The Defiant Lady Pencavel (22 page)

“I might be. Then again, maybe not.” Clowenna’s face turned a slight shade of pink.  

“Don’t be shy, admit your attachment.” Melwyn laughed, then groaned. “I am a silly ninny goose, seeing love everywhere. I wonder when the intoxication will wear off.”

“Soon, like I said afore, m’lady. We can only hope.” The maid raked the bristles through Melwyn’s hair. “Or did that absconder thrash ‘ee in the head?”

Melwyn preened at the ripples on her scalp. “No, my precious if abrasive abigail, but I did bite his ear. Nasty taste.” She checked her teeth as she stared at her tired reflection. “Prepare me a sage and salt rub for my mouth. I’ll rest for two days, go to my fitting at the modiste, then hire a post-chaise to Cornwall. We should catch his lordship on the London Road.”

****

Griffin spurred the hired horse down the London Road. At each night’s stop, he’d hired a fresh horse while trying not to acquire lice or fleas from the inns. When possible, he cut through meadows and heaths. His thighs and back ached from the constant riding at a gallop, but he needed to save Miss Pencavel. He’d strangle that blunder-headed Mr. Showreynolds if he’d ravished his bride to be. No one would dare touch her, except for Griffin.

However, if he was too late, and she was no longer pure, but damaged goods, what could he do? A woman’s maidenhead was everything, as every man wanted to be the first, to go where no man had gone before. If he lived by the creed of the time, he’d have to think twice about accepting a ruined woman.

He groaned, and kicked the horse into a faster gallop. No, he wouldn’t care; he loved her and no one else. And after all, he was hardly perfect either.

To adore someone so completely completed him. Who was to know this sprite of a girl, even with her quarrelsome mouth, would be his perfect match? He could almost forget the tragic loss of his brother in her arms.

Pebbles flying around him, the scent of trees earthy and sharp, mingled with the sweat of horseflesh, he spotted a post-chaise in the distance. Griffin slowed his mount so as not to frighten the oncoming team.

The small coach drew closer in a jangle of harnesses. A curtain twitched aside, and a young woman opened the window and stuck out her head. “Griffin, is that you? What good fortune and coincidence.”

“Halt,” he ordered the driver of the coach. “I need to speak to your passengers.”

The man pulled in his team, then jerked out a blunderbuss. “If you plan to rob me, sir, I’ll blow your head off. I’ve got the Royal mail and two innocent women on board.”

“Have a care, my diligent friend! I’m Lord Lambrick, the Viscount of Mercer, not a highwayman.” Griffin held up his hand. “I believe you have my betrothed with you.”

Griffin stopped his horse, who snorted and coughed, foam on its lips. He dismounted and approached. The coach door swung open, and the lovely Miss Pencavel stepped out.

“I thought you were kidnapped.” He threw up his hands, chagrined and relieved at the same time. “I’m on my way to rescue you.”

“I freed myself, dear Griffin. I slammed a chamber pot over the lout’s head.” She laughed and his heart puddled.

“You’ve quite taken the wind out of my sails.” He stepped close, into her fragrant smell of lemon, and touched a tendril of her honey-blonde hair that had fallen from its coiffure. “Who am I to defend now? My swashbuckling is terribly put out.” He pulled her against him, so soft and pliant, and kissed her sweet lips.

“You may defend me for the rest of your life.” She trailed her fingers down his chest.

“Did the cretin hurt you, sully you in any way?” he had to ask. “Not that it matters to me in the least.”

“No, I prevented any sullying. I’m saving myself for you, sir.” She leaned close and whispered, “you may have me fresh for all your depraved pleasures.”

“Ah, and depraved they will be. Two more Sundays to call the banns.” Griffin caressed her shoulders as his body inflamed like sizzling coal. “In fact, since I’d miss this Sunday, riding on a futile rescue as it turns out, I asked my housekeeper to make certain they’re called.” He recalled Mrs. Loveday’s burst into tears when he’d made his request. “I had to pay her double for the trouble.”

“I cannot wait to be your wife. I said some pretty nasty things to you earlier in our odd courtship. I hope you’ll forgive me.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him.

“I thought you a brainless hoyden, but was soon disavowed of that notion. I’m heartily glad you are a saucy woman of substance.” He captured her lips again, reveling in her taste. His body reacted, a slow tantalizing tingle. “I can’t wait for our wedding night.”

