The Madcap Marriage (2 page)

“If you walk out that door, I’ll leave every groat to a benevolent society. You’ll never receive another shilling from me.”

Rafe laughed. “A toothless threat from an impotent tyrant. I haven’t received a shilling from you in ten years, Hillcrest. Keep your money. I don’t need it. As for Alice, if you want Paulus Grange so badly, marry her yourself. I refuse.”

“If you leave, Pauling will sue you for breach of promise.”

“Impossible.” Rafe vulgarly gulped brandy from the decanter, then grinned as Hillcrest’s face purpled. “Oh, he can probably sue you. But I signed nothing, and I promised nothing. Do you recall the part of the marriage service that requires a response from the groom?  If you drag me to the altar, that response will be
Never!
  Rather than accept Alice, I would marry the first girl I see. Lady or leper, princess or prostitute, it makes no difference. And that’s a vow.”

Still carrying the decanter, he slammed the library door and stormed from the house.

At least the groom had kept Caesar ready, as ordered. He hoped Jameson was as smart. Swigging brandy to dull the pain of this latest betrayal, he cantered down the drive.

By the time he reached the turnpike, the decanter was empty and the sting of incipient tears had replaced his fury. How could Hillcrest be so cruel? 

Rafe shook his head. A better question was why he left himself vulnerable to Hillcrest’s attacks. He ought to know better, yet he’d obeyed this summons, hoping yet again that Hillcrest might finally consider him worthy of respect.

Stupid. When would he accept that they would never be close?  The battle lines had been drawn the moment an infant Rafe had showed a preference for his doting mother over his stern father. Nothing had changed. The price for his father’s acceptance remained repudiation of the woman Hillcrest despised.

Rafe always refused.

Lady Hillcrest had been a saint, devoting her life to shielding him from Hillcrest’s diatribes. It had been natural to protect her in turn. But Rafe’s loyalty had further inflamed Hillcrest. Her death had changed nothing. Rafe must now protect her memory from Hillcrest’s continuing attempts to turn her into the meek-mannered cipher he’d wanted.

He halted at an inn to refill the decanter.

If Alice had been different, he might have considered her, despite her dowry. But she was the antithesis of his ideal wife, having lifeless looks, a bland personality, and a mind incapable of original thought. Bedding her would be less exciting than watching wood decay.

He preferred women with spirit. Nothing heated the blood faster than a lively debate with a witty mind – especially when that mind was attached to a seductive body. And what better way to settle differences than a passionate romp in bed?  It was the sort of relationship he enjoyed with his liaisons.

Remounting Caesar, he spurred toward town.

His first call must be on his solicitor. He had never actually studied how much authority a parent had over an adult child. Was he right that Hillcrest’s signature could not bind him?  Were there other ways Hillcrest could interfere with his life?

That newspaper announcement would create scandal no matter how it played out. A lady could break a betrothal, but a gentleman could not. He hated the idea of publicly denouncing his father, but that might be the only way to avoid ostracism. He would not wed Alice.

Escaping ostracism would not restore his credit, though. His reputation would convince many matrons that he had compromised Alice, then refused to wed her. His two-week absence from town might support such tales.

He cursed his reputation – and his own idiocy. Ten years earlier, his mother’s death had triggered a month of debauchery and dissipation as he fought to assuage grief. That brief craziness had founded a reputation that haunted him to this day.

“There has to be a solution,” he mumbled, wishing he could think clearly. He shouldn’t have drunk so much brandy. Already his head felt muzzy, with swarms of bees buzzing in his ears.

He slowed Caesar to a walk as cobblestones replaced the rutted road. Five- and six-story buildings closed in on either side. A cacophony of clattering wheels, hooves, and shouts enfolded him as carts and carriages jostled for position on the crowded street, most headed for Blackfriar’s Bridge.

He swayed. That second bottle had left him more well-to-go than he’d been in years. Dizziness nearly unseated him as he tried to shake away the spots dancing before his eyes. Venders vied for his attention, offering meat pies and fresh milk, flowers and rag dolls, apples and sex.

He squinted at the bony prostitute. She must be starving if she was plying her trade this early. It was barely four.

