Married to the Rogue (Season of Scandal #3) - Mary Lancaster Page 0,13
she felt excitement or dread, or if she was glad or sorry not to be let off the hook. Forcing herself to read, she took it in, then folded the note and set it aside.
“Mr. Halland has arranged a license and spoken to the vicar. We are to be married at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“How am I supposed to organize a wedding breakfast by then?” her mother wailed.
“We could just send a note to the inn,” Deborah suggested. “And I doubt it will be a large party, just us and Mr. Halland. And his groomsman, I suppose.”
Although she maintained her calm during dinner, inside, she was too agitated to face the evening in the company of her family. Pleading the desirability of an early night before her wedding, she escaped to her own chamber.
By the light of the solitary candle, she gazed out of the rain-spattered window. Her marriage to a total stranger was arranged for tomorrow morning. By midday, she would be completely in his power. The feeling that she had made a terrible, irreparable mistake rose quickly, overwhelming her until she could stand it no longer.
With a gasp, she swung away from the window, seized her pillows, and pushed them under the covers so that they might resemble her sleeping person should her sisters give it a cursory glance. It was the best she could do. In any case, surely she would be home by midnight.
She grabbed her coat and candle, then crept downstairs.
*
The weather was not kind, and she arrived at Gosmere Hall two hours later, soaked to the skin. But at least she had finally made her goal. She raised the knocker on the front door and rapped. Only then did she glance upward at the big, forbidding house. No wonder Stephen thought it was haunted. A drop of rain splashed into her eye just as the front door opened.
Blinking rapidly, she saw an elderly footman gazing at her in consternation. She must look like a drowned rat and very little like the lady who would—probably—be his mistress by tomorrow.
“Mr. Halland, if you please,” she said with as much confidence as she could muster. Then, as the man looked as if he was about to send her about her business, or at least to the back door, she added, “He will want to see me.”
Apparently, this meant something to the servant who grudgingly opened the door wider to let her enter. He pointed at the mat inside the door, and she obediently wiped her soaked, muddy boots and extinguished the lantern before setting it down.
“Follow me,” he said sternly.
Deborah looked neither left nor right. She did not care about the house that was to be her home. She only wanted to see the man who was to be her husband. Wet, cold, and exhausted, she stumbled up a wide staircase and squelched after the servant to a closed door, which he knocked perfunctorily before opening.
Deborah saw Christopher at once. He sprawled in his shirt sleeves at one end of a large dining table, his long fingers curled around a brandy glass while he stared broodingly into it, as if it held the answers to all life’s questions.
“This young person, sir,” the servant announced. “She believes you are expecting her.”
Mr. Halland’s head snapped up. He frowned in irritation, presumably at the disturbance. And then, seeing her, his lips parted in shock, and he jumped to his feet.
“Good God! Ma’am, you are soaked, come here by the fire. Eric, go away, and not a word, do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir,” said the footman and departed, closing the door behind him.
By then, Christopher had reached her and taken her hand, drawing her toward the fire. She offered no resistance, though she ignored the chair he set for her and instead sank to her knees before the hearth.
His boots moved away. She heard the slosh of liquid, and his boots reappeared. He crouched down, thrusting a glass into her hand. But she was far too agitated to drink anything. She set it down on the hearth.
“What is it?” he asked urgently. “What has happened?”
“Nothing,” she managed. “I just had to see you. I had to be sure.”
A frown pulled at his brow. “About marrying me?”
She nodded.
A rueful smile flickered on his lips. “I’m afraid you find me at a disadvantage. I am hardly dressed to receive visitors.”
Laughter caught in her throat. “You are at a disadvantage?” she countered, indicating her soaked state.