The Thoroughly Compromised Bride (11 page)

Several minutes of strained silence had passed, and she knew that if they were to continue in close proximity for the next few hours, something must be done to ease the situation.

Taking a deep breath to bolster her courage, she said in a conciliating tone, “Charles, this will not do. I am more sorry than I can say for having been such a sad disappointment to you, but, much as I might wish it, I cannot alter the past. Neither can I alter the fact that we cannot be rid of each other’s company for several hours yet. It would seem to me that the more comfortable course, for both of us, would be to try for a little more civility. Surely, sustained with the knowledge that you may be shed of me for all time once we reach Bath, you could manage just a trifle more amiability.”

His eyebrows rose in exaggerated surprise. “Shed of you. Miss Ashton? You mistake the matter. Unfortunately, much as I might wish it, I cannot be shed of you so easily.”

“I—what are you saying?”

“You do not always think things through, do you? But I have, and it has occurred to me that you have managed, quite successfully, to avoid exposing your sordid past in public. In the eyes of Society, your reputation is unblemished—up to this point. It is my misfortune that after this little escapade, Society will see
me
as the man who compromised you. And, being a gentleman, I am barred from disclosing the information that you were already most thoroughly compromised before ever I had the dubious pleasure of meeting you.”

“You cannot mean that you still wish to marry me!” she exclaimed.

“It is not a matter of wishing. It is a matter of being constrained.”

Elizabeth went quickly from stunned disbelief and hurt to deepest outrage. “Oh, no!” she cried. “I’d as lief be the world’s most defiled pariah as marry you now!”

He shrugged indifferently, as though her wishes were of little importance to him. “I wish to leave here within the half hour. Will you be ready?”

“Certainly!”

Throwing her napkin upon the table, she rose abruptly and walked from the room as quickly as she could while still retaining a measure of dignity. But once in the hallway, with the door shut, she closed her eyes and leaned back against it, waiting for her tumultuous emotions to subside. She could not recall ever being so hurt and humiliated. Never in her entire life had she been treated so. And to think that she had several more hours of the same doubtful pleasure to look forward to! The thought made her stomach tighten painfully. How was she to endure it?

At that moment, Elizabeth became aware of a commotion on the stairs, and looked up to see Mr. and Mrs. Parker descending. They were attired in outdoor clothing, Mr. Parker hampered by several pieces of baggage, and Mrs. Parker issuing frequent sharp warnings interspersed with officious instructions for him. It was clear that they were preparing to depart from the inn, and Elizabeth pushed back more firmly against the parlour door so as to be out of their way.

While brushing past her, apparently oblivious to her presence, Mrs. Parker was saying querulously, “Were it not for your delaying our departure in the first place, Mr. Parker, we should have been comfortably fixed in Bath days since. But it is ever so with you! You think more of your confounded business than of
my
well-being. I only hope that we may not be on the road for hours longer than necessary, but I do not depend upon it!”

Elizabeth, hearing this, was seized with a sudden inspiration, and not allowing herself time to change her mind or to consider the folly of her action, she stepped quickly forward to say, “Excuse me, Mrs. Parker, but I wonder if I might ask a very great favour of you?”

A few minutes later, having collected her belongings and written a hasty note for Charles, she stepped into the Parkers’ travelling coach. And only then, as it turned out of the inn yard and onto the road to Bath, did she begin to wonder if she had perhaps jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Immediately upon Elizabeth’s leaving the parlour that morning, Charles had suffered a pang of conscience for his cavalier treatment of her. Her expressive eyes had been unable to disguise the hurt and shock he had caused her, and he had risen from the table almost as soon as she, his hand reaching out to her. But of course she had not seen that, and he had not been able to utter the words which could have halted her flight from the room, for in spite of his contrition, he could not wholly banish the anger that had taken strong possession of him. And one deplorable part of himself had felt glad that she was suffering as much as he.

