The Wicked Wedding of Miss Ellie Vyne

by Jayne Fresina

  She must have been suffering some temporary madness that night in Brighton, because she knew it was impossible to make him feel anything like regret. He was too damned vain, arrogant and, supposedly, still in love with the woman who’d twice jilted him—Ellie’s good friend Sophie Valentine.

  For at least seventeen years he’d been in love with Sophie. He played with others, sowed his wild oats, but his heart was always held in reserve for that one. The one who ultimately left him for another man, which was exactly what Ellie could have told him would happen, had he ever asked her opinion. As for Ellie, he’d never properly looked at her, never considered her as anything other than a nuisance.

  Now he proposed marriage. It was incredible. No doubt he thought it was all very amusing. As indeed it was. Her stomach hurt from laughing.

  Still…one day, she supposed, the fool must marry. It was inevitable. He needed an heir. Then, once he had a wife, they could never argue with each other again. Ellie could never again call him a great blithering ass, and he could not remind her that she was the world’s most impertinent, flighty, contrary woman.

  Nothing would be quite the same without Hartley grumbling at her, she realized. And without her insults to keep his head from becoming too big, his future seemed destined for ever-expanding hats. He would marry a wooden-pated creature too in awe of him to put him in his place. Just as Walter Winthorne did.

  Oh yes, Walter…

  “I feel it incumbent upon me, in light of our previous association, to remind you, Mariella, that James Hartley is an utter rogue.”

  She lowered her fan. “In light of our previous association?”

  There was no blush of shame, just a wobbling of new-grown jowls, a subtle flaring of nostrils as he drew himself up, hands behind his back. She feared one of his shiny buttons might soon give up under the strain, spring free, and take her eye out. “I still feel some responsibility toward you and hate to see you make a terrible mistake.”

  Another terrible mistake, she mused. Something along the lines of letting a man make love to her before he changed his mind and chose to marry another woman—a sixteen-year-old heiress with no discernible brain?

  “Never fear, Captain. Any mistake will be my own to make. They always are. I am not the sort to blame anyone else, whatever happens.”

  He stared at her, fat lower lip jutting out. “Why dance with Hartley? You know how he treats women. He never has a pleasant thing to say about you. The man’s an out-and-out bounder!”

  Pot meet kettle.

  “I have known you many years, Mariella, and just because I married another does not mean I will stand by and see you ill used.” Once, years ago, his eyes were clear and gray; they were now dull, the whites jaundiced, peppered with a pattern of miniature red darts. In youth, he was lively, always active, full of good humor and wit. That was what attracted her to him. Now he moved sluggishly, his neck stiff, his breathing too heavy. “I am surprised at your sisters, allowing you to dance with a rake like Hartley. They are surely anxious to save your reputation before it is irretrievably lost.”

  “Oops, too late.”

  “Don’t be flippant, Mariella.”

  Looking up at Captain Winthorne’s bloated face while he grumbled about women led astray and the stringent measures required to set them straight again, she felt sick with anger. This was the hypocrite who took her virginity one afternoon in her stepfather’s rose garden. He had the audacity then to think it was his for the taking since they were engaged. But within a few weeks, he’d switched his attentions to another woman.

  She felt the sharp urge to kick him in the shins and sink her teeth into his kneecaps.

  Even better was the second idea. She smiled with anticipation. “But I’m going to marry James Hartley. Did you not know?”

  She thought he might explode. His face became very pink and puffy. “Marry? Him? Hartley?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “You cannot possibly be in love with him, and he has no regard for you. He’s in love with another woman—has been for years. I hear he holds a torch for Sophia Valentine still, even now she has a husband.”

  This fact thrown in her face was the last straw. “Ah, but there are other important, practical matters to consider in marriage.” She stood quickly, fan clasped in both hands. “As you once told me, Walter, one cannot always marry where one loves. One must consider the future and one’s financial situation and not be distracted by love.”

