Waking Up With a Rake (24 page)

“How very enlightened of you, Rhys.”
What
does
he
care
indeed?

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” He grinned soppily at her, pleased with himself.

Evidently, one of the side effects of too much absinthe was to render the sufferer immune to sarcasm.

“So once we arrive in Scotland, what are your intentions toward me?”

His grin dissolved into a puzzled frown. “I intend to make you my wife, of course.”

“Have you asked me to marry you?”

He stared down at the tips of her slippers as if the answer to the question might be imprinted on their rounded toes. “I must have. You wouldn’t be here with me otherwise.”

“I’m only here because my father bundled me into the coach with you and sent us on our way,” she said testily. “Luckily for you, I’ve never disobeyed my father.”

“Didn’t he tell you that you’re going to marry me?”

Drat
the
man.
“Yes.”

“Well, then there you are.”

She reached up and pounded the flat of her palm on the coach ceiling, signaling the driver to stop. Once it stopped moving, she shoved open the door. “And here I go.”

She clambered out of the coach and started walking back in the direction from which they’d come. Her slippers were not meant for long hiking. She had no money. She had no idea how long it would take for her to make it back to Barrowdell, but she didn’t care. Her only plan was to put as much distance between her and Rhys Warrington as possible.

“Olivia, wait,” he called after her.

She didn’t slacken her determined stride. Given the fact that light was like shards of glass to the eyes to someone who’d imbibed as much of her father’s liquor as Rhys had, she was more than surprised when she heard his quick footfalls pounding behind her.

He caught up to her and fell into step beside her. “Slow down and I’ll walk with you.”

She shortened her strides by the smallest of measures.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked pleasantly, as if they were off on a stroll.

“Back to Barrowdell.” She pulled the hood on her pelisse closer against the wind washing down from the distant peaks. “If the Duke of Clarence no longer wants to marry me, then I’m no longer embroiled in royal intrigues. I’m reasonably safe from whoever tried to do me harm.”

“You don’t know that.” Rhys started to reach for her, but when she glared at him, he shoved his hands into his pockets. “They may have had another motivation.”

“So, you think I’m distasteful enough that someone wishes me dead.”

“No, of course not. It wasn’t because of you. Never.” He put a hand up to shade his eyes. She was sure being in the open sunlight was excruciating for him.

Good
, she thought waspishly.

“But your father is a very rich man. And rich men make enemies,” Rhys continued. “In fact, if he makes a habit of introducing his associates to absinthe, I’ll wager he’s made plenty.”

She stopped her ears with both hands. “No more wagers.” Lost bets to Rhys Warrington were the beginning of all her troubles.

He swung around in front of her, stopping her in her tracks, and took both her hands, sheltering them between his. “Olivia, I only want to see you safe.”

“Is that all you want?” she asked, her heart anxious about his answer, but not terribly hopeful. It seemed Rhys was only following her father’s dictum.

“Well, no.”

Now. If he’s going to ask me to marry him, let him ask now. Oh, please, God, let him ask.

“I…” He paused as if stringing together words were an onerous task to which he wasn’t sure he was equal. “I want to find out who made those attempts on your life and see them brought to justice. Someone has to pay for Mr. Weinschmidt, you know.”

“You’re right. Mr. Weinschmidt deserves better than he got.” She tugged her hands free, her heart wilting inside. “Then the best place to find his killer is back at Barrowdell.” She started to walk again.

“But your father says you need a husband.”

“I also need a mare that isn’t lame and a gardening assistant who’s still alive, but we can’t turn back time. Don’t worry about me, Rhys,” she said. “I don’t mind losing the match with Clarence. Court life would have been like prison to me.”

“I’m glad you feel that way.”

“And don’t trouble yourself over being caught in my bedchamber this morning,” she said, increasing her pace. He matched her easily with his longer strides. “I’m not the fashionable sort. I don’t care what fashionable people say about me. I’ll be perfectly happy to live out my semi-scandalous life in my father’s house as an eccentric spinster.”

“But what about my happiness?”

That made her pause for half a step; then she shook it off. “Your happiness? Why, I expect you’ll remember very shortly that you’re a libertine and a rake and glad to be one. Just because we were caught in a compromising situation this morning, you are not obligated to marry me, Rhys.” The last thing she wanted was a man who felt required to become her husband. “I release you from whatever Machiavellian bonds my father and his absinthe placed upon you.”

He caught her wrist and stopped her. “What if I don’t want to be released?”

“You don’t?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then you do want to marry me?”

“I do.”

It sounded so much like a real declaration her heart leapt up in joy. Then she remembered she was Horatio Symon’s daughter. Her father lived for the art of the deal. “What did my father promise you if you married me?”

“He promised that I wouldn’t be able to touch a farthing of your dowry, which is fine with me.” His lips quirked in a quick smile. “Since I intend to continue to support myself at the gaming tables, it’s probably best that I not have an infinite kitty from which to draw. Too much money in the hole makes a gambler sloppy. Rest assured that I will always provide sufficient funds to support you. I may be out of favor with my family, but they haven’t cut me off financially. If we get in a tight patch, Warrington credit is good anywhere. Use your father’s money for more orchids or horses or whatever pleases you. I won’t touch a pence.”

Forty thousand pounds a year would buy a lot of orchids. She’d have to look into founding some charities with her father’s largess.

“Did
Horatio
—” she could still scarcely believe her father had asked Rhys to call him that, “promise you anything else if you and I wed?”

“He hinted that you might allow me to live with you in the Mayfair townhouse he intended to buy for you.”

“I might,” she said, “but you’d have to learn to behave yourself.”

