The Madcap Marriage (3 page)

He swayed. “We need a special license, Miss Helen. Doctors Commons is the only place to get one.” Narrowing his eyes, he added, “You
are
of age, I presume.”

“Twenty-two. Quite on the shelf.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” He brushed her hip, swirling heat into her stomach. Every touch had done that since she’d run him down. And that kiss…

He scrambled her wits, making the last hour seem even more unreal.

She hadn’t seen him before crashing into him, then had been too stunned to back off – and not because of the impact. He was tall, dark, and hard. Very hard. And blazingly masculine, exuding power that demanded attention. Those muscular arms and shoulders needed no padding to fill his well-cut coat. His legs were equally fine. A curly-brimmed beaver hat pressed dark curls onto his forehead, reminding her strongly of Alex—

Wrenching her thoughts from the cad who had jilted her four years earlier, she focused on Mr. Thomas. Or tried to. It was hard to think through a pounding head and churning stomach.

His most surprising feature was the silver filigree that cupped his left cheekbone like delicate lace, reflecting the silver-gray of his eyes and adding intrigue and character to a face that might have seemed conventionally handsome otherwise. Before she’d realized her intent, her finger had traced that enticing scar. It was clearly old, for it blended smoothly into his skin.

Heat had seared her fingertips. Then his mouth had plundered hers, shutting down all thought. Not until she’d identified the hardest muscle of all had she come to her senses.

Thank God she’d pulled away. Another time she would have fled, but she was desperate. And he’d been her only hope. The narrow street had been quite empty, and his arms had seemed so very safe….

Think!

Her ears buzzed louder than a beehive.

Rafael Thomas, viscount’s heir. That was all she knew about him. Name and station. Why would he offer marriage?  She tried to imagine, but Steven’s blow had scrambled her wits.

Even with the scar, he could have anyone he chose, and he must know it. She could imagine women throwing themselves at his feet, for he exuded an aura that commanded her to touch, explore, and demand satisfaction. Every brush of his body strengthened the command. Every whiff of his scent urged her closer. Her hand rose—

Shocked at the images forming in her mind, she shook her head – and immediately regretted it as pain knifed through her skull. Steven had halted the carriage as the church tower tolled four. So unless she’d been with Mr. Thomas far longer than she thought, she had been unconscious for half an hour. Concussions muddled thinking, which ought to prompt caution. If these sensual longings were a side effect, they might disappear by morning.

Yet Mr. Thomas was right. With Lord Alquist dead, she had nowhere to go. London was dangerous for a woman alone. With her lack of either money or maid, no reputable innkeeper would accept her. So he was her only hope. She should thank Fate that he was offering marriage rather than ruination. That alone indicated an honorable character. She could do worse – Dudley, for instance.

“Well?” he demanded.

Her hands twisted in her lap, but she nodded. “You have done me a great honor, Mr. Thomas. I will endeavor to make you a proper wife.”

Relief was so dizzying that Rafe nearly fell off Caesar.
Marry the first girl I see
. “You might as well call me Rafe, my dear,” he managed. “You have made me the happiest of men.”

The declaration dealt a fatal blow to his stomach. Twisting sideways, he retched again and again, dredging up his very toenails. His betrothed – another spasm hit with the word – uttered soothing sounds, adding embarrassment to his discomfort.

Nearly a quarter hour passed before he headed for Blackfriar’s Bridge and Doctors Commons, one arm wrapped securely around her as if fearing she might disappear.

Fool … fool … fool.

The charge battered his head with every step. What the devil had he done? 

He was worse than a fool. This latest impulse might ruin him completely. What did he know about Miss Helen St. James anyway?  She might be mad or diseased or incapable of intelligent thought. Anyone accepting such a ramshackle proposal must have something seriously wrong with her. She possessed an estate, uncommon beauty, and a vibrancy that demanded attention. So why was she unwed at the advanced age of twenty-two?

Yet it was done. Having given his word, he could not renege. And the match would end the fight over Alice once and for all.

But never in his wildest dreams had he expected this to be his wedding night.

