A Stockingful of Joy (14 page)

"What?" His mug, which was halfway to his mouth, slammed down on the table, and scalding coffee slopped across his hand. "You want me to
marry you?"

His appalled expression was worse than a slap in the face. How could she have been so brazen, so
stupid
, as to suggest that a handsome, fashionable man like him might consider marrying a woman like her?

Face burning, she jumped up and grabbed her cloak from the back of her chair. "It was just a thought, and obviously a bad one. I'm sorry for disturbing you, Anthony. Lord Verlaine." She turned and bolted toward the kitchen door.

His chair scraped the floor, and in one bound he crossed the kitchen and caught her arm. "Wait! I'm sorry, Emma. I intended no insult." He turned her to face him. "This is just so… so unexpected."

Though she was a tall woman, he loomed over her, intimidatingly large. The reality of him was very different from her hazy childhood memories. He was a man now, not a youth. A man who was strong, virile, and forceful. For a woman who'd lived the last decade in a world of women and children, the effect was rather overpowering.

Her gaze went to his unshaved chin. The dark stubble was surprisingly intriguing. She wanted to touch it, discover the texture of those very masculine whiskers.

She wrenched her gaze away. "I'm sorry. It was presumptuous of me to march in like this."

"Unusual, perhaps, but not presumptuous." He studied her, his gaze piercing. "I keep wondering if I'm dreaming this whole scene out of a desperate desire to save Canfield."

"This is no dream," she said with conviction. He was too vivid, his hand on her arm too warm and strong, for this encounter to be anything but real.

He released her arm and made a courtly gesture toward the table. "Come sit down again, Cousin. You were quite right to say that we must have a serious conversation."

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Anthony Vaughn poured more coffee for himself and his guest. Even after two cups, he still felt as if he were standing next door to death. He shouldn't have drunk himself into a stupor last night, and he definitely shouldn't have invited so many of his rackety friends to join in a perverse celebration of his disastrous gaming loss. He wondered vaguely when the whores had come. There had been none present when he had passed out.

He put that aside to concentrate on more important matters, namely, his amazing cousin, who sat across from him looking every inch the meek, dowdy governess. Yet it must have taken courage for her to come here and make her startling proposition.

Thinking back, he remembered her as a quiet child who tagged around after him with huge, speaking eyes. But there had been many children at Harley during the holidays. Except for the incident on the ice, he recalled very little about Emma.

First things first. He said, "You have forty thousand pounds?"

After a moment's hesitation, she said, "If we were to marry, you would immediately have fifty thousand pounds at your disposal."

It was enough to save Canfield, and make necessary improvements as well. Enough to live like a gentleman again. But still—marriage? It was a state he had not contemplated since dear damned Cecilia.

He studied his long-lost cousin intently. When he'd first seen her picking her way through the tangled bodies of his dissolute friends with catlike care, he'd thought he was hallucinating. But he could not have imagined such a startling mixture of shyness and candor. She had the Vaughn height, square jaw, and dark hair. Though no beauty, she was presentable, or would be when decently dressed.

That was all very well for a cousin, but a wife? Yet what were his choices? Marry this disconcertingly direct but not unpleasant woman, or lose Canfield.

Put in those terms, there was really no choice at all. As a boy, he'd taken for granted that Canfield would be his one day. It wasn't until his father's death, when he realized that he was on the verge of losing the estate, that he had recognized how much he loved the place. More than loved—in a very real way, being Verlaine of Canfield defined him. Without it, he was merely an idle, careless fellow of good birth and small accomplishment, as useless as a dandelion.

He said carefully, "If you want children, it would have to be more than a marriage of convenience."

Emma turned beet red and looked away. "I understand that, of course. What I meant was that it would not be a love match."

An understatement. He asked, "What would you expect of me in the way of husbandly duties?" When she blushed again, he added, "I mean that in the broadest possible sense."

