Wicked Wager (27 page)

‘If Lord Peregrine believed that, then why did he not … do anything to at least ease my pain?' The anguish in Miss Rosington's tone cut him to the core. ‘Even if he had no feelings for me, why did he not reassure me that he did not believe this evil lie?'

He was nearly there but he staggered a little as shame ripped through him. Disgust, too, that he'd not taken the noble path: backing up the respect that had motivated him to offer for her hand in marriage with his belief in her innocence in the face of her denial.

‘Why? Because Lord Peregrine has no honour and no conscience. He's like me, my poor Miss Rosington.'

With only a few yards to go, Peregrine raised his head to catch his breath and saw the prurient gleam of something akin to madness in Xenia's eye as she suddenly gripped Miss Rosington's shoulders.

Dismay flooded him. Every second counted. Miss Rosington's life was at stake and no one was more culpable in her current dire predicament than Peregrine was. Stealth was required. His sudden appearance might well be the catalyst to delivering the
coup de grace
, though surely Xenia was not as evil as that?

He faltered, though Miss Rosington's response was enough to knock him to his knees. ‘I believe I could have made him a man of honour and conscience—if you'd have let me.'

Such sweet words. And she truly did believe that. God almighty, Peregrine had never been so struck with pained remorse as he was in that moment. But this was no time to slow his surprise attack. He needed to deflect Xenia. Anything to prevent her from carrying out her dastardly intent. It made little difference whether Miss Rosington could swim or not. The weight of her clothing would send her to the bottom of the river in seconds.

And then Xenia struck.

Struck with no more effort than a slight pressure as she released her grip and stepped back.

A shocked silence, Xenia's satisfied grunt; then Miss Rosington's strangled scream of terror as she disappeared from sight punctuated the still night air. Peregrine tore past his former paramour, pushing her aside as he stared over the side of the jetty and into the water.

But the murky depths below were soundless as he cast about for something that would indicate where she'd gone.

Another cry, more distant now, filled him with relief and as his gaze raked the river he saw her bobbing in the water, caught up against a large plank of wood that was travelling at speed with the current.

‘Out of my way!' he snarled as he became aware of Xenia at his side, saying something. He didn't care what. He was too busy assessing how best to utilise the few resources he had available to save the one thing he'd discovered in his life worth saving.

Hailing the ferryman in the distance at the top of his voice while he tore off his coat and shoes, in the next moment Peregrine had plunged into the detritus-laden depths and was plying a good strong stroke in the direction of the panicked whimpers.

Thank God Miss Rosington had had the good fortune to discover a log to cling to and the foresight to hang onto it.

The water was bitingly cold and his clothing hampered him, but how would Miss Rosington cope with her many restrictions? It was a miracle she'd not sunk to the bottom like a stone.

‘Don't let go!' he gasped at the top of his lungs. ‘There's a ferry nearby. I'll save you.'

Suddenly he was nine years old again and his mother was flailing in the cold, muddy lake, just out of reach, her skirts billowing as they took in water, her panicked expression marring that beautiful, beloved face that had always brought him such comfort.

Before the nightmares began.

The nightmares that reminded him he'd been the only one close enough to aid her, but he'd been too weak and too afraid.

I'll save you.
Empty words, or could he? Could he reach her before Xenia's evil and the water's voracious appetite swallowed her up forever? Before Perry, too, was subsumed into a swirling hell from which, he knew, this time, there would be no reprieve?

He heard her choked gurgle just as he heard the thump of an oar against the side of a boat, and then suddenly she was gone.

Disappeared beneath the surface in a billow of skirts, like his mother.

It was hopeless in the darkness yet still he dived beneath the surface, his hands flailing in the filthy depths, grasping helplessly, hopelessly.

Until they snagged upon something feminine: trailing hair. And skirts. He gripped both, propelling himself upwards with all his might, lungs near to bursting, a final effort enabling him to break the water with a cry of triumph.

‘A king's ransom if you can get this woman into your boat,' he gasped, in case the ferryman needed any incentive. ‘A king's ransom if you can deliver me from the gates of hell.'

Chapter Nineteen

‘Please, Celeste,
try
and wake up, dearest.'

