The Nude (full-length historical romance) (24 page)

Doctor Pryor glanced up from Elsbeth for only a moment. “Ah, Reverend Waver, I enjoyed Sunday’s sermon as always. The thought of taking one loaf and making many in our own lives really gave me something to contemplate. You must come by and join my wife and I for dinner some time this week. She’s been after me to invite you.”

“Vicar.” Nigel took Sirius’s hand in greeting. “Thank you for coming.”

“We’re not in need of his services today, my lord,” Doctor Pryor said. “This young lady has suffered only a flesh wound. The bullet has passed through her side without much damage. As long as we can stave off infection, she’ll be traipsing through the countryside in no time.”

“I am glad to hear I’m not needed after all. Lord Edgeware,” Sirius said with a bow and started toward the door.

Nigel caught his arm. “Wait, Vicar. But you are needed.”

Sirius smiled in that ethereal way of his. “Yes?”

“I insist you perform the marriage ceremony for Lady Mercer and myself. Now. You must marry us right now.”

His words shocked the room into silence.

Only Sirius seemed to take the demand in good stride. “I understand you’re upset over this accident. The lady—” he gave a nod in the direction of the bed “—she is your intended?”

“Yes.” He supposed he would have to submit to answering a few of the vicar’s questions before he could reasonably expect to proceed with the business of marriage.

“I sympathize with your concern, Edgeware, but I don’t see the need for such haste. Have the banns even been read?”

“No, but—”

“Doctor Pryor, is the young woman in any danger of succumbing to her injuries?”

“No, Reverend. We’ll have to keep an eye out for fever and infection. But that won’t happen for a day or two.”

Sirius’s smile deepened. “Now there, see. You have no need to rush.”

“But the danger of infection—” Nigel became suddenly very aware of the other people in the room. He led the vicar out into the hallway. His heart began pounding as he realized no one was going to turn his course. “Something might happen. Even Doctor Pryor admits he cannot be assured of her recovery.” He swallowed hard. “If something were to happen, if she were to . . . were to . . . I would want her to have my name.”

Sirius patted him on the shoulder. “Very well. I suppose I could petition the bishop for a special license after the ceremony. Perhaps he will agree with the urgency of the situation.”

Several minutes later Doctor Pryor banned everyone from the room, even Nigel, whom he claimed was hovering far too close. Elsbeth’s cousins left with Severin, saying they would wait in the drawing room. Nigel hesitated at the door. He knew he should follow the ladies to make sure they were properly chaperoned and to make sure the rest of the guests were being properly looked after. But the neatly stacked boxes just outside the door stopped him.

Damnation. Elsbeth had been planning to leave him? She hadn’t been willing to give him the chance to prove to her how much he wanted this marriage? She hadn’t been willing to listen to what he might say?

He suddenly needed to be alone.

He made it halfway down the hall when a small voice called out, “Milord?”

He turned. The stout maid who’d hovered with him at Elsbeth’s bedside marched toward him. “Yes?” he asked.

“You plan to marry my ladyship?”

“Yes, I do.”

The maid wrinkled her nose with displeasure. “My ladyship didn’t seem at all pleased by your suit. She was most upset this morning, she was, fidgeting with everything in sight.”

“She has yet to become accustomed to the idea.” He turned to continue down the hall, but the maid would not let him leave just yet.

“She doesn’t need another blooming man,” she hissed. “She is ’appier now. She is ’appier without a bloomin’ husband. An’ I am ’appier without ’aving to nurse my ladyship back to ’ealth.”

He peeled her hand from his sleeve. “The gunshot wound was an accident.”

“You ’aven’t taken my meaning, milord.” She hesitated. “Lord Mercer—” she lowered her voice “—’e was a monster, ’e was. My lady doesn’t need another man like ’im.”

Nigel’s heart stopped beating. “Another man like him?” he asked slowly.

“He liked to hurt her somethin’ fierce, milord, and far too often. And ’e’d not let me call a surgeon. ’E’d sooner let ’er die than ’elp ’er, ’e’d said.”

Mercer had better be in hell.

“Go back to your lady.” His voice trembled with rage. Damn the false mask of Dionysus. Damn his own failings. He should join Lord Mercer in hell. He should suffer for her marriage to that bastard and the pain he’d unwittingly led
his
beautiful little dove into.

“Milord?” The maid’s eyes nearly popped out of her head.

“Go!” he ordered, his sanity threatening to crumble. “Help the doctor make her comfortable. I will return to the bedchamber in an hour with the vicar. Do not doubt this. I will marry your lady today.”

* * * * *

Elsbeth’s vision swam in and out of focus. She blinked; her eyelids felt as thick as a wool blanket. Her body didn’t feel at all steady. One arm seemed too long, the other too short.

Edgeware was there, caressing her hand.

She furrowed her brows—at least she thought that was what she had done. Edgeware was dressed in a highly ornate light blue coat. She couldn’t fathom why he would be dressed in such finery. His cravat cascaded in a multitude of starched waves. And he looked very, very serious.

Too serious.

Oh . . . dear. Was she drooling?

They had plied her with laudanum. That was a certainty. As a child she’d once fallen ill with a terrible fever. The doctor had kept pouring the opium concoction down her gullet while bleeding her dry.