She thought before replying. "If we were to marry, I would ask that you treat me with courtesy and consideration, especially in front of others. I do not want to become a laughingstock—the desperate woman who bought herself a husband who cannot care for her." Her voice was rich and smooth as fine brandy, surprisingly provocative for a woman of her very proper appearance.

"That is hardly a problem. I would be no kind of gentleman if I treated you any other way. What else?"

Her gaze dropped. "Though I want children very much, I would prefer for that part of the marriage to be delayed until we are… are better acquainted."

A little relieved, he said, "A quite understandable desire. Do you have any other requirements?"

She shook her head mutely.

"If that is all you want, you would be a very easily pleased wife," he said dryly. "If we do agree to this, we would need to marry immediately, within the next two days, for me to save Canfield. Would you mind that?"

After a brief hesitation, she said, "Not under these circumstances."

He sighed and bent his head, running his fingers through his tangled hair. Marriage was for life. It was not a commitment he had ever thought to make to a virtual stranger. That was one reason why he hadn't looked around for an heiress when he discovered his financial problems. And, of course, he'd thought he would be able to save Canfield through his own efforts.

But how much did one person ever really know another? He'd thought he'd known Cecilia, and had been pitifully wrong. Emma Stone would probably make an easy, sensible wife, and she was not quite a stranger. Growing up in the same extended family surely counted for something.

He raised his gaze and studied his cousin again. Her face was so pale that a ghostly scattering of freckles showed across her high cheekbones. She was as nervous as he, and with good reason. When a woman married, she gave her body, her name, and her worldly goods to her husband. Perhaps that was why Emma had made her proposal to a man with whom she had at least some acquaintance.

Honor compelled him to say, "Are you absolutely sure you want this, Emma? My situation is urgent, but yours is not. You're young. You can afford to take more time searching for the mate who will best please you." His mouth curved without humor. "Remember the old saying, 'Marry in haste, repent at leisure.' "

Her gaze slid away from his. "I could spend years looking, but it wouldn't guarantee a better decision in the end. A man eager to marry a fortune is bound to make himself agreeable during the courtship. How would I know his true nature? With you, at least, I already know that you are pleasant to servants and patient with small brats who follow you around."

Bemused, he said, "Did I call you a brat?"

"Yes, though not unkindly." She smiled a little. "Younger children are more aware of older ones than vice versa. It's not surprising that you scarcely remember me, while I recall you quite vividly."

Though Emma had courage and honesty, her opinion of her own worth was not high, he realized. His shock when she'd suggested marriage had hurt her badly. Obviously she didn't think a man would marry her for any reason except money.

His thoughtful gaze went over her full, womanly figure. While his preference was for ethereal blondes, it would be no hardship to lie with Emma. No hardship at all. If he satisfied her in bed and treated her with courtesy everywhere else, she would be content with this marriage. As for him—he would have Canfield.

He hesitated a moment longer, knowing that his life was about to change forever in ways that he couldn't even imagine. Then he took Emma's cold hand between both of his and said very formally, "My dearest cousin, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

Face pale, she said, "The honor would be mine, Anthony."

The deal was done.

Heavy silence fell between them. Having agreed to marry, what came next? Anthony said, "I must call on your solicitor and discuss the financial settlements. I'll also go to Doctors' Commons for a special license, and arrange for the ceremony to take place day after tomorrow. Do you have any preference as to place or time?"

She shook her head. "Whatever is convenient. I'm staying at Grillon's Hotel. You may notify me of your arrangements there." She pulled paper and pencil from her reticule and printed out a name and address. "My solicitor."

After handing him the paper, she got to her feet. "I'll leave you now. You have much to do."

She was right, and he was going to have to do it while suffering from the prince of hangovers. He stood, thinking there should be something more to commemorate such a significant occasion. He took her hand. "Until our wedding day, Emma."

She flinched when he dropped a light kiss on her hand. He wondered if she was one of those women with a constitutional dislike of physical intimacy. Well, it was too late to worry about that now. He would have to hope that his proven expertise with the fair sex would not fail him.