She'd heard the words before but had been too weary and disinclined to respond. No, Celeste never wanted to wake again. Far better to revel in a soft bed with warm coverings and exist in the dream world of her creation. Lord knew, reality was not a desirable place right now.

‘Celeste,
please
.'

With a sigh, she fluttered open her eyes to see Aunt Branwell sitting on the chair at her bedside, bending over her and smoothing back her hair.

‘Is it my wedding day?' she asked, a stab of pain knifing her side.

‘Your wedding day was yesterday.'

‘Yesterday?' Shocked, she blinked her eyes open. ‘So I am married?'
How had this happened?

‘No, my dear. You've been very ill. But Celeste, there's someone who wishes to see you. He's been waiting here a long time. In fact, for almost two days. Really, he is
most
anxious to speak to you.'

A myriad of characters Celeste had no wish to see floated into her mind as possibilities. ‘
He
?' she asked suspiciously.

‘Lord Peregrine.'

And of all the people who epitomised the hideousness of her situation, Lord Peregrine was the worst. She shook her head. ‘I won't see him.'

To her surprise her aunt seemed upset. ‘Surely you wish to at least thank him? He's been in a fever of agitation ever since he brought you here, returning every few hours and waiting for you to wake. For a while we wondered if you'd even survive.'

‘Survived?
Who
brought me here? What do you mean?' Celeste tried to clear her brain as she rose onto her elbows. ‘
Who
brought me here?'

Her aunt soothed her back down upon her pillows. ‘My dear, the whole town has been agog with the revelations his lordship made public about you—'

Gasping, Celeste rose up again, clutching the covers to her chest and looking around her wildly. ‘Where's Raphael? He believes in me, doesn't he? He hasn't reneged? Surely he knows what is fact and what is not? He's taking me to Jamaica. It's the only future I have left. If he casts me aside there's not a man who'll take me on, and I won't live my life in this country under a cloud of ignominy.' Even in the midst of panic, Celeste knew exactly how vulnerable she was as a woman, not in control of her fortune. No, her fortune and thus her future were in the hands of the men who pulled the strings, and if they chose to cast her to the wolves of public opinion her life would be untenable. She could not—
would
not—live it as a ruined spinster.

‘Has he not done enough already to destroy my life?' she sobbed. ‘What are these revelations you speak of? I have done nothing wrong, I promise you! Where is Raphael?'

‘Raphael has gone to Jamaica, my dear.'

She gasped again, pain tearing through her. It was too much. ‘Without me?'

Her aunt pushed down her shaking shoulders in an attempt to soothe her, but Celeste raised her voice above her ineffectual protests, her breath catching in her throat as the door opened and Mary squeaked, ‘Miss, I couldn't stop him. He
would
speak to you!'

And there was Lord Peregrine, tall and dark and brooding, dressed all in black today, which reinforced his satyr-like presence as a cruel reminder of all that was wrong with her life.

Rage galvanised Celeste into action. By God, if Raphael had left her, it was because of this man who'd now returned to gloat. Seizing the candlestick by her bed, she hurled it at him as she gave vent to a cry encompassing every cruel hurt he'd inflicted on her. ‘How dare you show your face?' she screamed. ‘Ha! It's only a little scratch, though I wish to God my aim had been better.'

Checked, he raised his head, eyes wide with surprise as he wiped the blood from his cheek, then continued his advance, while Celeste's rage coalesced into a life force of its own. Casting around for something else to hurl at the viscount while her aunt attempted to wrest from her the book that was her next intended missile, it was cold comfort, but comfort nevertheless, to express her anger. ‘Get out of my sight! You've ruined me, stolen everything that constituted a life worth living and now you've returned to rub my face in the power you yield over me—'

‘Stop Celeste! You don't understand!' Her aunt was flapping about her like a flustered hen, the fringes of her Kashmir shawl tickling Celeste's nose as she tried to silence her niece's tirade. ‘Lord Peregrine brought you here. He rescued you from the river, he saved your life and then he broadcast to the world the cruel manner in which you'd been used by Raphael and Mr Carstairs and, worst of all, that evil woman, Lady Busselton!'

