The Wagered Miss Winslow (15 page)

Mollie’s full lower lip came out in a pout. “Nasty old woman,” she said, blinking rapidly in the hope she could produce a tear or two with which to impress her mistress. “You’d leave me here all alone to wither and die, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, and now it’s tears, is it?” Bridget rose from the chair she had been sitting in, giving a toss of her head to Mollie before she walked completely around Rosalind, inspecting her appearance from every angle. “Mairghread’s daughter actin’ the penitent. Mayhap she’ll be down on her knees in a moment. It’d be a fine day, that, if I thought for a moment I’d live ta see it.”

“You’re a fine one to talk!” Mollie parried, her chin thrusting forward belligerently. “I’ve heard all about how you lopped out o’ here all those years ago, your two fists stuffed with silver. Tell me why we should be takin’ a
thief
with us to London.”

Rosalind sighed, having days previously grown weary of the arguments that went back and forth between the two servants whenever they were within sight of each other for more than a few moments. “That will be enough, if you please. Unless it has slipped everyone’s minds, I am to be married in less than an hour.” She heard the nervous wobble in her voice and hoped that she was not the only one who had noticed.

Bridget and Mollie exchanged warning looks behind their mistress’ back, then nodded, wordlessly agreeing to hold their tongues—at least until Miss Rosalind had become a wife. It was a tricky business, this coddling of moody brides, and it wouldn’t do to set her off into a fit of weeping or some such thing.

Rosalind, seeing the servants’ nods, bit back a smile as she fussed with the three pink rosebuds that nestled in the center of the bodice of her gown, at just the strategically correct place. It still amazed her how acting the helpless female these past weeks had served to send everyone running to do her bidding, when she had always thought a calm, strong hand to be the way to go; but she was not about to investigate too deeply the reasons behind her success.

After all, it had been a long two weeks, this passage of time between her reluctant agreement to marry Beau Remington and this sunshiny morning that was to be her wedding day.

Beau, showing heretofore undisclosed depths of understanding, had made himself scarce for most of those fourteen days, seeing her only at the dining table while otherwise keeping busy familiarizing himself with the estate and leaving Rosalind to her own devices—which is to say, he gave her time to become used to the idea that she was soon to become Mrs. Beaumont Remington.

And that had taken some getting used to—especially when he smiled at her so that the tanned skin at the outside of his eyes crinkled, or when he had gathered Bridget to him one afternoon as Rosalind played the pianoforte, whirling the Irishwoman round and round the music room floor in a lively reel, or when he sat with her at night in the main saloon, an untouched glass of port all but slipping from his fingers as the small fire died in the grate and he told her of some of his exploits at sea with Mr. Hampshire, or when he left the study and she tiptoed in to see his detailed notes on the running of the estate and the long rows of numbers added once, twice, and yet again, as if he was still unsure that his catch-as-catch-can education would stand up under the rigors of running Winslow—no, Remington—Manor.

Rosalind was never without reminders of Beau’s presence on the estate. When she was not with him, she was with Bridget, who had been overjoyed to fill in the gaps of Beau’s history, regaling her with stories of his mischief while bringing her to tears with the tale of the day Bridget had felt it necessary to tell the twelve-year-old Bobby of his past—and his loss.

In short, and without hiding from the fact that her tender heart hadn’t stood much of a chance between Bridget’s stories and Beau’s brilliant smile, Rosalind knew herself to have tumbled into love with the man she was about to join in a marriage of convenience.

No wonder her hands trembled as she took the large bouquet of pink roses Mollie handed her as she prepared to leave her maidenly bedchamber for the last time and pledge her troth to the man whose handsome face filled her dreams, both waking and sleeping.

Vicar Thompson was not best pleased. His was a fine church, a most respectable church, and it had served the residents of Winchelsea for several centuries without ever before anyone of his congregation finding it necessary to go elsewhere to pronounce their vows.

He would have denied the request to marry Miss Rosalind Winslow and Mr. Beaumont Remington amid the ruins of St. Leonard’s, truly he would have, and been well within his rights to do so, if only it weren’t for the donation, the rather substantial donation, Mr. Remington had made to Vicar Thompson’s Roofing Fund.