“That’s what he said too, but I can’t promise that,” he said and bent to kiss her. Then he picked her up and twirled her around. “In fact, I’ll never behave myself with you.”

When her feet finally touched the ground again, she sighed. “But I can’t marry you.”

“Why not?”

“You haven’t really asked me, have you?”

He nodded slowly. “Without doubt I have done, and in the future will do, many things wrong. Allow me to attempt to do one thing right.”

He dropped to one knee before her. “Olivia Symon, will you do me the supreme honor of becoming my wife?”

She almost asked why he wanted to marry her. After all, he hadn’t said a word about love. Everything she’d read in the
Practical
Guide
for
Young
Ladies
of
Quality
led her to believe that courtship was the only time a woman might expect fair speech from her man.

But she thought she saw something that might be love shining in Rhys’s dark, slightly bloodshot, eyes and decided not to push him for a declaration. Fair words weren’t the be-all and end-all, were they? Besides, if a man had to be prompted to proclaim love, how satisfying could it be?

How real?

Perhaps just the fact that Lord Rhys Warrington, self-avowed rake, was willing to commit to a wedding was enough for now.

She bent down and kissed his forehead. “Yes, Rhys. I’ll marry you.”

Chapter 22

Darkness was gathering by the time the coach rattled into Gretna Green, painting the surrounding hills a dim purple in the fading light. Rhys had sobered considerably in the last few hours of the trip. They’d laughed and talked and engaged in a little naughtiness in the rocking coach.

“There are ways for a man to have carnal knowledge of a woman in a carriage without either of them undressing completely, you know,” Rhys had told her.

“How?” she asked. “This may be your last chance to make a knowledgeable virgin of me.”

“Yes, but I couldn’t guarantee you’d remain one. Potholes can make for some spectacularly disastrous results. Besides,” he pulled her close and whispered in her ear, “I want your first time to be perfect, and we really need a good stout bed for that. After all, it’ll be your first chance to catch me without my stockings.”

“That’s right. I’ve yet to see you completely naked.” They laughed together then. When Olivia looked at Rhys and closed her eyelids, the imprint of his profile was burned on the backs of her eyes. His broad brow, his fine straight nose, the mouth that tempted her to any amount of folly…

And
he’s mine.
She hugged that delicious little fact to herself. If she lived to be one hundred, she’d remember him like this, ruggedly handsome, full of life and joy.

After seeing the coach and horses safely housed in the town livery and their driver given a place in the haymow for the night, Rhys lost no time locating the blacksmith’s shop on the edge of town.

The way the laws of Scotland read, anyone could say the words over a willing couple and they’d be considered man and wife. Smiths took advantage of their prime locations at crossroads to offer their services as “anvil priests,” leading couples to offer their marriage vows amid the soot and ironworks, and then re-shoeing the tired horses that brought them there in haste.

“O’ course, I’ll tie the knot for ye,” the burly, red-haired giant said as he stepped away from the heat of the forge. “Only one thing first. Are ye a willing party to this marriage, missy? I’ll no’ be leg-shacklin’ ye to this gentleman if ye’re under compulsion of any sort.”

Olivia shot Rhys a quick smile. “I’m willing.”

“Weel, that’s grand then, isn’t it?” He swiped his sweaty neck with a grimy hand. “Are we in a hurry or d’ye think there’s none followin’ close enough to hinder yer intentions if I take a moment to wash up a bit?”

“We’re not likely to be disturbed in the next few minutes,” Rhys said.

The smith nodded and submerged his ham-sized hands in a nearby basin. He scrubbed mightily, but soot stains still clung to his fingernails.

“Calum,” he said to the gangly bare-chested lad who worked by his side. “Fetch yer mother and a clean shirt for me. Have a bit of a wash for yerself too whilst ye’re in the house. Ye’re sixteen now. Old enough to be witness to a wedding. Best ye make a presentable job of it. Oh, and light the fire in yer brother’s cottage before ye do aught else.”

While the boy disappeared into the thatched cottage near the forge, Olivia took stock of their surroundings. When she was younger, she’d imagined her wedding in vibrant detail. She’d envisioned the parish church fragrantly alive with blooms from her garden and hothouse. The choir of boys that populated the church school would sing their sweet little lungs out. She’d seen herself in an elegant gown, styled in simple lines to please her and sparkling with seed pearls and lace to please her mother. The sanctuary would be filled with her family and well-wishers from the village.

Only the bridegroom’s face remained hazy in her maidenly imaginings.

Now her bridegroom’s face was the only real thing. She’d never have been able to envision becoming a wife in a sooty blacksmith’s shop. Even though her insides were jumping with excitement over marrying Rhys, a small part of her was disappointed to miss the High Church rite of her dreams.

“Angus MacDermot is me name,” the blacksmith said. His son Calum returned with a grinning, gap-toothed woman who must have been the smith’s wife in tow. “I’ll be needing your names as well, and make ’em your true ones, mind, else the rite’s no good.”

“Lord Rhys Alexander Ford Warrington.”

“Miss Olivia Marguerite Symon.”

“Verra good, your lairdship, Miss Symon. Now stand ye here on either side of me anvil and clasp hands so.” Mr. MacDermot joined their hands palm to palm, Olivia’s right to Rhys’s left. Then he took a length of leather strap from his pocket and bound their wrists together. “Ye’ve stated your names. Now state your intention.”

“We want to be married, of course,” Rhys said, his brows lifting a bit at being required to name the obvious.

“Aye, and so shall ye be.” Mr. MacDermot cleared his throat and placed his hands on the anvil between them. “This anvil has forged many a fine blade for protectin’ what a man wishes to hold. So may this marriage forge together these two souls and be a safe haven for both parties to it.”