Taking her arm, he escorted her to his front door. Several of his friends were beginning to wake up, usually accompanied by low moans. His valet, Hawkins, had wisely set basins near the afflicted. Emma did a fine job of ignoring the whole decadent scene. Really a most sensible woman.

He squeezed her hand meaningfully at the front door, and she left him with a shy smile. Halfway back to his bedroom, one of his awakening friends, Matthews, muttered, "That must be the ugliest whore in London. Very proper of you to throw her out."

A surge of unexpected anger burned through Anthony. He bent over and grabbed Matthews' shirtfront in both hands, lifting him half off the floor. "You are speaking of my affianced wife," he said in his most menacing tone. "Do I make myself clear?"

Matthews' eyes widened until they resembled bloodshot gooseberries. "S… sorry, Verlaine! No insult intended, upon my word, no indeed!"

He was still babbling apologies when Anthony dropped him back to the floor and returned to his bedroom. Mercifully Hawkins had left a pitcher of hot water on the washstand. As Anthony splashed water on his face, his spirits began to rise. Canfield was saved. The Lord moved in mysterious ways His wonders to perform, and the Deity had outdone himself today.

Two days later, Emma donned her Sunday best dress for her wedding. Becky suggested a more elaborate hairstyle, but Emma rejected it on the grounds that she would look silly. She did spare a regretful thought for her childhood dreams of a romantic courtship, an adoring bridegroom, and a ceremony in the Harley chapel, where she would be surrounded by fond relatives. But those things were trivial. What mattered was that she was marrying Anthony, a fact so wonderful that she had never dreamed about it, at least not seriously.

At eleven o'clock punctually, Mr. Evans came for Emma and Becky. He had agreed to be a witness to the ceremony, while Becky would be maid of honor. On the short ride to the local parish church, Emma asked, "What did you think of Anthony?"

The solicitor said cautiously, "While I cannot approve of such haste, I was not unfavorably impressed by the young gentleman. He has a good head on him, and he was very reasonable about the settlements. Very reasonable indeed."

High praise from a lawyer. The carriage halted in front of the church, and she descended into drizzly rain. It would have been nice if the sun had come out, she thought wistfully. Everything about this wedding was drab and hurried.

Telling herself again that the details didn't matter, she entered the church, and saw that Anthony had already arrived with a friend to be groomsman. Elegantly dressed in a dark blue coat and immaculately starched cravat, he was so handsome that she almost bolted from the church. How could a barnyard hen mate with a lordly peacock?

Then Anthony saw her and came down the aisle with a smile. He was carrying a small nosegay in one hand. Presenting it to her, he said, "I thought you might like these."

The flowers were tiny winter roses, white mixed with palest pink and bound together with a silver ribbon. Heaven only knew where he'd found them in December. The exquisite blossoms made the rest of the ceremony's shortcomings fade into irrelevance. "Oh, Anthony," she breathed. "They're perfect."

All doubts gone, she took his arm and they walked together to the vicar. This marriage was right. She knew it.

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The newlyweds had their first quarrel shortly after the wedding breakfast. Mr. Evans and Anthony's groomsman had left after they'd all shared an excellent meal in a private room at Grillon's Hotel. Since Anthony's bachelor rooms were hardly suitable for a new wife, he had engaged a suite at the hotel. One with two bedrooms. As he'd thought dryly when booking the rooms, the least he could do with Emma's money was use it to ensure that she was comfortable. His valet and her maid had moved the necessary personal belongings into the suite, then been given the rest of the day off.

As Anthony escorted Emma up to the suite, he considered carrying her across the threshold. He decided against it, since this would not be their home, and the gesture seemed entirely too intimate at their present stage of acquaintance. Ironic to feel that way about his wife on their wedding night.

He had another fleeting thought, this time about Cecilia. The only time he'd ever thought about wedding nights had been when he'd thought they would marry. She had been beautiful—small and graceful and blond, the complete antithesis of Emma. He immediately suppressed the thought as disloyal.