The Wicked Wedding of Miss Ellie Vyne

by Jayne Fresina

  James considered her decrepit state with all due solemnity.

  “So you see,” she said, “I can’t dance with you.” For some reason she was close to weeping. It was most unlike her, and she had no excuse for it.

  “I can assure you, Vyne, I’ve danced with women in far worse states. Is that the best you can do to get out of it? I always imagined you’d have far more intricate and nonsensical excuses at the ready to turn me down.”

  The idea that he might ever have considered asking her to dance before could not have occurred to Ellie. Not in a thousand years.

  He held out his arm. “I’m not going away, so you may as well dance with me. It’ll be over with before you know it.”

  “That’s what they say before they pull teeth.” Still, she hesitated, feeling every eye upon her already—everyone waiting to scorn something about her. Sometimes she was able to overcome her self-conscious fears; sometimes, like tonight, when fate seemed determined to work against her, Ellie’s courage failed.

  “Do you really care what they think, Vyne? I thought you were braver than that.”

  “That’s easy for you to say, Hartley. You haven’t got trifle on your behind.”

  “Aha! But I have had an ink moustache, thanks to you.” His eyes were very blue in the candlelight. “So this will make us even.”

  Even? Apparently he chose to forget the insults he’d once thrown her way so casually over his shoulder. They were a long way from even.

  But he tempted her now with dancing, and Ellie loved to dance. So far—before the rip and the stain occurred—she had enjoyed only two partners that evening: a boy with pimples, a grievous squint, and two left feet; and an elderly, highly inebriated gentleman, who seemed to have a great deal more than the requisite two hands and whose breath entered a room half an hour before he did. Now she could relish the shallow, sinful pleasure of a handsome partner—even if he was arrogant as the day was long—and enjoy the envious glances of those other women, for in their fevered minds, her stock rose the moment this rake noticed her.

  Countless hordes of young, hopeful ladies crammed themselves into parties like this one, just to fling themselves at James. For many, his wicked reputation, while it should have been a warning, was merely incitement. Naïve girls thought they could take him in hand, make him change his ways. They saw James Hartley as a challenge. Ellie blamed it on romantic novels.

  “Let them all look,” he whispered. “Now they’ll have something worthwhile to talk about for once.” He gave Ellie a brief smile that further surprised her. “You might even start a new fashion.”

  She made up her mind to be bold. If James Hartley didn’t care that her gown was torn and she had custard on her rear, why should she?

  As they joined the other couples, there were no words immediately exchanged. She’d let him speak first. In Ellie’s experience, there was never anything very enlightening to be learned from a gentleman’s conversation while dancing. Subjects were limited to the weather, the state of the roads, or any other inane topic regarded as harmless, not likely to offend, but guaranteed to bore her stockings rigid. However, she had promised Charlotte to listen this time.

  Speaking of her sisters…her gaze casually moved over the guests and settled on their astonished, anxious faces staring at her from the drawing-room doorway. Their ringlets twitched violently. She thought she just made out the words Typical and Will she never learn? formed by the peevish arch and snap of her sisters’ lips. They even tried signaling to her with frantic little flips of a fan, gestures more appropriate for an errant child or a naughty puppy. They wanted her to put James Hartley down, stop playing with him at once, and come to heel. As if she’d just dug him up out of the garden and dragged him inside.

  She smiled at them. It was their idea to make her attend this party, when all she’d wanted was to stay in and watch her “middle-aged” bosom continue to expand.

  But then her gaze wandered away from her sisters and tripped clumsily over another familiar face in the crush of dancing couples.

  Oh, Lord! There was Walter Winthorne, who had the dubious honor of being her very first fiancé. Now wedded to another, he usually avoided Ellie, with a sympathetic, condescending manner that suggested it was for her own health. She sometimes wondered if he feared she might attempt bodily harm to herself with an oyster fork simply because he switched his affections to another woman nine years ago. Tonight, when he saw her dancing with James Hartley, a glimmer of surprise then irritation passed quickly over his broad, flat face. Ellie never considered herself a spiteful creature, but that falter in his self-satisfied countenance was rather gratifying. She was only human, after all.