Caught between, as he told his sweet wife, “a rock and a dry place,” Vicar Thompson had grudgingly agreed to preside over the ceremony, which was why he was now standing on the newly scythed grass in approximately the nave area of the ruined church (the hole in the sole of his boot allowing the morning damp to penetrate all the way to his darned socks), watching the odd assortment of guests assembling for the wedding.

It was a small party, a boon from heaven for which Vicar Thompson would be eternally grateful, for he did not wish for a large audience to this, his bending of his principles for monetary gain.

As they had been recruited to place the green-and-white striped canopy (on the off chance the day turned wet), Kyle, the groom from Winslow Manor, Jake, the ostler from the Grapes and Hoops, and Ned, the second cook at the Three Feathers, were standing to one side, all three slack-mouthed at the sight of Beaumont Remington dressed in his London finest. Willie Shanks, the chandler’s apprentice, and a lad who would normally not have missed such a sight, was abed with a putrid sore throat, so that Mollie, who had dressed herself in her Sunday best, had to content herself with flirting with only two thirds of her coterie of admirers (as she had no inkling of Kyle’s plans for her future).

Aside from Mollie, the tweeny, the cook, and two kitchen servants, most of the remainder of the invited company was comprised of Bridget Reilly—who was doing double duty as attendant to the bride—and two male guests: Riggs, who was to walk Rosalind down the makeshift aisle, and Woodrow, who had been chosen to stand as groomsman.

As the vicar’s long-suffering wife and moon-faced young daughter (who had
not
been invited), at a nod from the clergyman, joined their reedy, high-pitched voices together in a desultory hymn, Beau and his groomsman approached the small altar and turned to see Rosalind alight from the gaily decorated pony cart, Riggs holding her hand and helping with the descent.

They approached the altar, threading their way among the roped-off areas that marked Rosalind’s excavations, until they reached the length of white cloth that marked the aisle. Riggs, who had been manfully holding a tight rein on his emotions, began to sniffle.

Rosalind, nearly overset by the sight of her betrothed standing so solemnly, watching her progress, absently reached beneath the cuff of her left glove and extracted a lace-edged handkerchief, handing it to Riggs, who rewarded her by breaking into loud, gulping sobs.

“This is the most beautiful,
touching
scene I have ever witnessed!” Riggs explained to the frowning vicar when they had at last traversed the length of the white cloth and stood in front of the altar. “So romantic, so heartfelt! I am overcome!”

This passionate declaration, coming as it did just before Riggs delicately dabbed the lace-edged handkerchief to the corners of his eyes, robbed the vicar of his power of speech, so that Woodrow, a person who prided himself on the importance of presenting a restrained, elegant appearance, bowed politely to the vicar and took hold of Riggs’ elbow, guiding the man to a nearby chair before the “overcome” butler could expound at any great length about the “magnificent condescension” with which his dear mistress was treating such a lowly servant, honoring him with the responsibility of “giving her to her soon-to-be husband.”

The spring sun, which had been cooperating most nicely with the company for all the hours of the morning, slipped unnoticed behind a cloud as Vicar Thompson regained his voice (after being succinctly reminded by Woodrow to do so), and the ceremony began.

Bridget sniffled quietly into her handkerchief while Mollie winked at Jake and Ned.

Kyle preened, believing the love of his life was winking at him, as Riggs stuffed the knuckles of his left hand into his mouth so that he wouldn’t disgrace his mistress with his sobs at the beauty of the thing.

Woodrow stood ramrod-straight at Beau’s side—and, lastly, Beau and Rosalind slid into that curious dreamlike state that often afflicts persons who hear themselves, as if from a distance, pledging to love and cherish what could only be termed a near stranger, “until death do we part.”