She was lucky she had not died.

Unlike now. She must be dying from that silly, stray bullet. Why else would the local vicar be standing beside Nigel, incanting some terribly formal-sounding ceremony? Though she couldn’t seem to make her drowsy mind concentrate on his words for more than a sentence or two, she could tell by his tone that he was performing a ceremony.

“. . . charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together . . .” his droning words trailed away.

Wait a blessed minute!

The vicar was asking a question . . . an important question. She really needed to tell him what she had unsuccessfully tried to confess to Nigel earlier under that sprawling oak.

My, that tree was enormous.

No, if those men were discussing the wedding engagement, she really needed to stay sharp.

“I cannot marry Lord Edgeware,” she said. They must have understood her words, which was saying something since she could barely understand her slurred speech herself.

Edgeware sent her a quelling look that really disrupted her concentration. He gently squeezed her hand. His touch comforted her.

The vicar, who was the image of George, placed his hand on her arm and gentled his expression. “What are you saying, my dear?”

“I cannot marry. I-I tried to explain to him already this morning.”

“You
cannot
? But I thought—” He turned to Edgeware. “The-the lady is unwilling?”

“She is confused, Vicar. Please proceed.”

But the vicar didn’t seem at all pleased. He gently shook her arm, rousing her from another batch of wandering thoughts. “Speak, my lady.”

The room shifted and swam around. But she was determined.

There was no need to be embarrassed, she told herself. The only other people in the room, at least visible to her, were Molly and Doctor Pryor . . . nice man.

Wait, what did she need to say?

“I am barren,” she blurted out.

“I . . . see . . .” The vicar drew out those two words. At least it sounded like he had drawn them out. But in her drugged state, she couldn’t be too certain of anything.

Edgeware bent down and kissed her on the cheek.

“It doesn’t matter,” she could have sworn she heard him say.

* * * * *

Nigel lurked in the butler’s pantry, the tiny room that served as a corridor between the kitchen and the dining hall. The hall just beyond the door echoed with voices. The guests at the house party were undoubtedly dissecting every tidbit of information they knew regarding the “hunting mishap” while waiting for their host to arrive and supper to be served.

In no way did he want to join his guests gathered in there, but it was beyond rude—though forgivable considering the circumstances—that he hadn’t attended to them earlier. As host, he should have sought them out and offered reassuring words.

He had not.

And now he had to face them—those vultures—with the knowledge that they had already filled those nosey heads of theirs with a plethora of servant gossip.

He took a sip from the glass in his hand and gave a nod to the two footmen who had arrived with bottles of Nigel’s best wine.

“Good evening,” he said in a booming voice as he stepped into the dining hall. “Supper will be served in a trice. But first, I would like to raise our glasses in a toast.” He paused, giving time for the footmen to make their way around the table to fill the spiral-stemmed crystal goblets.

The room fell silent. All eyes turned to Nigel. George appeared especially perplexed and perhaps a bit out of favor with his friend at the moment.

“What the bloody hell is this nonsense about?” Uncle Charles muttered as Nigel took his place at the head of the table next to him.

Nigel raised his glass and gave all his guests a smile to placate them. They followed, lifting their wine goblets in the air, with a variety of confused emotions coloring their faces.

“I wish to offer a toast to my new bride, who because of the accident this morning sadly cannot join us tonight.”

“Bride?” nearly every guest at the table echoed.

“Elsbeth, the former dowager Lady Mercer, now the Marchioness of Edgeware, and I were wed this afternoon in a private ceremony. I hope you’ll join me in taking a drink to my bride’s quick recovery and our future happiness.”

A delicate crystal goblet dropped to the table, shattering. The amber liquid soaked into the lace tablecloth.

Nigel lowered his hand and met Charlie’s burning glare.

* * * * *

After a rather awkward supper and an even longer couple of hours in the drawing room listening to the disappointed young women entertain the guests with performances on the pianoforte, Nigel was finally able to escape into the cool night air on the terrace. Each and every mama in the drawing room watched his departure, frowning deeply and their eyes angry.

“A hunter’s stray bullet?” George asked from the darkness.

Nigel started at the voice, but quickly regained his composure. He leaned against a marble column. “The hunting party was traipsing through my open fields . . . on the opposite side of the estate. If this were a hunter, it was human prey he was after.”

“Our villain becomes more bold, Edgeware.”

Nigel tightened his fist, not able to stop himself from imagining the terrible fate that had nearly befallen his Elsbeth. “These attempts on my life must be linked back to the smugglers who used my beach the other night. Perhaps I’m a damned inconvenience to them, so the blackguards feel justified in resorting to murder. What a lucrative business they must have.”

“I’m not at all convinced that local smugglers are involved with this treachery.”

“You don’t need to be convinced.” He threw his arms up in frustration. “You aren’t the one they are trying to kill. Your wife wasn’t shot this morning. I have a plan to trap those outlaws, to smoke them out. And I intend to personally witness the hanging of every single person involved.”

“Be reasonable, Edgeware.”

“They will hang. I vow it.”

“And what if the people you hope to entrap are your villagers? The men and women who have grown up with you? What if they are only trying to make a living during tough times?”