Her words only registered after Celeste had released the book, which Lord Peregrine caught deftly. Amidst the flurry, he'd now insinuated himself at her bedside, gently returning the book to her, his hands covering hers as he repeated the title of her reading matter with clear amusement: ‘
A Discourse on Maidenly Virtues
by the Reverend B. Attwell. A jolly fine choice of reading matter to throw at my head. But hush my love and, even if it's the only time in the years to come that you listen to me, pay heed now.'

He smiled at her shock, his deep, but gentle tones cutting into the silence created by her sudden obedience. ‘I came here anticipating heart-melting gratitude and instead I've sustained a shattered cheekbone, yet I hope you're impressed at the manner in which I've reined in my temper. I had no idea you were such a spitfire beneath the demure exterior.'

Still mute with shock, Celeste did not miss his subtle nod of dismissal, which to her amazement had her Aunt Branwell obediently quitting the room; a fact which Lord Peregrine immediately took advantage of by lowering his face to whisper with unconscionable familiarity, ‘Though such spirit augurs well for our future, my little termagant.'

Celeste managed to inject the right degree of disdain into her voice, despite the fact she was shaking. ‘Oh, so you've come in for the kill have you, my lord?' she responded haughtily. ‘My reputation is in tatters, I am ruined, and now you're here to propose I become your mistress. Well,' she shrugged as if it were of no matter, ‘Raphael has left me now. I have little choice other than to join your sister in a nunnery or live out my days a scorned, pitiful creature or, as you've just suggested …' she hoped her eyes flashed fire, because the thought was as hideous as it was secretly exciting, ‘lower myself to the basest level to which any creature could ever reduce herself and … become your mistress. But, let me warn you, it's a proposition you should seriously reconsider since I swear I will devote my lifetime to making you pay for what you've done to me.'

‘Celeste, please—' He stopped midway to putting his finger to her lips, adding with a wry smile, ‘For fear of having my middle digit nipped in two, let me explain first why I'm here, though perhaps it would make more sense if I tell you what's happened during the twenty-four hours you've been blissfully unaware of your surroundings.'

‘Blissful is hardly a term I would use to describe any aspect of my life right now.'

‘No? Well, for the moment mark it down as an aspiration I would hope to entertain you with. Hear me out, I beg of you.' He attempted to take her hand, and when she snatched it away, sighed and continued patiently, his hand lying across her knees in the most familiar fashion, which made her insides cleave with a longing she swore she'd fight for all time. ‘First of all, I'd hope that if Charlotte can make an about-turn and decide that holy matrimony is vastly preferable to a nunnery, then perhaps you can too.'

‘Good God! She's marrying Mr Carstairs after all?'

‘No, in fact …' Lord Peregrine looked rather bemused. ‘She's marrying Sir Samuel.'

‘Sir Samuel … Wray?' Celeste leaned forward, eyes gleaming, sharing in her companion's clear bewilderment as she forgot for a moment her own predicament. The familiar scent of ambergris that wafted from the man beside her was a harsh reminder of the intimacy she'd once enjoyed in his arms; an intimacy he'd traded upon in order to use her so badly. Before she could snatch away her hand again, he brought it to his lips.

‘Celeste, I'm the first to admit I'm guilty of gross wrongdoing.' His voice was filled with remorse, and in the pale sunlight that sliced across the bed she saw it reflected in his beautiful eyes. She shivered. He looked so sincere she was almost taken in all over again. ‘I agreed to Xenia's wager before I even met you, and because I thought you were in fact a wily fox parading as an innocent dove.'

She tossed her head. ‘The knowledge that I wasn't didn't stop you continuing with the wager, did it?'

‘I was trying to protect you—'

‘A fine way of showing it!'

‘You must believe it's true,' he protested. ‘Xenia was determined to see you destroyed. It became ever clearer all the time I was falling in love with you, and as her hatred of you grew, so did my desire to protect you from her. First, though, I needed to find out
why
she had you in her sights. I couldn't voice my suspicions to anyone, but please believe me when I say that at no stage did I ever set out to deliberately embroil you in scandal, as Xenia would have me.'