A Hasty Betrothal (21 page)

All for nothing, even though Grandmother had finagled for them to be together out here. The wherefore was beyond Elizabeth. To prove something? To give her mettle? A backbone? She dropped her hand and turned to stare at the house. One only needed a strong will for a pleasurable evening of novel reading.

For that is all she wanted to do tonight. Curl up in a chair and find another world in which the heroine won the hero, in which he felt for her as she did for him. A world in which the story ended as it should, with the villain destroyed and the hero triumphant.

Ironically. Miles had become her hero when Luke the stable hand had fallen off his proverbial charger. She still remembered his laughter when she confessed her love to him. A dreamy-eyed fifteen year old girl who had been too naive to realize that he was simply being kind to her because she was his employer's granddaughter.

How very relieved she'd been to find out he'd been dismissed.

Until she'd discovered that Miles was behind Luke's dismissal. It had been humiliating to discover that Miles knew what had happened. When he'd seen her weeping in the stables, she refused to explain and infernal man that he was, he had gone snooping.

The worst was that a mere servant had been punished for her unexpected affection.

It had not been Luke's fault that she fancied herself in love with him. Perhaps he could have been kinder, yes, but in the end, it had all been an extremely painful misunderstanding.

That was the year she'd lost all patience with Miles. He became an irritant she vowed to avoid. Yet his defense of her had also inspired a confusing devotion.

She felt no pain now over the situation, only an understanding that Luke had been toying with the emotions of a naive young girl for his own reasons, reasons she would never understand.

She shook out the folds of her dress, patted her hair to make sure all was straight. The cool evening left the faintest touch of chill on her arms. Perhaps she should remark upon the cold so that Miles would offer his jacket.

If she put him in the role of protector again, maybe he would fall in love with her...

An irritated breath escaped her pursed lips. It would not be true love, though. She was silly to think otherwise. All of her attempts at dinner to attract him had been complete failures.

She had debated using her fan... Her fingers found the thing of their own accord. She snapped it up, admiring the delicate colors and lace. She waved it one way, and then the other. Supposedly a secret code existed for the use of fans, though she'd never studied such foolishness as she had no need to use the information.

“Are you planning to slap someone with that?”

Startled, she dropped the fan to the cobblestone path. Miles stood in front of her, his casual smile coaxing good-natured creases to the corners of his eyes. They sparkled at her.

“Only those who so rudely sneak up on a woman,” she retorted, fluster tarting her words.

“Perhaps the woman should stop daydreaming all the time.” He bent and picked up the fan. “This is yours, my lady. Pray do not swat me with it.”

“Do not earn a swat, and you shall be safe.”

“I brought a basket for the roses, and shears.” He held out the shears and she took them, letting her fingers graze his.

Perhaps she wasn't quite done with flirting, even if he had snuck up on her in a most annoying fashion. “Thank you, Miles, and will you be a dear and hold the basket for me? It shall make the process ever so much easier.”

His forehead crinkled, and she hid her wince. That had been a laying it on a bit thick, she supposed, but he truly was ever so handsome and soon to be her husband.

A husband in name only, she reminded herself firmly. They walked in silence for several moments, pausing when she found suitable roses to snip. Grandmother liked the deep red ones best.

“You are quite adept at this, my lady.”

“I took the job over when I was eleven. Grandmother feels I have an eye for artistic arrangements.”

“When we are finished here, perhaps I can speak to you about a serious matter.”

She stopped, the cutters hovering near the stem of a particularly long rose. Its aromatic bouquet curled around her senses. “You may always speak to me of serious matters, Miles. I am a dreary daydreamer, remember?”

With great concentration, she snipped the rose. As it fell into her other hand, a thorn scratched her palm. Biting back a whimper, she carefully placed it into the basket Miles held out.

“Your hand.” He shifted the basket and took her hand within his. A dreadful buzzing spread through her mind and her heart flittered as he studied her palm with concern.

“It is only a tiny prick. I shall be fine.” But she did not remove her hand from his. After all, flirtation required a certain degree of physicality. Or so she'd read. A rather lovely warmth seeped into her skin.

Surely he must feel more for her than mere friendship and duty. Surely...

“Elizabeth,” he said, his voice sounding hoarse to her ears, “considering my recent circumstances, I wish to release you from your contract of marrying me.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

I
t was as though her heartbeats slowly came to a painful stop, each thump a terrible death knell to what she'd been hoping.

“Release me?” she repeated. A stray drop of rain plopped against her nose.

Miles took her by the arm and led her up the path. “We have enough roses. Yes, release you. There might be a slight stir amongst the ton but most likely no one shall bat an eye. My reduced circumstances allow you the freedom to break our contract with very little repercussion to your family. It is true that you might need to sit out in the country for a while, but that is your goal at any rate, is it not?”