Chapter Two

Helen suppressed another wave of dizziness as she pushed the last bites of beef listlessly around her plate. The little she’d eaten was curdling in her stomach.

Three hours had passed since she’d rammed into Rafe. Her head pounded worse than ever, making it impossible to concentrate. Surely this was a nightmare. Any moment she would awaken and—

“Is the food not to your liking?” Rafe asked.

The question cut through her rising panic. “It’s fine.” Transferring a sliver of meat to her mouth, she gamely chewed, surprised that he’d noticed her abstraction.

He was so drunk that he’d nearly fallen from his horse on Blackfriar’s Bridge. The effort to hold him upright had increased her own dizziness and activated her conscience. By the time they’d reached Doctors Commons, it had been screaming – he had no idea what he was doing; wedding a stranger was insanely reckless; her best course was to cry off and find some other escape.

Yet honor had forbidden her to cry off. Alex had already tarnished her reputation. A jilt – even in such ridiculous circumstances – would worsen it. She couldn’t do it.

Be honest
, she admonished herself as Rafe picked at his dinner.
You expected someone else to call a halt
.

She blushed.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

How had he noticed?  She could have sworn his eyes were on his food.

“Quite all right,” she murmured. “Though it seems rather warm tonight.”

Rafe’s knife clattered to the floor. A dozen diners turned to stare as his gaze moved lazily over her body.

Embarrassed, Helen ducked her head. This was all her fault. She should have protested at Doctors Commons. She knew Rafe was too drunk to be competent. He’d leaned so heavily on her shoulder that she’d practically carried him into the building. Instead of dragging him inside, she should have demanded that he escort her to one of his society friends – there had to be many who would have taken her in. Or she could have asked about old schoolmates who might be in town. Marriage was an absurd solution. He could have protected her just as well by delivering her to whomever had taken over as her guardian – or to Alquist’s solicitor, for that matter.

Now it was too late. Instead of protesting, she’d meekly accepted his offer, too desperate to think clearly. And Rafe had seemed safe….

“Where is your trunk?” he asked, jerking her thoughts back to the dining room. “We must fetch it.”

“No.” She tucked her trembling hands under the table – his question revived her terror. “My uncle has it, but I must speak with my trustees before going near him. I doubt he will part with it anyway.”

Surprise flashed across Rafe’s face. “It is yours. No gentleman would keep it.”

“He is no gentleman and can cause untold trouble. He has already convinced my trustees to violate trust provisions by setting him in charge of my estate. I must reach them before he can poison them further against me. Unless I’m waiting when the bank opens tomorrow…” 

He nodded, lapsing into silence. A forearm propped against the table seemed to hold him upright, though she no longer trusted appearances – a lesson learned at Doctors Commons.

The moment she’d pushed open the archbishop’s door, Rafe had straightened, walked inside unaided, and turned on his charm. He had an abundance of charm. The archbishop’s clerk had nearly tripped in his haste to serve them. Helen had been too busy fighting off a swoon to protest.

Damn her for a fool. She knew that drunkards were notoriously single-minded, refusing to relinquish whatever idea was stuck in their befuddled heads. A neighbor had once tottered halfway to Taunton before sobering enough to question his mission. Thus she’d been the only one with any sense.

Not that she’d used it. She should have expected charm. Rafe was a London gentleman much like Alex – six feet tall, with the same dark good looks and blazing masculinity. Thus it followed that he also used charm to deflect attention from lies, dishonor, betrayal—

She wrenched her mind from the past. Rafe had not betrayed her. Charm made him dangerous, but only time would tell whether he used it to promote dishonor as Alex had done. So far, it had only promoted the plan she’d stupidly accepted.

He’d charmed the clerk into issuing a special license even though they’d arrived at closing time. Then he’d hustled her down the street, where he’d played the ardent lover for the rector’s benefit. The man had been beaming when they left.

She’d been too surprised to protest. Not until Rafe whisked her into this hotel had she caught her breath enough to fear that Rafe, like Alex, used charm to glide through life with minimal discomfort. There was a reason why the law required waiting periods before marriage and why only the Archbishop of Canterbury could grant an exemption to that rule. Marriage was forever, so both parties needed clear heads. If they hadn’t been so near his office…

“Drunken foolishness,” she murmured, crumbling bread onto her plate.