  Further sneaky and gleeful inspection revealed that Winthorne had grown quite fat, and not in the pleasing, jolly way of a man settled and enjoying life. He carried it very ill. There was a definite sagging of the jowls, produced no doubt by the wear and tear of married life. His shoulders were dreadfully hunched.

  Oops, now she’d missed her steps.

  Her partner winced when she stepped hard on his toes. At last, his somber perusal of the other guests interrupted, James addressed her again. “Your lover has disappeared from London, it seems. Have you done away with him out of jealousy, because of his flirtation with Lady Southwold?”

  Her dark sense of humor was piqued. So that was why he was being nice to her. He meant to pry for information about the count and get his diamonds back. “How did I dispose of my lover? What is your theory? Do tell.”

  “Knowing you, it’s more than likely you turned him into a toad.”

  She knew he would have her arrested in an instant if he discovered the truth—that she’d masqueraded as a man, lied her way into gaming clubs in Brighton and Bath, as well as here in London, and cheated with sleight of hand she learned when she was only six from her stepuncle, Lieutenant Graedon Vyne, who always said she had a natural talent for it.

  “Where has he gone, Vyne? You may as well tell me where the thief hides with his loot.”

  “Thief?” she exclaimed. “Did the count remove those diamonds from your mistress with his own hands?”

  James gave no reply.

  She watched his jaw grinding. “Are you certain this isn’t just about Lady Southwold?”

  He lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Lady Southwold was a pleasant diversion for a short while. Women come and go. I’ve learned better than to expect honesty or faithfulness from any.”

  Ellie was astounded by his candor. Although his tone was casual, his eyes were cooled by sadness. “Yet you gave her those diamonds?”

  He grimaced. “I was in a generous mood.”

  “You mean you were pickled.” She curbed her smile, catching again the wistful shadow in his blue eyes.

  James Hartley was looking at her like a dejected pup in need of a home. Is this how he drew women into his web? She carefully studied his waistcoat rather than look into his eyes again. Other women might be fooled into sympathizing with the wretched man, but she knew better. With all his advantages in life, he didn’t need her empathy. He tried playing her for a fool, as he did all those other dizzy-brained hussies who chased after him. Well, they might not know what he was about, but she knew. She was no—

  Uh, oh.

  His strong fingers were now holding hers too tightly. He didn’t appear to be drunk again, but he was certainly gripping on to her as if she was a life raft on a stormy sea.

  Yet, it was strangely comfortable dancing with the enemy, even with a torn frock and custard on her posterior. The sad state of her gown no longer mattered now that the handsomest rake in the room had given his seal of approval, and Ellie was vexed to find herself depressingly shallow, after all. As a woman whose only passable looks were late in blooming, she should have had more sense.

  For the next few bars of music, they were separated as they joined with another couple in the dance. She was aware again of her sisters watching. Oh, dear. She made her eyes wide, imploring their sympathy, raisi
ng her shoulders in a hapless gesture. What choice did I have? she would say later. He forced me into it. When he snatched her drink away, what else did she have to do with herself? To refuse at that point would be churlish and cause an even bigger scene.

  His hand gripped hers again, and they were reunited.

  “Stop distracting me, Vyne,” he growled. “The count. Tell me where he is.”

  Wondering what she’d done to be accused of “distracting” him, Ellie answered pertly and for once, truthfully. “I keep him in a hat box.”

  He sighed. “If I don’t get those diamonds back from him, I’ll extract their value from you.”

  “Just how do you propose to do that?”

  “I have a few ideas.”

  “I’m intrigued!”

  “You should be.” His index finger moved, curled under her palm, and then straightened again.

