Slightly Married Page 6

  His eyes were looking very intently into her own, holding her gaze so that she found it impossible to look away. His was altogether an overpowering presence. She wished he would simply go away. But he was not going to release her until she had bared her soul to him.

  “To them. To everyone,” she said with a sigh. “Everyone at Ringwood Manor—I believe without exception—will be forced to leave here when Cecil moves in. It is not just me.”

  “Your aunt has no private means?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

  She shook her head. “Neither does Thelma, an unmarried gentlewoman who was turned out of her employment because she was bearing her married employer a bastard child after he had forced his attentions on her. Nor does her child. Or the other two children living here, orphans I have taken into my own personal care. Or Agnes Fuller, my housekeeper, an ex-convict. Or Charlie Handrich, who does odd jobs around here with great eagerness but whom no one else wants because they consider him a half-wit. Or Edith, my maid, or Nanny Johnson. None of them has independent means. And none of them has any great hope of finding employment elsewhere.” She heard, appalled, the bitterness in her voice as she poured out the details, which were none of his business. “No hope at all, in fact.”

  “You have a bleeding heart,” he said after a few moments of silence. She was not sure if it was an accusation or a simple statement of fact. “You have filled your home and neighborhood with lame ducks and now feel responsible for them.”

  “They are not lame ducks.” She frowned up at him, her anger returning. “They are people to whom life has been cruel. They are precious persons of no less value in the sacred scheme of things than you or I. And there is Muffin too, my dog, who was brutally abused by his former owner. Lives of infinite value, all of them. What am I supposed to do when I see suffering and have it in my power to alleviate it? Turn my back?”

  He stared expressionlessly at her. “A rhetorical question, no doubt,” he murmured.

  “But now,” she said, “it is no longer in my power to help them. Now that I have given them a home and hope and dignity and a life to be lived, they are to be turned out again. No one will give any of the children a home. They will end up in an orphanage—if they are so fortunate. And no one will employ any of the adults, not even my neighbors, though I will go to each of them in turn tomorrow and beg them to do just that. These precious friends of mine will become vagrants and beggars and perhaps worse, and society will declare that it expected that all along. It will pat itself on the back for being so much more perceptive than I.”

  He stared at her, still without expression. He was as granite-hearted as he looked, she suspected. Both his social rank and his military experience would have contributed to that. But what did it matter? He owed her nothing, not even sympathy, despite what he believed he owed Percy.

  “I do beg your pardon,” she said. “This is all sentimental drivel to you, no doubt. You will tell me, as others have before you, that I am not my brother's keeper—or my sister's either. Even they say it themselves. But I am, you see. My father was one of the poor until marrying my mother made him into a fabulously wealthy man. He was a coal miner and married the owner's daughter. Did you know that, Colonel? I am not even close to being a lady by birth, you see, though I have been raised and educated as one. How can I not give back some of what I have done nothing to earn or deserve?”

  “A thoroughly bourgeois attitude,” he said, “though perhaps I do the bourgeoisie an injustice. Most of them spend their lives dissociating themselves from their past and cleaving to those higher on the social scale.”

  Which was exactly what Papa had done. Eve stared stonily at the colonel, and he stared back at her for so long that she grew uncomfortable.

  “Go home to your family, Colonel,” she said. “It is beyond your power to protect me, far less all those for whom I feel responsible. I will manage. I will survive. We all will.”

  He turned at last to stare into the unlit coals in the fireplace. He spoke brusquely. “There is a way of saving everything you hold dear,” he said.

  “No.” She stared, frowning, at his back. “If there were, I would have thought of it, Colonel. I have considered everything, believe me.”

  “You have missed one possibility,” he said, his voice cold and harsh.

  “What?”

  But he did not immediately proceed to tell her what it was. His clasped hands, she noticed, were tapping rhythmically against his back.

  “You are going to have to marry me,” he said.

  “What?”

  “If you are married before the anniversary of your father's death,” he said, “you will be able to keep your home and your fortune and the lame ducks too.”

  “Married?” She stared incredulously at his rigidly straight back. “Even if it were not the most preposterous idea I have ever heard, there are only four days left. Before the vicar had even finished calling the banns, Cecil would have his portico half built.”

  “There will be just time if we marry by special license,” he said. “We will leave early tomorrow morning for London, marry the next day, and return the day after. You will be back here in time to thumb your nose at your cousin when he arrives to take possession. That at least will afford me some satisfaction.”

  He was serious, she realized. He was serious. And he spoke with all the confident assurance of a superior officer giving orders to his subordinates or his men. He was not asking her, he was telling her.

  “But I have no wish to follow the drum,” she said.

  He looked at her over his shoulder, his expression grim. “I am thankful to hear it,” he said. “You will not, of course, be doing so.”

  “You can have no wish to live here.” The very idea was ludicrous.