  Nine years ago he recited those words to her, when, having discovered the true state of her step-father’s finances, he ended their engagement. Now she tossed them back again. Captain Winthorne didn’t know where to look. But he was angry. Veins visibly pulsed in his shiny brow.

  Excellent. This previously dull party, where the only being worth conversing with was a potted palm, had turned out to be quite inspirational.

  A sudden shout interrupted their conversation. “Vyne! Are you in here?” James Hartley appeared in the library doorway, waving her glove, bellowing her name as if he summoned a hound to heel. “Vyne!”

  “Jim,” she exclaimed. “You found my glove!” Never had she been so pleased to see that wretched man, and her feelings were in such disarray she hadn’t time to hide the sheer relief.

  A flicker of uncertainty crossed his face when he saw her eager expression and heard that unlikely tone of welcome. Then as his eyes adjusted to the weak light given out by the smoldering fire in the hob grate, he must have seen Winthorne standing beside her. He was across the room in the next beat of her heart.

  “Do you know Captain Winthorne?”

  “Of course.” He thrust the errant glove at her. “Winthorne. They let you in, did they? Standards have dropped it seems.”

  The captain drew himself up, inflated again with pompous hot air. “What are you up to with this lady?”

  “A great many things,” James replied. “All extremely scandalous. None of them your business.”

  Ellie swallowed a chuckle and pressed her lips together. James was a curious mix of naughty little boy and grumpy, pontificating old man, but when his mischievous sense of humor broke its way through the superior starchiness, he was almost tolerable company. For a Hartley. She supposed that playfulness was a part of James that had once drawn her dear friend Sophie to his company. Ellie, being a very insignificant, unworthy person in his eyes, was seldom allowed to witness that side of his nature. Instead, she usually got the disapproving side, the side coached by generations of supercilious Hartleys to look down on anyone less fortunate.

  “She tells me she plans to marry you,” snapped Winthorne. “It cannot be true.”

  She? The Cat’s Aunt, presumably.

  James turned his steady gaze to her. The Cat’s Aunt managed a taut smile.

  “I fear it is,” he muttered thoughtfully. “It seems Miss Vyne…has accepted me.”

  She was busy winding her recovered glove into a sweaty knot and couldn’t quite meet his eye.

  “You cannot possibly have Miss Vyne’s best interests at heart. It is obvious you have no serious intentions toward her.”

  “Is it?”

  “Don’t think to toy with her as you do other women. Despite a wayward temperament and a lack of fatherly supervision, she is not friendless.”

  Ellie choked on another gulp of laughter and quickly opened her fan again to flutter it wildly before her lips.

  Hands behind his back, James tipped forward. “I wonder why you dally here with my fiancée, Winthorne, when your wife seeks you out there. Quite loudly seeks you, in fact. I declare she has shaken all the wax loose in my ears.”

  Buttons ready to pop, his cheeks crimson, lips trembling, Walter took one last look at Ellie and then stormed out. Heavy footsteps faded away down the corridor.

  Now the room was quiet again but for the gentle crackle and spit among the coals in the hearth. James watched her warily, hands still behind his back, clearly waiting for her to speak first.

  “He and I were once engaged
,” she muttered.

  “Yes. I know. Another of your mistakes.”

  “He broke it off when he came to his senses and realized how much trouble I’d be. Much the same discovery as my friend Sophie made before she threw you over.”

  His left eyebrow—always a somewhat restless creature—lifted high. Ellie looked away again and quietly cursed herself for mentioning that. Oh, why was her first instinct always to lash out at him? She didn’t mean to cause hurt, and it was deeply regretted the moment it was done. But she couldn’t stop herself with him. She felt as if she had to attack before he could do the same to her.

  She exhaled wearily, and her shoulders sagged. “Look at us. We make quite a pair. You with your black eye and me with trifle on my behind.”

  “Yes. I suppose I’d better marry you before you get yourself in another pickle. Or another trifle.” Flickering firelight revealed a sudden, brief grin. She would have missed it had she not returned her wary gaze to his face at the exact second it happened. He winced and touched the bruise under his eye as if it hurt to smile.