“Then we go to Italy for our honeymoon.” Miss Pencavel sighed in obvious contentment. “And to display my grand find and savor my success.”

“I don’t know who my once spirited lady has become.” The maid now poked her head out. “You’ve quite flummoxed her, sir. ‘Tis a miracle, but peculiar just the same.”

“I’m only softening him for the kill.” Miss Pencavel laughed and stroked Griffin’s cheek.

“Enough of this twaddle, I have a schedule to meet,” the driver grumbled. He still held the blunderbuss in his lap, his trigger finger twitching. “I’ve vital mail to deliver.”

“I’ll ride beside the coach on our way to Merther Manor, my love. We don’t wish to be shot before we begin our lives together.” Griffin assisted Miss Pencavel back into the coach and returned to his overridden horse. The animal tried to nip his leg in protest.

Chapter Twenty

Melwyn studied the small painting on the wall behind Griffin’s desk. A handsome young man in a red army officer’s uniform, with gold braid around the high collar. “This is your brother Alan?”

“Yes. He was killed four years ago, in 1792, at the Battle of Jemappes in the Austrian Netherlands, now called Belgium after being annexed by France.” Griffin frowned sadly. “I just put the painting back up. I couldn’t look at it for a long time.”

She took his hand and squeezed it. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I can’t imagine the hurt, since I never had siblings, though mother seemed busy enough in that department.”

“They broke the mold after you were cast, my love.” He embraced her; the warmth from his muscled chest sent shivers into her own tender breasts. “I became an even worse devil after his death, to prove myself I suppose. I dared the excise men to shoot me, and they finally did.”

She winced at that statement and stroked his shoulder. “I’m deeply grateful you weren’t killed. Alan must have been very dear to you.”

“We were close, only two years apart. Since I’d inherit the title, Alan wanted to make a name for himself in the army.” He glanced away. “I blamed myself after he died.”

“As I blamed myself for my mother’s desertion.” She cringed, recalling her ugly encounter with that less-than-admirable person. “Now I see how wrong I was. I hope you see that as well.

“Emotions aren’t so easily tied up into neat little bows.” He smiled ironically. His fingers on her flesh almost fogged her brain.

“I agree. If we want to wail and whine about our lives once in a while, we’ll do it together.” Melwyn puzzled for a moment. “But we weren’t yet at war with France in 1792. Why was your brother there?”

“No, we weren’t in conflict as yet.” Now Griffin wrinkled his brow in contemplation. “I’m afraid Alan jumped the gun a bit, anticipating that we would soon be in combat. France declared war on us but a few months later.”

“I demure at saying this, but are you certain he wasn’t up to some illegal maneuvering with foreign troops?”

“Ah, my perfect brother may have had a fault? That does give me pause.” The lines around Griffin’s eyes relaxed. “I still insist he died valiantly in battle.”

“And we’re still deep in war. The French have repelled Austria from Italy and created their own republics there.” She glanced around this masculine room, in dire need of a woman’s touch, though she wasn’t the doily-draping, sample-stitching sort of girl.

“What about your mother?” He watched her, his mahogany eyes delving deep inside her as no one else ever had...or dared. “Have you no pity for her at all?”

“I’ve wavered over this intensely. I suppose I should pity someone who has no impulse control, and a lack of moral compass. I used to worry that was me, but I just hadn’t found my debonair knight.” She scrutinized her intended. His broad, muscular shoulders and slender hips. She sighed with yearning. “I still think you’d look incredibly urbane in a gladiator’s toga.”

“I might don one for you on our wedding night.” He gave his cocky smile, the one that melted her heart. “Or I’ll sneak over to the guest cottage tonight and inveigle a tournament.”

She laughed, half wishing he would. “Remember my father is due here today.” She was staying at his guest cottage a quarter mile from the main house, until the wedding.

“Well, at last the final banns have been called as I am an impatient groom.” He winked suggestively.

“Who was that woman in the black veil weeping in church this morning?” Melwyn had felt a malevolent stare from that direction. “And the dull-eyed girl who tossed her prayer book at me? Thank goodness she has terrible aim.”

Griffin chuckled. “Not everyone is enthusiastic about our union.” He crushed her against his pelvis and his form-fitting nankeen breeches that enveloped him like a glove. “But I’m the only one who you have to please.”

