by Cheryl Holt
"Rub his nose in what? What are you blathering about?"
"So how much do you imagine will be distributed straightaway as a lump sum? How are the dispersals scheduled? Monthly? Quarterly? Annually?"
"What dispersals?"
"Your trusts! Your trusts! The assets in your dowry! How much will we receive?"
"I don't have a dowry."
"Yes you do. Your da was a damned earl."
"My father was destitute. He had nothing."
Shocked, he froze. "What did you say?"
"He died penniless."
"You're claiming he didn't leave you a farthing?"
"No."
"What about Lady Olivia's father? Your stepfather? He must have left you something."
"He was beggared, too. That's why we're here. My mother is praying that Lord Salisbury will bail us out of our penury."
Looking frantic, he lurched away. There was a peculiar air about him that had her squirming.
'Tell me that you're joking. Please!"
"As if I'd lie about my finances. I'm so glad we're to be wed, so that I can be with you and do what I want."
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Appalled, gaping in astonishment, he frowned, then he leapt to the floor.
"Oh, Jesus!" he wailed. "Oh, Jesus Christ Almighty! Where the hell are my clothes ?"
He was fumbling around, stumbling, and muttering curses. Her wrist was still cinched to the bed, and she struggled to her knees and fussed with the knot. Eventually, she was free, but as she was inebriated, she snuggled onto the mattress rather than stand up.
"Do be silent!" she snarled, as he located his pants. "I can't abide your whining."
"Damn ... damn ... double damn ..."
He wasn't paying attention to his pipe, so she took it and sneaked a bit of pleasure while he was distracted. "Why are you so upset? Everything will work out fine."
"Not bloody likely."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that I don't have a penny to my name. I thought you did."
"No." Giggling, she fell onto her back. "I'm poor as a church mouse."
"Gad! I'm a fool! I have to get out of here! What if I'm caught with you? Aah!"
She tried to grasp the significance of his panic, but she was confused, intoxicated, and thus mentally muddled. If he was broke, and she was, too, how could they marry? He couldn't be indigent!
He was landed gentry, with a fancy residence, a jaunty carriage, and a dapper wardrobe. Whenever they met, he plied her with brandy, opium, and other delicious treasures. He had scads of money, she was convinced of it; yet he was complaining. Who was he to gripe?
She was the one who'd been ruined, and she was ready for what would come next, prepared to wed him
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so that she could escape her tedious existence in town.
She wanted her independence, as well as the depravity and vice with which he tempted her, and she wasn't about to have him renege, not when her affairs were arranged, not when she'd taken herself to a condition of no return, to where Margaret would have to accede to whatever stipulations Penny leveled upon her.
"Listen, you!" She sat up and kicked the covers away, her breasts bared to the cool room. Freddy was beside the bed, naked but for a foot stuck in his trouser leg, his shirt clutched to his groin and shielding his privates.
Hah! As if she hadn't seen it before! As if he could hide that shriveled worm from her!
Harried footsteps reverberated in the hall, winging in their direction. Bracing, they both halted. Would the person stop or pass by?
Whoever was there tarried, then the knob was spun. The door began to open. Wide. Wider.
Freddy was stiff with fear and alarm, while she chortled and reposed, arraying her body so that she would be decadently sprawled for the pitiful sod about to enter.
Cunningly, she smiled. Her destiny had arrived. Just in the nick of time.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Like a convict at the gallows, Edward faced the vicar. He hadn't heeded the words droning out of the minister's mouth, but the ritual had to be nearing the end.
How many more ways could a man say / do and / will?
For Olivia's sake, he was trying to be glad. This was her wedding day, and she was very young, and he wanted it to be special for her. Even though he'd rather find himself shackled and tortured in a medieval castle than where he was, he'd resolved not to let her know how he was dreading the ordeal.
He wasn't such a cad that he'd spoil it for her. Despite how much he abhorred the marital trap into which he'd fallen, he wouldn't have his displeasure showing.