“Did you say something?” he asked.

She shook her head – gingerly.

“What will you wear to the bank if you don’t retrieve your trunk?”  He remained stuck on her wardrobe. “You can hardly call on your trustees dressed like that – not if you expect them to take you seriously.”

She glanced at her gown. She’d done her best to smooth snags and repair rips, but it remained ragged. “I will have to take that chance. You don’t know my uncle.”

“No. But I do know bankers. Tomorrow’s first call must be on a dressmaker. Mademoiselle Jeanette is the best. With luck she will have something made up that can be fitted for immediate use. You can’t arrive at the bank dressed like a beggar.”

Stubbornness glared from his eyes, but he was right. She knew better than to offer men an excuse to dismiss her. Even those who knew she was conducting legitimate business often ignored her. Men scorned any female who ventured beyond the drawing room, so she would need every weapon at her disposal tomorrow, including a well-cut, dignified gown.

“Very well, but that means rising at first light.”

He flinched, but returned his eyes to his dinner.

Raucous laughter erupted from a boisterous group in the corner. Four men sprawled in repletion. Their companion drained a tankard of ale, then slapped his thigh when his next comment drew more guffaws. They looked like poor merchants rather than gentlemen. It was a shock to realize that they fit the dining room quite well. She’d paid it little heed earlier, but shabby was the kindest description. Stains marred the wallcoverings. Mends dotted the tablecloths. The chairs were sturdy rather than stylish, and most needed refinishing. This was not a hotel that catered to society.

Helen dropped her head, unwilling to draw attention by staring at the other diners.

Rafe sighed. “I hope Jeanette can dress you quickly. If she has nothing made up—”

“All dressmakers keep mourning gowns on hand.” She shrugged.

“I thought your father—”

“True. Mourning is past for him, but my mother died last month.”

He eyed her gown, provoking a new blush.

“My uncle demanded that I wear yellow today.” Which should have put her on guard, but she’d been too immersed in her own plans to notice – a mistake that might cost her dearly. “I will switch to half-mourning in deference to our marriage, but black will do for tomorrow.”

“Of course. It might even aid you with the trustees.” His eyes gleamed.

His lack of questions seemed curious. He should be demanding details of her estate and trust. Gentlemen expected good dowries. Such silence raised alarms.

She quelled her sudden panic, for he was no fortune hunter. There was no way he could know about her inheritance, which was why she’d accepted him. The existence of a trust would seem routine since unmarried ladies could not own property. He knew she had an estate, so it must be in trust. He had no reason to expect more.

Her father had long feared that she would fall prey to a fortune hunter who would incarcerate or even kill her once he controlled her inheritance. Steven wasn’t the first to covet Audley and all that went with it. A dozen others had sniffed at her heels over the years. Even a sordid reputation did not deter the desperate. Her father’s fears had mushroomed as his death approached, prompting frequent warnings about men like Steven, who had married wealth, then locked his wife in an asylum the moment she produced a son.

Helen knew of worse examples. Her closest friend had been swept off her feet by a fortune hunter, accepting his protestations of love as genuine. But a month after their hurried wedding, Clara had fatally fallen from a cliff – despite that she hated walking and never went out alone. Charles had sworn through his tears that it had to have been an accident, for Clara would never have taken her own life. His insistence might fool the magistrate, who had done everything possible to cover her suicide, but Helen knew it had been murder. Barely a fortnight later Charles had wed a dowerless childhood playmate, who gave birth to an eight-pound boy five months afterward – a scant seven months after he’d met Clara.

Nightmares had stalked her ever since – terrifying dreams in which greedy hands threw her over cliffs, shoved her into burning buildings, held her under icy water… 

At least she needn’t fear murder with Rafe. Ignorant of her fortune, he had wed her solely from chivalry.
I’ll protect you
, he’d vowed as they’d entered the church.
Your uncle can’t touch you now.
It was a heartwarming thought. She’d been in charge for so long, with no one she could rely on to—