Hands on her hips, she surveyed the room for any other object to help her climb. Her searching gaze fell upon his scuffed trunk at the foot of the bed. Unfortunately it had a rounded lid, so it was of no use to her for standing on, but at least she knew he hadn’t fled the scene yet. Unless he’d gone without his things. Whatever his things might be. Her fingers itched to open it. She shouldn’t really. She wouldn’t want him prying into her possessions. But still.
She was about to marry the man in little more than one hour. She ought to know something about him, something more than his cousin Lizzie had offered, especially since most of that turned out to be inaccurate.
Finally she decided to try lifting the lid. It might be locked anyway. It wasn’t. The lid fell back with only a slight groan and a pungent cloud of moldy air rose up. There inside, much to her confusion, were stacks of books. Lawrence Bailey, traveling miner and man of mystery, apparently had a penchant for old books and carried them around with him. No wonder his trunk was so heavy. Books on history, art, and artifacts. Not the sort of thing she’d expect him to carry around. He was evidently an educated man.
A little shiver of excitement ran through her at the sight of all those books. Growing up as a maid in the Westerfield household, she’d struggled to afford books and had only ever owned four. One the housekeeper had given her, one her brother Thomas bought for her birthday, and two she found thrown out in a dustbin. She’d once asked Guy to let her borrow some from his father’s library, but he’d told her she didn’t need books. He didn’t approve of educated women. So she stole them from the library when his back was turned, always returning them the same way. Of course, she’d also poured over the newspaper whenever she had the chance to practice her reading. But here before her was an expensive bundle of books, a veritable treasure chest. She opened one, quickly scanning the pictures. It was a small atlas with information about the countries of the Empire.
Soon she was lost in it, completely forgetting the time, until she heard someone calling her name. Anxious, she threw the book back, closed the lid and hurried out of his room. She met Violet in the hall and, embarrassed at being seen coming out of Lawrence’s room, took her nerves out on the startled maid.
“Where are you going with that water? Don’t wash the wood floors today. It looks like rain and the floors will never dry if the air is damp. And, Violet, I noticed the oil lamps in the dining room have been letting off a great deal of smoke again. How many times have I told you, the wicks should be thoroughly soaked in vinegar and let fully dry before they’re used? And when you use tealeaves on the carpet, do make sure you sweep them all up again, along with the dirt.”
“Yes, Miss Wellfleet.”
“And don’t dally about here in the hall. The grate in the dining room needs black-leading. It’ll be busy today and you know I’m getting married at eleven.”
“Yes, Miss Wellfleet.”
She took two steps and then stopped, turning back to mutter an apology, ashamed of herself for forgetting that she was once in poor Violet’s place. “I’m sorry to snap at you, Violet. Forgive me. It’s just one of those days.”
“Of course, Miss Wellfleet. That’s all right.” The girl put down her bucket and mop. “You must be right nervous about the wedding.”
She told the staff that she and Mr. Bailey had known one another for a few years and they seemed to believe it. He’d settled in quite comfortably there already. Sighing, she placed one hand to her rapidly beating heart. “It’s probably just lack of food. I haven’t had breakfast yet.” She didn’t want to admit Lawrence Bailey might have anything to do with it, but her heart felt like a blacksmith’s hammer pounding an anvil.
“You’re very lucky, Miss Wellfleet,” the maid ventured shyly. “He’s a nice man, that Mr. Bailey.”
Yes he was, she thought, one flat hand pressing on her heart. He was infuriating, lusty, stubborn, and pugnacious, but he was also a very nice man.
Why then had he come there to marry a woman he’d never met? Was there no other woman in his life who might object?
She couldn’t help fearing he might change his mind and that just shattered her nerves into even smaller fragments. Thanking Violet for her good wishes, she hurried onward, trying to resume her day and not think about what she was about to do.
Albie was at the foot of the stairs looking for her, holding a large bunch of dewy crocuses. “Mister said I’m to give you these. For the wedding. He says to tell you crocuses mean hope.”
At the sight and sweet fragrance of the flowers, the cruel fingers of doubt that had pinched in her belly all morning finally began to unwind. He thought to send her flowers for the wedding when she’d never even considered a bouquet as necessary. She came slowly down the stairs, gripping the banister to keep herself from hurtling forward like a romantic fool. Her pulse began to slow. “Where is he now?”
“He said he’ll see you at the church.”
Tentative, she took the flowers from Albie. “You’ve been with him all morning? Where was he?”
Albie scowled fiercely and put up his proud little chin. “I’m not to tell. It’s a secret.”
This did not bode well for her. She was certain of it. A man who sent flowers was always guilty of something.
“But he said I’m to work here now, permanent like.”
“What?”
“He’s hired me to be the boot boy, and I’m to have my own stand right here in the foyer by the front door. It’s all arranged. A proper job with a wage, as long as I keep my face clean and my hair brushed and don’t say damn.”
Once again, the man meddled. “And how am I supposed to afford that?”
“He’s got tons o’ money,” the boy exclaimed. “Tons an’ tons o’ the filfy stuff.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Alarm trembled through her. “He’s a mineworker, a laborer.” But he had all those books, and he’d traveled extensively. None of it made sense.
