An Improper Wife (7 page)

The earl laid his napkin over his lap. “Foul this up and I will be forced to marry the girl myself.”

Taran looked up from setting his cup on the table. “Why did you not marry her?”

“Her uncle felt she would look more favourably upon your suit.”

Taran watched his father pick up fork and knife and begin cutting the sausages on his plate. He hadn’t hesitated in his answer. The fact he was thirty years the girl’s senior meant nothing. She was a commodity, and John Blackhall, Earl of Blackhall, had the price her uncle sought—an earldom. Lady Caroline Whitmore would someday be the Countess of Blackhall. He pitied the girl, though wondered if his brother John would have been any better to her than their father.

Taran picked up his fork. How much better a husband would he be? Today, their wedding day, he could think of nothing, save last night and the woman he’d bedded—no. Being bedded required a four-poster bed and a large feather mattress in front a crackling fire. He had fucked her, though not properly. The private admonition didn’t stop his cock from hardening at the memory of how she’d cried out when he’d entered her.

The vixen was made for a man’s touch, and touch her again he would. Once the honeymoon was over, he would find her. Surely by then she would be married and have fulfilled her duty to her husband. Tension tightened his gut. She belonged to another man. No, she was to wed another man. She belonged to him.

The door to the breakfast room opened, and William entered. “My lord,” he nodded to the earl, then to Taran.

Taran pointed to the seat to his right with his knife. “Sit. Have some breakfast.”

The viscount nodded towards a servant standing near the sideboard as he lowered himself into the chair. “Coffee, if you please.” William looked at Taran and grimaced. “How in God’s name can you eat? You are to wed in two hours, and the breakfast to follow is sure to be a feast. Lady Caroline’s housekeeper is rumoured to be a cook fit for a king.” William added cream to his coffee. “Where did you get off to last night?”

The earl looked up. “Last night? Taran, if you—”

“If I what, Father? I am here, alive and well, the Viscount you need to acquire a fortune.” He forked eggs into his mouth.

“I want a grandson by August.”

Taran raised a brow. “At your service, my lord.”

The earl buttered a piece of toast. “Once you have fulfilled your obligation, you may do as you choose. With the money your marriage brings into the family, I can see your sisters well married, as well as run Strathmore and all our other affairs.”

“All? I am sure my wife will be pleased to learn you will see to her
needs
while I am
doing as I choose
.”

His father gave a mirthless laugh and Taran realised the earl had no compunctions about stepping in should a grandson not be forthcoming. For the thousandth time since learning the title had fallen to him, Taran considered defying his father and not marrying Caroline. The tactic had worked when Taran had insisted the earl close the illegal gaming hall he owned. The earl had refused until Taran had announced he would not wed the needed heiress while the threat of scandal hung over his head. The gaming hall had kept the estate out of the tax collector’s hand, but couldn’t compare to the twenty thousand pounds a year Caroline Wilmont brought to the marriage.

Sadly, his father’s entrepreneurial enterprise drove the final nail into Taran’s coffin. If he didn’t marry Caroline, his father would reopen the gaming hall. Once the Crown got wind of the illegal operation, it wouldn’t matter that Taran had no part in the business, he would end up in Newgate. His two sisters would be destitute, doomed to spinsterhood, or worse, marriage to squires and living in some Godforsaken part of the country where they would breed children who then grew up to become squires themselves.

Caroline Wilmont was destined for a life with him
and
his father—for this she may not forgive him—but the girl was doomed in any case. Wealthy heiresses were to be bought and sold, and if he didn’t marry her, another would. Perhaps another man would be a better man than Taran.

* * * *

The rolls Caroline had stuffed into her mouth that morning twisted in her belly with a vengeance, but she surprised herself by giving a calm nod to her uncle as he released her elbow and took his place to her left at the altar. The low hum of chatter in the chapel rose to a slight pitch and she knew the guests were in awe of the corseted bridal gown she wore. Like the Aphrodite costume, the bodice dipped nearly to her nipples. A small tremor radiated through her. Would sight of her breasts remind Taran of last night?

She inhaled a deep breath—as deep as her dress allowed. Despite the low bodice, the muted red of the corseted top and the pale gold skirt said nothing of passion. Lady Caroline Wilmont was a woman who demanded she be in the first order of fashion. A gown like this was not to be abused as the Aphrodite costume had been.

But what if he
did
recognise her? She gave herself a mental shake.
Foolish.
His encounter with Aphrodite had been in thin moonlight, then a dark carriage. Gone was the blonde wig. Her raven hair lay atop her head in a fashionable bun, accented by ringlets framing face and neck.

The minister emerged from a door behind the pulpit and strode towards her. At the pulpit, he set a small hymnal on the stand, then smiled with the benevolence only the clergy owned. Caroline gave him a nod in return. To her relief, her nerves remained steady. The goddess of fortune hadn’t favoured her this last day, but that good lady held no more sway over Caroline Wilmont. Today would end as best it could, but in disaster. But Taran would be free of her.

The low hum of chatter abruptly ceased. Lord Taran Blackhall had arrived. Caroline kept her gaze straight ahead. She had remained calm, but wouldn’t risk losing her nerve in this last hour. Despite her efforts, her heart beat like a drum. If he recognised her immediately, he would refuse to marry her on the spot. At least that would end this farce.

He had no proof she was Aphrodite. Would he openly accuse her? No, not Taran. John would have publicly humiliated her. Whatever Taran Blackhall was, he was not his brother. He appeared beside her. She felt his gaze on her, but kept her attention forward. He couldn’t see her eyes. Not yet.

The reverend cleared his throat. “All rise.”

A unified shuffle sounded, then silence reigned.