Tossing her the decanter, he swerved down a side street and out of sight. She could eat for a week by pawning the bottle, and he needed both hands free if he was to stay on his horse.

Cursing this latest stupidity, he squinted at a sign, then turned down another street. He’d drunk fast and deep, so the effects were still catching up with him. His body craved sleep, but he had to see his solicitor. Maybe Shipley could cancel Hillcrest’s announcement. Surely the newspapers would cooperate when they learned that the notice was false.

An accident blocked most of the street, but he squeezed past and turned down Green Walk, a narrow lane skirting the wall surrounding Christchurch. Shipley’s office stood opposite its rusty gate.

“Devil take it,” he muttered, peering around as he dismounted. “Where’sh everybody?”  People usually clogged the lane, including half a dozen boys seeking half-farthings in exchange for minor services. He needed one to hold Caesar, but today even the boys were gone. Probably to gape at the accident – or pick the pockets of those gaping at the accident.

He was leading Caesar to the nearest lamppost when the screech of rusty hinges knifed through his head. A woman charged from the churchyard, nearly knocking him over. His free hand caught her before she bounced into the filthy street.

“Oh!”  The gasp was a husky contralto that snapped his nether regions to attention. “I didn’t see—  Ooh!”  Her second gasp was wantonly seductive. One hand slid down his chest while the other caressed the scarred cheek that fascinated so many of his conquests.

Another courtesan plying her trade early. But this one he would accept. And if she was half as talented as she seemed, he would keep her awhile.

“Very nice,” he murmured, examining her wares. She was nearly as tall as he, her tawny lashes level with his mouth. Fiery curls framed a heart-shaped face containing the greenest eyes he’d ever seen. Nipples puckered by a dampened yellow gown distracted attention from its shabbiness.

Clever. Very clever. His fingers itched to touch, his lips to suckle. What a temptress!  Circe herself could do no better. He’d hardened with astonishing speed.

Lust drove all thought from his mind. He wanted her. Needed her. If not for Caesar tugging on the rein, he would take her right now. Where the devil had everyone gone?

Business first
, he reminded himself, recalling why he was here. Lust must wait, though he needn’t postpone all pleasure.

Jerking her against him, he closed his mouth over hers, plundering her sweetness. His hand shifted to caress a breast already swollen with passion.

One shapely thigh rubbed his throbbing shaft as she swayed.

He lost himself in her taste, images tumbling through his head of fiery curls spread across a pillow, that wanton body pressing—

“No!” she gasped as his hand slipped down the front of her gown. She stumbled backward, shock blazing in her eyes.

It took him a moment to understand that his erection had startled her, and another moment to register that she hadn’t kissed him back….

He narrowed his eyes, clawing through the brandy fog to examine her again.

Her features were refined. A rose branch and several thorns clung to her skirt, explaining the snags. A reticule hung from one wrist. Her hair retained the imprint of a bonnet. She’d dashed through the gate as if the hounds of hell nipped at her heels. Was the terror now swirling in her eyes the cause of her flight or the result of his advances?  She was probably a virgin.

Damnation!
  His loins still throbbed. But avoiding virgins was the one rule he’d never broken, not even during the madness of ten years ago.

“Pardon me.” Though frustration bit deep, his apology was sincere, if a bit slurred. “I didn’t expect to find a lady here. Why are you alone?”

A thud echoed across the churchyard, widening her pupils. “Please help me, sir. Can you direct me to Berkeley Square?  My guardian lives there.”

“What?”  He knew he was drunk, but why was she in Southwark if she was seeking Berkeley Square?  It was miles away on the other side of the Thames.

She inhaled, tightening her gown across that magnificent bosom and trapping his gaze on her pebbled nipples. His shaft pressed painfully against his pantaloons.

Words reverberated inside his head –
marry the first girl I see.
Marriage would be no hardship with this one and might solve all his problems.

“—uncle is forcing me to wed my odious cousin,” she was saying in a very cultured voice. “I jumped from a window, but I won’t be safe until I reach my guardian. Quickly, sir, before they catch me. How do I reach Berkeley Square?”

“How is it that your guardian lost track of you?” he asked absently, his eyes still trapped. His head whirled faster. Heat surged through his loins.
First girl … marry … princess or prostitute…

“My uncle incarcerated me because he wants my estate. Please, sir. There is no time.” Louder thuds echoed. She lowered her voice. “They will find me gone at any moment. How do I get to Alquist House in Berkeley Square?”

