The Wicked Husband (Blackhaven Brides Book 4)

by Mary Lancaster

  “Well, it’s very kind of you to say so.”

  Startlement leapt in his eyes. “Kind? I’m not known for it. Willa, I was excessively drunk and I behaved badly to you, but I am glad I married you.” A smile flickered across his face. “And I’ll do my best to see that you don’t regret it too much. Was Kate warning you about me?”

  “I believe she meant it kindly.”

  “I suppose there’s a lot to warn against,” he said ruefully. “But we can be friends, can’t we?”

  She nodded dumbly. Being friends was a beginning, but she wanted so much more and so badly, that she could barely breathe.

  His thumb moved against her gloved hand in an absent caress. “And we waltz pretty well together.”

  “I let you lead.”

  “Then maybe it’s your turn.”

  “Really?” In spite of everything, laughter caught in her throat.

  “Really.”

  So she did, and it worked well for almost a minute before he had to practically lift her off the ground and swing her around to avoid crashing into a staid couple who danced with no panache whatever.

  “Sorry,” Willa said. “I can’t see over you!”

  “All part of the fun,” he assured her.

  And bizarrely, it was.

  *

  The Daxtons left the Assembly Rooms together, in perfect charity with each other, having promised to go to the Grants’ for dinner tomorrow evening. They walked back to the hotel arm in arm, Willa listening to the hasty beats of her heart as she gazed up at the sky. Its glittering beauty seemed to reinforce her happiness. Like Dax, she would live in the moment and simply enjoy his presence at her side, and the strange excitement it brought her.

  In companionable silence, they entered the hotel and made their way to their rooms. A lamp burned low on the side table. Dax turned it up and took off the shade to light a few candles from it.

  A bump from behind the door of the servant’s bedchamber told Willa that Clara had taken possession. But she kept to her room, and there was no sign of Carson. Willa was glad. She peeled off her gloves and dropped her gauze shawl—yet another gift from Dax—onto the sofa.

  Dax, having brightened the room, walked back to her. The candle flames spread golden light across his handsome face and hair. And yet as he moved, she was aware of the shadows too, beneath his fine cheekbones and across his determined chin. They made him a stranger, as dangerous, perhaps, as everyone said, but one she was beginning to know, one she wanted to know.

  “I enjoyed this evening,” he said, coming to a halt only inches away from her.

  She could smell him, the pleasant oil from his soap, a hint of wine behind the distinctive, earthy scent she’d come to associate with him.

  “So did I,” she managed.

  “I’m glad,” he said softly. “I think we deal pretty well together.”

  “I hope so,” she replied with more calm than she felt.

  He leaned closer, filling her with fright as well as longing. But he only took her hand, raising it to his lips. His kiss lingered on her skin, sweet and thrilling. And then he turned her hand over, unfastening the bracelet, and again, pressed his lips to her wrist.

  He lifted his head, his thumb caressing where his lips had been. “I can feel your pulse racing,” he said huskily. “Is that for me?”

  Heat suffused her. It came with embarrassment as well as yearning. And yet she could only ever be honest.

  “Yes,” she admitted.

  A smile flickered across his shadowed face. “I’m glad. One day…one day, when you’re used to me, I’d like to see if I can’t make it beat faster yet.”

  She was afraid to breathe. His gaze slipped from her eyes to her lips. She couldn’t speak, to encourage or even to make light of his words.

  “Good night, Willa,” he murmured and released her hand.

  Disappointment flooded her, especially when he stood back, walked to the table, and picked up his hat. With a last smile that melted her exposed heart, he sauntered to the door—not his bedchamber door, but the passage door.

  But where are you going? Stay here with me. The words in her heart stayed buried. But with the click of the latch behind him, she wanted to weep.

  *

  Of all the sights Sir Ralph Shelby expected to see in Miss Pinkie’s house of ill-repute, his mother’s missing purse was certainly not one of them.