Damn it! She had deceived him, and he had every right to feel betrayed—any man would. How could he have been so mistaken in his assessment of her character? He had thought her so perfect, when all the time she was no better than some and worse than many, and he had instinctively wanted to strike out at her, to retaliate for the bitter blow she had dealt him.

But he would not brood on that now. It would serve no useful purpose, and since they must go forward with this farce of a marriage, they would get over the heavy ground more lightly if they could, as she had said, behave civilly to one another. To be forever at daggers drawn would only make this affair more awkward and uncomfortable, and God knew it was already that.

So he had made up his mind that in future he would conduct himself with nothing less than scrupulous politeness towards Elizabeth. But then her note had been delivered, informing him that she had left with the Parkers, and all his good intentions had gone by the wayside. Of all the damned, mutton-headed things for her to have done!

A half hour later, he was tooling his curricle towards Bath at no more than a moderate pace—for he had no intention of overtaking the Parkers and thus rescuing Elizabeth—and occupying the time in devising ways in which he might, most effectively, point out to her the error of her latest start. He had just thought of a particularly incisive phrase, having to do with her want of discretion, when he came upon the Parkers’ carriage, lying upon its side in the snow-covered ditch which bordered the road, and he pulled up shortly.

He knew, without the telling, that they had taken the curve here at too fast a pace for the condition of the road. In one comprehensive glance he took in the sight of the Parkers and their coachman hovering beside the overturned vehicle, but Elizabeth was not with them, and his heart immediately leapt into his throat as a picture of her, severely injured or dead, flashed into his mind.

In the next instant, however, he discovered her sitting calmly upon a fallen log at the other side of the road. This discovery, which should have afforded him the greatest relief, contrarily angered him beyond all reason, and his anger was only enhanced by the needless fright she had caused him. Never mind that it had not been intentional on her part; she was at fault for bolting with the Parkers in the first place.

Acutely conscious of the presence of others, he controlled his longing to give her a rare trimming, and as she stood and stepped towards him, he sprang down and handed her the reins. “Kindly hold the horses while I see if I can be of assistance over there,” he said through gritted teeth.

Elizabeth took the reins from him without speaking and he strode across the road to confer with the Parkers, but it was only a matter of a few moments until he was back and handing her up into his curricle.

From the time immediately following the accident until Charles’s appearance on the scene, Elizabeth had felt a not unpleasant apathy, once she had ascertained that she was uninjured except for feeling rather battered and bruised. But now a reaction was setting in, and Charles could feel the trembling in her hand as he assisted her up.

He waited until they were on their way, then asked gruffly, “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I am fine,” she told him.

Subjecting her to a close scrutiny, he saw her give an involuntary shiver, and at the same time he detected an ugly bruise forming on her temple. The better part of his pique faded away in a rush of concern for her. “You are not!” he contradicted, and reached over to wrap the lap-robe more snugly about her legs.

“Thank you,” she murmured, and after a pause, “What of the Parkers?”

“Their coachman will ride one of the carriage horses back to the inn for assistance.”

He did not mention the fact that, owing to the delay that the accident would cause them, the Parkers had decided against going on to Bath. Let Elizabeth stew for a time, imagining the gossip they might stir up. She would be well served for showing such poor judgment as to run off with them. Though he would never have admitted it, his pride still smarted to think that she would prefer their company to his.

“Oh,” said Elizabeth in answer to him.

They had been silent for several minutes when she said quietly, “I am sorry. 1 should not have gone off with them as I did.”

“Well, why the devil did you?” he demanded, reminded of his grievances.

“Because you were being so damnably hateful! Oh, dear! There I go, losing my temper when I had only just promised myself I would not.”

In spite of himself, a grin tugged at his mouth at this reminder of her unusual upbringing, and he cleared his throat loudly, resisting the unwelcome urge. “Yes, that’s all very well, but I cannot, for the life of me, see how you could have thought it preferable to place yourself at the mercy of that tattle-mongering female. Your wits must have gone a-begging!”

“Very likely!” she said primly. “It is a pity that we cannot all be perfect.”

