The Dangerous Lord (27 page)

The woman's forehead knotted into a perplexed frown. “Tell me something, Miss Taylor. Two weeks ago, Lord St. Clair instructed me never to speak to you, yet now he's marrying you. How did that come about?”

“I've wondered the same thing myself,” she said glumly. “Apparently, somewhere among our many battles over my
column, he came to the conclusion that I'd make him a suitable wife. I can't imagine how, since we have nothing in common.”

“No indeed.” The woman's lips twitched with amusement. “Except perhaps for an incredible ability to find out other people's secrets. And a tendency to act forcefully to get what you want. And let's not forget a fondness for children—he did say his fiancée had four brothers he'd be supporting, and he's always been kind to my son.” She broke out in a smile. “But nothing else, certainly. Whatever do you see in each other?”

Felicity didn't like being mocked. She glared at the governess. “You're laboring under a misconception if you think this is a love match. Ian didn't choose to marry me for any such commonalities, I assure you. He wants a brood mare, that's all.”

“A-A brood mare?” Miss Greenaway choked out.

“A woman to give him an heir. And in exchange for my marrying him, he's paying off my debts and providing for my brothers and me.”

“Ah. So your marriage is nothing but a business arrangement?”

“Precisely.”

“And the fact that you're a beautiful, intelligent young woman has nothing to do with it, just as his attractions have nothing to do with
your
decision.”

She colored. “Certainly not.”

“Then why, pray tell, are you so intent on uncovering his past? If this marriage is merely a business arrangement and he's keeping his end of the bargain, why do you care what he did ten years ago?”

“Because,” Felicity said through gritted teeth, “in a short time, I'll be putting my life and future in his hands, and the man is so bloody secretive I don't even know if I can trust him!” That wasn't entirely true, but she had no time for shilly-shallying.

“You needn't worry about that. Lord St. Clair is quite trustworthy. He'll treat you well.” Miss Greenaway rose and approached to where Felicity stood trembling. “But I think you know that. So what really torments you so much?”

Felicity ducked her head to hide the sudden tears swimming in her eyes. “What torments me is that we aren't even married and I'm already in love with the scoundrel.”

She sniffled. Oh, damn—it was true. Why else did she feel sick at the thought of being his wife and not having his heart? And she'd fought so hard against it! She should've known fighting was pointless from the first time he'd sauntered into her study and informed her that she would regret tangling with him.

Oh, yes, she regretted it. She regretted that tangling with him hadn't made him love her in return. The tears straggled down her cheeks, first singly, then in solid rivulets, forlorn pilgrims streaming to the shrine of unrequited love.

Miss Greenaway drew out a sensible cotton handkerchief and handed it to Felicity. “There, there, my dear. Surely it's not so terrible to be in love with a man like Lord St. Clair.”

“It is when he doesn't love me,” she whispered.

“Are you sure of that?”

She nodded. “Ian has a thorn buried deep inside his heart that prevents him from loving me in return. It needs plucking out. How can I do that when I don't know what it is?” She lifted a pleading glance to Miss Greenaway. “Can't you help me?”

“Oh, Miss Taylor,” the woman said sympathetically. “I'd tell you in a moment if not for my promise. You're right about the thorn in his heart. It lies so deep, he won't even speak of it to me, and I know all that happened. Yet he needs to speak of it.”

“If you tell me what happened, I can
make
him speak of it.”

“No. It must work its way to the surface before he can be rid of it.”

Despair crept over her again. “Is there no way I can help him?”

With a smile, the older woman chucked her under the chin. “I think you've already begun. When he came yesterday to tell me of the wedding, there was a light in his eyes I haven't seen since he was a young man. In the past, his descriptions of women he courted were always unemotional recitations of their qualities. But he called
you
‘the most vexing creature in London—headstrong, brazen, and badly in need of a man's guiding hand.' It was quite clear to me he couldn't wait to provide that ‘guiding hand.'”

“That proves nothing,” she grumbled. “He's a bully, you know.”

She chuckled. “Only with you apparently, and that's because his emotions are engaged. Besides, I find very curious his reluctance to reveal that his fiancée was Lord X. Either he wanted to protect you, or he didn't want me to think ill of you. Both show that he cares.”

Felicity twisted the handkerchief. “Or that your opinion matters a lot to him.”

“We're friends, yes.”

Unwarranted thought it was, jealousy seized her again. “So why didn't he marry
you
? I-I mean, before I met him. Your station in life is no lower than mine. Some of the women he courted were extremely ill suited to him. At least with you he would have been comfortable and needn't have feared you wouldn't accept him.”

“My dear Miss Taylor, he would never have asked me. You see, I know too much about his ‘thorn,' as you call it, and though I consider it only a tragic incident in his past, to him it is so deep and black, he can't imagine any woman wanting him who knows of it. That's why he won't tell you: because he fears scaring you off.”

