Married to the Rogue (Season of Scandal #3) - Mary Lancaster Page 0,14
the servants think I’m either mad or extravagant at the height of summer. Actually, the room’s dashed gloomy without a fire. Do you want to see the house?”
She shook her head, searching his face instead.
He bore it in silence for a little. “You are having second thoughts.”
She shivered. “I was glad to receive your note. Truly. Only then…it was real. And the reality is, we are strangers.”
“And you place yourself in my power tomorrow.”
“Exactly,” she said, relieved by his quick understanding. “We have an agreement, and I trusted you yesterday, only now I can’t remember why.”
“You have no reason to trust me,” he acknowledged.
“Nor, you, me,” she said, “And coming here like this… can’t have endeared me to you.”
His smile was unexpectedly warm. “On the contrary.”
Her eyes fell, not in fear or even embarrassment but because she was suddenly overwhelmed by the intimacy of the moment, kneeling before a fire with him crouched close beside her, supremely casual in only his shirt and pantaloons. A little thrill of awareness passed through her, urging her into a slightly desperate speech.
“You must think I am insane. Already ruined through no fault of my own, now I walk voluntarily into another impropriety. I can only imagine what your servant thinks…”
“He can think what he likes, but if he speaks it, he will be out on his ear, and he knows it. All will be well tomorrow after we are married. If you still wish to be married.”
She gazed into the fire, trying to slow her breathing, and again he took her hand. Her gaze flew up to his.
“I hold you to nothing, Deborah,” he said quietly. “I understand your doubts. And God knows we are both taking a risk. Yours is undoubtedly greater.”
Her lips twisted. “Is it? You see me now as I am. I don’t always do as…as society expects. I don’t always realize it’s wrong until I’ve done it. I’m not sure you want that in a wife.”
His eyes flickered from her face and down her sodden person and then came to rest on their joined hands. A strange heat sparked somewhere in her stomach, warming her from the inside. She made the faintest jerk to be free of his light clasp of her hand, and then let it lie still. His touch did not frighten her. He did not frighten her.
He looked up, catching her searching gaze. “I want you to trust me. As for the rest, I like eccentric people. And I’m afraid you will need to, too, if you marry me.”
His eyes were humorous, inviting her to share the deprecating joke. A sense of ease, almost of wonder, crept over her.
He rose to his feet. “I’m going to order the carriage and take you home. Sleep. If you come to church tomorrow, I shall be glad. If you don’t, I’d like us still to be friends.”
Ten minutes later, she sat beside him in friendly darkness as his carriage bowled down the drive from Gosmere Hall.
“I’m sorry,” she offered. “I didn’t mean to drag you out.”
“I’m glad you came to me. And don’t worry. Neither Eric nor Danny on the coach will blab about this. You can still cry off with impunity.”
“I won’t,” she said.
In truth, she thought it far more likely after tonight that he would.
Chapter Four
The absence of a groomsman only struck Christopher when he rose on the morning of his wedding day. He supposed he could drag Hunter, the Gosmere Hall butler, into it, but he suspected Deborah’s family might find that odd or even insulting. However, there had been no time to summon any of his particular friends from London, and the only family member he’d cared much for—Cousin Rupert—had fled the country after killing someone in a duel.
It would have to be Edmund Letchworth. Since the morning was still early, he donned riding clothes and rode over to Coggleton House.
Sir Edmund was discovered at breakfast with his mother and sister.
Christopher bowed politely to the ladies.
“Join us,” Lady Letchworth invited regally. “And tell us what we can do for you so early in the morning?”
“I can’t stop, thank you, ma’am. I’ve come for Sir Edmund.”
“What?” Edmund asked, startled.
“I need you. But you have to hurry. Take the carriage to the village, and I’ll meet you at the church at about a quarter before eleven.”
“The church? Not like you, old fellow,” Letchworth remarked. “And why do I have to take the carriage?”
“So, you don’t smell of horse at my wedding. Bustle about!”