“Well, we both know that you most certainly are not!” he was goaded into retorting, and was immediately sorry for it.

“Yes,” she agreed in a hollow voice, and turned her head away, pretending to be absorbed in watching the passing scenery.

He muttered a curse, then said, “Forgive me, Elizabeth. As a matter of fact, I believe, as you do, that we must try for some civility in our dealings with each other.”

Looking at him hopefully, she said, “Oh, yes! It will make this drive so much more bearable.”

He glanced at her sharply. “I was not only speaking of this drive: I was speaking of our marriage, too.”

Her eyes widened before she frowned, but when she spoke, her voice was perfectly amiable. “I don’t know what maggot you have in your brain, Charles, but we are not going to be married.”

He gave her one exasperated look, while her chin rose an inch or so into the air, and those were the last words spoken until they had nearly reached Bath.

“I gave you credit for more good sense than this,” he remarked, as though there had been no break in their conversation. “You have no choice but to marry me.”

“Oh, but I do! I have thought it all out, and have decided that if necessary. Aunt Emily and I shall remove to some place where I am not known.”

He gave a short, derisive laugh, and said, “My foolish, green girl! Do you not know that there is no place you can go where gossip will not follow you, or even arrive before you? Do you intend to get rid of all your servants and hire new ones? Even then, I promise you, you would not be safe from the scandal-mongers!”

She felt a stab of dismay, but with every appearance of unconcern, replied, “Well, it is not your problem, so you may put it out of your mind with a clear conscience.”

“Oh, yes! I daresay it would please you no end to see my reputation further blackened!”

“Gammon! It is common knowledge that no one cares a fig for how black a man’s reputation may be!”

He threw her a fulminating look. “You would be well served if I washed my hands of you.”

“Pray do!” was her rejoinder, but then she caught herself and said, penitently, “Oh, Charles, listen to us! We are at it again! Please believe me when I say that it would be the greatest mistake for you to marry me, feeling as you do.”

He looked at her oddly, but as they had arrived in Upper Camden Place, he made no reply, and it was in a less than felicitous mood that they entered the drawing room a few moments later.

Aunt Emily and Lady Langley had heard the sounds of their arrival and were waiting, their expressions a peculiar mixture of fright, concern and guilt when Elizabeth and Charles walked into the room. The two women looked so like naughty children caught pilfering the cookie jar that without thought, Elizabeth’s and Charles’s eyes met, sharing the humour of the situation. But, suddenly becoming aware of what they were doing, they quickly looked away, and fixed their relatives with stern glares.

Both ladies appeared somewhat haggard; it had been a nerve-wracking week. Emily emitted a small yelp, and Lady Langley, who had spent every day in Upper Camden Place, worrying and praying, exclaimed, “Thank God, you are back! You can have no notion of what we have been through! My poor nerves are quite frazzled!”

Charles had moved to stand before his sister, and hands on hips, a sneer on his lips, he stared down at her. She cowered back into her chair as he said scathingly, “You’ve never had a frazzled nerve in your life! Stop prating nonsense about what you have been through and begin explaining yourself!”

“Really, Charles!” said her ladyship indignantly. “It was not my fault!”

“No, it was not her fault,” echoed Emily.

“It was simply an unfortunate mistake,” his sister informed him. “I completely misunderstood Melanie’s note, and—only imagine!—she was spending the day with Lucinda the whole time!”

“An importunate mistake,” breathed Emily.

The severity of Charles’s expression had not lessened, and her ladyship hurried on, “Well, you can have no idea of our surprise when we realized what had happened. And who could guess that we would have that ghastly snow?”

“Yes, that ghastly snow,” choked out Emily.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Aunt Emily,” cried Elizabeth irritably, “If you can do nothing but echo Lady Langley, then do just be quiet!”

Looking thoroughly cowed, Emily lapsed into silence.

“So,” said Charles awfully, “you are going to brazen it out, are you? You aren’t going to admit the fact that the two of you deliberately planned this whole business, eh?”