“I...” She could hardly speak. She pulled her arm free. This was the last topic she had expected to encounter. “In truth, I have not given the situation much thought. I suppose, were it to be bandied about that you could not meet the settlement you had promised in our betrothal agreement, that we could most assuredly dissolve the contract. But Miles, that would not bode well for your status.”

Another raindrop rolled down her nose. She brushed it away, hurrying after Miles, whose broad back looked oddly stiff. He had not even turned to respond to her comment. She followed him into the house, growing more irritated by the moment. She instructed a maid to put the roses in a vase until she could get to them. They shed their coats, leaving them with another servant, and then walked to the library.

Or rather, he walked.

She marched behind him, her lack of stature keeping her a stride's length behind him despite her attempts to keep up. Thoughts rattled around her head and a steady dose of temper thrummed through her. But she kept her silence until they entered the library.

She wanted to give him a good tongue-lashing, though she did not know which subject she should start with.

His ridiculous offer to end their betrothal or the way he'd manhandled her in the rain. For all he knew, she liked standing in a spring rain shower.

A shiver trembled through her and belatedly she realized how wet her skirts were.

“You should change,” Miles said in a very dark way. Indeed, he almost looked to be glowering at her. As though his pronouncement were her fault.

Oh, stuff and nonsense. Who knew why he was really upset? She could not even begin to fathom.

She shook her skirts, watching as droplets splattered against Grandmother's rug. The shelves of books remained safely out of reach. She sniffed appreciatively. No matter what else happened, the library always remained the same. The smell of leather-bound books intoxicated far more than some stuffy ball or soiree.

Perhaps Miles had things correct. Perhaps she should retire to the country permanently.

“I suppose that heavy brow of yours means you will not be refreshing yourself before our conversation?” Miles leaned against the desk, crossing one boot-clad foot over another. He looked rather dashing despite the long face.

“I declare, Miles Hawthorne, if you ever refer to my brow as heavy again, I shall throw a book at you.”

Surprise flitted across his features, followed by what looked to be an unwilling upward tilt to the lips. “My lady, I should never want to cause you to harm your precious books.”

“Good.” She walked toward him, feeling a steel in her spine that could only be inherited from the duchess herself. “I have given the hasty words you uttered in the garden deep thought.”

“Surely not that deep, as it has only been ten minutes at the most since I uttered them.”

“I assure you that my thoughts are always deep and please do not impose a time limit on them. Now then...” She stopped in front of him, a minx-like urge pushing her to run a forefinger down his right arm. Yes, there was a sleeve between them, but the action seemed appropriately flirtatious. She smiled sweetly up at him. “I refuse your offer. You shall marry me and stand by your word.”

“And if I can't meet the settlement?”

“Of course you can. Such nonsense from a gentleman.”

A fine blush started up his cheeks, which caused her a moment's pause. Was her flirtation working? It must be, for his throat moved up and down in a convulsive way, as though he could not quite swallow, and his gaze pinned hers so that, for a moment, she thought perhaps she would not be able to swallow either.

“You are consigning yourself to a marriage of lesser means,” he said roughly. The green in his eyes appeared deeper, meaning his emotions had been stirred.

She shrugged. “As long as you can afford to buy me books, I shall be quite happy.”

“I believe you mean that.”

“Miles...” She placed her hand on his arm again, her previous touch not enough, for now that she had tasted boldness, she realized how very sweet it was. And affection should be shown. She understood that now, as she never had before. “You are a very old and dear friend. I was wrong to have been so resistant to your offer when you first asked, for you have proven yourself to be a Godly man, given to kindness and generosity. I am honored to be your wife, and I will not accept your breach of our contract. End of story.”

“End of story?” But a smile tipped his lips. His hands cupped her face and he gazed deeply into her eyes. “Are you sure? For I cannot promise—”

“I know,” she breathed, hardly able to think for the feel of his palms against her skin. He could not promise love. So how was it that she felt loved?

And she loved him indeed.

Every ounce of her being fairly burst with the feeling. “All shall be well. I am an heiress, remember, and our hasty betrothal shall in no way endanger our marriage. We have known each other since childhood, and now we shall know each other into old age.”

“I cannot imagine your lovely skin lined with wrinkles, but I assure you that when they appear, you will be even more lovely to me.” The words, delivered on a husky note, tore any breath she had left from her body.

Would he kiss her now? Their faces were so close, his pupils enlarged within irises of stormy green. Her fingers tightened on his sleeve.

A sharp rapping interrupted. He ripped his gaze away, dropping his hands quickly. She spun around. Grandmother stood in the doorway, a cane poised in her hands against the door frame where she'd evidently felt the need to announce her presence.

“Mr. Hawthorne, I presume you will be obtaining a special license promptly?”

* * *

A special license, indeed.