  Was he flirting with her? It seemed too incredible to believe. Ellie decided to ignore the artful caress of his finger and instead raised her defenses. “You have more than one idea? Do be careful, Hartley. A gentleman’s brain must be treated gently and never overburdened. It gets so little exercise. We don’t want it strained.”

  There was another pause while they merged with a neighboring couple, and then as he returned within her hearing, he snapped out, “I suppose the count fed you that pretty line about escaping Madame Guillotine as a babe and drifting all the way to Dover in a barrel. Or was it his nurse’s trunk? I’m surprised that you, of all people, fell for that story. The Brothers Grimm could tell a more convincing tale.”

  She cocked her head and smiled coyly up at him for the sake of all those who watched and could not hear their conversation. “If I cared at all for your opinion, Hartley, I daresay I’d ask for it. But since I did not, I suggest you save your breath. You never know when you might need it to say something actually worthwhile and meaningful. It could happen. Even to a Hartley.”

  The dance was coming to an end, but a set contained two dances, and he was not yet done with her. Horrified, she realized the next dance was a daring waltz. James clutched her gloved fingers again in his viselike grip and laid his other hand firmly against her waist, giving her no choice but to place her left hand on his right shoulder. There was nothing between them but an indecently few inches of air. Somewhere behind her she heard her sisters’ muffled cries of alarm and agitation. They wanted her to find a husband, but James Hartley was not suitable marriage material. In their eyes, she wasted valuable time dancing with that rake. She might, after all, sprout her first gray hair in the next few hours. The inevitable crow’s-feet could almost be heard, creaking across her face.

  But here she was, dancing with the enemy.

  Lost in thought, she studied his familiar, despicably handsome features. How did he get that bruise around his eye? What had he been up to? He could get himself hurt worse than he had been already. He ought to leave London Society for a while. Breathe some fresh air for a change. Not that it should matter to her. He never welcomed her advice, any more than she welcomed his. In so many ways, they were too alike.

  “What now?” he demanded as he glared down at her. “I can almost hear the cogwheels of your mind turning, Vyne. What do you have up your sleeve for me next? What more degradation must I suffer at your hands?”

  Ellie quickly lowered her gaze. Even if he had rescued her from a wallflower’s fate this evening, his rudderless misadventures should really be of no interest to her at all. She studied his waistcoat again and composed her thoughts and, more importantly, her fast-beating heart.

  A shrill woman’s voice abruptly intruded. “James! Feeling better, I see.”

  There was no mistaking the tone of anger, the sharp, cutting edge of barely concealed claws. Ellie daren’t turn her head, for she knew the voice. Only the night before, she’d taken an ugly necklace from that woman in a game of cards. If Ophelia Southwold should recognize her, the ruse would be over.

  “Thank you,” she heard James reply. “Much better. Now.”

  “So I see!”

  Even as they spun around in the waltz, Ellie kept her head turned. He must have noticed her pushing to keep her back to the other woman. “Is there something wrong with your neck, Vyne?”

  “Just a slight crick,” she murmured.

  Had she known those diamonds were his, she would never have accepted them from Lady Southwold, no matter how big the hole in her stepfather’s roof. She should have returned the necklace to James when he followed her to that inn, but her pride got in the way, combined with a considerable helping of mischief. She could almost hear Charlotte’s voice again: Oh, Ellie!

  As usual, when anxious and annoyed with herself, she sought someone else to blame. “I hope this incident with the diamonds has taught you a lesson, Hartley. Treat the family jewels with greater care, and stop loaning them to women who will do you absolutely no good whatsoever.”

  “And how do you know what’s good for me and my family jewels?”

  “I’m afraid we’ve become too familiar with each other.” She stole a timid glance upward.

  “Hmm.” A curiously uncertain smile played over his lips. “Like a bad habit we can’t quite give up.”

  She made the mistake of looking all the way up into his eyes again and instantly regretted it. Although she’d never before been the target of his patented charm, she’d seen him in action many times, watched him make women melt in a puddle, which he then stepped over as soon as their company no longer amused him. She knew all the stages of his well-honed flirtation, although it felt different being the mark this time instead of a detached observer. She was very glad their dance must soon be over.