She laid her hand kindly on Felicity's. “Besides, even if he'd asked, I wouldn't have accepted.”

That surprised her. “Because you were in love with his uncle?”

“Hardly.” Her tone grew chilly. “I wasn't Edgar Lennard's mistress by choice. He made it quite clear after his wife died that I could either be his mistress and continue as his children's governess or be accused of a crime and transported. At twenty-two, I was terrified of him. As an orphan with no family, I lacked anyone to champion my cause, and it would have been his word against mine. So I stayed on as his mistress. I was only too happy when he discharged me, even if it meant poverty or something equally low.”

She smiled. “But much as I appreciated Lord St. Clair's coming to my rescue at that moment, I had no desire to marry him. It would've been awkward, considering his ties to Edgar and my son. I'm sure he would have been perfectly kind about it, but I didn't want such kindness. I'm much like you: despite my ruined reputation, I should like to marry for love.”

She drew back with a sigh. “But that's unlikely to happen. Still, I should like to see it happen for Lord St. Clair. And I think it will, if you're there to heal the wound when the festering sore around his thorn finally breaks open. You
will
be there, won't you? I've set your mind at ease concerning him?”

Oddly enough she had. There was something comforting in the knowledge that Miss Greenaway knew all the facts about Ian's past and wasn't appalled. Whatever troubled Ian, it wasn't insurmountable.

There was the sound of a door opening, and then a young woman popped her head in the parlor doorway. “I'm back, Miss Greenaway. Shall I take Walter for you?”

“No, Agnes, thank you. He's napping.”

“Shall I tell the man to return the gig to the livery then?” Agnes asked.

Miss Greenaway turned to Felicity. “What time did you say was your wedding?”

Felicity froze. Damn, she'd forgotten all about the time. She scanned the room for a clock, groaning aloud when she spotted one. “Good Lord, I'm supposed to be at the church in ten minutes! I'll never make it!”

“Yes, you shall. We'll go in the gig.” Miss Greenaway started for the parlor door. “I can let you out at the entrance to the church, and no one need ever know I was there. Agnes can watch Walter, and if we move quickly, we might make it in time.”

“I still have to dress and everything!” Felicity wailed as she hurried after Miss Greenaway. “The gown is at the church, but we'll be so dreadfully late…oh, Ian is going to
kill
me!”

“No, he's not. I daresay the man is probably running a bit late himself. We'll get you there on time, never fear.” Casting an anxious look at the clock, Miss Greenaway grabbed Felicity's hand and tugged her toward the parlor door. “Come on, Miss Taylor!”

I
an strode to the window of the vestibule in St. Augustine's Chapel for the tenth time in as many minutes. But the street half a floor below showed only the same spectacle: advertising wagons touting Vauxhall Gardens and Dr. Bentley's Benign Balm, mistletoe and holly sellers, and the occasional fashionable carriage bobbing among carts and gigs.

No sign of his recalcitrant bride. His carriage had disgorged its passengers half an hour ago without producing her. A dull thudding had begun in his head like that of an incompetent drummer. He wanted to be sick, but he wouldn't allow it. Not on his wedding day.

Not in front of Mrs. Box and especially not in front of Jordan, who leaned stiffly against the plastered wall a few feet away. The two of them felt sorry for him, damn them.
Though Mrs. Box peeked often into the church proper to see if her charges still sat quietly beside their idol Gideon, she spent the rest of her time blatantly watching Ian as he paced and cursed. Jordan pretended not to notice anything or anybody, but he, too, sneaked glances at Ian every few minutes.

Ian planted his fists on the windowsill and leaned out, knuckles scraping against stone as he surveyed the street as far as he could see. Nothing. No hacks with beautiful passengers, no discreetly curtained carriages. Where the hell was she?

He whirled toward Mrs. Box. “Are you sure Felicity said to meet her here?”

“Yes. If she weren't back in time. Which she weren't.”

“And she said nothing of where she was going?”

“Not a word, milord, but she promised she'd be here on time.”

He took out his pocket watch, snapped it open, noted the time, and snapped it closed. “She's already broken that promise by twenty-three minutes,” he growled, pivoting back to the window. “If she doesn't arrive soon, I'll have to go look for her. You know Felicity. She may have gotten into another argument with a hack driver, or the coach might be stuck or…”

He trailed off with a groan. He sounded like one of those bloody besotted grooms who slaver over their brides.

“She'll be here, milord,” Mrs. Box ventured. “She probably met with a bit more traffic than expected. A mighty lot of carriages are on the road today, its bein' Christmas Eve an' all. But she ain't the kind of girl to—”

“Leave a man at the altar?” Damn. He hadn't meant to say that. It made it seem possible. But it wasn't. Felicity would never act impulsively when her brothers' futures were at stake.