  “None whatsoever,” he agreed curtly, turning to face her fully. “You are being obtuse, Miss Morris. It will be entirely a marriage of convenience. It would seem that you have no wish to marry. You are no young girl, and you must have had numerous chances to attach the affections of a man of your own choosing if you had so desired. Obviously you have not done so. Neither do I wish to marry. I have a long-term career in the cavalry. It is a life hardly conducive to marriage and family. Neither of us will be greatly inconvenienced, then, by a marriage to each other. I will return to my regiment after spending the rest of my leave at Lindsey Hall. You will remain at Ringwood. We need never see each other again after I have escorted you home from London in three days' time.”

  “You are the son of a duke,” she said.

  “And you are a coal miner's daughter.” He looked haughtily at her. “I do not believe the difference in our stations precludes our marrying, ma'am.”

  “Your brother, the Duke of Bewcastle, would be appalled,” she told him.

  “He need never know,” he said without denying it. “Besides, I am thirty years old and have long been my own man, Miss Morris. The differences between us need never embarrass either of us. We will not be remaining together after our nuptials.”

  Why was she even arguing the point with him? There was still John, despite his failure to return to her. At their last meeting before he went to Russia, they had pledged themselves to each other. . . .

  “I have never known anyone who married by special license,” she said.

  “Have you not?”

  Was it really so easy?

  What if John was on his way home? But could she afford at this precise moment to continue deluding herself? He was not coming. And even if he were, how could he help now? All was lost. Unless . . .

  “Well?” Colonel Bedwyn sounded impatient.

  She licked dry lips with a dry tongue. “There must be a million arguments,” she said. “I cannot think. I need to think. I need time.”

  “Time,” he said, “is something you do not have, Miss Morris. And sometimes it is best not to think but simply to do. Go upstairs and give your maid orders to pack a bag for you. We will leave early in the morning. Your aunt should accompany you for
propriety's sake if she is able. Do you have a traveling carriage here? And horses?”

  She nodded. There was the old carriage that had been such a symbol of wealth and status to her father.

  “I will call in at the stables before I return to Heybridge, then,” he said, “and give directions about the morning. I will not keep you any longer. Doubtless there will be much for you to do if you are to be away for three days.”

  He bowed with stiff formality and had stridden from the room before she could raise a hand to stop him. She heard him say something, presumably to Agnes, and then the front door opened and closed.

  He was gone. She had not stopped him when she had the chance.

  She had not said yes to his insane suggestion, had she?

  But she had not said no either.

  She should run after him and do it now—he had said he was going to the stables. She should tell him the full truth. But what was the truth? The stark truth was that Percy had died too soon and John had proved faithless. She had four days in which to take charge of a desperate situation—or not to.

  She could not marry Colonel Bedwyn. Marry Colonel Bedwyn? She laughed suddenly, a convulsive, mirthless sound, then clapped both hands over her mouth lest Agnes hear her and conclude that she had run mad. She fought a silent battle with panic and hysteria.

  She needed to think. She needed time. But she could not seem to do the former, and she did not have any of the latter, as he had so bluntly pointed out.

  She got to her feet and began to pace back and forth across the room.

  WHEN AIDAN RODE UP THE DRIVEWAY TO Ringwood Manor early the following morning, William Andrews a discreet distance behind him, he could see that an ancient and hideously ornate traveling carriage was drawn up to the front doors. She had not countermanded his orders after he had left, then. She was going to go through with this.

  If there was still any doubt left, it fled after he had ridden onto the terrace and could see around the carriage to the front doors. They stood open. His approach must have been noted. Miss Morris, dressed for travel, in gray as usual, was on her way down the steps, drawing on a pair of black gloves as she came. The scruffy dog bobbed along at her heels. She looked as pale as a ghost. Her aunt, assisted by a thin young maid, came down behind her.

  In the doorway stood the housekeeper, her hands planted on her ample hips as if she were itching to quarrel with someone, and the young governess who had an illegitimate child.

  They all looked as if they were about to attend another funeral today. Well, he thought grimly as he dismounted, he felt a little that way himself. A plump young lad loped up to hold his horse's head. Aidan guessed from his genial, rather vacant expression that he must be the servant whose mind did not move too swiftly.

  “You are ready?” Aidan asked unnecessarily after nodding a curt good morning to the ladies. He had not admitted to himself until this moment how much he had hoped she would change her mind. Not that there would have been any changing of mind to do. She had given him no definite answer last evening.

  “Yes.” All she spoke was the single word.

  “Allow me, ma'am.” He held out a hand to help Mrs. Pritchard into the carriage.

  “Don't you do it, my lamb,” the housekeeper called out, fixing Aidan with the evil eye just as if he were about to abduct her mistress to have his wicked way with her. “Just don't do it. Not for us. We'll manage, the whole lot of us. You don't owe us nothing.”

  “Agnes,” Mrs. Pritchard said after she had seated herself with a sigh, “you will only confuse Eve by keeping on saying that. Having said which, Eve, my love, I must say that now is the time to thank the colonel for his kind offer and send him on his way if you aren't quite, quite sure this is what you want for yourself.”

  Aidan tapped his riding crop impatiently against his boot. One thing from which he cringed more than anything else was emotional drama, especially that of the female variety. The governess was looking stricken. The maid was sniffling.

