Heart's Desire (Lost Lords of Radcliffe Book 2)

by Cheryl Holt

  “How can you be sure?”

  In the silence that followed, he and Clarissa stared, both of them acutely aware that they couldn’t predict how Captain Harlow would ultimately behave. He was a stranger, a loose cannon, who was completely volatile in his attitudes and conduct.

  Sounding desperate, Angela piped in with, “Will you do it for me, Clarissa?”

  “Is it what you want, Angela?” Clarissa said. “Seriously? Are you telling me you could tolerate the changes it will bring?”

  “I swear it to you,” Angela insisted. “What I couldn’t live with is my having to depart. You can save me, Clarissa.”

  Another lengthy silence ensued, with Clarissa studying them, debating.

  Roland understood her reservations. Who wouldn’t? She was the one who’d have to be Captain Harlow’s bride. She was the one who would have to suffer his manly attentions. Roland wished he could advise her not to fret. If he was successful, Clarissa’s marriage to Captain Harlow would be brief, and she’d be a widow very soon, but he could hardly say so.

  Finally Clarissa blew out a heavy breath. “All right. You win.”

  “Thank you,” Roland and Angela replied in unison.

  “But Angela,” Clarissa said, “you have to promise me—here and now—with your brother listening, that you will never complain about my elevated status.”

  Angela had to swallow an enormous wad of pride, one so big, Roland was surprised she didn’t choke on it. Yet she managed to spit out, “I won’t ever complain. I promise. I’ll always remember how you helped me in my hour of need.”

  Angela’s words seemed sincere, which was hilarious. Angela was never sincere about any topic, but Clarissa nodded, accepting Angela’s vow, for the moment forgetting what Angela was truly like.

  The meeting grew awkward. Roland had gotten the assurance he’d sought, so they could leave. He told Clarissa, “I’ll stop by at ten-thirty to escort you down to the carriage.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  “We’ll ride to the church together.”

  “Fine.”

  “Have you anything appropriate to wear?” Roland asked.

  Clarissa blushed. “Ah…Captain Harlow bought me a gown.”

  Angela bit down a squeal of indignation, and Roland smoothed over the garbled sound by claiming, “Good, good. I’m certain you’ll be very beautiful.” He pushed Angela out, then said to Clarissa, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  Angela was about to burst, and Roland pulled her out and whisked her down the hall. Once they were around the corner, Angela whined, “He bought her a gown! He bought her a gown for the wedding! Oh, I can’t bear it!”

  “Be quiet, Angela. Please. My head is pounding.”

  “This will be my life from now on,” she moaned. “You’ll flit off to London to wallow in glamorous aplomb, while I live out my days in the Dower House, watching Clarissa stroll by in one pretty dress after the next! It’s an outrage!”

  Roland had heard all the protesting he could abide from his sister. She thought she was the only one who’d been harmed. She thought she was the only one who was grieving over what they’d lost. She never considered Roland’s shame, Roland’s disgrace.

  He marched her along until they were in their own wing of the mansion, and he halted at her suite and shoved her inside. “Why don’t you lie down?” he suggested. “Call for your maid and have her put a cool compress on your brow. It will calm you.”

  She opened her mouth to hurl more insults, and he slammed her door and kept on, wondering how much more upheaval he could endure. He was simply anxious to get to the gamekeeper’s cottage and have a brandy. The entire sordid scene had left him shaken.

  He stomped down the stairs and was hurrying through the foyer when Captain Harlow entered from the other direction. There was an uncomfortable pause, their dislike sizzling. The Captain blinked first, nodding his greeting. “Mr. Merrick.”

  “Hello, Captain.” Instantly Roland was obsequious and fawning. “I’m sorry to intrude, but I was speaking with Clarissa.”

  “What about?”

  “When you told me she hadn’t yet agreed to wed you, I was astonished. I assumed it had been settled between you.”

  The Captain made a waffling gesture with his hand. “Settled enough.”

  “I wanted to be sure, and I figured you deserved a definite answer. Clarissa can be obstinate.”

