Bella nodded, tears welling up in her eyes now that the fear had partially abated.
"I thought you might expire on the spot, so white was your face. There is no need to be afraid of him now, for Ale—Lord Firthley is quite livid about the entire thing, and holds Jeremy responsible. He pledged to me not three minutes ago he would stop Jeremy's interference." Her voice grew gravelly and vicious as she added, "With a pistol, most likely."
"What have you told him? You cannot tell Lord Firthley about—Aunt Minerva will murder me!"
"Hush," Charlotte said, pulling Bella into her arms and stroking her back while Bella finally dissolved into quiet weeping. "My mother will do nothing I do not tell her, for I will be a marchioness in two days, and no longer subject to her meddling."
Once Bella's sobs abated, Charlotte dried her cousin's eyes and adjusted her stick-straight hair, as always, falling from its pins in the warm ballroom.
"Now, before my mother has apoplexy in company, we must go out there and pretend there is nothing for the ton to gossip about, until we can make our escape."
"But there most certainly—"
"Is not. Now then."
Charlotte looped her arm in Bella's and once again utilized her counterfeit smile, directing Bella through the halls until they made it to the refreshment room, with a much smaller crowd. Even so, the room stilled when they walked through the door.
Uncle Howard stepped up to meet them, bowing to his daughter and niece with his own false face, offering, "You look peaked, my dear. A cup of punch, perhaps?" He walked both girls thorough the hushed crowd and had a footman pour punch, handing the glass to Bella, squeezing her fingers in a small show of support as he did.
Conversation began to fill the room again, assuredly now all about them. Uncle Howard whispered, "I am having the carriage brought round. Your mother is waiting in the foyer with your wraps, and Lord Firthley will meet us once he has… made… arrangements."
"Arrangements? Surely you cannot mean—"
Bella's hand shook until she thought the punch would spill on her gown, so she held her arm out just slightly to keep it from being upset. Just as her uncle nodded to confirm her worst fear, something bumped her from behind and sent both cup and punch flying from her trembling fingers, drenching everyone nearby, most notably the hostess and the gentleman to whom she had been conversing—the Duke of Lanceley. When that illustrious gentleman turned his gaze on her, yellow liquid dripping from his nose onto his starched cravat, Bella squeaked and ran.
Chapter Fourteen
February 2, 1804
London, England
"It is miraculous he still wants to marry you at all, Charlotte, after what this family has put him through the past few days."
"That's perfectly fine! I don't want to marry him anyway!"
"You would rather marry my brother?" Bella asked quietly from her usual corner.
"I would rather not marry anyone! I shall be an old spinster with too many cats, and live in a cottage in the wilds of Yorkshire until I die!" She held her head high and threw her arms out dramatically. "I shall live my own life and make my own decisions!"
"And you will do so with no money, Charlotte," her mother snapped, "for you cannot collect on your trust for a dozen more years unless you marry, and if you jilt that young man after he fought a duel to save you from ruin, I will throw you from this house myself."
"And me," Bella murmured. "He saved me, too."
Charlotte huffed and sat back down at her dressing table. "That is precisely why I shouldn't marry him. He will have no good name left, nor will I. I can retire to the country to avoid the disgrace. He can say he escaped the parson's mousetrap and a sure life of infamy, and the scandal will die down. If we marry, we will be the Filthy Firthleys forevermore."
"Do not be ridiculous," Lady Effingale said, gathering up Charlotte's hair to braid it. "As long as you marry a marquess, your reputation will suffer not a jot." To distract both girls, she said, "If you are a good girl and are quiet, I will tell you what you have been asking me since you were thirteen, hoyden that you are."
Charlotte's eyes widened, then lit from within. "Really?"
"You will be a bride tomorrow, so you must know what will happen in your bedchamber with your husband." Bella's face turned red, and she stared at her hands, but in the mirror, Charlotte marked her surreptitious interest. Both girls were silent, even for breathing.
