The Problem with Seduction - By Emma Locke Page 0,109
think they could be happy together. If only he would kiss her and make this real.
She loved him. If he thought he loved her, whether it was out of a sense of duty to Oliver or fear for his own skin, she should be pleased.
She turned slightly and sat on the couch, craning her neck to look up at him. “When?” If it wasn’t the storybook proposal she’d always wanted, at least it was built on friendship, a mutually satisfactory sexual relationship, and common goals. Many women had far less to look forward to in their marriages. She should be pleased.
He clasped his hands together and began to pace. “The trial is in two weeks. Any time before then, though it will take a few days for me to procure a special license. The ceremony will obviously be limited, but if you’d like to invite certain witnesses, I see no reason to keep it exclusively to family.” He smirked. “I’d love to see your father’s face when we take each other as man and wife.”
She couldn’t even see the humor in such a statement. Con slid quickly onto the couch next to her. “I’m sorry, love. I shouldn’t have teased. But wouldn’t he turn red? If he wasn’t already trying to lock me up, I’d say he’d try to ruin me for it.”
Her father did seem to have an unusually strong objection to Constantine. She supposed it was very male of Con to take perverse pleasure in provoking her father’s ire in return. “He’ll hear of it at the trial, and then you’ll see his reaction. But I would like to invite Lord and Lady Trestin.”
The conversation turned to making plans, and if it wasn’t entirely romantic, if a pall hung over them with the reminder that it might not be enough to bring Oliver back, their tentative plans to join their lives together gave Elizabeth a modicum of hope. For while she couldn’t see living without her son, Con’s proposal was the small miracle she must cling to. A glimmer of hope that Mrs. Dalton was right, and that Con and Lord Bart really could restore her only child back to her.
She must also hope they could keep Con out of the gaol.
Chapter Twenty-One
THE FOLLOWING DAY, Con still couldn’t credit his piss-poor luck. No, it wasn’t luck, if he were completely honest with himself. It was his own terrible judgment that had brought him to this point.
He took up a thin fold of notes and his black beaver hat from his dressing table and left the room. Inside the small wad of notes now securely contained in his coat were the five pounds that would procure the special license required to marry Elizabeth before the trial. God help him if that wasn’t the one good decision he’d made this week.
It was early yet, not quite noon, and a crisp, early fall breeze brought fresh air into the otherwise stagnant city. He drew a heady lungful and tried to eradicate the stench that seemed to cling to him. Mold, human waste, and fear. Sweat so putrid, it could make a man vomit just to smell himself.
Suddenly the wind changed. A warm updraft carried the putrid fetor of the hulks bobbing on the Thames right to him. Or was he imagining it? He hacked, trying to get the stench out of his lungs, and the spasm caused him to choke. He stopped walking and doubled over, bracing his hands on his knees while his body wracked with the need to expel the violent odor before it became a part of him.
Oh, God, he was terrified.
He kept his head down as two gentlemen passed. When he was alone again, he straightened and doffed his hat to wipe his hand across his brow. He didn’t want to go back to gaol. Bart had been no help with providing possible punishments. The Act was still too new; moreover, he wasn’t a common criminal, but the son and brother of a marquis. His fate would be up to the court, and a jury of his peers.
But oh, God. If he had to spend another night there… Gaol had been worse than he’d recalled. Newgate made King’s Bench look like Carlton House.
No. He wouldn’t go back. And for God’s sake, he must get hold of himself before he was no use to anyone. That was what he must concentrate on. Wedding the woman he loved.
He set off toward the church. Stretching his legs with long, sure