A Gamble on Love (10 page)

Which he had not, as they had exchanged no
private words since their tour of Pevensey Park the day of his
arrival. So it was scarcely a wonder she was sitting there with her
back ramrod straight, being shaken by every little bump in the
road. Truthfully . . . yes, he had ignored her. Avoided her. Had no
idea what to say to her.

Had he feared he would blurt out the truth?
Feared his sense of fair play would overcome his hard-headed
ambition?

Or . . . Silently, Thomas mouthed an
expletive. Was it possible those stiff little shoulders had nothing
to do with his neglect of her? Was it possible his courageous,
determined Miss Trevor was
afraid
?

Of him?

“
Aurelia?” She stretched her body,
sitting even taller and straighter. It took considerable effort to
keep from putting his hands about her waist and pulling her back
until they were sitting side by side. “Aurelia, I apologize. I
should have warned you that dragonslaying is a time-consuming
occupation. I fear the Fair Maiden frequently finds herself
waiting, all alone and uninformed. And then with the wedding hard
on the heels of triumph . . .” Thomas let his voice trail
away.

Miss Trevor—
Mrs. Lanning
, he corrected himself, not at all
certain he cared for the sound of it, even if it was far better
than Mrs. Trevor-Lanning—paid him no heed. She might as well have
been riding in the gig behind them with her maid and the luggage.
Was that not why he had banished the maid from the coach—so he
might have this time alone with his bride?

“
Aurelia,” he tried again, “there are
matters we should have discussed, and I am well and truly sorry I
did not find time to do so before the wedding.” His wife’s chin
descended, just a trifle, encouraging Thomas to continue. “Aurelia
. . . you need have no fear of me. I have given the matter some
thought, and I believe we should leave our marriage one in name
only until we are better acquainted—perhaps until the end of your
year of mourning.” His voice rose into a question at the end, but
the only sound within the coach was the steady crunch and whirr of
the wheels, the thud of the horses’ hooves.

“
You are, of course, a busy man,” his
wife declared at last in a voice as tight as her shoulder blades.
“Naturally, you will wish to return to London immediately. It was .
. . kind of you to suggest a few days at the Wells in order to put
the cap on our charade.”

“
I was not thinking of appearances,”
Thomas retorted.

She turned toward him, opening her eyes wide.
“Truly?” his wife mocked. “I had thought to employ a dragonslayer.
Instead, I find myself wed to a man who talks his enemies into
submission. A man who stoops to bribing the dragons to go away. I
suppose you will retire Mr. Tubbs to a cozy cottage—”

“
I have already done so.” Hell and
damnation, he could handle all the dragons, find the right face and
deft hand to confront every problem, but his agile mind and vast
experience seemed to desert him when it came to his
wife.

“
Aurelia,” Thomas ventured on a more
humble note, “I believe I have not offered my felicitations on
reaching your majority. It is scarcely fair, I fear, that you are
forever condemned to celebrating your birthday and your wedding
anniversary on the same day.”

“
You are assuming I will wish to
celebrate my wedding anniversary,” his bride responded
coldly.

Devil it!
He’d
done everything she asked of him. Was he now being cast off?
Dismissed like some hired outrider when the danger was
past?

Relia was not at all certain why she was so
incensed. The miserable Cit was right, of course. She had been
utterly terrified of the night to come. She knew many brides were
bedded by near strangers, but she could not—simply could
not—picture herself doing whatever husbands and wives did with a
man like Thomas Lanning. A large . . . commanding . . . impossibly
sure of himself Cit.

What a faradiddle!
The truth was . . . the truth was, although she
had
been terrified,
now
she was insulted. He did not want
her. He had gained Pevensey Park and was now free to reveal how
little interest he had in what went with it.
Horrible man!

Relia’s hand flew to the hangstrap as the
coach hit a nasty bump. Strong arms dragged her back, placing her
against the squabs in a firm, no-nonsense display of strength. “Now
stay there,” her husband growled, “or you’re like to break your
silly neck.”