  “But of course it is what I want,” Miss Morris said to them all, so falsely cheerful that she would have been booed off any stage. “Aunt Mari and I will be back the day after tomorrow and all will go on as before. Nothing will be any different except that Cecil will not be able to come here ever again to threaten our peace. Remember—not a word to anyone until we return. Muffin, stay.” Aidan watched with disapproval as she bent to pat the dog's head instead of insisting upon instant obedience.

  She climbed into the carriage then, placing her hand in Aidan's outstretched one but not looking into his face. Her own looked as if it had been carved of marble. Finally the maid scurried in after her, pretending not to notice Aidan's hand. If he said boo to her, he suspected, she would collapse in an insensible heap. He shut the door firmly, nodded to the coachman, mounted his horse again, tossed a coin to the lad, and followed the carriage down the driveway, over the bridge, and through the village, Andrews coming along behind.

  London was a full day's journey away for such a monstrosity of a carriage, but fortunately the weather was fine and the road dry, and they made good time despite the fact that Aidan felt obliged to stop more frequently than the turnpikes necessitated. The carriage horses had to be changed at regular intervals, and the ladies had to stretch their legs and eat. Not that Miss Morris did much of the latter, he noticed, but Mrs. Pritchard seemed glad of the refreshments. She made an effort to be amiable toward Aidan, conversing with him cheerfully and rather loudly in her barely intelligible Welsh accent and preventing the awkward silences that would otherwise have descended upon them. He was very glad to be making the journey on horseback, not riding in the carriage.

  Miss Morris looked like marble every time he set eyes on her, but he steeled himself against feeling sorry for her. What choice had he had but to talk her into doing what she was doing? Besides, who was there to feel sorry for him? His heart was not exactly dancing a jig over the prospect of tomorrow's business. Far from it. He was not a sentimental man. It would not have occurred to him to describe himself as a brokenhearted man today, but he felt a definite heavy sense of loss nonetheless. He had had other dreams than this.

  By early evening they were entering the outskirts of town. Aidan and Andrews had been in the saddle all day, but that was nothing new to either of them. Aidan felt no great physical fatigue. He was, however, in the bleakest of moods. His life had been bought two years ago at a high cost indeed. Marriage to a stranger was to be the price of honor and an unpaid debt. A marriage of convenience—but a life sentence nevertheless, and to a woman who would indeed horrify Bewcastle if he ever heard about her. A coal miner's daughter, no less. Besides, he had not told the truth last evening. It was certainly true that until recently he had firmly believed a military career and marriage to be mutually exclusive ways of life. But what if, he had been asking himself for the past few months, there were a woman who had grown up knowing very little else but a military way of life herself? The daughter of a general who had always liked to have his family with him wherever he went, for example. It was not a hypothetical question. Aidan had met such a woman.

  He was not betrothed to her. Not a word had passed his lips that could be construed as a commitment that bound him in honor to her. Not a word had passed her lips. But there had been a definite, unspoken understanding that soon words would be spoken on both sides. There had been an unspoken understanding that General Knapp would give his blessing when asked for it. Aidan had been feeling happy at the prospect of marrying after all and of being able to expect a tolerable life with the bride of his choice.

  It was simply not to be. There was no point in brooding over what could not be helped. The words would never be spoken—not by any of them. No one's honor would be compromised. Any bruises to any hearts would be silently denied.

  Aidan gave the coachman directions and rode ahead of the carriage to the Pulteney Hotel in Piccadilly, the best London had to offer. He reserved two rooms and a private sitting room for two nights and turned to
take his leave of the ladies. It was only when he did so that he noticed how very out of place and uncomfortable they looked in such sumptuous surroundings. He should, he realized, have taken them to a more modest hotel, but it was too late now to change the arrangements.

  “Someone will escort you up to your rooms,” he assured them. “There is a private sitting room where you may dine and spend the evening. I will return in the morning, as soon as I have a license and have made the necessary arrangements. You will be ready?”

  “Where are you going to stay?” Miss Morris asked. It seemed to him from the fixed way she looked at him that she was afraid to glance about her at all the splendor of the Pulteney's lobby.

  “At the Clarendon, if there is a room to be had there,” he said. “It would not be proper for me to stay here on the eve of our wedding.”

  She nodded. “We will be ready,” she said.

  Where, Aidan wondered as he strode from the hotel, was the best place in which to get thoroughly foxed? The possibilities were clearly legion. He was in London, after all.

  But did he want to face tomorrow with a thick head?

  Did he want to face tomorrow at all?

  He just simply had no choice, had he?

  Promise me you will protect her. Promise me! No matter what!

  His solemn oath had rung a death knell over his dreams. He was to wed a stranger in a marriage of convenience instead of Miss Knapp in a marriage of mutual companionship and comfort.

  CHAPTER VI

  WHAT DO YOU THINK, MY LOVE?” THERE WAS a note of mingled mischief and triumph in Aunt Mari's voice when the door of her room at the Pulteney Hotel finally opened and she came into the private sitting room she shared with her niece, aided by her cane. She had been in there since breakfast, supposedly resting after the exertions of yesterday's long journey before getting ready for the wedding.