At Reardon House, Nathaniel was still out and Myrtle was having her customary nap. Dinner was not for hours yet.
At loose ends, Willa decided to go to her own room and see to the unpacking of her books and bride gifts. The domestic organization was soothing, although some of the things from her Derryton village made her smile damply.
Though it had all seemed like a gracious plenty then, her things seemed to disappear into the grand, lovely room. To bring a bit of home, Willa displayed Dick’s carved red squirrel—Sciurus vulgaris—on her night table and used one of Moira’s embroidered tea towels as the cloth on her washstand.
Her parents’ books, a respectable library in Derryton, barely filled two shelves here. Willa told herself that only meant she would have the pleasure of finding more books to add herself.
Finally, she realized what was missing in her room. Nathaniel.
“Of course you don’t share a room,” she scolded herself. “You aren’t wed yet!”
The problem was, she was married, according to everything she had ever known. She was a married woman, a wife, and she wanted to share a room with her husband. “Well, you can simply wait,” she told herself firmly.
Since the new clothing she and Nathaniel had bought today would not be delivered until it was altered and finished, Willa dressed in the cream and blue gown for dinner with Sir Danville. Once it was on her, however, she was uncomfortable. The lace sleeves were confining and the cream net ruching that crisscrossed her bodice made her bosom look like a white hen’s.
She smoothed the blue satin down her body and tried to look at the dress objectively. The fabric was really very nice, and the color did look good on her. And the dress did fit now, thanks to Lily’s clever needle. Perhaps its flaws were more due to her own lack of taste, not the fault of the gown.
Lily came bustling in. When she saw that Willa was already dressed, she stood back and tapped thoughtfully on her bottom lip. “I can see you aren’t pleased, my lady. I do think this was made for someone without your figure. That net there, that was put on to make a lady seem more bosomy.”
“Oh, dread. I’m bosomy enough, thank you.”
“And them sleeves … I think someone wanted to hide bony arms.”
“I have no bones in my arms.” Willa sighed, feeling very disappointed. She’d so wanted to impress Nathaniel tonight. “Do I look foolish?”
“No, indeed you don’t! Just because a few bits don’t suit you? My lady, when you get yourself out in Society, you’ll see some costumes that look like a tent show has come to town!”
Lily walked around her. “Now, this’ll do fine for a small dinner party—let’s pull that décolletage down—” She gave the bodice a tug, making Willa’s breasts swell up above the ruching. “Now, that’s better. Let’s let your hair fall down long in back, take the eye off them sleeves—I can fix them for next time, don’t you worry.”
Willa turned toward the mirror and blinked. “Oh, that is better.” With a few swift motions and several pins, Lily had turned the dress from some other woman’s gown to Willa’s gown, showcasing her bosom and her neck. “You’re very good!”
Lily smiled. “I’m glad you think so, my lady. I tried to work for Miss Daphne once, but she said I pulled her hair.”
“Well, that is her loss and my gain,” Willa said cheerfully. She was looking forward to dinner very much now. Wait until Nathaniel saw her in blue!
Nathaniel wasn’t one to grovel, not even before a bishop of the church, but in this case was willing to make an exception. The best way to preserve what bit of reputation Willa had left was to bring about a speedy, quiet, legal ceremony.
Unfortunately—and Nathaniel was getting bloody tired of “unfortunately”—the bishop in question was having none of it, despite Nathaniel’s best beginner attempts at humility.
“Why should I grant your petition?” the Bishop inquired frostily. He was leaning back in his chair with his fingers laced over his stomach, eyeing Nathaniel through disapproving eyes. “Why should I further any plan cooked up by you, knowing that it may indeed be deemed nefarious?”
Evidently the man was familiar with the story of Lord Treason. “‘Tis no plan,” Nathaniel replied. “‘Tis a marriage.”
“Why?” The Bishop frowned. “What have you to pass on to anyone but disgrace and infamy? Even shamed as she might be by this illegal country wedding, this young woman might do better than she would being married to you.”
