Dark Angel / Lord Carew's Bride (47 page)

He took her hands in his, not even conscious for once
of the deformity of his right. He laughed, his voice breathless with relief.

“I muddled it horribly,” he said. “I am so sorry. I have never done this before.”

“I hope,” she said, “since it has so embarrassed you, that you will not have to do it ever again. I will be a good wife to you, I promise. Oh, I do promise that. I shall make you—contented.”

He rather thought that she would make him delirious, as she was making him now. He looked at her, so exquisitely pretty and dainty and warmhearted, and could not for the moment believe that she was his. His love. His betrothed. She was going to be his wife, the mother of his children.

“You already have,” he said. “And I promise to see to it that you never regret the decision you have made today.”

Two tears spilled over and trickled down her cheeks. She bit her lip and laughed. “Oh, dear,” she said. “Is this really happening? I feared I would never see you again after last evening.”

For answer he leaned forward and kissed her swiftly on both cheeks, brushing away the salt tears with his lips. “Is there anyone I must ask?” he said. “Even just for courtesy’s sake? You do not still have a guardian, do you?”

“My uncle has control of my fortune until my next birthday,” she said. “Viscount Nordal, Jenny’s father. But it will be released to me immediately on my marriage. It is quite a respectable fortune. Perhaps you are marrying me for my money.” She laughed lightly and breathlessly.

That was when he remembered. Oh, yes, he really had made a mess of things. He had done everything quite the wrong way around.

She laughed again. “It was a bad joke,” she said. “It was a
joke
. But very tasteless. I know you could never be mercenary. Forgive me.”

He squeezed her right hand with his left.

“I will call on your uncle,” he said. “And I will see about having the banns started. Next Sunday? Am I rushing you? I am almost ready to suggest a special license, but I want you to have a
wedding
. I want the whole world to see you as a bride. Just as soon as the banns can be read. Would you prefer to wait a while? Until summer, perhaps?”

“No.” She shook her head slowly. “No, let’s not wait. I want to be your wife—now, as soon as possible. I want to be with you. If you wish to reconsider the special license …”

But he shook his head, dizzying as the thought was of having her as his wife within the next couple of days. No, he would rather wait. He wanted to show her off to the whole
ton
. He wanted a wedding to remember. At St. George’s, in Hanover Square.

“No,” he said. “We must do this properly.”

“Yes, sir.” Her smile became almost impish. “I will practice wifely obedience, you see.”

He laughed. “You will not find me a hard taskmaster,” he said. “I must take my leave.” He let go of her hands regretfully. “Your aunt’s servants will be scandalized if I stay longer.”

“Yes, sir,” she said meekly. “When will I see you again? You must meet my aunt. Will you come tomorrow afternoon?”

“Yes.” He had crossed the room to the door. He looked back, his hand on the handle. No, he could not leave like this. It would be unpardonable. He had put it off long enough. Too long. And even that was an understatement.

“There is something I have not told you,” he said quietly.

“You are a convicted murderer,” she said. “You have had six wives and have murdered them all. Worse even than Henry the Eighth.” She smiled merrily. “What have you not told me?”

He licked dry lips. “When I gave you my name at Highmoor,” he said, “I thought you would recognize it and fill in what was missing. When you did not, I was tempted by the novelty of being just an itinerant landscape gardener. It seemed harmless at the time. I did not know that the day would come soon when I would want to ask you to marry me.”

She merely stared at him. He thought her face had paled.

“Hartley Wade is not my complete name,” he said. He swallowed. “I am Carew.”

Her face was drained of every vestige of color. “The
Marquess
of Carew?” she said in an unnaturally high-pitched voice after the silence had stretched.

He nodded.

She opened her mouth more than once to speak. “You lied to me,” she said at last.

“No,” he said quickly. “I merely withheld the full truth. Though
merely
is a damning word, I must admit. And I suppose I did lie. We talked about me a few times in the third person, did we not? I pretended that he was someone other than myself.”

“Why?” The word was whispered. She had closed her eyes very tightly, as if to shut off what was happening.

“You were there on the hill,” he said, “so unexpected and so—pretty and so flustered at being caught trespassing. I expected to see you become stiff and formal and even more embarrassed when I gave you my name. Instead, you did not make the connection. And I was tempted. You would not understand, perhaps, the barrier my title puts between me and new acquaintances. I wanted to talk with you. I wanted you to admire my home and my park. I did not want to see that barrier go up.”

“Oh,” she said. She had looked at him while he spoke, but now her eyes closed again. “The things I said in the ballroom at Highmoor. In
your
ballroom.” She spread her hands over her face.

He would have smiled at the memory, but he was too tense with fear.

“Does it make a difference?” he asked. “Will you wish to withdraw your acceptance of my offer? I am deeply sorry. Once one has deceived another, it is incredibly difficult to find the courage to undeceive her. But that is no excuse. Does it make a difference?”

He waited tensely for his world to end.

“I will not be just plain Mrs. Hartley Wade, then, will I?” she said.

“No.” He did not dare hope. “You would be the Marchioness of Carew.”

“Grand,” she said. “Very grand. And Highmoor will be my home.”

“Yes.”
Will
, she had said, not
would
.

She laughed unexpectedly against her hands. “Perhaps I am marrying you for
your
money,” she said. “Have you thought of that?”

“You did not know of it,” he said. “But I know you well enough to trust that my title and wealth would have done nothing to sway you. I will always cherish the memory of your accepting me when you thought me an impoverished landscape gardener. Will you now accept me, knowing that I am the almost indecently wealthy Marquess of Carew?”

She sighed and lowered her hands before looking at him rather wanly. “Yes,” she said. “How could I possibly resist the lure of Highmoor?
Have
you ever done any landscaping?”

