The Wedding Escape (3 page)

Amelia stopped pummeling her gown for a moment, intrigued. “Your sister designs gowns? Would I have heard of her?”

“I doubt it. She only has the one shop, although her husband has been trying to convince her to open another in Edinburgh or London.”

“Her husband permits her to work even though she is married?” Amelia was astonished.

“Grace is very independent, and has always loved to design clothes. Her husband wants her to be happy, so he is supportive of her career.”

“I would love to meet them. Perhaps once Lord Philmore and I are married we will travel to Scotland.”

Jack thought it far more likely that Miss Belford's new husband would immediately shut her up in some faded, velvet-draped home and expect her to play hostess at an endless array of spectacularly dull teas and dinners and accompany him to every tedious social event imaginable. Until he got her pregnant, at which point he would banish her from society completely.

Jack turned to study the shifting ribbons of afternoon light from his window, wondering why he was determined to find her prospects with this unknown viscount so bleak.

“Forgive me, Mr. Kent, but would you mind helping me with the pins securing my veil to my hair?” She leaned into him and bent her head.

Jack hesitated.

And then, not knowing what else to do, he began to clumsily pluck the dark wire hooks from the tangled mass of blonde before him.

Her veil was a gossamer shroud of the finest silk he had ever seen, held in place by a sparkling diamond tiara. The dozens of pins used to anchor the piece had kept it from flying off when she tumbled from the vine and crashed into the bushes. Jack worked in silence, carelessly dropping the pins on the floor of the carriage, watching in fascination as her hair unraveled from the elegant configuration some lady's maid had spent hours fussing over. Finally the glittering tiara slipped heavily into his hand, trailing no less than nine feet of veil.

Amelia sighed, massaging her aching scalp. “You can't imagine how dreadfully uncomfortable it is to have all those wire pins poking into your head, and that tiara was insufferably heavy.” She dragged her fingers through the length of her hair until it poured like liquid honey over her shoulders and down to her waist.

“Here,” said Jack thickly, offering her the tiara.

“Just put it on the floor,” she instructed, now working on wadding up the train of her gown and stuffing it into the corner for a pillow. “I'll get it later.”

Instead Jack placed the diamond necklace and emerald earrings Miss Belford had given him earlier into the center of the tiara, then wound the veil protectively around the valuable cache of jewelry before placing it on the seat beside him.

Amelia settled wearily against the lumpy satin cushion she had created. “I do hope you'll forgive me, Mr. Kent, if I close my eyes for a moment.”

“Go ahead.” Jack leaned back against his seat and stretched his legs out as much as the carriage would allow. “I'll wake you before we reach—”

He stopped suddenly and regarded her in confusion.

And then the corners of his mouth twitched with amusement as he realized the lovely, elegant Miss Amelia Belford was snoring.

 

J
ACK KNEW THEY HAD REACHED LONDON LONG BEFORE
he drew back the maroon curtain to see the ghostly forms of Mayfair's sleeping houses standing in endless neat rows before him. The stench of the city assailed his nostrils, a caustic brew of ash and smoke spewing from the chimneys of homes and factories, combined with the stomach-churning fetor of the Thames. The sooty veil that hung in a perpetual caul over the city's crowded skies was less effusive in the summer than in winter, when tens of thousands of coal fires were lit across the city every morning to banish the chill of night and facilitate the preparation of the day's meals. Unfortunately, the serenity of the warm night air had trapped the day's smoke, blending it with the reek of the tons of horse manure that fell unceremoniously onto the streets each day and the human sewage that flowed with equal abandon into the gray, fetid waters of the Thames.

It was almost enough to make Jack wish he were back in the floral-choked confines of the church.