The name wrenched his gaze to eyes seething with desperation. “Lord Alquist is your guardian?”

She nodded.

“He died a fortnight ago,” Rafe said slowly. “I just returned from his burial. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

She swayed, blanching, one hand covering her mouth. “Dear Lord. No wonder he dared bring me to London. What am I to do?”  Muffled shouts joined the thuds. “He’s coming. I have to leave. My trustees are with Formsby’s Bank on Broad Street. Can you direct me there?”

The bang of a door hitting a wall signaled a broken lock. Voices shouted over one another.

“Gone!”

“—ought to wring her—”

“Damn the bitch!”

“—window—”

“—broken roses—”

Rafe’s heart raced. Her problem was worse than his. Her pursuers sounded too angry for a rational discussion.

“I’ll take you.” He tossed her across Caesar’s withers, then swung up behind her as curses flowed from the churchyard. “Stay low and hang on.”

Spurring to a canter, he kept her head below the top of the wall so the men racing toward the gate would not see her. The moment Caesar cleared the church, he turned down a side street, then into a maze of narrow lanes.

“Who are you?” he demanded when they were out of sight, hoping conversation would distract him from another wave of lust – every stride ground her hip against his erection.

“Helen St. James, daughter of Sir Arthur St. James of Audley Court, Somerset.” She flung an arm around his neck as he rounded another corner, plastering her against his body.

“The honorable Rafael Thomas, at your service,” he managed. With her head pressed against his chin, her perfume engulfed him. Heliotrope, his mother’s favorite scent.

Marry the first girl I see
. She was certainly spirited enough.

In a bid to restore his reason, he ducked into an alcove between two buildings so he could put some space between them.

“Relax,” he commanded, prying her fingers loose. “You are safe.”

She released him, but his relief was short-lived. Now it was her eyes that captured him, drowning him in their green depths. If only he had full control of his faculties!  But his head spun worse than ever. Clatters and shouts from the street beat dully against ears awash in the rush of blood. He burned wherever she touched him. Her taste—

Gathering his few remaining wits, he forced his mind back to business. “We have a problem, Miss Shan-Sin” —he couldn’t get
St. James
to roll off his tongue, so he settled on— “Miss Helen. I can deliver you to Broad Street, but the trip will take the best part of an hour. By then the bank will be closed. Is there anyone you can stay with until morning?”

“I have no acquaintances in town just now. My uncle has held me hostage since my father died last year. I planned to slip away tonight and find Lord Alquist, but you say he is dead.”

“He was struck down by a wagon two weeks ago.”

“Then what am I to do?”

Church bells chimed five.

It was far too late to seek Shipley’s help. The solicitor couldn’t reach one newspaper before it went to press, let alone the dozen that might have received Hillcrest’s announcement. Not all of them were based in Fleet Street.

Dizziness spread to his stomach, which threatened to cast up the brandy. That reckless vow again screamed through his mind.
Marry the first girl I see … first girl I see … first—

“You must marry me.” The words shocked him, though he didn’t reclaim them. It was the best solution for both of them. “It is the only way to retain your reputation. Spending the night together is bad enough. Leaving you alone would be worse. Without my protection, you will be ruined by morning – provided you live that long. London is dangerous.”

“Marry you?”  She choked.

He met her gaze. “I’m not such a bad bargain, Miss Helen. I’m heir to a viscount and considered a gentlemen in deed as well as blood.” At least in most circles. “Marriage will thwart your uncle. But we’ll have to hurry. Doctors Commons closes soon.”

“Doctors Commons.”

Helen cursed the shock that froze her tongue. She stared at Mr. Thomas – the very drunk Mr. Thomas. His breath smelled strongly of brandy. His tongue was tied in knots. Green-tinged cheeks and blurry eyes confirmed his condition – foxed to the gills. At least he wasn’t violent. She’d barely escaped a beating the last time Dudley had come home in his cups. While Mr. Thomas had been on the verge of ravishing her right on the street, she could hardly deny that she’d invited his advances. Since her refusal, he’d been a perfect gentleman.