Sliding the brush gently through Charlotte's hair, her mother began, "You mustn't believe the silliness of servants when they tell tales. It cannot be counted the most pleasant of activities, but it is not the worst, either, and if you wish children of your own, it will be your duty to make him feel welcome in your bed."
"But…" Charlotte said, her brow furrowed. "But, how do I do that?"
"Hide those willful tendencies and keep a smile on your face no matter what he does." Her hands swiftly braided her daughter's hair, half-successfully tempering a glower in the looking glass. "Never hinder him, for he will know what to do, and in no time at all, I will have grandchildren and your husband will have an heir."
"But Sally said—"
"As I say, Charlotte Amberly, do not listen to the ravings of chambermaids about your marital bed."
Bella looked up with a curious look and said, "But Uncle Howard is so kind. Does he not—"
"Isabella Rowan Smithson! Never, ever let me hear you speak of my husband so again! If some man decides to marry you, ugly as you are, then you may discuss the bedchamber, and only with him."
Bella's head dropped, and she muttered, "Yes, Aunt Minerva."
"Until then, you will keep a civil tongue and act as though a virtuous girl could come from my accursed brother's loins. Charlotte, suffice it to say, you have a duty to your husband, and you will fulfill it without argument. Now then, off to bed with both of you."
***
Sneaking down the hall in the middle of the night reminded her of her escape from Brittlestep Manor with Alexan—Lord Firthley, though hopefully, this time, she would not rouse her brother. The odds, however, were against her, as her mother had assigned Ale—Lord Firthley a bedroom directly across the hall, and Hugh would wake at a pin drop.
When she reached Lord Firthley's bedchamber door, a faint light still glowed under the door, and her brother's nighttime candle had burned out, so he was fast asleep. She scratched her fingernail against the wooden door. If her brother woke, she hoped he would think it one of the mice that so terrified him and stay out of the hallway.
With no response, she scratched a bit louder, and finally, the third time, risked the quietest of taps with the tip of one finger. At last, footsteps crossed the room, and the door creaked open.
Charlotte choked.
His chest was entirely bare, covered with a mat of black curls she was almost compelled to touch. The top buttons of the fall of his trousers had been unfastened, pants hanging from his hips, feet bare. He might as well be naked.
She stood, mouth gaping, until he jumped back behind the door, only his face visible through the crack.
Staring over her shoulder, not at her dressing gown, he hissed, "Miss Amberly, what are you doing here?"
"I must speak to you."
"You cannot mean to come into my room?"
Her mouth dropped. "Of course not. Meet me in the library in five minutes."
"A darkened library is no better. Why?"
"Because if we stay here, Hugh will wake and call out for my father, and you do not want that."
He sighed and ran his fingers through his mussed hair, Charlotte watching every motion of the now-visible, muscular arm. When he noticed her looking, he twisted his arm back from the habitual gesture, hiding himself, once again, behind the door.
"Very well, but this is an awful idea."
She barely heard him, having already scooted down the hall.
Ten minutes later, fully dressed, including a cravat, gloves, and boots, Lord Firthley was still running his fingers through his
hair as though keeping whatever he wished he could say from flying out of his head.
"Do not be ridiculous, Charlotte. We will be married in the morning if I have to set a footman to guard your door."
"I will not. You can tie me up and carry me to the church and threaten me with a hot poker, but you cannot force me to speak vows. Not when you don't love me and never will. Not when you are only doing this out of some misguided sense of honor."
"Honor?" His head tilted as he took in her dressing gown, no longer limiting his perusal to her face. "I am not sure honor is the word for my intentions, my dear."
Alexander, sidled closer, removing his gloves, a look in his eye she had never seen, but which made her stomach do a strange flip-flop.
"I've fought a duel at your request and won it without killing the despicable cur, saving you from ruin and your cousin from… from whatever ill fate it is you refuse to tell me. I've lied to your father as long as I could possibly manage it. I've helped you escape an unwelcome marriage. And I've offered for you to keep you safe from a villainous fiend. What more must I do to convince you of the sincerity of my affections?" He tucked a crooked finger under her chin so she could see nothing but his endearing smile.