There were two dozen guests, and he could feel their curious eyes cutting into his back. After the festivities, many of them would dash to London, so that they could parley over the details.
The sole story he wanted circulating about town was that Olivia had been a beautiful bride, himself a doting husband, and the wedding a huge success.
Throughout the ceremony, she'd been clutching his arm, and he persisted in holding her hand. Her skin was icy cold, and she was trembling. She looked fragile, delicate, but brittle, too, as if the slightest sound or movement might cause her to shatter into a thousand pieces,
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and he truly felt that if he released her, she might crumple to the floor.
His tight grip was the only thing keeping her vertical.
She wasn't any happier about their nuptials than he was, and she was also hiding any negative reaction, and he cherished her for it. He loathed scandal and gossip and would hate to have their union start off mired in them. They would have sufficient difficulties, without having to weather the innuendo and slander of high society.
Hoping to impart his support, he squeezed her fingers.
They would survive the horrid day. Just as they would survive the coming weeks and months, and he sighed. What a wretched statement about the remainder of his life! His marriage yawned like a black vault of doom, ready to suck him into an abyss of tedium and despair.
Out in the hall, activity erupted. Brisk footsteps were hastening toward the decorated salon where they stood. Employees lined the corridor and, as the strides converged on them, a fierce buzzing commenced.
He couldn't fathom who would disrupt the affair, and he kept his attention fixed on the vicar.
"Father, stop!" a man pleaded from the rear of the room. "We need to talk before you proceed any further."
Scowling, he froze, flustered by the interruption. Was he imagining this? Had the chain of catastrophes left him daft? Was he so off balance that he couldn't distinguish reality from dreams?
The voice had to be Phillip's. It couldn't have been another's. Phillip had referred to him as father. Out loud. In front of the assembled company. Yet Phillip was in the city, searching for employment, having abandoned Edward to his lonely fate.
The voice came again. "Father!"
Olivia stiffened. Vicar Summers ceased his prattle.
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Others had heard the commotion, too. Someone— Phillip?—was behind him and calling out. He wasn't hallucinating, and at having been publicly claimed by his son, he suffered an amazing wave of exhilaration.
He and Olivia twirled around together, hands still joined. She blanched, growing so pale that he was afraid she might faint, and he clasped her even more firmly.
"Phillip?" Though he could observe his son perfectly well, he couldn't process the sight. "What are you doing here? I thought you were in London."
Phillip approached, strutting between the chairs that had been arranged by Margaret. No one had missed his use of the title father, and guests were bending and straining to view every aspect of the lurid encounter.
So much for quelling any gossip!
Edward's heart swelled. Phillip appeared so dashing, so handsome. Confident and poised, he was dressed for traveling, in tan breeches and a brown jacket, and once they were toe to toe, there could be no doubt as to the relationship between them.
Among the
Quality, rumors had abounded that he'd sired a bastard child or two, but he'd never acknowledged or denied the scuttlebutt.
Well, the guessing was certainly over!
"My most humble apologies, Lady Olivia," Phillip said. "I'm sorry to intrude."
Olivia stared at the floor. "It's quite all right," she mumbled. "I'm sure you have a very good reason."
"Father," he repeated, "may we speak privately?"
The vicar cleared his throat. "Lord Salisbury... umm... should I continue?"
"Put your book away," Edward ordered. "For now."
The command stirred the audience to a frenzy of whispering, and it expanded when Winnie entered, a
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child on either side of her. Both of them were girls, and they were dirty, unkempt, and wearing clothes that were little more than rags.
"Helen!" Olivia breathed. "What on earth ... ?"
Her anguished gaze locked with Phillip's, in a heated exchange that Edward didn't understand, then, shocking everyone, she fled the makeshift altar and rushed to her niece. Kneeling down, hugging her, she mourned over Helen's chopped hair, and she massaged Helen's arms and legs, as if checking for injuries.