  The Captain chuckled. “Yes, I’ve realized that about her.”

  “So she’s given me her firm commitment to proceed. I’ll pick her up at ten-thirty and escort her to the church. We’ll meet you there.”

  “Perfect.”

  The conversation appeared to be over, and Roland hovered, not grasping that the Captain was waiting for him to depart his own bloody house.

  Roland smiled a tight smile, slipped by the Captain, and walked out—as if he’d never owned the property a single day.

  * * * *

  Matthew was at the altar, the vicar and Rafe standing with him. The village was small, so the church was small too, and the pews were empty. The housekeeper had offered to invite a few neighbors, and the servants adored Clarissa and would have liked to attend, but Matthew had decided to have no guests.

  The Merrick name was widely derided, and he wouldn’t let the neighbors snub Clarissa. They’d come around quickly enough once they learned who her husband was. As to the servants, Matthew was a proud man, and Clarissa was unhappy about the wedding. He wouldn’t allow anyone to observe the ceremony, for Clarissa’s distress would be blatantly visible.

  Gossip would spread among the staff that Clarissa had been opposed to being his bride, and with his being the new owner of Greystone, he needed to win them over. He wouldn’t have them snickering about it in the kitchen.

  The church’s doors were open, and they stared out to the front steps, the tension in the air palpable. It was five minutes past eleven, and there was no sign of Clarissa. The vicar had just discreetly checked his timepiece and cleared his throat, desperate to mention Clarissa’s tardiness but not daring to.

  But Matthew had faith in her. She wouldn’t fail him. Nor would she fail her cousin, Roland, who seemed intent on pushing the marriage forward.

  Roland’s behavior probably should have concerned Matthew, but it didn’t. There was naught about Roland that was difficult to fathom. He was hoping to use Clarissa to keep his fingers in the estate accounts.

  If she’d refused the match, Roland would have had no enduring connection to the place. So long as Clarissa was in residence, Roland presumed he’d be able to manipulate her, but Roland was forgetting one very important detail.

  She was very loyal. It was her most endearing trait. She’d been loyal to her cousins, but once she spoke vows to Matthew, she was too honorable to break them. Roland might imagine he’d have influence over Clarissa, but he never would.

  Rafe shattered the awkward silence. “It’s after eleven, Matthew.”

  “I’m aware of the time, Rafe.”

  “Has she stood you up? If she’s had the temerity to rebuff you, I’ll never stop laughing.”

  “Clarissa will be here shortly. She’s just having some trouble with her feet.”

  Rafe scowled. “What’s wrong with her feet?”

  “They’re cold, Rafe. She’s having an attack of cold feet.”

  “Can’t say I blame her.” Rafe smirked. “I wouldn’t want to marry you either.”

  The vicar was clearing his throat again when her carriage pulled up. Roland had brought her. Angela was nowhere in sight, but Edwina Edwards had accompanied them. Roland and Edwina descended first, then Roland helped Clarissa to climb down.

  “She came after all,” Rafe muttered. “I didn’t think she’d show.”

  “I didn’t doubt her for a second,” Matthew replied.

  Actually he had doubted it, but if she’d remained recalcitrant he’d have forced her to the church, so he was glad they didn’t have to
start off on a bad note. He was a hard, arrogant man, and he had no illusions about what kind of husband he’d be: not a very good one. They’d face plenty of obstacles, so he hadn’t needed to exacerbate things by his dragging her to the ceremony.

  Edwina entered, saying, “I’m sorry we’re late. We were delayed because I tied some ribbons to the carriage. I couldn’t bear for you to ride back to the house without it being a tad festive.”

  “Thank you,” Matthew responded.

  Roland and Clarissa were huddled in the vestibule, and the vicar said, “Come in, come in. Let’s begin, shall we?”

  Matthew hadn’t expected Clarissa to want any fuss, so there was no organist playing a hymn, no choir singing in the loft. Miss Edwards walked down the aisle and sat in the front pew. Then Roland and Clarissa followed. Clarissa was gripping Roland’s arm as if he was a lifeboat in a storm, as if—should she release him—she’d simply float away.