Vicar Thompson, who much admired the sound of his own voice, had begun to overlook the bizarre setting for the ceremony and launched into a lengthy homily concerning the modesty of women and the sanctity of the marriage bed while Rosalind, who was beginning to feel more than a little embarrassed, allowed her hand to be held in the large paw of the even larger man who stood beside her, his usual smile remarkable only by its absence.

Would the man never stop? Rosalind felt her knees beginning to wobble as Vicar Thompson’s homily began to travel down a side road, recounting the necessity for a wife to always be chaste, and loving, and cognizant of her husband’s dislike of cabbage, so that when Beau’s thumb began lightly stroking the soft skin of her palm she nearly pitched forward onto the ground.

Beau, for his part, was finding it difficult not to reach out and grab Vicar Thompson by his scrawny neck and squeeze him into pronouncing them man and wife. He, Beau, could not remember being more agitated, torn between the age-old masculine impulse to run far and fast from any sort of feminine entanglement and an equally overpowering impulse to place the ring on Rosalind’s finger in the middle of the vicar’s meandering sermon, throw her over his shoulder, and carry her back to his bedchamber in Remington Manor.

These past two weeks had not been easy for Beaumont Remington. He prided himself on being a patient man, and he had decided that it would be best to settle their mutual scores with Niall Winslow before turning their attention to the fact that, for better or worse, they were married to each other—but being with Rosalind without actually being with Rosalind had grown to be almost more than he, the “patient” Beau Remington, could bear.

She was such a wee scrap of a thing, with such large green eyes, such a tempting little mouth, and with wonderful spirit and fire that summoned his admiration while at the same time made him ponder what it would be like to experience that spirit and fire between the silken covers of their marriage bed.

And he would have to go on wondering. For days. For weeks. Perhaps for months. He had given his word, and he was an honorable man. Woodrow had explained what that meant, but Beau had already known. His word must be his bond, even though that bond had somehow turned into something more closely resembling a rope, tying him to a promise he had already begun to rue having made.

He should have taken his time, moved with greater deliberation. Instead, he had gone on his merry way, trampling in without watching where he was stepping, making announcements, proposals—and that damnable
promise
—without realizing that his heart might become more involved than his head.

Yet there was nothing else for it. This business of getting some of their own back on Niall Winslow would have to be done quickly, and effectively. There was no time to dance around the issue, slowly drawing the man in only to figuratively cut him off at the knees. They would have to get to London, get themselves situated, and get the business done with all deliberate speed.

If only he could think of something suitably nasty, and blessedly quick, that would serve to discommode Rosalind’s rotter of a brother. Beau’s eyes widened as he realized a terrible truth. Good Lord! Not only was the man Rosalind’s brother, but in a few moments, if the vicar would ever get on with it, Niall Winslow would also be his brother-in-law!

A breeze danced across the churchyard and the virginal, evocative scent of violets tickled Beau’s nostrils, quickly bringing him back to the matter at hand. Yes, he thought, taking a deep breath, they would have to dispatch Niall Winslow quickly. Either that, or he, Beau Remington, would have to find a way to close his eyes at night without seeing Rosalind Winslow Remington’s piquant little face floating provocatively behind his tightly squeezed eyelids.

Beau’s left foot began to beat a tattoo on the soft grass as Vicar Thompson’s voice droned on, and on, and on—the man speaking now of a husband’s right to a hot meal, a warm bed, and sufficient peace and quiet to prepare his Sunday sermon—until the gray clouds that had drifted across the sky abruptly opened and poured forth what could only be interpreted as liquid criticism of the man’s sermon.

“... and therefore,” Vicar Thompson concluded swiftly, his words fair tumbling over one another, “having said their vows before God, and with all praise to His Royal Majesty, King George the Fourth, I now pronounce you man and wife! Agatha—don’t just stand there, woman!” he called to his wife, who was wearing a particularly mulish expression for some reason he couldn’t fathom. “Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said? Unfurl that umbrella this minute and get over here!”

“One moment!” As Rosalind and Beau stood just under the canopy, looking at each other with smiles in their eyes, Woodrow stepped forward and took hold of the vicar by his rusty-black sleeve. “We believe there is still the matter of our marriage lines?”