  But there it was in the lap of some ill-bred fellow in an obviously new but badly made suit of clothes. He looked like a working man aping the fashions of the middling classes. He was good-looking in a rough kind of a way, but had the air of a man who’d knock his fellows down without much regret.

  Which was the trouble with establishments like Miss Pinkie’s. They admitted anyone who could pay, regardless of birth or breeding. Someone like Daxton might have been comfortable rubbing shoulders with riff-raff and rogues, but Ralph’s standards were higher.

  However, even he had to assuage the desires of the flesh, and so Miss Pinkie’s was a necessary service.

  The man with his purse was bestowing largesse liberally on the girls who sat on either side of him—presumably as a tip, since he immediately stood and strolled away toward the door.

  Ralph followed him into the hall. “Your pardon,” he said haughtily, and the man turned to him in surprise. “I couldn’t help noticing your purse, for I have one just like it.”

  The man’s eyes shifted tellingly, but he only said jauntily, “Good for you, mate.”

  Ralph curled his lip. “I ought to say, I had one just like it. It was stolen from my servant in the Blackhaven Hotel.”

  “Never,” the man marveled.

  Ralph stepped closer. “I see you like to have a little easy money, to facilitate, no doubt, the finer things in life. New coats, women, a little respect for your wealth.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “Who wouldn’t?”

  “Exactly. And so, I have a choice to lay before you. I could summon the Watch, and you should know there are many respectable witnesses in Blackhaven who can declare that that purse is mine. Or—” He held up one finger to silence the furious and pointless denials about to erupt from the fellow’s mouth. “Don’t bother. You’re known here and, I suspect, all over town. It would be easy for local magistrates to track you down. But I am a generous man. I would rather reward you. Or at least, employ you.”

  Clearly intrigued, the man came nearer. “In what capacity?”

  “Breaking the law,” Ralph said. “As you’re clearly so good at it.”

  The man grinned. “If it pays well enough.”

  “If you get rid of my particular problem, and I do mean get rid—permanently—it will pay you very well indeed. Unless it ever comes back to me.”

  Chapter Eight

  The following morning, Willa broke her fast alone, served by Clara, who was thrilled to show her the new riding habit which had been delivered from Madame Monique, along with another two day dresses. Willa admired them enthusiastically, and was disgusted with herself that as soon as Daxton’s bedchamber door opened, all her attention flew immediately in that direction.

  However, it was only Carson who emerged, whistling. “Morning, m’lady,” he greeted her.

  “Good morning, Carson. Is his lordship within?” she asked casually. She hadn’t heard him come back last night, but then she’d slept like the dead from the moment her head touched the pillow.

  “No, m’lady. He’ll be back shortly, though.”

  Stupidly, her heart sank. She’d always known what Dax was, and what life with him would be like. She didn’t expect him to stay in or to attend only the most respectable social functions with her. Fashionable husbands and wives lived largely sperate lives outside the home, and she would have died rather than constrain Dax to be with her through guilt or duty. She would have to learn just to enjoy her moments with him and find her own way for the rest of the time so that he didn’t feel obliged to look after her. And after last night, she had invitation
s to call on several local ladies. Lady Wickenden had even spoken of arranging some expedition of pleasure in the countryside.

  Her gaze fell on the new riding habit draped over the back of a chair. “Carson, where does one hire a horse in Blackhaven?”

  “Livery stables,” said Dax, breezing in through the outer door just in time to hear her question. “And I’ve found you a beautiful little mare.”

  Her heart skipped a beat, as it often seemed to around him. She couldn’t help being pleased that he wore well-fitting buff breeches and a blue coat, rather than last night’s black evening clothes as she’d more than half expected.

  “Oh, thank you, Dax! How did you know that riding was exactly what I wanted to do today?”

  “I guessed from the new habit,” he said with a quick grin.

  “Do I have to take a groom?” she asked.

  “Not if I’m with you.”

  “But you’re not allowed to ride,” she protested, indicating his injured arm.

  “We won’t go far and I’ll only use one hand.”

  “I’m not sure that works,” she said doubtfully.