Nathaniel didn’t bother to argue. The Cobra could force the man through other channels, if necessary. “I may legally wed if I choose. Despite Society’s condemnation, I have never been formally accused.”
“You may wed, indeed, by the usual means. Tell me, why do you wish to bypass the reading of the banns? Are you worried that this woman may learn of your vicious betrayal of your country?”
The Bishop was a forthright individual and a moral one. The enormous donation Nathaniel had offered to lubricate the proceedings seemed not to have affected the man’s opinion at all. If Nathaniel weren’t entirely weary of pleading this case, he might truly have liked the man.
He sighed. “My affianced bride knows of my history.”
The Bishop blinked. “Does she? And she still wishes this union?”
“She insists on it,” Nathaniel said wryly.
The Bishop regarded him for a long moment. “Is it the title and the wealth that has her blinded? It is not fair of you to distract her with grand promises when she ought to be focused on the very real fact of your disgrace.”
Nathaniel hesitated. Could Willa indeed be determined not to lose the wealth and ease that being Lady Reardon would bring her? After all, she had come from so little—that shabby inn, that tiny village….
Then Nathaniel remembered Willa’s simple delight in all things small and inconsequential. All she needed from life was a bookshop, a ditch to explore, and perhaps a few pairs of clocked stockings. He grinned at the Bishop. “She has no interest in my wealth.”
The Bishop folded his arms. “Does she fancy herself in love with you?”
The man’s tone implied the veritable impossibility of any woman loving Nathaniel. At this question, Nathaniel faltered. Willa, while loyal to a fault, had never claimed any such thing. He cleared his throat. “I do not know. You would have to ask her that yourself.”
The Bishop lowered his arms and leaned forward. “Ask her? Yes, I think I will.” He stood abruptly. Nathaniel stood respectfully as well. “Bring this woman to see me. I shall ascertain at once if she is making this decision of her own free will.”
Nathaniel realized that he must offer Willa this opportunity to be convinced. The thought that she might made his chest hurt. Defeated by his own need to be fair to her, Nathaniel could only laugh shortly. “Free will? Trust me, Your Grace, she has no other kind.”
15
The footman opened the door for Nathaniel, back at Reardon House in time for dinner, and he entered the dining room. His mother sat in her customary spot at the great mahogany table, reigning over those present with queenly enjoyment.
“Sit, sit, Nathaniel. Sir Danville’s supper must not be kept waiting another minute.” She waved Nathaniel to a chair, smiling.
The smile must have been for the benefit of company, for Victoria hadn’t given him a real one in years. He gave her a sardonic nod, then glanced to the other end of the table, where he expected to see his father’s empty seat.
Basil smirked at him from his father’s chair. “Do sit, Thaniel. Your little bride is quite bereft without you.”
Perhaps it was the rage that coursed through him at the way Basil had preempted his father’s place. Perhaps it was the way that his mother smiled at Sir Danville while her own husband lay dying. Widowed, wealthy Sir Danville, who had paid her flattering attention for years.
Or perhaps it was just as Myrtle had said, that he was the most thickheaded man in the world, but it was not until he had taken his seat at the table that Nathaniel truly took notice of
Willa.
She sat across from him in voluptuous splendor, with creamy flesh spilling from her neckline and a soft waterfall of hair flowing down her back. She smiled at him, her gladness to see him unfeigned. She seemed a haven of warmth in the cold room.
Indeed, she looked wonderful in blue.
He wanted to leave this place with Willa, to ride the roads with her alone again. How could he tell her that here, surrounded as he was by people who shunned him whenever possible?
And then he knew.
She’d always claimed that she could tell what he was thinking. Maybe she would read him now.
He caught his country miss’s eye and smiled slowly, until something hot began to burn behind her gaze as well. He let his gaze heat as he remembered her nude curves glazed in firelight. She responded as if reading every thought in his head.
Her eyes grew wide and dark. The flush that warmed her face now was one not of an overwarm room but of answering passion.
They sat, gazing into each other’s eyes, reliving their journey and the wild places they had gone, both in nature and within themselves.