He stretched his neck from side to side, silently groaning as he released the tight grip of muscles corded there. Then he gingerly shifted his position, marginally alleviating the pressure that had built along the vertebrae and muscles of his back, taking care not to disturb the sleeping form of Miss Belford. She had been in a deep slumber for several hours now. As her repose wore on, her initially upright position within the carriage had gradually deteriorated, until finally Jack had been forced to reach out and catch her just before she slid off her seat entirely. Her response had been to snuggle against his chest, evidently finding him a far more comfortable mattress than the scratchy clump of embroidered satin and pearls against which she had previously been lying. Reluctant to waken her when she was so obviously exhausted, but unable to support her for any length of time while seated on the opposite bench, he had moved beside her, thereby enabling her to capsize completely, until her little stockinged feet were drawn up beneath her and her hair was spilling in a tangled river across his lap.

For a long while he sat rigid, unaccustomed to having a woman lie so trustingly against him while she slept. It occurred to him that his experience with women was somewhat limited in that regard. He had indulged in more than his share of sexual pleasure, but he preferred the company of the females he met abroad. They were inclined to view him as a pleasant but fleeting diversion, which he supposed lessened their expectations of him. Delving into the twisted roots of his past was of no interest to them. By contrast, the well-bred young ladies of Scotland and England never let him forget his despicable beginnings.

From the time he had fallen into Genevieve's care he had been obsessed with trying to make something better of himself—to carve himself into a man who bore no resemblance to the filthy, illiterate, angry little thief she had rescued from the Inveraray jail some twenty-two years earlier. It had been a long and arduous battle. Genevieve and Haydon had done everything within their power to assist him with his transformation. After teaching him herself for a time and gradually fostering an interest in learning, which had previously been buried beneath arrogant indifference, Genevieve had decided he was bright enough to attend university. His preparation involved suffering through an excruciating series of deathly dull tutors, who nearly succeeded in dousing the flame of curiosity that Genevieve had so tenderly coaxed to life. He was a fair student at best, for he had not learned to read or write until he was nearly fifteen, and his ability in both remained frustratingly slow. He had hated the study of Greek and Latin, and had not understood how these two ancient languages would ever be of any earthly use to him. But he was quick with numbers and liked history and art, which were particular passions of Genevieve's.

Eventually he was deemed fit to attend the University of St. Andrews, where both his teachers and fellow students roundly despised him. The fact that he was the ward of the Marquess and Marchioness of Redmond bore little weight amongst the imperious sons of the English and Scottish nobility, who had been raised to worship at the shrine of their own superiority, and to detest the baseness of lower class scum like him. Fortunately, his years of living on the streets had rendered him sufficiently impervious to their disdain, which he met with an equal measure of cool contempt. He was tall and strong and quick with his fists, earning him a temporary expulsion during his first year there, but that had the benefit of establishing his reputation as a street fighter with ample skills to match his temper. Few dared to bother him after that, enabling him to struggle through the remainder of his studies in relative peace.

Haydon and Genevieve were disappointed that he had not made any friends while at university, but Jack was accustomed to being despised, and had not been bothered by it. He had his loving parents and the brothers, sisters, and “servants” he had acquired when he joined Genevieve's household, each of whom boasted a background that was as extravagantly flawed as his own.

As far as he was concerned, the rest of the world could go to bloody hell.

“We're here, lad,” Oliver announced as the carriage finally ambled to a stop before the elegant stone structure of Genevieve and Haydon's London town house. The old man slowly climbed down from his perch and opened the carriage door. His sharp little eyes were nearly lost in the folds of his lids as he squinted into the darkness of the vehicle. “Safe and sound and nae the worse for it—though these old bones will be needin' a wee rest an' a fair drop o' drink afore we set out again.” His brows furrowed into a single white pelt as he took in the sight of Amelia curled up on Jack's lap. “Looks like yer bride is in need of a wee rest as well.”

“She isn't my bride,” Jack objected.

“She's more yours than old Whitcliffe's,” observed Oliver, shrugging. “Lizzie and Beaton must be in their beds,” he decided, removing his battered felt hat so he could give his head a thorough scratching. “They're nae expectin' anyone to return after Whitcliffe's weddin', as Miss Genevieve planned to return to Inverness after. I'll just go open up the house.” He rubbed his gnarled hands together in anticipation. “I'm a bit out of practice, but I'd wager there isn't a lock in London I canna open.”

“Just ring the bell, Oliver.”