A silence, seething with carefully repressed
emotions from both bride and groom, reigned during the remainder of
the distance to Tunbridge Wells.

The Swan was a gracious inn, providing the
most imposing façade among the classic colonnaded buildings
fronting the terraces and shops known as The Pantiles. Only a short
walk along the top terrace was Tunbridge Wells’s version of the
famous Pump Room in Bath. Three levels of broad flagstone terraces,
built into a hillside, were visible from the front entrance of The
Swan. Each level had its own picturesque assortment of fountains,
shops, pubs, and dwelling places for those who had come to take the
waters. At intervals, shallow steps led from one terrace down to
the next, a distance of four of five feet with no protective
railing. The flagstones simply came to an abrupt end with a sheer
drop to the terrace below.

The overall effect, however, was
charming—smaller and more intimate than Bath. And more colorful, as
fall flowers spilled from baskets hanging between the long row of
white columns on the upper terrace. If only the Wells were not
filled with so many sad memories . . .

“
You are pleased with our rooms?” Mr.
Lanning inquired, as they stood in front of The Swan, inspecting
the panorama of The Pantiles.

“
They are most acceptable,” Relia told
him, careful not to reveal the enormity of her relief when she saw
that he had meant what he said. Or seemed to. They had a spacious
suite, with a sitting room and two bedrooms, though there was no
dressing room to accommodate her maid. Tilly, poor soul, must share
a room in the servants’ quarters. Of course, it
was
supposed to be her wedding night—

“
Would you care to visit the Pump
Room?”

“
No!” Sharply, Relia drew back from the
arm her husband was offering.

“
I beg your pardon,” Mr. Lanning
muttered, “I had not thought. You were here with your mother, of
course. At The Swan?” Relia nodded. “Then I am truly sorry. I have
been gauche. We should not have come—”

Surprised, Relia could only stare up at the
genuine regret she saw reflected in her husband’s gray eyes. He
meant it. If he had thought about the actual memories this town
held for her, he would have taken her elsewhere.

“
Do you wish to leave?” he asked. “We
can go to Brighton, although I fear the fashionable set has
returned to London by now.”

Calling on the prideful bearing of
generations of noble ancestors, Relia put her hand through her
husband’s arm. “Not at all, Mr. Lanning. Tunbridge Wells is a
lovely town, and I know you are anxious to return to London. I will
not keep you. We will make a show of enjoying our brief wedding
journey, and then you may be gone.”

They had moved past three shop windows before
the customarily silver-tongued Mr. Lanning found his voice. “I
would be pleased if you could call me Thomas,” he said.

Relia peered into the shop window, as if half
boots and silk slippers were of all-consuming interest. “I daresay
I should,” she conceded, still intent on the shoes. “For the sake
of appearances.” But she did not repeat his name.

They walked on. Making a turn where the Pump
Room jutted out to block most of the terrace, they strolled back
along the outside edge of the flagstone terrace, a vantage point
from which they could better view the lovely line of colonnaded
buildings, the flowers and fountains, and the colorful parade of
people come to enjoy the delights of Tunbridge Wells. Among them
was a group of boys in nankeen breeches and short coats, obviously
scions of the gentry or they never would have been allowed to tear
along at such a pace in the midst of the strolling adults. Relia
smiled at their exuberant high spirits. Her flagging spirits were
brightened to see a group so full of cheerful, even boisterous,
energy. This was, after all, her wedding day. And surely someone
should be filled with joy.

The colonnade came to an end. “Would you care
to explore the next terrace?” Mr. Lanning inquired politely. “Or
would you prefer to examine the shops we missed on this level?”

“
I believe . . . I believe I should
like to go down,” Relia told him. For all her husband’s promises,
it seemed better to put off returning to their rooms for as long as
possible.