In a sort of reverie, he beheld the touching tableau, wondering what was occurring. Events seemed to be happening in slow motion, as if they were swimming through water. He studied Winnie, who looked determined and furious, and assessed him in return.
"Winnie..." he couldn't help murmuring, and his longing was pathetically apparent.
He'd planned that if he ever saw her again, he would be too angry to be civil, but he'd been fooling himself. At knowing she was safe, and in his home, where he thought she belonged, he felt a surge of joy sweep through him.
"Edward," she greeted, imploring him, "listen to what Phillip has to say."
"What is the meaning of this outrage?" Margaret leapt to her feet and gestured to the butler who was leaned against the back wall and gawking along with the rest of the crowd. "We're in the middle of a wedding. See to your duties! Evict these interlopers!"
The butler straightened, and tugged on his coat, torn by what should be the appropriate behavior, but Edward forestalled him with a brisk shake of his head. He scanned the gathering, which now included a gaggle of curious servants peeking in from the hall.
"Would all of you excuse us?" . The housekeeper was experienced with handling any
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social situation, and she jumped into action, going to a door that led out to the verandah. In anticipation of the conclusion of the ceremony, the food had been laid out.
The woman had deduced the obvious—that there would be no conclusion—and that the guests might as well dig in to the repast. She began guiding people outside.
The butler opened the opposite door, to another parlor, and Edward herded the involved family members into it. Winnie gave the two girls to a housemaid, with instructions to feed them while the grown-ups consulted.
Momentarily, he was sequestered with Margaret, Phillip, Olivia, and Winnie, and the instant they were alone, Margaret whirled on Winnie, seizing the offensive.
"How dare you come here!" Margaret growled. "How dare you interfere—after all I've done for you!"
A dangerous calm permeated Winnie. "How dare I?" She took a step toward Margaret, then another. "How dare I?"
Stunning him to his very core, she lunged at Margaret, as if she intended to physically attack her.
Edward vaulted between them and captured Winnie, wrapping his arms around her so that she couldn't land any blows.
"Winnie! My goodness!" He struggled to restrain her.
"Let me go, Edward," she begged. "Let me at her."
Containing her was like trying to hold on to snow. She was in a frenetic state, charging and jabbing at Margaret. If he loosened his grip for even a second, she'd pummel Margaret into a bloody pulp.
What an interesting wedding day it had turned out to be!
He peeked at Phillip, who was watching, not upset in the least by Winnie's raving. If the decision had been up
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to Phillip, he'd have stood aside so that Winnie could assault her cousin.
"What's this about?" he asked his son.
"It's Winnie's secret to divulge," Phillip maintained.
"Harlot," Margaret seethed.
"Desist, Margaret!" Edward admonished. "I won't tolerate that kind of crudity. Do you hear me?"
"Yes, I hear you," she groused, and she glared at Winnie with such malice that Edward was confounded by the savagery of her dislike.
"Winnie?" He shook her. "Tell me."
Winnie said nothing. She glowered at Margaret with an equal amount of venom, and Olivia intervened in their stalemate, placing a comforting hand on Winnie's shoulder.
"What is it, Winnie? You can confide in us."
Olivia's soothing manner had a beneficial effect. Winnie's eyes brimmed with tears, and she gulped for air. "Years ago, I had a child."
So. . . the tale Margaret spun was true. Edward flinched at the tidings, and abruptly regretted it. Winnie felt his recoil, and pushed away from him.
"I won't apologize for it. Not ever again," she hotly proclaimed, and he was extremely disconcerted.
Was he so stuffy, so snobbish and superior, that he would condemn her for the same mistake he'd made himself? Wasn't he a better man? A more compassionate man?
Winnie spoke to Olivia. "Your father forced Margaret to assist me, though she didn't want to. She lied and pretended she'd had Rebecca adopted. By a family in Yorkshire."
After an awkward pause, Olivia prodded, "But she wasn't?"
"Margaret dumped her at an orphanage, as if she
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were a piece of rubbish that could be discarded. She's been there, waiting for me. All this time."