She stepped back, and he stepped forward. Then another step. Then another. Her back hit a built-in shelf of books, and she chirruped. One of his hands rose and landed on the wall above her shoulder, the other graced her cheek, rubbing an oddly calloused thumb across her smooth skin. Leaning in, his elbow grazing the wall, he placed a soft kiss on her jawbone.
"What are…?" She trailed off when his lips moved to the side of her throat, tongue tip teasing her skin.
"How can you know if you wish to marry me when you don't even know if you enjoy my kisses?" he whispered in her ear.
Her whole body shivered, but she managed, "Kisses are… irrelevant…"
"Oh, no, my sweet. Kisses will never be irrelevant." With that, he took her chin between his finger and thumb and gently placed his lips over hers.
She tried to speak, to object, and he brushed his tongue along her upper lip. Her words caught in her throat, if she had any at all, and her body began to tremble like she was caught in a snowstorm in her chemise. He slanted his mouth to a more effective angle—good Heavens, was it effective—and let loose her chin to wrap his arm about her waist.
Dragging her closer, his tongue coaxed hers into a dance of sorts, a waltz, where her need to always win was subsumed in the pleasure of the caress. His other hand wandering into the hair at the nape of her neck, she felt him loosen her braid, strands of black caressing her shoulders, tangling around his fingers. When he tugged her head back and his tongue drifted along the column of her throat, she moaned. When he left soft, open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone, she whimpered. She reached her hand up to touch his chest, and when she did, it was as though lightning ran from his muscled form down her arm and into areas of her body better left unsaid.
"My mother said—"
"Shh, shh, never speak of her again while I am kissing you." He enforced his request by giving her no chance to speak further. The groaning she couldn't stop rumbled deep in her throat, increasing in volume with the progress of his hand from hip, to waist to—oh, Lord! His hand surrounded the globe of her breast, thumb brushing across her nipple as delicately as it had across her cheek, forcing her body to arch against him.
"Do you wish me to continue, my sweet?"
"Oh, yes, oh… please…"
He stepped back, holding her steady against the row of books. "Then you shall have to meet me at the altar in the morning."
She blinked in the candlelight, disoriented. "What?"
His sardonic grin was more than a little smug. "By nightfall tomorrow, I will finish what I've started, but not until you are well and truly my wife."
"But—"
He straightened her dressing gown, tied the sash tightly, and offered his arm. "Will I escort you back to your bedchamber now? You should sleep, for it will be a long day tomorrow."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "You horrible man. You meant to do that, to get me to… and then stop. You are a…. a…."
"Horrible man." He grinned.
"Yes!"
"Nevertheless," he murmured against her ear, "I will not show you the rest until you are mine. And there is oh, so much more."
He tucked her hand under his elbow and walked her on shaking legs to the door to her chamber. Pulling her against him for one last kiss, he whispered, "You set me aflame, Charlotte Amberly. It has been so since the first night, when I saw you eavesdropping on the stairway. Tomorrow night, I will give you all, and I swear, you will be the happiest of wives all our days. I cannot force you to speak vows, but your refusal will leave me hollow. Please do not disappoint me so, my dear."
The lightest touch of his fingertip to her cheek set her heart beating like a war drum, tremors of both mutiny and surrender crashing through her veins. He left her standing, shoulders against the door, staring at his back as he walked away down the hall.
Chapter Fifteen
Bella woke to sobbing from behind the connecting door to Charlotte's suite. If the silly chit did not soon make up her mind to marry the man she clearly wanted, she would send Bella mad. But Charlotte had always been like a barn cat going after a lion. No matter how bad the idea, she would scratch away at it until she won her point—or was flattened under someone's larger paw.
Bella pushed the door open.
"Charlotte? Are you injured? Is something amiss?" Buffle-brained cow. The only thing injured was Charlotte's pride and the only thing amiss, her desire to do things her own way.
