streets and wear filth and fight to survive. You didn't know who I was. Of course I knew it was just a matter of time before you found out. I was sure you suspected something the night I grabbed your wrist so roughly in my study. But every day I found some reason to keep the truth from you. Because I thought you would look at me differently once you knew. And I didn't want that. I wanted you to look at me the way you always did.”

“How did I look at you?” asked Amelia softly.

He shook his head, unsure how to put it into words. “Not like you thought I was beneath you. And not like you thought I might be dangerous—even when I was drunk and gave you reason to.”

“How, then?”

He shrugged and looked away. “Most of the time you looked at me as if you actually liked me. As if I was your friend. And sometimes…” He stopped.

“Yes?”

“You made me want to be the man I thought you were seeing,” he finished awkwardly, wishing he could explain it better than that. “You made me want to be better than what I was.”

Amelia regarded him intently. “I've always seen you for what you are, Jack. Caring, and brave, and generous. I needed your help and you gave it, just as you gave it to Charlie the night he was trapped aboard the
Liberty,
and to Alex when she needed a place to stay. You're strong, and you're not afraid to let others rely on that strength. You're honorable, and whatever you were forced to do as a child in order to survive takes nothing away from that. You're disciplined and hardworking, because you have had to fight to make the life you want. And you care about others, because you know what it is to be alone and afraid and desperate. I see you for the man you are, Jack.” Her words were measured and emphatic. “Not for what you were as a boy, although I realize that is an important part of who you are today. And not for what I think you might be. I see you exactly as you are.”

“I'm a bastard,” he confessed ruefully, desperately wishing it were otherwise. “My mother was a poor maid who fell into bed with one of her employer's guests, and later was forced to whore in order to support herself—and me.” His expression was dark with self-loathing as he continued, “And when I was a lad, I had to do things to survive—terrible things—”

“I don't care,” she interrupted fiercely, rising from the bed. “Do you hear me, Jack? You can tell me about all this if you want to, or keep it buried in your past. It doesn't matter. I won't pretend that I can understand all that you have been through, but I'll promise you one thing. Nothing will ever change the way I'm looking at you now. Nothing.”

Feeling as if his heart was being torn from his chest, he forced himself to meet her gaze.

And suddenly he understood what she was trying to tell him.

“I love you, Amelia,” he managed in a raw whisper. “If you let me, I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make you happy. And I'll love you. Always.” He clenched his fists and waited, wondering how he would bear it when she refused him.

She moved toward him in silence. “Would you do something for me?”

He nodded.

She reached out and took his hand, which was strong and warm against her own. Slowly, she raised it to her lips, kissing it tenderly before she pressed it hard against her heart. “Would you please take me home?”

Her eyes were glittering with tears.

“Yes.” Jack's voice was rough with emotion. “I will take you home, Amelia.”

He pulled her tightly against him and crushed his mouth to hers. His hands roamed possessively over her, feeling the softness of her shoulders and breasts and hips, fingers threading into the warm damp weight of her hair. He did not deserve her. He understood that. She was much too fine and elegant and rare for him to ever be worthy of her. But in that feverish, desperate moment, he no longer gave a damn. He loved her. He had not meant to fall in love with her, but he had. And she wanted him to take her home. That was how she had come to think of his dilapidated little house, with its worn furnishings and its second-rate paintings of ships and rusted old swords hanging upon the walls. He would take her there. He would take her anywhere she wanted to go. It didn't matter to him anymore.

For him, home was wherever he could be with Amelia.

“Dr. Chadwick,” called Rosalind, suddenly rapping upon the door. “May I come in?”