"Margaret!" Olivia chided. "Shame on you!"
Margaret wouldn't be chastised. "As if any respectable couple would have sheltered your bastard! I did the best I could. By her, and by you."
"How did you learn of this?" Olivia inquired of Winnie.
"When I arrived home, Helen was missing. Margaret had had her kidnapped and sent to the same orphanage."
Olivia gasped, and frowned at Margaret, her censure manifest. "You told me she was in a hospital."
"When Phillip and I located them," Winnie went on, "there had been an incident at the orphanage. A caretaker had tried to hurt Helen, and Rebecca came to her aid, which was against the rules. They'd been evicted by the matron and were living on the streets."
"On the streets?" Olivia echoed, disbelieving.
Accusingly, both women scrutinized Margaret, and she pulled up to her full height. "You should have left them there, to fend for themselves. Look at the damage they've already wrought."
"How could you?" Olivia was horrified and bewildered. "Helen is a child! A tiny, defenseless child!"
"She's demented!" Margaret insisted. "She's deranged, she's—"
"That's enough!" Phillip roared at Margaret. "Get out of here, you old witch, before I tear you in half."
"Curb your tongue!" Margaret imperiously responded. "I will not be ordered about by a servant."
"Margaret," Edward interjected, "Phillip is my son." He was irked by her pomposity, dazed by her duplicity and deception. "I expect you to treat him accordingly."
"Your son, bah!" As if dispersing a foul odor, she fluttered an arm in the air. "With his illicit ancestry, who
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knows what rock he slithered out from under? Besides, you've only his common mother's word for it that he's yours." The insult was so coldly delivered, and so reprehensibly thrust, that he couldn't form an answer, and she kept on before he could regroup. "We've delayed too long, and we're courting scandal. We must get back to the parlor and complete the vows."
She moved toward the door, but no one went with her.
Edward stared her down, but she was a stern character and couldn't be cowed.
Did she suppose that they could g
o on as if nothing had transpired? Did she imagine they would stroll into the main salon, invite the guests to reseat themselves, and conclude what they'd started?
She was amazing. Brash. Overbearing. Rude. Curt. And she had more audacity than anyone he'd ever encountered. No doubt remained that she'd lured him into Olivia's bedchamber to coerce this farce.
"We're not going to finish it," he said. "Not now, anyway."
"Of course we are," she declared. "You'll not dishonor Olivia in front of the entire world. Our family will be a laughingstock, and I won't stand for it."
Edward glanced at Olivia. Her cheeks were a bright pink, heated by anger. "How would you like to proceed, Olivia?"
"I can't continue right away. Too much has happened."
"My feelings exactly," he concurred.
"Don't be an idiot!" Margaret scolded her stepdaughter. "Would you renounce this opportunity? Think! When news of this fiasco leaks out, you'll never have another chance at marriage. There isn't a man in the kingdom who will have you. What will become of your precious Helen then?"
"Actually"—Phillip interrupted her tirade—"there is
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one man who would have her." He gazed at Olivia. "If she'd agree."
Olivia and Phillip?
Edward assessed the two of them, and when he did, their affection was so obvious. It explained so much: Phillip's outbursts of temper, his departure from the estate; Olivia's tepid and waning interest in matrimony, even though she'd traveled to Salisbury for the specific purpose of snagging a husband.
They'd met. How? Without his suspecting it, they'd fallen in love. Why hadn't either of them admitted it? Why had they permitted this travesty to progress? Did they find him to be such an ogre that they couldn't have confessed?
They were perfect for each other, and a huge wave of relief billowed over him. He'd never wanted to be with Olivia, and this information furnished him with the ideal pretext to cry off without offending her.
Phillip could have her—with Edward's blessing— and Edward would escape the marital noose.
The sense of liberty sweeping over him was so refreshing that he was giddy, and he had to stifle a giggle of glee. He was released, unencumbered, and he yearned to shout the tidings to the heavens, yet he couldn't embarrass Olivia by exhibiting his joy.