  “Don’t worry, Hartley. I hereby release you from the obligation.” Surely he hadn’t taken it seriously.

  “But you just called me Jim. No one gets away with that unscathed.”

  She began turning away, and then, as she remembered her stained gown, decided to back away instead, just to save a little of her tattered pride. “I’m returning to the party.”

  He took a step after her. “You’re not wriggling out of this engagement, Vyne. Not like you did all the others.”

  “For pity’s sake, I lied about marrying you only for Winthorne’s benefit, and you must know that. Or has brandy deadened your brain to the point of utter insensibility?”

  “If you go back on your word, I’ll sue for breach of promise.”

  “I don’t know what you can sue me for—sixpence, three sulky hens, and a confused goat is about all my portion can provide.”

  Before she could back away any farther, he grabbed her bare arm.

  “Are you mad, Hartley? Unhand me at once!”

  He cupped both her elbows in his hands and drew her against his chest. She stepped on his foot again, but he didn’t seem to notice. He did have very large feet and was probably accustomed to having them stepped upon. Ellie was still pondering the outrageous assumptions of James Hartley when his hard lips closed upon hers, and all protests fell away like icicles melting from a roof on a sunny day.

  He moved his hands from her arms to her waist and settled her against his body. The heat and strength of his powerful frame was completely overwhelming. His mouth devoured her leisurely. His tongue slipped over hers, winding around it, caressing it. A shudder of excitement vibrated all the way to her toes.

  They were alone in the semidark. What did it matter if she let him kiss her? No one was there to see. Tonight he gave her his full attention, and she didn’t even have to draw on his face to get it.

  Her hands rested on his shoulders and traced the muscles moving under his fine evening clothes. It was brute strength contained by the façade of civilization. At once she withdrew her hands as if they were burned. But then realized there was nowhere else to put them. Nowhere that wouldn’t get her into worse trouble. So she returned them to his wide shoulders and tried not to notice the strength flexing under her palms. He moved her closer, her hip pressed against his groin. A pang of reckless desire blossomed within her, opening like a rose, spreading its dewy petals. Her breasts began to ache and swell under her corset. His hands were tight around her waist, his fingers spread, gripping her again as if he feared she might pull away. Instead, she stroked his leg with her own. Between her thighs, in a very warm, vulnerable place, she felt the enormity of this danger with which she flirted, but she couldn’t prevent herself. It was the perfect moment. One could get away with all sorts of things in the dark. Just as she could while wearing a mask or a disguise.

  Her bare fingertips strayed upward, along his shoulder to his collar, his cravat, and then tentatively touched his jaw. It was smooth-shaven tonight, not like the last time they kissed.

  Had she drunk too much wine tonight? No. She’d spilled her only glass when James knocked into her. In Brighton she’d blamed her naughtiness on moonlight and punch. Tonight she could not do the same.

  Slowly he relinquished her lips, leaving them warm but suddenly frail, uncertain.

  “Well, I must say, that was quite horrid,” she snapped. “Don’t do it again.”

  ***

  Somewhere inside his skull a herald fanfare rang out. He’d found her! That kiss confirmed it. All these months he’d spent searching for his mystery woman—future wife and mother of his children. And here she was, right under his nose.

  Damn her! How could she do that to him and keep running away?

  Oh, she was walking this time, but it was very nearly a run, her slippers tripping along in haste to stay ahead of him down the passage. Before they fully emerged into the bright light thrown by Lady Clegg-Foster’s crystal chandelier, he reached out, capturing her arm again. She turned to rebuke him. A faint flush colored her cheeks now, and her bosom too. Her lips looked swollen, darker than before, and her lashes drooped as if her eyelids were heavy. There was a definite strain to her breathing, her breasts pushing frantically at the white rosebuds trimming her bodice.

  Even if that was a smile forming on her lips, there was no assurance that he caused it. Most likely it was the result of someone across the room slipping on a dropped piece of fruit from the punch bowl.