He nodded. “Except in that one particular,” he said, “I have always spoken the truth to you.”

“Well,” she said. “You will come tomorrow,
my lord?”
She smiled rather uncertainly at him.

“I would be honored,” he said, “if you will call me Hartley. And if you will see me no differently than you ever have. Yes, I will come tomorrow.”

They exchanged a look that was not quite a smile, and
he let himself out of the room. He took his cloak and hat from the butler, who must have been hovering in the hall all the time, and allowed the man to open the outer door for him.

A few moments later he was in his carriage on the way home, the rain beating against the windows. It was done, he thought, setting his head back against the squabs and closing his eyes. And she had accepted him—both as Mr. Wade and as the Marquess of Carew. She had accepted him.

She was going to be his wife.

I love you so very, very much
.

They had not spoken of love this afternoon. He supposed he should have made that declaration a part of his marriage offer. He had been very gauche. But the words had not needed to be spoken. They were only words, after all. They loved each other. It had been there in every look and word they had exchanged. She had been willing to marry him just for himself. She had said yes, believing that he had nothing but himself to offer. Not that he had deliberately put her to the test. But he would always be able to remember that.

And soon—within a month—she would be his by both civil and church law. She would be his wife. He would be able to make love to her as well as loving her.

God. Ah, God. Happiness sometimes felt almost like agony.

“W
HAT
?”
L
ORD
F
RANCIS
K
NELLER
almost fell off the seat of his high-perch phaeton and jerked on the ribbons sufficiently to cause one of his horses to snort and jerk its head and threaten mutiny. He skillfully brought it under control.

“I am going to marry the Marquess of Carew,” she repeated. “Exactly four weeks from today. I do not believe I will be able to drive out with you like this again, Francis. But I do thank you for your friendship during the past five years.”

“Friendship?” He glanced at her incredulously before giving the road leading to the park his attention again.
“Friendship
, Samantha? Good God, woman, I
love
you.”

She gazed at him in shock.

“Francis,” she said, “what a dreadful bouncer.”

“Sorry,” he muttered. “No, it was no lie, but it ought not to have been said. But Carew, Samantha.
Carew?
He is a crip—Oh, dash it. I am sorry—again.”

“He is not,” she said. “He had an accident. He manages very well. And he never complains.”

“Where did you meet him?” he asked. She noticed that he had taken his phaeton past the gates into the park. “At Chalcote, I suppose. That bloody Gabe—sorry! I’ll draw his cork when I see him next. And I suppose you were dazzled by his title and his fortune and Highmoor—dratted splendid place. I cannot think of any other reason why you would be marrying him. Good God, Samantha, you could do a thousand times better than him.”

“Please take me home,” she said quietly.

He drew a deep breath and blew it out through puffed cheeks. “Your trouble, Samantha,” he said, “is that you are blind in one eye and keep the other firmly closed. You do not realize, do you, that all of us, all your blood—your
blessed
court, are head over boots for you. And you do not care the snap of two fingers for any of us. But Carew! I—words fail me. Yes, home it is.” He turned a corner sharply enough to arouse shouts of protest and some profanities from other drivers. “You do not have to demand it again. Carew! Good Lord.”

“I care for him,” she said quietly.

“The man is the next thing to a recluse,” he said. “He has nothing to recommend him to someone like you.”

“And you do?” she asked him. “Francis, you never said—”

“Because I knew—or thought—you did not want to hear it,” he said. “I wanted to try to trick you into caring for me. I thought perhaps time would do it. The devil and his pitchfork! How long have you known him?”

“Since the day you left Chalcote,” she said. “I walked onto Highmoor property and he was there.”

He swore. And did not even apologize afterward.

“Francis.” She set a hand lightly on his arm, but he flinched and jerked away from her. “I am sorry. But I do care for him, you know. I care very much.”

“He must be worth at least fifty thousand a year,” he said. “At least! I suppose I would care very much, too, Samantha, if I was a woman.”

She said no more and they proceeded in silence—a
distressed silence on her part, an angry, frustrated one on his.

“Francis,” she said as they drew nearer to Lady Brill’s, “I do not want to lose your friendship.”

“It never was friendship,” he said.

“Yes, it was,” she said. “It was always—fun. I always enjoyed your teasing insults. I always enjoyed matching wits with you. I thought that was all. I had no idea I would—hurt you by marrying someone else.”

“I thought it was going to be Rushford, if anyone,” he said, his jaw tightening. “I thought I saw a spark there, Samantha. More than a spark. I am glad at least it is not him. I would have fought dirty if he had tried anything, and if you had not had the sense to send him packing.”

“No,” she said. “There was nothing there, Francis. He merely took me by surprise and I danced with him. But there was nothing. I care for the Marquess of Carew. I am going to marry him. I am going to give him contentment. He is going to keep me safe.”

“This would make a riveting romance, Samantha,” he said. “I’ll wager my hat you will make him contented. And from what is he to keep you safe, pray? Wolves like myself?”

“No,” she said. “It was just a manner of speaking. He is going to—to keep me safe, that is all. We are to be wed at St. George’s. It is what he wants. I was going to invite you. But perhaps you would rather I did not. I have written to Jenny and Gabriel, but I do not know if they will come. Jenny is—well, she is in delicate health again.”

“Is she?” he said. “I thought Gabe was contented with two.”

“I am hoping they will come,” she said. “Will you if I invite you?”

“Carew would just adore seeing all your court in attendance at his wedding,” he said.

“My friends,” she said. “You are all my friends, Francis. Don’t distress me with that other nonsense. It is nonsense, you know. We are all just friends.”