Nathaniel ignored Victoria’s indignant sniff and Daphne’s hurriedly changed subject and even Myrtle’s gleeful little chuckle.
All he could hear was the way Willa’s breath came fast between her parted lips, and all he could see was how secret knowledge thrust the curtain of insecurity from her gaze.
He wanted her, more than ever before. He dared not stand to take her from the table now. His erection was monumental, trapped within his tight breeches, and he had no wish to embarrass her.
And he knew that they could go no further until she had spoken to the Bishop.
It would cost him. Oh, how it would cost him to wait and give her the freedom to choose him or reject him. As he sat there drinking her in, he wondered if he had any idea how much it would hurt if she left him.
The actuality lurked just outside his reckoning, as if he couldn’t bear to truly examine the devastation and pain he would suffer.
They should go now. His lust had subsided enough, and there was no point in waiting any longer—
Myrtle elbowed him sharply. “Are you listening to this at all?” Even in whisper, her voice was filled with shock and hurt.
Jerked out of his half-passionate, half-mournful reverie, Nathaniel turned to see the bright spots of fury on Myrtle’s papery cheeks.
“What is it?” He didn’t bother to whisper.
At the head of the table, Victoria sniffed. “Oh, very well. I shall repeat myself, although I would expect more dutiful attention at my own table.”
Nathaniel had no patience for her drama. “Are you going to repeat yourself now, Mother, or indulge in a bit of theater first?”
“You are unbearable,” hissed Victoria in a brief showing of her usual colors before she remembered Sir Danville sitting at her side.
She turned to him and simpered. “Do forgive me, Sir Danville. That boy simply brings out the worst in me.”
Sir Danville roused himself enough to send a torpid glare Nathaniel’s way. “No better than he should be, I expect. No better than he should be.”
“Indeed,” added Basil in a silky voice. “Thaniel, my dear boy, Mother is announcing that we shall be holding a ball this week.”
Shocked, Nathaniel leaned back in his chair and gazed at a smirking Basil with disbelief. Now? Here? With Father dying by inches upstairs?
Lord Treason would not care. Lord Treason would relish the chance to make a public display. The Cobra would not care, either. The Cobra would welcome the chance to further bait the trap for Sir Foster.
“That sounds agreeable to me. I assume I am invited?”
Myrtle tossed her napkin down on the table. “Thaniel, I cannot believe you would condone this! Not with your father dying!”
“Dying? What’s this? You said old Randolph was a bit ill, and likely wouldn’t make much of a showing, but you never said he was dying.” Sir Danville wiggled bushy eyebrows at Victoria, who stammered and blinked before recovering.
“Dear Aunt Myrtle is being overly dramatic. Randolph is … very excited about the ball. I’m sure he’ll be up to making an appearance … perhaps not all evening, but surely … for a short time.”
“Oh well, then,” grumped the man. He sent Victoria a mooning gaze. “I’m looking forward to one dance in particular.”
She fluttered appreciatively for a moment, before turning to send a vicious don’t-mess-this-up glare in Nathaniel’s direction.
Myrtle began to protest again, but Nathaniel put his hand over hers. “Don’t bother,” he said quietly. “There is nothing we can do about it.”
“Oh, Mother Victoria,” Daphne spoke up with musical solicitude. “I declare you’ve gone utterly pale. Are you sure you are quite well, dear?”
They all turned to look at Victoria, who had indeed gone ashen and wide-eyed. She raised a trembling hand and pointed behind them.
“Reardon!”
Nathaniel turned, old instinct bringing him to his feet in a fighting stance, his chair falling unnoticed behind him. Willa jumped up as well, as did Sir Danville, but Basil slid from his seat to the floor and disappeared beneath the table.
Before them all stood John Day, his ruined face contorted in fury. In his hands he held a pistol that Nathaniel recognized as one of his own, taken from his study.
It was pointed at Nathaniel’s heart.
Despite the trembling in his hands, Day pulled back the hammer with the skill of long practice and sighted down his arm.