The procurement of such took several days, actually, which Elizabeth's mother and grandmother used to plan the wedding. It would be a small affair consisting only of her parents, Grandmother, John and Miles's brother. Her cousin Jane, with whom she exchanged letters regarding novels they were reading, had wanted to attend but weak lungs kept her abed. No matter. Elizabeth planned to write every detail down to share with her cousin later.

Married.

She could not believe it. Sooner than expected due to circumstances. The more quickly she received her inheritance, the sooner it could be used.

Though she did not expect true love from Miles, what she had felt from him several times caused her mind to race and her breath to constrict. She simply could not have imagined his response to her. Deep within, she felt certain that he must love her, too.

And so she met with the cook and the maids and allowed her mother to decorate how she wished. Her wedding dress was to be a light green silk with cascading rose-colored ribbons and French lace at the hems.

“London is abuzz, my lady,” Jenna told her while dressing her hair.

“About?”

“Why, what they believe to be your love match.” She pulled at Elizabeth's hair, gently tilting her head.

Elizabeth winced. “I don't need a fancy hairstyle, Jenna. Just something simple. What do you mean by ‘what they believe'?”

“It's been bandied about how you and Mr. Hawthorne fell madly in love, and that is why you are marrying so very quickly.”

“Has anyone said a word about his factory burning down?”

“There is talk, but as you were betrothed beforehand, I don't believe anyone thinks it pertinent.”

At least there was that, she thought ruefully. “How is Powell? Has there been any talk of a more permanent relationship between the two of you?”

Jenna's fingers stilled in her hands. “Well... I meant to speak with you about it. As we will be living in the same house after you are married, Nic— Powell, that is, and I, well...we...also want to marry.”

Elizabeth smiled broadly but made sure she did not move her head. “You should marry, Jenna, just as soon as you can. It is ever so lovely to be in love, is it not?”

“Yes, my lady, it is.” And they both sighed.

The afternoon of the wedding arrived. Elizabeth had not seen Miles since that day in the library, but she hoped she would get a kiss from him like he had given her in Vauxhall. That daydream uppermost, she scarcely paid attention, but floated through whatever her mother instructed her to do.

The ceremony was brief. Her mother had chosen the front lawn of Windermar in which to hold the tiny service. The weather cooperated. A sunny sky greeted them all, and a lone violinist welcomed Elizabeth as she stepped from the house. Sunlight bloomed against her skin, and she squinted.

There was Miles, standing several feet away, dressed in a dapper suit that included coattails. It suddenly struck Elizabeth that she should have insisted on an evening wedding. Her skin stung from the strong light pouring against it, and suddenly she was aware of how noticeable her birthmark must be.

She had lightly powdered her face, but oftentimes the powder settled into the creases and only made the deficiency more glaring. By the time she'd reached Miles, her nerves jangled. She positioned herself so that her unblemished cheek was to him.

He had never seemed bothered by the mark before, she reminded herself. She tapped a foot against the grass, willing the service to move faster. Not only did the bright sunlight cause her eyes to water, but every moment she grew more and more nervous.

She was marrying Miles.

Miles Hawthorne.

Childhood nemesis grown into a man who secreted kisses at night and teased her about books. Every reason she shouldn't marry him crowded her mind. He didn't read. Worse, he scoffed at her books. He worked too much. He teased often and avoided serious matters frequently.

Her fingers twisted in her skirts. She looked at him from beneath lowered lids. His jaw was firm. His eyes facing forward. Was he having second thoughts?

He said the vows. She repeated them, though she stumbled through the words. Did she imagine Miles staring at her birthmark? She resisted the urge to touch it, to see if it was still there or if somehow she might have willed it away.

Why did she want him to kiss her? She could never pass this detriment on to their children. But then she thought of little Becky at the mill and how lovely she was. No outward difference should have the ability to define the worth of a person. If she had children and they all inherited the mark, they would be just as beautiful to her.

And then the reverend was telling Miles to kiss her, that it was time. All of her thoughts halted. She slowly turned, heartbeat a roaring rush in her ears, her palms clammy and every sense attuned to Miles. His eyes searched hers, slow, lingering, heavy lidded.

She wet her lips. Would this be the moment he said he loved her? She looked up at him, waiting. He leaned down. His lids flickered.

She felt his breath, so very close, so very near, and her heart longed to reach out and touch his. Her eyes fluttered shut, she lifted her face and then...she felt his lips upon her cheek.

The cheek without the birthmark.

Her eyes flew open. He was staring at her and the expression on his face...had she ever seen such a look?

He straightened, turning away from her.

She discovered something in that second of his turning away, in that half moment in which she'd seen fear and disgust upon his face. As she forced her lips to remain still and unquivering, as she blinked away excess moisture from her eyes that, if asked about, she would blame on the sun, she filed the discovery away.

People could not hear a heart shatter.