“Dearly beloved,” the minister began, “we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony.” He glanced down at his book and Caroline reached inside her bodice and pulled free the black, lace handkerchief she’d stuffed there earlier. Her heart pounded in anticipation of the moment the minister caught sight of the black handkerchief that openly stated the bride still mourned the groom’s brother.

His head lifted as he continued, “which is an honourable estate, instituted of God in the time of man’s innocency, signifying unto us the mystical union”—his gaze fastened onto the cloth—“that is betwixt Christ and”—he swallowed hard—“his Church.” The last word died on his lips and Caroline felt all three men staring at her.

With a steady hand, she dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief.

“Er.” The minister dropped his attention back to the book. “His—His Church, which holy estate Christ adorned and beautified with his presence, and—” He flicked a glance at Caroline. She clasped the handkerchief to her breast and released a melodramatic sigh. The reverend’s eyes widened.

A murmur rose in the chapel behind her. Strong fingers seized her hand and forced her palm face upwards. She snapped her head up. Taran stared at the black cloth, his furrowed brow and dark eyes betraying…amusement? He released her and looked at the reverend who stared open-mouthed at them.

“Please continue, Minister,” he instructed.

The man remained motionless.

“Have you not seen a woman in mourning before?” he asked.

The minister looked at him. “I-well, I, of course, but—”

“But what?” Taran demanded.

The minister glanced helplessly about, then his gaze shifted to the hymnal, searching briefly for the words before he continued, “Which holy estate Christ adorned and beautified with his presence, and first miracle that he wrought, in Cana of Galilee—”

Caroline tore her gaze from the reverend who was droning on with the vows, and stared at Taran. He turned his head to reveal a slightly arched brow. The scoundrel was challenging her.

Fool
, she mentally telepathed,
this is for your own good.

The handkerchief was abruptly snatched from her grasp. Caroline jerked her attention to the left. Her uncle stared at the minister, the last of the handkerchief being stuffed neatly into his breast pocket. His hand dropped back to his side.

She had prepared for this. Eyes locked on his profile, Caroline reached into her bodice and pulled free a second black handkerchief. His head shifted and his gaze met hers. She turned towards Taran before her uncle had a chance to snatch the second handkerchief from her and came face to face with her soon-to-be husband. His bland expression didn’t disguise the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. Her tummy flipped. What would he do when she displayed the remaining black she wore? With her free hand, she grasped her skirt and lifted the hem an inch.

A collective gasp went up and a woman’s low wail sounded in the front pew.

“Silence,” her uncle hissed.

A tremor passed through Caroline.
Courage.
It didn’t mattered what her uncle thought. Taran’s gaze dropped and both brows shot up. Satisfaction surged through her. This is what mattered. The dear viscount couldn’t ignore the black, quilted underskirt accented with black, silk stockings. What man would want a woman who publicly announced she preferred his dead brother? Caroline abruptly realised the chapel—including the minister—had gone silent.

Taran seemed to notice it as well, for he looked at the minister. “What did you say?”

The minister’s eyes were glued to Caroline’s ankles, where the edge of the underskirt and stockings were still visible.

“Minister,” Taran said in a firmer tone.

The reverend’s head jerked up.

“What did you say?” Taran repeated.

The man cast Caroline an uncertain glance, then straightened and said in a clear voice, “Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy state of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

Caroline’s breath caught when Taran looked at her and said with conviction, “I will.”

The reverend shifted his attention to her. “Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

Love, honour, care for him, yes. Obey and serve? Caroline wadded the handkerchief in her fist. “I am uncer—”

Viscount Blackhall yanked her against him, forcing the last of her sentence into an indistinguishable squeak.

“She does,” he growled.

“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?” the reverend asked.

Her uncle seized her wrist and extended her hand—handkerchief and all—towards the reverend. He blinked, then an unexpected gleam of determination lit his eyes and she realised the good reverend intended to bring her to heel. He gripped her hand and extended it towards Taran. His warm fingers closed around hers with a firm but gentle touch. Her heart jolted. He was supposed to have stormed from the chapel, not taken her hand in his as if he meant to honour the damned vows.

“Repeat after me. I, Taran Robertson.”

Taran began, “I, Taran Robertson.”

“Viscount of Blackhall,” the minister went on, “take thee, Lady Caroline Wilmont to my wedded wife.”

Taran repeated the words.

Caroline cursed the tremble in her hand when Taran said, “To love and to cherish, till death us do part.”

The minister addressed her, “Repeat after me. I, Caroline Wilmont, take thee, Lord Taran Robertson, to my wedded husband.”

Voice level, Caroline repeated the vows, ending with, “according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

The reverend laid a hand on their joined hands and said, “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”

Caroline stiffened. God had taken no more part in their union today than he had last night. Her husband had yet to see her full wedding trousseau. He would demand an annulment before the wedding night ended.

Taran released her hand and reached into his pocket to produce a gold band. He grasped her left hand and said, “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

He started to kneel. Caroline didn’t move, and he yanked her down so hard he was forced to grab her waist to keep her from tumbling onto her rear. She scowled. He lifted a brow and she fisted her hands with the full intention of landing a blow to his belly before thinking better of it.

“Let us pray,” the minister began. Yes, Caroline needed a prayer because in another moment she would be wed.

Chapter Eight

Taran hauled his wife to her feet, placed his hands on her shoulders, and bent to kiss her. Her brow creased in confusion, then her green eyes narrowed. She slapped his chest and jerked back as if he had sprouted horns. He forced back a laugh. The lass had grit.

He pulled her against him, stopping an inch from her face. “I have grit as well,” he murmured, and kissed her.

Her lips weren’t pliant like the she-devil last night, but they were soft and warm. He touched his tongue to the seam. She gasped and he slipped inside for a taste. Caroline held her posture rigid and her mouth unyielding. He wrapped an arm around her back, then with the barest of whimpers, she relaxed.