Then again, she always surprised him. What if this was a particularly nasty surprise? God knows it was what he
deserved for his overbearing behavior. He rubbed his temples with unsteady hands. The drummer in his head had been joined by a cymbal player and a very enthusiastic trumpeter.

Jordan came to his side. “I suspect that if you asked, the vicar could produce a flask of spirits. Shall I fetch him? You look as if you could use liquid reinforcement.”

He shouldn't have invited his friends. In truth, he hadn't expected them to hurry to London on such short notice for his wedding, especially since Sara and Gideon had just left the city. But they'd come, and now they would bear witness to his humiliation.

“No, it's just a headache,” he lied, unable to meet his friend's gaze. “It's plagued me for two days.” Ever since he'd made the idiotic mistake of trying to force a certain stubborn female into marriage.

“You shan't improve it by stickin' your head out in that nasty cold air,” Mrs. Box put in. “Why don't you come away from the window before you catch an ague?”

Ian shot her a dire glance. “Mrs. Box, if this wedding actually takes place and you come to work for me, you and I must have a lengthy discussion concerning your bad habit of lecturing your master.”

“I'm only tryin' to be useful,” she said with a sniff.

“‘Useful' and ‘annoying' are two distinctly different things. At the moment, you're—”

“Ian,” Jordan interrupted, leaning out the window, “isn't that her?”

Already half-resigned that she wasn't coming, Ian pivoted to brace his hands on the sill and look out once more. A gig pulled up below with two women in it. The passenger was Felicity, to be sure. He let out a long breath. Then he sucked in another as he recognized the driver, whose serviceable wool gown he'd paid for himself.

Bloody hell, he was in trouble now. Why in God's name had Felicity brought
her
to the wedding?

“Who's the woman with Miss Taylor?” Jordan asked.

Ian grimaced. “My ‘friend' from Waltham Street.”

Jordan's silence amply demonstrated that he could guess the significance of that. So could Ian. Felicity could have only one reason for bringing Miss Greenaway to the church. His jealous fiancée probably intended to throw his “mistress” up in his face, though it astonished him that Miss Greenaway had agreed to the scheme. She must not have realized what Felicity intended.

The icy air swirling into the chilly vestibule matched the ice caking his heart as he watched Felicity leap from the gig. She paused to speak to Miss Greenaway. Then to his astonishment, she turned and ran to the steps as Miss Greenaway drove off in the gig.

What the—He headed for the door at once. His soon-to-be wife would explain this to him or by God, he'd take her over his knee.

Mrs. Box hurried after him. “Wait, milord!” she said as she caught his arm. “'Tis bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding!”

“There won't be a wedding if I don't talk to her now.” Shaking off the woman's hand, he opened the door to the vestibule as Felicity reached the top step. “You're late.”

Her head shot up and she halted so abruptly she nearly lost her balance. Reaching out, he caught her by the arm to steady her.

“Ian! Yes, I am…I didn't mean to be, but…Good Lord, have you been standing there long?”

“Half an hour. And yes, I saw you drive up with Miss Greenaway.”

In the ethereal paleness of her face, her eyes shone dark and mysterious as the sea. “It's not what you think—”

“You don't want to know what I think, I assure you.” He hauled her inside the vestibule, then turned to find Jordan and Mrs. Box regarding him uneasily, like edgy members of a Greek tragedy chorus. He leveled a black look on
both of them. “Jordan, go tell the vicar the wedding will begin shortly, and fetch James, since he's giving Felicity away. Mrs. Box, join Sara and Emily in the choir room. Tell them Felicity will be there in a moment to dress.”

When the housekeeper hesitated, shooting Felicity an anxious glance, Felicity said, “It's all right. Go on. I need to speak to Ian alone.”

Her calm tone only further agitated his temper. As soon as the others disappeared, he faced her with a scowl. “Well? What explanation can you possibly have for this?”

“I'm truly sorry I'm late, but we were talking, and the time slipped away—”

“You know very well I'm not referring to your lateness,” he interrupted. “Why in God's name did you go see Miss Greenaway? And what do you mean, you were talking? What about?”

“You, of course. What else?”

The orchestra from hell now howled in his head. “What did she say about me?”

“Nothing important.” With an air of distraction, she turned away to survey the vestibule. “This is a very nice church, Ian. Is it the one you attend?”

“Damn it, Felicity!” He grabbed her shoulders and spun her around to face him. “What the bloody hell did she tell you?”

Her gaze met his, cool, composed. “What if she told me the truth?”

He didn't have to ask what truth. My God, no. Surely not. Surely if Miss Greenaway had told her the truth, Felicity wouldn't be standing here. She'd be running away from him as far as her meager funds would carry her. Wouldn't she?