“Now lad, there's nae sense in wakin' poor old Lizzie and Beaton when I can get ye in quicker than a greased frog—”

“I don't want Lizzie or Beaton to think the house is being robbed and bang you over the head with a pot the minute you open the front door.”

Oliver frowned. “Who said anything about goin' in the front door?”

“Oliver—” Jack began in a warning tone.

“All right, then.” He crammed his hat back onto his head and stomped toward the door, clearly irritated at having his skills called into question.

“Where are we?” murmured Amelia, her voice thick with sleep.

“We're in London.”

She was silent for a moment, trying to make sense of the deep, unfamiliar voice. Slowly she opened her eyes to find her head pillowed against the hard muscles of Jack's thighs while her hand lay with shocking intimacy upon his knee.

“Oh!” she gasped, bolting upright and scrambling away from him. “Please excuse me—I'm afraid I must have been very tired.”

“You were.” Jack was amused by her sudden sense of propriety.

“Is this your house?” she asked, desperate to shift his attention away from the fact that she had just been lying atop him. “It's very nice.”

“It belongs to my parents, the Marquess and Marchioness of Redmond, but no one is here now except for a couple of servants. Come.” He leapt down from the carriage and extended his hand to her. “I believe we can find a bed inside that is far more comfortable than—” He was about to say “my lap,” but the heated stain on Miss Belford's cheeks suggested she might not appreciate his attempt at humor. “—this carriage.”

She groped around the dark floor for her shoes and slipped them onto her feet before laying her palm lightly against his hand. It felt soft and small, like a sun-warmed petal against his callused skin.

“Perhaps you had better take your jewelry as well,” he suggested, indicating the veil-wrapped bundle on the seat.

She scooped up the priceless bundle without interest, gathered her crumpled skirts into one hand, and permitted Jack to assist her from the carriage.

“Lord have mercy on us—it's Mr. Jack!” cried a startled voice.

A short dumpling of a woman with a flushed face and a frazzle of silver hair poking out from beneath her nightcap stared at them wide-eyed from the doorway. Her cheeks were fleshy but wrinkled and her little round eyes were slightly glazed, as if she had just been roused from a deep sleep. She opened her mouth to say something more, exposing a row of slightly crooked, yellowing teeth, but all that came out was an extremely loud hiccup.

“Good evening, Lizzie,” said Jack as the housekeeper clapped a hand to her lips. “I hope we're not causing you too much inconvenience with our late arrival.”

The syrupy smell of gin wafted from the older woman's nostrils and mouth as he escorted Amelia into the house.

“Of course not,” mumbled Lizzie, struggling admirably to affect a sober demeanor. She hiccuped loudly again, then blinked, hoping no one had noticed. “We just wasn't expectin' you, is all.”

“I'm sorry I wasn't able to give you notice,” Jack apologized. “I had not intended to come to London, but my plans changed.”

A great, round ball of a man exploded suddenly through the kitchen door, desperately trying to tie the sash of his crimson dressing gown over the generous expanse of his girth. A blue-and-white-striped nightcap drooped precariously upon his shiny bald head, and he had only managed to find one scuffed and worn bedroom slipper, leaving the stubby toes of his other foot bare. Like Lizzie's, his face was amply lined, suggesting he had seen sixty years and more, but Amelia thought there was something sweetly childlike about him as he fumbled clumsily with the fraying tie of his dressing gown.

“Good evening, Beaton,” said Jack.

“Goda'mighty!” swore Beaton, his glassy eyes nearly popping from his head as he stared in bleary confusion at Amelia. “Our Mr. Jack has gone and gotten himself married!” Overcome, he stumbled forward and clamped his stout arms around Jack's waist. “Congratulations, sir,” he gushed, sniffing with emotion. “If you don't mind my sayin' so, she's a real spanker.” He belched.

“Drunk as wheelbarrows, the pair of them,” observed Oliver in disgust. “Ye canna find decent help these days.”

“I'm no such thing,” protested Lizzie indignantly. “I need to take a spot of gin now and again for my poor old heart, is all.” She hiccuped again, then proceeded to affect a fit of phlegmy coughing.