  “Well, if it opens the wound, we’ll just have to get the quack back. Hurry and change.”

  *

  It was too easy to forget Daxton’s injury as they rode along the beach under the turreted castle they could see from all over the town, and then up the path to the hills beyond it.

  “That must be Braithwaite’s pile,” Dax observed. “Wonder if he’s at home?”

  “Is he a friend of yours?”

  “Not anymore,” Dax said. “He told me off for compromising his sister.”

  “Oh dear,” Willa said uneasily. “You didn’t, did you?”

  “No, it was a fuss about nothing. We danced together a few times at some party—possibly more than the requisite twice. I don’t perfectly recall, to be honest, expect I was foxed—and the old bore they’d betrothed her to took exception to my singling her out.”

  “Did you apologize?” Willa asked.

  “Lord, no. Told Braithwaite they shouldn’t tie such a lively girl to such a dullard. It was asking for trouble. And that if she was happy about the marriage, she wouldn’t be flirting with me.”

  “I don’t expect he liked that.”

  “He didn’t. If we had been in his house, he’d have thrown me out. Since we were in mine, he had to make do with stalking out. He hasn’t spoken to me since.”

  Now that he told the story, she realized she’d heard something similar being discussed among her cousins just before she’d left for Blackhaven. She looked at Dax, preparing for pain. “Were you in love with Lady Serena?”

  “Good God, no,” he said with satisfying astonishment. “And before you ask, she ain’t in love with me, either. She just wanted a little amusement at a very dull party. Look at the view from here. Isn’t this another of Tamar’s scenes?”

  “Yes, I believe it is. He caught it very well, I think.”

  “He was showing me some of his other paintings last night. I never expected him to have such a talent.”

  “Did you see him after the ball, then?”

  “Yes, we drank contraband brandy in a seedy tavern and once the sailors started to fight, we backed off and went to his studio instead. He lives there among paints and canvasses. You have to see the place.”

  “I’d love to,” she said warmly, delighted not so much by where he’d been but that he’d told her.

  After a very pleasant and companionable ride, they returned the horses to the livery stable on the edge of the town and walked the rest of the way to Lord Tamar’s studio. This was little more than a one room fisherman’s cottage by the shore, though with spectacular views.

  It was impossibly cluttered. Tamar seemed perfectly happy to sweep all the tools, sketches, and canvases off the sofa and onto the floor so that Willa could sit. Not that she wished to for very long. She preferred to flit about the room, examining all the paintings.

  Only one was covered up with a paint-spattered cloth. Willa peeped beneath and found a portrait of a young couple. The lady had a refined sort of quiet beauty and she wore hazy spectacles that reflected the light, giving her a faint impression of mystery and a rather sweet vagueness. The man beside her was ruggedly handsome, with hard blue eyes. He looked restless and impatient, although his hand rested protectively on the back of the lady’s chair. Behind them was the sea view from Tamar’s studio window, but he’d painted it in such a way it might have been from a ship’s large cabin window.

  “I’m not sure whether that one’s finished or not,” Tamar offered, dropping onto a rug on the floor and reaching for a sketch book. “Sometimes it makes me angry because it’s not right, and other times I think it’s the best portrait I’ve ever done.”

  “Who are they?” Willa asked curiously.

  “The Honorable Mr. and Mrs. Alban Lamont,” Tamar replied. “Otherwise known as Captain Alban and Lady Arabella Niven.”

  “Really? Oh, I don’t think Ralph ever stood a chance with her, Dax, do you?”

  Dax strolled over to look. “No, she’s got too much character,” he pronounced. “How would you paint us, then, Rags?”

  Tamar, busily sketching, said only, “Haven’t decided yet.”

  “Do we get to decide?”

  “No. But you have a right of veto.”

  “Fair enough. Shall we go, Willa? I think we’ve lost him to his muse.”

  Tamar grinned. “Ah, no, you are my muse. Or at least Lady Dax is. But go away, by all means.”

  “He was always the best of hosts,” Dax observed.