  She’d worn the clothes Matthew had bought her, and he smiled. She was so stubborn he’d worried she’d refuse just on general principles, and if she’d shown up in one of her old grey dresses, he truly thought he might have driven her home and made her change. In the future, when she reflected on her wedding, he was eager for her to recall that she’d had a beautiful gown, that he’d cared enough to insist.

  Roland was acting as if the Merricks were an ordinary family, and Roland was the father and giving her away. Matthew shielded any indication of how much he disliked Roland, and he was sure—after Roland was gone—Clarissa would be relieved to be shed of her cousin. It would take her awhile to realize it, but she’d get herself there.

  “Are you all right?” he murmured to her.

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  He led her over to the vicar and clasped her hand in his. Her skin was like ice, providing stark evidence that she was terrified. She was trembling, her entire body shaking like a leaf.

  “I’m glad you came,” he told her.

  “Did I have a choice?”

  “No.”

  The vicar heard their quiet remarks. “Miss Merrick, you don’t look happy to be here.”

  “I’m happy,” she claimed, but she was pale and appeared as if she might faint.

  The vicar frowned. “I hate to ask, but I feel I must. Are you certain you wish to proceed? There’s been no coercion, has there?”

  “No, no,” she hurriedly said. “I’m delighted. Could we begin? I’d like to…ah…get it over with.”

  Had there ever been a more despondent bride? She might have been in the barber’s chair and about to have a tooth pulled, and the most potent wave of affection swept through him.

  Roland had pressured her unmercifully, and she likely believed she was nobly helping her cousins. Who wouldn’t cherish such a grand gesture? If she could be so devoted to an oaf like Roland Merrick, who’d treated her abominably, just imagine how wonderful she would eventually be to Matthew.

  He wasn’t the greatest fellow, but he’d always be kind to her, would always be generous, and he relished the fact that she would do so much for Roland. Since that was her genuine character deep down, what—in the end—might she ultimately do for Matthew?

  “Don’t fret,” he whispered.

  “I’m not.”

  “It’ll be over before you know it.”

  He squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back, giving the distinct impression that she was holding on for dear life.

  The vicar studied her and asked a final time, “Are you sure, Miss Merrick?”

  “Very sure.” She flashed a wobbly smile.

  Matthew was completely undone by that smile. She was the prettiest little thing. He’d thought so from the very first day when he’d bumped into her out in the woods.

  Some people—his mistress, Penelope, for instance—might think he was insane for marrying. Some people might think—with his ascendant notoriety—he could have wed very high, maybe to a duke’s daughter or even a princess. But he loathed the aristocracy. His disdain was almost a disease in his blood, as if an aristocrat had harmed him in the past.

  Some people might think there was no need to be considerate of the Merricks’ plight, no need to bind himself to one of the women in the family. Perhaps they were right, but in his mind, it was honorable and appropriate, and he wouldn’t ever second guess his decision. He’d forge ahead and make the best of it.

  “Dearly beloved…” The vicar swiftly moved through the vows, as if he recognized Clarissa might collapse if he didn’t rush.

  Matthew said I will and I do in all the correct spots. When it was Clarissa’s turn, she had a bit of a stumble on the I do, but he smiled at her, and she forced out the words.

  Then…

  The vicar pronounced them man and wife, and it was over. Even though they were in a church, Rafe whooped with joy and patted Matthew on the back. Miss Edwards kissed Clarissa on the cheek and gave Matthew a quick hug. Roland offered no congratulations, having sneaked out during the ceremony, which was a relief. Matthew didn’t seek false platitudes from a cur he couldn’t abide.

  The vicar escorted them to the vestibule so they could sign the church’s Bible, as well as the license and other legal documents. Rafe and Miss Edwards signed as witnesses. They were grinning and laughing, Rafe uttering lewd jests, but his comments were like a gnat buzzing in Matthew’s ears.