  James didn’t need to look down at himself to know that a return to the party just then was out of the question. He felt the urge to ride at once to the boxing club and work out some of his frustrations with anyone willing to spar. Because if he didn’t, the brute inside him might take over completely. This was not good. Not good at all.

  He’d found his future wife, and she was the rotten enemy. This was the worse trick she’d ever played on him. Worse even than the ink moustache. And she’d pay for it.

  “What’s the matter?” she exclaimed when he moved her back against the paneled wall, tucking her away behind one of Lady Clegg-Foster’s ugly statues.

  “A moment,” he muttered. “I need a moment.”

  She batted her long lashes over those sinister violet eyes. “Have you hurt yourself? Anything I can do?”

  James stared at her lips, and the memory of Brighton tore through his mind like spring shoots through newly warmed and softened earth. He fought the urge to kiss her again. “Were you in Brighton this summer, Vyne?”

  “No.” The answer was out before he’d barely finished the question, as if it was anticipated. “Never been there in my life.”

  Not that she’d ever tell him a fib.

  He knew it was her. He knew the taste of that kiss. It was branded on his memory that moonlit night six months ago. No other kiss had ever affected him so deeply. Why hadn’t he recognized her voice? Why hadn’t she known his?

  Perhaps because they didn’t want to know the truth. It was much easier to talk to her when they were both pretending to be someone else. To talk without the usual shields and the banter.

  “Are you still staying with your sister in Willard Street?” he demanded, breathless from that kiss and chasing her down the passage.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I will call on you tomorrow. At noon.”

  “What for?”

  “We’re getting married, woman. Obviously.”

  She flapped her fan so rapidly he felt the breeze beneath his own chin. “Over my cold, dead bones. You know I find you quite despicable—an utter wastrel.”

  “Yes, I think there’s a club somewhere for people who hate me. Aren’t you a founding member?” He was feeling several ounces lighter, his pulse too fast. “Don’t think this pleases me any more than it does you. But there it is.”

  Her stunning violet eyes were inquisitive, merciless as they scoured his face. “You’ve really knotted your noodle this time,
Hartley.” She shook her head and disturbed those dark curls until a few dripped lazily to her shoulders.

  “Knotted my what?”

  She reached up and tapped his forehead with her knuckles.

  “I thought you were referring to something lower down, Vyne.”

  “Don’t be crude.”

  “Listen, Vyne, I need a wife. If I don’t find my own very soon, my grandmother will continue to present me with well-bred, timid young ladies who haven’t an ounce of steel in their backbone, until I grow so tired of it that I rebel and marry a large-footed, loud-voiced, matronly woman who will make me drink sweet sherry and hunt foxes remorselessly with her overbearing father.” He placed a finger under her chin and lifted it. “And you’re a woman of twenty-seven, with a reputation for being difficult, too many engagements already broken, who knows how many scandalous affairs…and custard on her behind.”

  She knocked his hand away with her closed fan. “Thank you for reminding me.” Any moment now she’d run off again as if she was a dainty, ladylike maiden. Which he knew to be untrue. She turned her face away. “What do you think you’re doing, Hartley?”

  “Making you an offer. Can’t have you picking a husband just because he is the first man to walk through the arch in a hedge.”

  Her restive gaze darted about the room. “That kiss was a mistake.”

  “Which one? Two minutes ago or six months ago?”

  “The one in the library just now,” she replied, terse. “There was no other. I can’t imagine what you think—I told you I wasn’t in Brighton. That kiss in the library was a mistake.”

  “You make a lot of mistakes.”

  “Yes.”

  So have I, he thought. “Too late for regret now. All we can do is make up for lost time.” She tried to get by him again, but he held her arms firmly. “I’m making you a very good offer, Vyne. It may well be your last.” He studied her eyelashes and the skilled downward sway as carefully evasive as the wielding of a lady’s fan to hide her expression. “Think of the money and gifts I could give you if you marry me. How is Lark Hollow, by the way? I hear it’s falling down around the admiral’s ears.”