Only when she reached up to pry his fingers from her shoulders did he realize he'd been digging them into her flesh.

She didn't release them, however, but clasped them in
hers. “She told me nothing, Ian, that you hadn't already told me. She said you swore her to secrecy. And that you would have to tell me yourself.”

The furious pounding in his head eased, but only a little. “So she didn't satisfy your foolish curiosity about things that don't matter?”

“No.”

“Yet you came here anyway.”

Her brief smile reassured him. “Yes. One thing she did tell me was that your secret isn't likely to hurt me.”

“I told you that myself.” It was far more likely to hurt
him
by turning her against him, which was why he wouldn't speak of it until he had her wedded, bedded, and pregnant. And why he ignored her expectant look now. “What else did she tell you?”

She sighed. “She also said you'd be a good husband and treat me well.”

A faint hope sprouted inside him. “And you believed her?”

“I believe you have the
potential
to be a good husband.” Her tone grew frosty. “But not if you continue to treat me the way you did the other night. Your secrecy is bad enough, but to threaten to hasten my financial ruin in such a despicable manner—” She lifted her chin a notch. “I do not like being bullied, Ian.”

The extent of that dislike was apparent in every rigid line of her slender body. He ground his teeth together. He'd already planned to apologize, but now that the moment was come the words seemed stuck in his throat. “I did what I thought was right.”

“You thought it was right to force me?”

He dragged his hands from hers. “It was the only way to make you realize the wisdom of marrying me.”

“Oh, you think so, do you?” She crossed her arms over her faded wool bodice.

With a groan, he glanced away. “No.” He sighed. “I'm
sorry. I wasn't thinking. I shouldn't have forced you.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Yes.”

“So if I don't marry you, you'll do nothing to stop me?”

His gaze shot to hers, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. My God, would she refuse him now? With everyone waiting in the church? He scanned her face for some sign of what she intended.

And saw none. Yet he knew that only one answer would show his sincerity, however much it pricked his pride to give it. “No. Yes. I mean I'll do nothing to stop you.”

The blood thundered in his ears as he waited for her response, but she wasn't finished with him yet. “I have one more question. If you answer it to my satisfaction, I'll marry you, Ian.”

That put him on his guard. “If you mean those tales of Lady Brumley's—”

“No. It's something that…has been troubling me since you made love to me. Why did you choose
me
to marry? Why not any of those other women you courted?”

Sara had asked him the same thing, and his answer hadn't changed. “Because I want you more than any of them.”

For the first time since they'd begun this ludicrous discussion, she looked agitated. “If by wanting me, you mean desire, I should warn you I still intend not to share your bed until we work out our differences.”

“Fine.” That particular threat didn't worry him. No woman with Felicity's passions abstained from pleasure after she'd had a taste of it. Not when the man with her was bent on seduction. “But that wasn't what I meant. I want
you
, the person Felicity. No other woman will suffice. You…intrigue me.” At her slow smile, he grew inexplicably nettled. “And I don't know why, so don't ask me to elaborate further or to spout a lot of nonsense about your virtues.”

“I wouldn't dream of it. If you begin cataloging my virtues, you're certain to add my flaws as well, and I'm sure the latter outweigh the former in your mind.” Her smile broadened. “But I suppose that answer will do. For now, at least.”

The extent of his relief staggered and alarmed him, so much so that he couldn't keep the harshness out of his voice. “Then may we please have a wedding?”

“Oh, very well. I mean, you've gone to so much trouble, after all. I wouldn't want to disappoint you. Or humiliate you publicly.”

He snorted. “Yes, you're always so careful on that score.”

A grin was her only response. But as she drew her hands from his and hurried to the stairs that led up to the choir room, he felt the casing of ice around his chest start to melt. He didn't care what she threatened about not bedding him. Let her have her bit of fun and think she was in control. As long as the wedding went on and she became his wife once and for all, she could threaten whatever she wished.

Because in the end, he would win.

 

This is a most peculiar wedding
, Felicity thought. The bride given away by her twelve-year-old brother. Only two attendants, and they were sister and brother—Sara standing up for her and Jordan standing up for Ian. And a former pirate captain flanking the bride's squirming triplet brothers on the left while a housekeeper sat on the right. The only other guest was Emily, so it was both a motley assortment and small.

Yet they made up for it by being merry beyond their size, more merry than the bride and groom, to be sure. As the vicar read the service, Jordan smirked and Sara smiled indulgently. Mrs. Box cried tears of joy from the beginning, while the boys wiggled and grinned in the pew, only too delighted to add a viscount to the family. And the generally
stern-faced Gideon actually looked pleased at the whole affair, even while darting out a hand to subdue the antics of one triplet or another.