“Soon, my love. I can tell you anticipate our joining.” She moved away a step, her face flushing. A heat started low in her belly. “As I have no knowledge of such things, even if we women should have a primer on marital relations so we aren’t ignorant, you have to be gentle with me.”

“I promise I will, the first time, and perhaps the second.” His eyes smoldered and he ran his knuckle along her cheek. “But the third, beware my lady, all my animal instincts will surge to the fore and you’ll be ravaged from limb to limb.”

“I wouldn’t want it any other way. And soon we’ll have deep understanding of one another, along with our vibrant attraction—a perfect match.” She retreated to the other side of the desk, far from his tantalizing touch. She smoothed down her flowered dimity round gown.

“I must admit, you are correct, my naughty little minx.” He leaned over the desk, his gaze intense. “I understand we both have feral natures, that only we can temper and satisfy together.”

She shivered and retreated another step. “True. But I’ll never forgive you for turning me into a muddle-headed bride-to-be. It must be something like rushing adrenaline that is mucking up my mind and sense of self.” She took a long, cleansing breath. “I’ll soon be back to normal then it is
you
who must be on guard, my Viscount of Merther.”

****

Griffin stood before the communion table in the cob-walled, thatch-roofed chapel on his estate. Not the place where his parents had met their accidental demise, but the smaller, mustier one with the ordinary hard benches and stained walls white-washed with lime. Here his tenants usually worshiped.

The parishioners sat at the ready while the vicar intoned his sermon, then the sacred and binding wedding ceremony.

Miss Pencavel looked gorgeous in her cream-colored gown with lace trim. They recited their oaths and he slipped the ring on her finger. He melted when she smiled at him, glad he’d had no urge to run from the chapel and hide in the sheep shed before the final
I Dos
.

“I present to you, Lord and Lady Lambrick, Viscount and Viscountess of Merther,” the vicar announced.

The people stood, applauding. Beribboned and flowered hats bobbed as chatter began. Mrs. Loveday, dressed in somber widow’s weeds, wailed and blew her nose loudly.

“Well, my dear, for better or worse. We belong to one another.” He linked his arm with his new bride’s and they walked down the aisle and out into the crisp autumn air.

His wife stared up at him with flashing blue eyes. She caressed his sleeve. “Let us pray for far more ‘better’ than ‘worse’, though I will give you a run for your money, sir.”

People started to throw grains of wheat for fertility. Miss Trefoile pelted hers at the new viscountess’s head as her father cheered her on. Her mother sobbed hysterically on Trefoile’s shoulder.

“Who is that demented red-haired person? Red hair should be dyed, as it’s not popular.” Melwyn asked, ducking the onslaught. “The sheriff is here somewhere. He needs to be apprised of this.”

“Never mind, but watch your back on occasion.” Griffin glared at the family as he brushed grains from his frock coat lapels. “If you visit the Trefoiles, as any good lady of the manor should, don’t accept anything to eat or drink.”

“Is that one of your conquests?” she asked him slyly. “A heart you’ve broken, you lascivious cad?”

“Hardly, and she always ran a poor second to you.” He hugged Melwyn close and kissed her cheek. His body heated with passion and, more importantly, love for her. “Everyone pales before you, my dearest.”

“I’ll say the same about you, sir.” She laughed, eyeing his legs in their white silk stockings. His polished shoes with silver buckles. “I’ve been keeping busy at the guest cottage. Together with my abigail, we’ve sewn you a crimson toga to wear in Italy.”

“Will I be required to feed Christians to the lions?” He helped her into the carriage festooned with pink camellias and yellow daffodils, the scent heady.

“Only if they’re bad Christians. Start with that family of slingers back there.” She arranged her gossamer skirts around her shapely legs, her white silk slippers peeking out from the hem. “Some people don’t know how to behave in public.”

“Your wish is my command. I’ve even given up my illicit activities for you, so see how you’ve reformed me.” He sat beside her and took her delicately gloved hand in his larger gloved hand. The driver started the team of white horses sporting ostrich feathers down the path.

His tenants gathered to wish him well, tossing flowers, and more grain. Some of the women grappled for the grain, complaining they could make much needed bread with it.

The open carriage rambled down the path past pungent hedgerows and beeches with fiery orange leaves.