  *

  More than three hundred miles away, stood the very different seaside town of Brighton, which the Prince Regent had made fashionable and overcrowded. Here, in the house she’d taken for the summer, the Countess of Romford was indulging in a fit of the vapors.

  Fortunately, she did so before no larger an audience than her husband, who watched proceedings with growing irritation. Eventually, with a curse, he threw down the letter that had caused all the trouble.

  “Oh for God’s sake, my lady, pull yourself together!” he snapped.

  When she paid him no heed, he strode to the wall and pulled the bell.

  “What are you doing?” the countess demanded quite clearly.

  “Ringing for your maid. I won’t have this damned racket in my presence. When you’ve recovered, we’ll talk again.”

  “Oh no, Romford, wait! I don’t want the wretched maid. It’s just the shock.”

  “Well, it’s a shock to me, too,” her husband retorted. “But you don’t see me making a scene that can probably be heard in the damned Pavilion.”

  “Oh, stop being such a bear,” the countess said crossly. “We have to put our heads together and decide what can be done about this disaster.”

  “Done about it? Nothing! He married the damned girl, whoever she is, to spite me. Now he can live with his own folly.”

  “She’s Sally Shelby’s niece.”

  Lord Romford snorted. “Well, at least he didn’t marry the housemaid.”

  “He might as well have. Her mother’s birth is unexceptionable, but George Blake was some fly-by-night flim flam merchant who abandoned them both within a year. When the mother died, the Shelbys took the child in.”

  Romford scowled. “Well, it could be worse, I suppose.”

  “No, it couldn’t. I was never more taken in in my life. I remember Willa Blake as a lively, polite young girl with a lot more sense than the rest of them. She thinks she’ll take my place one day as countess!”

  “Well, she will,” Romford said brutally.

  “Over my dead body,” the countess said grimly before turning on the servant who’d answered the bell. “Go away!”

  The footman effaced himself.

  “Gretna Green,” the countess said disparagingly. “A paltry, shabby business and easy to have overturned. All I need is Charles’s cooperation.”

  “Why the devil would he cooperat
e?”

  His wife regarded him with pity. “Because if I know our only son, he’s done this in a fit of drunken rage and is already regretting it. We’ll have it annulled on the grounds of nonconsummation if nothing else. How well do you know the archbishop?”

  “What archbishop? He’s irrelevant if the marriage took place in Scotland. Besides, there are no grounds for annulment in non-consummation, only in the lack of the ability to consummate, and no one’s going to believe that of Daxton!”

  “I’m not sure you’re right about that. In any case, you must look into the legalities. I will ensure Daxton’s cooperation in shaking off this ridiculous mésalliance.”

  “And how will you do that?” her lord inquired with heavy sarcasm. “I suppose he is known for his amiability and desire to please us.”

  Lady Romford whisked herself to the study door. “He is known for pleasing himself. And so, I shall go to Mrs. Holt’s party.”

  *

  At the evening party, Lady Romford’s quarry was easily discovered, since she was her hostess. Helena Holt was beautiful, accomplished, intelligent and, in Lady Romford’s opinion, utterly amoral. It was no wonder Daxton had been drawn to her.

  Since Lady Romford had made no secret of her disapproval of her son’s relationship, no one was more surprised than Mrs. Holt when she found herself welcoming the countess.

  “We must have a cozy talk,” the countess said playfully, tapping her fan against the wrist of her son’s lover.

  Mrs. Holt looked understandably appalled, but as the countess had fully intended, curiosity ensured that her host sought her out before too many minutes had passed.

  “I hear I am to congratulate you on Lord Daxton’s nuptials,” Mrs. Holt drawled, as they took a turn together around the drawing room.

  “I don’t consider it a matter for congratulation,” the countess said frankly, “and neither, I imagine, do you.”

  “It is immaterial to me whom he marries.”

  “I suppose you quarreled,” Lady Romford guessed. “That will have contributed to his anger. Not that I blame you. A saint would quarrel with Charles if he’s in the wrong mood. Can we at least agree that this is not the right time for him to marry anyone?”