Albie shrugged his skinny shoulders. “I don’t know where he got it, Miss Wellfleet. He’s probably a robber. I shouldn’t be surprised, meself, if he’s a rotten crook.” The boy sucked on his lips, shaking his head slowly. “But he’s got plenty. He’s already paid off all— ” He stopped and looked down at his boots.
She tossed the flowers onto the counter. “He did what?”
Spinning around on his worn heels, the boy ran off to avoid further questioning. Clutching her flowers again, Daisy paced the foyer, trying to straighten her thoughts. But each time she had them steady, her heart lurched and galloped forward, taking over, thumping out an uneven rhythm that knocked all good sense asunder again.
If he thought he could come into her life and take over, the man had another think coming. The trouble was she didn’t want him to go away again.
She’d made a mistake picking him out, but how was she to know?
It was almost ten o’clock and she wasn’t even dressed yet for her wedding.
* * * *
“You look lovely, Miss Wellfleet,” Ginny offered with a reassuring pat down of her sleeves.
“Well, it doesn’t really matter what I look like, does it?” She kept telling herself it wasn’t a real wedding, it was a business arrangement. But no matter how many times she said it, that nervous quake in her belly remained, churning like water through a lock gate on the canal.
Again, she studied her reflection with a severely critical eye, almost hoping the gown wouldn’t fit and she’d be obliged to wear something less fancy. Lady Westerfield’s cast-off taffeta, however, might have been made for her. She’d always been told red-heads should never wear this color, but the blush pink ensemble was very flattering, the cut following all her curves. The skirt wasn’t too overdone with ruffles and had only a small bustle, but the dark rose, branched velvet of the jacket was patterned with extravagant curls and had leg-o-mutton sleeves with a row of tiny ebony buttons along the cuffs.
Ginny finished the effect with two mother-of-pearl earrings before securing over her
curls, a small, burgundy, velvet bonnet with a half-veil. It was lady-like without being too demure and virginal. No one seeing her walk down the street would guess she wore another woman’s clothes or that she went to her wedding. But they would know she was on her way somewhere special, somewhere important.
“I suppose I’ll do. Can’t make a silk purse out of a pig’s ear. And it is only a wedding.”
Ginny handed her a small, lace-trimmed handkerchief. “In case you need it, Miss Wellfleet.”
Daisy looked askance. “Have you ever known me to be reduced to soppy tears?”
“Well… most brides…on their wedding day…”
The maid didn’t finish. The scowl was enough to wilt the most well-meaning suggestion before it saw full daylight.
“Thank you, Ginny. You can go.”
As soon as the other young woman left, Daisy leaned closer to the mirror and pinched her cheeks to raise a little color. She didn’t know why she bothered, but she did. Turning away, she stopped, looked back again in the glass, and then reached for her small jar of honey lip balm. Wouldn’t hurt, would it? And another dab of lavender water behind her ear. It wasn’t as if she was encouraging him at all. It was as much to bolster her flagging courage as it was to please him.
Chapter Eight
“Are you certain the lady is coming?” the vicar asked.
Luke didn’t even pause to consider. He was calm, steady, and never once had he checked the church door over his shoulder. “Oh yes. She’ll be here.”
“It’s almost a quarter past eleven, Mr. Bailey.”
“She’ll be here. Don’t fuss.”
The two witnesses dragged in from the market place had begun to look agitated, but Luke remained unconcerned. He knew she’d be there because she had something to shout at him for and she wouldn’t wait until he came back to the hotel.
And then they heard the creak of the heavy oak door followed by her quick heels tapping along the ancient tile. Before she reached his side, she was talking.
“If you think you can come here and start taking over, you’re very much mistaken. I thought I made that clear already. The Wellfleet hotel is mine and I don’t need your interference, or your money. So you can stop meddling with my account books and hiring staff without asking me first.” She arrived at his side, short of breath, holding her crocuses, and peering up at him through the short veil of a slightly dislodged bonnet. “What happened last night doesn’t change anything.”
“Can we discuss this later, dear?” he whispered, shooting her what he hoped to be his most charming smile. “The vicar is waiting.”
She huffed and puffed, but nodded her head. “Get on with it then.”
The vicar, his bristling grey brows raised in surprise, quickly obeyed.
“And don’t call me ‘dear’,” she muttered from the corner of her mouth as the vicar droned on.
“Whatever you say, my sweet,” he replied.
Aware of her eyes searing holes in his face, Luke kept his attention on the vicar.
“I thought you were poor as a church mouse,” she whispered.
“Pay attention to the service. You have to say ‘I do’ in a minute.”
“There’s too many things about you that don’t make sense, and you’d better explain it to me—” she stopped and looked at the waiting vicar, snapping out a hasty, “I do, I suppose, for Heaven’s sake,” before she continued raving at him, “as soon as we get back to the hotel.”
“Oh I will. I promise.” His palms began to sweat. He had some work to do if he meant to get her into that soft mood before his confession. The innocent crocuses were in danger of being thrashed against his jacket sleeves at this rate.
