Last Dance in London (Rakes on the Run #1) - Sydney Jane Baily Page 0,126
shall be married,” he said, “at the earliest possible time, right here in the same country church in which I was baptized. We won’t wait three weeks for banns, though. For ten shillings, I’ll get our good clergyman to issue a common license, although I suspect it will be the only thing common about our marriage.”
“Are you willing to part with ten whole shillings for me, my lord?”
“How will I bear such a saucebox for a wife?” he returned, wishing she would match her expression to her jesting words. What was jabbing at her? “Naturally, we shall send word to your father. He is welcome to travel here. Your sister, too, I suppose, although that will delay the ceremony.”
“You seem to have it all arranged,” she said, still not sounding the least joyful.
Perhaps she had other worries. Jasper wanted to allay every last one.
“I will request an audience with the Prince Regent for us both after we return to London. I’ll tell him the accusations against you are a silly misunderstanding. He’ll fall in love with you at first sight.”
Her eyes widened with alarm.
“Don’t worry. This isn’t the Middle Ages. He can’t force one of his subjects into a liaison unless she chooses. And while Prinny is a powerful man, I am confident his appearance won’t appeal to you.”
She shot him a frosty glare. “My morals would have me refrain from jumping into the royal bed even if I found him to be Adonis himself. I — for one — will hold true to any marriage vows I make.”
“I, for two, shall do the same,” he insisted and realized he meant it.
Yet the chit laughed out loud at him.
“What?” he demanded, uncrossing his arms and standing up tall. “You don’t believe I can be a faithful husband?”
“I would hate to wager upon such an uncertain hand of cards or such an erratic horse.”
He frowned. Uncertain and erratic? There was one thing she didn’t know about him.
“I shall say this only once and hope you understand its import. I have never gone from one woman’s bed to another and back again, unless she be a Cyprian.”
Silence met his soulful confession. She didn’t look impressed as he’d intended.
“I beg your pardon?” Julia said finally.
“I am only ever with one woman until I set her free. I have never dishonored a female by letting her think we were a couple only to go to another’s bed in secret.”
“Except with a Cyprian,” she echoed.
“Naturally. They don’t count.”
“They do,” she said.
“I beg to differ, but they don’t.”
She took a deep breath, and in the gown she was wearing, her breasts rose almost until her rosy nipples crested the neckline.
“I shall say this only once and hope you, sir, understand its import,” she mimicked his words. “Cyprians, indeed, harlots or mistresses of any caliber do count, at least to me. Any other woman counts. If you were to leave our marital bed and go to a flashy mollisher or a high-born lady of the bon ton, I would consider it the same betrayal. Since I cannot imagine you can assure me of your fidelity to one woman, one wife, one bed, I cannot do else but break off our engagement.”
With that declaration, she started toward him, not to embrace him but to pass by and leave. He had to stop her. Suddenly, her believing he could do this meant more to him than anything. He needed to know he could be the upstanding, faithful man his father was after he settled down, and her faith in him and this endeavor was crucial.
“Julia, please don’t go.” He didn’t grab her arm, as that would be too easy. “Please,” he repeated when she brushed past and had her fingers on the door handle.
“I intend to honor my vows before God and my mother — and your father, too, of course. I will shed my rakish reputation by becoming a dutiful, faithful husband. “
He waited in the silence. She stared at him, and he hoped at any moment, she would fall all over him with kisses and words of praise.
“Poppycock!” she exclaimed.
With that, she opened the door and strode out.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“At Marshfield Manor, a Twelfth Night party was held with, aptly, twelve people attending. Apparently, one guest thought it was a costume party! No one from London was invited, leaving many to wonder — what the fig?”
-The Times
(This tidbit brought from Wiltshire county exclusively for The Times by a stableboy seeking better employment in our fair city!)