They started back along the terrace, heading
for the nearest steps, with Thomas walking on the outside,
gallantly shielding her from any possibility of a fall. But just as
they reached the stairs, the hoard of galloping boys, now on the
lower terrace, charged toward the steps from below. Why she thought
they would give way for her, Relia never could quite understand,
but as she reached the top step, the boys dashed up, one of them
jostling her hard enough that she lost her light grip on Thomas’s
arm. She staggered, missed her footing completely. The stone steps,
the sharp edge of the upper terrace, the rock hardness of the lower
terrace five feet below flashed across her vision in a blur of
horror. Breath rushed out of her lungs. The world swirled. She
fell.

And then there was a jerk on her arm. Around
her waist. And she was standing on firm flagstone, her nose pressed
hard to her husband’s chest. Heart pumping hard, her breath coming
in gasps, her head so dizzy she would have fallen if Thomas had not
held her up.

~ * ~

“
Vicious scamps!”

“
Imps of Satan!”

“
Tan their hides, I would!”

Comments from the crowd whirled round her,
never quite penetrating the cocoon of safety Relia found within the
arms of the stranger she had married that morning. Just as she
became aware that they were the cynosure of an ever-growing crowd,
Thomas began to move, people parting before him like chaff on the
wind. A blur of terrace, the hotel lobby . . . she was swept up the
stairs with her toes skimming the steps . . . and then she was
lowered into a well-padded chair in their sitting room and a small
glass of brandy was being pressed to her lips.

Relia swallowed, coughed, shivered . . . and
recognized how much the incident had unsettled her when she caught
herself regretting the loss of her husband’s touch. A cozy shawl
was wrapped about her shoulders. Thomas Lanning was making it very
difficult for her to dislike him, even if he wanted her only for
her acres.

She had bought him, had she not? Very well.
How fortunate he seemed intent on giving good service.

Relia took another sip of brandy, then
raised her eyes.
Dear God!
She
had seen him with many faces, but nothing like this. If she had not
known his glower was not directed at her, she would have been
terrified. She rather hoped the boys had safely hidden themselves
away, for their youthful heedlessness did not deserve to have this
particular Thomas Lanning descend on them.

“
I must apologize,” he declared
stiffly. “You should have your maid to attend. Shall I send for
her?”

“
No . . . truly, I am fine. I am . . .
ashamed to have made such a piece of work of it.”

“
It was a close-run thing.”

“
Yes . . . and I have not properly
thanked you for saving me. I am most grateful.”
Heavens!
She sounded as if she were speaking to a
chance-met acquaintance.

“
That is what men are for, are they
not?” Mr. Lanning countered just as coolly. “Protecting the weaker
sex is one of our duties.”

“
But I don’t wish to be weaker!” A
tell-tale tear surprised her, slipping out of one eye and rolling
down her cheek.

Her husband lowered himself until he was
hunkered on his heels, his sharp gray eyes on a level with his
bride’s. His grim look had turned to one of concern, with a hint of
puzzlement. “You are a brave woman, Aurelia. In scarcely more than
a year you have suffered a series of blows that would have sent
most females into strong hysterics. But you fought through your
problems and achieved your own solution. Now, however, what I
cannot understand is that you seem sorry for it.”

“
I am not sorry! I merely—” Relia
sniffed, searched for a handkerchief. Thomas handed over his. “’Tis
bridal nerves,” she pronounced at last, squaring her stubborn
Trevor chin. “I will recover. And are my nerves not allowed to be a
trifle o’erset from nearly breaking my neck?” she added on a
slightly more plaintive note.

With a shake of his head, Thomas unfolded
himself to his full height. An odd sort of female, his bride. Most
women he knew would be prostrate on their beds, clutching their
vinaigrettes, perhaps even sending for the doctor. He should not be
surprised, of course. From that very first meeting he should have
known he was getting an Amazon wrapped in a pint-sized package. Men
made marriages of convenience all the time—it was both expected and
accepted. But for a female to choose a husband in such a manner,
without the aid of any male member of her family, was almost
unheard of. And he, who prided himself on being a hard-headed man
of business, attentive to his own gains, had found her so
appealing—in spite of her arrogance—that she had touched some
hidden streak of gallantry, nearly causing him to refrain from
joining his empire to hers.