  But then he went and said, “Wretched woman, you really ought to marry me. Better the devil we know.”

  Chapter 5

  She responded as if he’d just pinched her behind. “Don’t be ridiculous. What a perfectly atrocious idea.”

  “Somebody ought to make an honest woman of you.”

  “Have you gnawed through your restraints, Hartley? I heard the wardens at the asylum are searching for a lost inmate.”

  “My grandmother assures me it’s time I married. As for you, Vyne—you’re getting on in years and clearly in need of discipline that only a husband can give you.”

  “And how would a husband do that?”

  He cleared his throat but not far enough. His next words came out in a low growl. “Deliver a damn good spanking.”

  He thought about her legs again and how the warm curve of her satiny bottom might feel against the palm of his hand while the soft curls of her womanhood pressed against his hard, tense thigh muscle as he held her down in his lap for a long-overdue spanking. That would shock the smug look off her face. He liked the idea of shocking Ellie Vyne. He sensed that she was not often shocked, and she should be. Frequently, if he had his way.

  “So I’m the best choice you could come up with?” she exclaimed. “Are you that desperate?”

  “For your information, Vyne, I receive proposals often.”

  “Of marriage? Or for you to go and boil your head?”

  “Just this very evening, I had a very determined young lady attempt to stow away in my carriage, intent on forcing me to Gretna Green, where she doubtless had very sinister things in mind for me.”

  She laughed, a sultry sound that shook him all the way to his toes again. He ought to be used to it by now, but somehow he was never ready for the effect it had on him. Each time he heard it was like the first. “You missed your chance with her, then. I wouldn’t go to Gretna Green with you. Not for all the tea in China.”

  “But your younger sisters are both married before you,” he persisted. “Surely you’re anxious to wed before it’s too late.”

  Her eyes sparkled with a sudden blaze of wildfire. “Too late for what? I’m younger than you, Hartley. Ten years younger. Too late, indeed!” If he wasn’t very much mistaken, his words had hit a soft spot. Interesting.

  “Men can wait,” he s
aid. “Women have a limited number of years before they lose their bloom. Not saying you ever had any. On a bad day, when in one of your abysmal sulks, you look like the very devil.”

  She scowled, instantly proving him right about both his statement and his previous guess.

  “And with your scandalous behavior, who else would have you?” he added, firm-lipped, struggling not to laugh at her expression. “I, of course, am accustomed to the sharp cuts of your tongue. There is no part of me you’ve yet to wound. That makes me immune.”

  “Me wound you?”

  “Of course. Do you deny—?”

  “I don’t want to marry,” she snapped. “I like my life the way it is, unfettered. I can’t imagine making room for a man now.”

  “What about the count? Do you make no room for him?”

  A quick little swallow fluttered in her slender neck. “He is free to come and go as he pleases. As am I. A husband is a permanent inconvenience. I’d much rather see a man occasionally, when he’s in a good mood. Then, if he’s sick with a cold and miserable, I can send him home again with a friendly word of caution to stay away from drafts, and he is no longer my responsibility.”

  She had a sharply satirical eye, and if he wasn’t very much mistaken, that was a wry curve pulling on the left corner of her mouth. She kept winding it back again, determined to be cross with him, but the half smile was equally determined to unwind, darkly entertained at his expense. He’d meant only to tease her with his abrupt proposal of marriage, knowing how she had an aversion to longer attachments—that string of brief engagements, entered into and abandoned with equal haste, was evidence enough. But now that he’d begun to discuss the thought aloud with her, it actually began to seem…feasible.

  Perhaps it was the heat of the room, the headiness of her perfume, the mischief in her funny half smile.

  Hmmm. Her smile. He’d seen it many times over the term of their unfortunate acquaintance, but there was something about it tonight. Something that poked an insistent finger at his memory.