Bella sat on the edge of the bed, stroking her cousin's hair as she sobbed into her pillow. "I know, dearest, it's too much, too fast. But it will all be over by this time tomorrow, and soon enough, you will be mistress of Lord Firthley's marquessate, chatelaine to four separate estates."
Charlotte's sobbing slowed, and she shifted the pillow.
"By nuncheon tomorrow, you will be wealthier than your father and outrank your mother forevermore."
She sniffled and shrugged.
"And you will never have to do another thing she says."
Charlotte turned over, scrubbing her face clean of tears on the sleeve of her nightrail. "But…"
"Yes?"
"But what if… what if…" She turned her head and mumbled into her pillow, "What if he doesn't love me?"
Bella giggled and slipped the pillow from under Charlotte's head. "What if he doesn't? Do you love him?"
"Well… no… not… I mean, perhaps I might…"
Bella hit her, none too gently, with the pillow. "You don't need to love him, Charlotte. He is kind and handsome and makes you laugh—don't deny it. He will make you a fine husband, and you will be a wonderful wife. You have wanted to be married since the first time you saw a bride."
Charlotte piled up pillows against the headboard. "What if he is the wrong husband for me? What if I might find someone perfect, if only I waited?"
Bella picked at the embroidery on the bedclothes. "Can you wait, with my brother doing his best to destroy you?"
Charlotte paused, but eventually said, "No, I don't suppose I can."
Taking up the same position she always had when the two girls kept each other awake into the wee hours, Bella crossed her legs and sat at the end of the bed, her back against the post.
"Have you met some other gentleman who might offer for you?"
Charlotte sat up, tucking her legs underneath her, back against the headboard. "No, but I've only been out for a few weeks, and there were several prospects who might—"
Bella tossed the bolster across the bed at Charlotte. "Who are they, then, these paragons who might come up to scratch if only you gave them long enough to do your bidding?"
"Well…" Charlotte began counting on her fingers. "Lord Melby said my hair is like midnight and my eyes like the stars. He said he could write a sonnet about me."
Bella snorte
d, "Did he write one? And has he somehow replenished his family's lost wealth by the writing of poetry?"
Charlotte huffed and bent her index finger, going on to the next. "The Earl of Chastain tried to take two dances at the Lindley ball. I had to be quite forceful."
"So you would marry a man who wishes to bend you to his will, in order to escape the same?"
"Well, no… but he—"
"Has three children and a tumble-down estate in Scotland with a roof that needs fixing with your dowry."
Narrowing her eyes, Charlotte ticked off another finger. "Viscount Ferrinday said—"
Bella sat up straight. "If you say you would marry Viscount Ferrinday, I will deliver you to the chapel tomorrow myself."
"What is so wrong with him?"
"He is one of the… he is…" she finished in a strangled whisper, "He is friends with John and Jeremy."
Charlotte's face went white, and she dropped the finger into her fist. "The Duke of Ordnay came to call twice."
Bella's giggles filled the room. "The Duke of Ordnay is older than Lord Firthley's grandfather, whom you ran away to avoid. Come, Charlotte. You cannot think of one good reason not to marry Lord Firthley, nor should you. He has proved himself each and every time you have tested him—" She held up one finger. "Do not tell me you haven't tested him, for I have seen it myself."
Bella began ticking off her own fingers: "He helped you run from Evercreech. He lied to your parents without being asked. He kept your secret when he could have ruined you. He offered for you when Jeremy was your only other choice. He pinked my brother in a duel to save both of us from the next round of Smithson scheming. And all without destroying the last shreds of your good name." She arranged the blanket to cover her bare feet. "No, my dear, dimwitted cousin. He is the man for you. There is no doubt of that."
Charlotte blushed bright red, and when she started working her finger through a small tear in the counterpane, Bella seized her hand. "What is it? You are smiling."
"It's just… well… only, I met him in the library a half-hour past."
Mistletoe, Marriage, and Mayhem: A Bluestocking Belles Collection Page 27