“You are going to die now, Reardon. You ought to have been hanged for your treason. Justice may have been blinded by your title and your money—I, on the other hand, see quite clearly.”
The country accent was gone. In its place were the well-pronounced vowels of the upper class. Day went on. “How could you turn on your own that way? Your country, your King—your own father?”
Day waved the pistol, indicating the ornate environs. “You have everything! But you don’t have him anymore, do you?” He laughed bitterly. “I read in the gossip sheets that the Old Man told you never to cross his sight again.” He aimed the pistol directly at Nathaniel once more. “I wonder, did he mean sight or perhaps …”—he lined up his aim carefully—”sights.”
The Old Man. Realization flashed in Nathaniel’s mind. This man is a Liar.
“Ren Porter.” The name was nothing more than a rasp of shock in Nathaniel’s throat, but Ren heard him.
“Yes. Ren Porter at your service. Your loyal Liar.” His destroyed face twisted with agonized rage. “A Liar who lost it all in the service of the Crown—then here you stand, still rich, still pretty …” He dipped a brief mocking bow to Willa. “And you even got the girl!”
“Ren.” Nathaniel cleared his tightened throat. “I am glad to see you well.”
“I am. I survived that betrayal by my fellows. James—” Emotion choked him visibly for a moment. “James got a medal. Did you know that? I got this face and this form. So, I thought to myself, there must be a reason.” Ren’s tone deepened with conviction and his aim steadied on Nathaniel’s chest. “Look at you, standing there without a scratch, in your fine house with your new bride. For whatever reason, the law could not touch the likes of you and James. But I can. This is where you should die, here with all you will lose around you.”
Nathaniel moved away from the table, away from Myrtle and Willa and Daphne. “Very well, then,” he said quietly. “Kill me.”
Willa gasped and started to run to him. Nathaniel held up a hand sharply. “Stay!” He didn’t have any desire to die—but he could not explain, not even to ease Ren’s pain. All he could hope for was to draw Ren’s fire away from the women until he could think of something better.
Ren twitched, then looked behind him as if suspecting a trick. There was no servant sneaking up behind him. Nathaniel didn’t tell Ren that he doubted any man in this house would risk such a thing for him.
Nathaniel’s calm assu
rance only seemed to shake Ren more. His hand began to tremble anew, and he was forced to brace his pistol hand with his other one.
A single oddly clear thought went through Nathaniel’s mind: He might actually kill me now. Nathaniel most assuredly didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to leave Willa. He looked over at her, standing white and motionless by the table.
He really should have made love to her, he decided. He had let the moment pass again and again. He should have accepted the sanctity of his country marriage and made her his wife in truth. Maybe she would stay with him. There was no telling with Willa.
The pistol began to fall, then came back up. “No. You cannot confound me, Lord Treason. You won’t escape this.”
The moment stretched, broken only by Sir Danville’s appalled wheezing and Victoria’s whimpers. Willa wasn’t weeping, Nathaniel knew. She was too strong for that. He doubted that her eyes were even closed.
Nathaniel moved slowly, closer to the pistol. He needed to be certain that no one else would be caught with a wild shot. Closer. Closer.
Then he leaped forward when he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. “No!”
A burly footman leaped out to tackle Ren, throwing him violently against the giant mahogany sideboard where his head connected with a solid thud. The pistol flew from his hand. Nathaniel rushed forward to catch Ren as he collapsed.
Nathaniel eased Ren down to the floor. Dazed and shaking, Ren still tried to fight him off weakly. “Get off me, you bastard!”
Nathaniel gripped Ren’s shoulders and pulled him close. “Ren, it wasn’t James,” he hissed urgently into Ren’s ear. “It was never James.”
Ren eased his fighting to blink at Nathaniel in confusion. As the footman reached to take Ren from him, Nathaniel leaned in close once more.
“It was never James. It was Jackham.”
Then he stood, allowing his men to take Ren. Pallid and nearly unconscious now, Ren hung from their hands like a rag doll.
Celeste Bradley - [Royal Four 01] Page 16