“You’d better, because I need to know what I’m getting myself in to.”
“Shouldn’t you have known all that before you agreed to marry me?”
“But I thought I did, you wretched man. I thought I knew what you were and then you came here and I— what’s that?” she exclaimed, eyeing the simple gold ring now produced to slide onto her finger.
“It’s called a wedding ring. Put it on and stop chattering.”
Apparently she hadn’t given any thought to needing a ring. Her hand was cold, her finger too small for the ring, but he could get it adjusted for her. Luke had never purchased jewelry for a woman before, and he didn’t like gaudy decoration. But this ring was a plain statement, a slender band of gold that seemed perfect for her. She didn’t need diamonds or gems of any kind. He had hoped this gift might, possibly, render her silent for once.
It did the trick, much to his relief.
* * * *
The vows had been said, the service was done, and they were married. As they came out into the grey light of a somber April day, she could barely believe it had happened the way it did. But it was done. Outside the church, life continued as always with churning crowds to push through, over-eager market traders to dodge, and steaming piles of horse dung to watch out for. Lawrence hurried her along, holding her elbow, while she struggled to keep her bonnet on her head with her free hand.
“Where are we going in such a hurry?”
“The river,” he announced. “I’ve hired a rowboat for a picnic.”
“A picnic?” She stopped walking. “It’s going to rain. Look at the sky.”
“It’s not going to rain.”
The way he said it, anyone would think he had power over the weather. “We’ll get soaked through and catch our death of cold.”
“No we won’t.” He dragged her onward, and unless she wanted to trip over her hem and fall flat on her face, she had to go with him.
At the river bank, a hired rowboat was waiting, complete with a small wicker picnic hamper and, she noted dubiously, another bottle of champagne. He’d better not get any ideas.
Holding her hand, he helped her into the boat first and then followed, unhooking the rope and pushing them gently away from the dock. Daisy glanced up at the grim sky and shook her head. Who on earth would plan a picnic on the river with black clouds like those hovering overhead? A madman, that’s who. A maniac obsessed with controlling her and generally meddling with her life. A man who would argue with her over everything, even the weather.
“What are you doing here with me?” she demanded. “Why are we on a river on a cool day in April when the skies are about to burst open?”
He looked up in surprise. “I’m courting you, of course. Isn’t this how it’s done?”
Exactly what she didn’t need, a man trying to be romantic. “That’s all very nice, but completely unnecessary. We should get back to the hotel. I’ve got more important things to do. You’re wasting your time. Anyway, courting comes before marriage generally, I believe.”
“Ah, but our situation was a little different. I didn’t have time to make you fall in love with me in one day.” He grinned sheepishly. “And I don’t want to be accused of rushing you into bed immediately after the ceremony.”
So, after what happened last night, he assumed this marriage was going to be consummated. “I thought I said—”
“Ouch, my head’s hurting. Must be the wound.”
She sighed, fretful. Now she’d gone and married him. Again, she shook her head. Why, oh why, oh why?
Foolish question. An independent woman could still appreciate a well-made man. Her gaze strayed over his shoulders and down over his fine musculature. Suddenly she was ashamed of herself for dreaming up this marriage deception in the first place. She’d just said her vows in church, before witnesses, the vicar, and God. How wicked and heartless.
Odd. A pretend husband had seemed a perfectly reasonable idea a few months ago. But ever since Lawrence arrived, she’d begun to doubt herself. He was too fine a man, too generous. She should never have involved him in a lie. Because that was what it was, a filthy, rotten lie.
Sitting pertly in her end of the little boat, her bouquet in her lap, she watched him row with skill and wondered how many other women he’d taken on rivers for
silly picnics. She didn’t have time for this. She had a hotel to run. Ginny was expecting her back within the hour and was holding down the fort until then.
“Well then,” she said finally, “you can explain to me how you came by that money.”
He pulled back on the oars, showing off his fine, broad shoulders and the long reach of his arms. “I earned it quite honestly. And some I recently inherited.”
“Exactly how rich are you, for pity’s sake?”
He thought about it, glancing up at the gloomy sky. “I really don’t know. Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters. You’re supposed to be poor. People will think I married you for your money.”
He smirked. “As opposed to marrying a man you don’t know just because he’s a willing and convenient cipher for your schemes? Your ambiguous morals never cease to amuse me.”
She sniffed. “You can stop spending your money on me and throwing it around at the hotel. If I wanted money I’d have found a rich, old man to marry, wouldn’t I?”
“I was only trying to help. I’m sorry. It was clumsy of me. I suppose I was in such a good mood this morning, I couldn’t stop myself from spreading a little of it around.”
“I don’t need help. Thanks all the same.”
He rowed on. The water rushed by. There were a few people, scattered along the grassy bank, but mostly they were alone, only the occasional darting fish aware of their presence. She looked up at the grey-marbled, woolly clouds, so close she already felt the damp on her skin. But each time she mentioned the threatening rain, he assured her placidly that the heavy clouds would pass and the sun would soon be out. He decreed it.
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