  Clarissa could barely stand, and Matthew had had to support her as they walked down the aisle. He wasn’t bothered by her display of nerves. He liked to feel that she was weaker than he was, that he was strong and tough and could hold her up when she was having trouble.

  The vicar was scowling at Clarissa, his concern evident, but he couldn’t intervene. She’d agreed to proceed, had spoken the vows. Besides, Rafe had slipped the man a pouch of money, and the amount was sufficient that—once he saw how much Matthew had paid him—he’d never worry about Clarissa again.

  Matthew guided her out to the steps and down to the carriage. There was a strange sense of disorientation to the whole event. He wasn’t a bachelor anymore. He was married, and the moment didn’t seem real. Suddenly he suffered a major attack of jitters.

  What if Clarissa never came around? What if she was never happy? What if she always blamed him for pressuring her, for making her miserable?

  But he shoved away the frantic musings. He never dithered. He never regretted or wished he’d taken a different path. He’d wed her—for better or for worse. And he’d hope and expect it would all be for the better.

  “Shall we go home, Mrs. Harlow?” he asked her.

  For an instant, she gaped at him, and she glanced about, as if not understanding who he was addressing.

  She chuckled and shook her head. “Oh, Mrs. Harlow. You mean me.”

  “Yes. Are you ready?”

  “I’m ready.”

  He helped her into the carriage, then Miss Edwards. Rafe jumped in next, then Matthew climbed in and sat by Clarissa. She was still trembling, but it wasn’t quite so noticeable, and he nodded with satisfaction.

  They were making progress.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Clarissa heard a noise, and though she hated to be nervous, she jumped with alarm. It was her wedding night, and though she’d told herself not to fret, that every bride suffered the experience, she couldn’t remain calm.

  While they had been at the church for the ceremony, the servants had quietly and efficiently moved her belongings to the main bedchamber in the center of the house. Without asking her opinion, the Captain had ordered it done, so she was suddenly ensconced in the finest suite in the mansion. Through a connecting dressing room, Captain Harlow was next door.

  She could have protested the decision, could have demanded a return to her old bedchamber, but that era was over and she had to grow accustomed to the changes. She’d agreed to marry Captain Harlow. She’d fought against it, but in the end she’d relented. She was married.

  None of it seemed real, and during the tedious day, she’d felt as if she was out o
f her body and watching some other woman glide through the festivities.

  She’d cast her lot with Captain Harlow, and she took her vows seriously. She would be the best wife she could be, and it would be all right. It had to be all right. With the wedding band on her finger, there was no going back, and they were far beyond the time when she could second guess.

  Still though, there was the wedding night to endure. She’d had a quick, whispered conversation with Edwina where they’d shared what few details they had about the event. Edwina didn’t possess much information, but she’d said it would be physical, with plenty of touching and caressing, and might involve some nudity.

  She’d also advised Clarissa that her cluelessness didn’t matter, that the Captain would be skilled at what needed to transpire, but the only way he could be educated in passion was if he’d had extensive practice with paramours. Clarissa found no solace in speculating about his being a womanizer and libertine.

  Would he have mistresses? Would he dabble with whores and doxies? She had no idea, couldn’t figure out how to inquire, and wondered how wives muddled through situations that were so fraught with confusion and misplaced hopes.

  The old house creaked, the wood settling, and she jumped again. She was waiting for the Captain to arrive so they could get it over with, but he was slow as molasses. If she hadn’t been so terrified, she’d have marched over and told him to hurry.

  She was wearing her nightgown and robe, with Edwina claiming Captain Harlow would likely take them off so Clarissa would be naked. Just from thinking about it, her pulse raced at such a fast clip that she worried it might simply explode out of her chest.

  She climbed out of bed and went to the sitting room. There was a sideboard fully stocked with wine and decanters of liquor, and though she didn’t usually imbibe, the circumstances called for copious amounts of alcohol.

  She grabbed what appeared to be whiskey and poured herself a glass. She downed the contents, filled a second glass and downed it too. The liquor took effect immediately, and her trembling began to ease.

  She was dispensing a third helping when he spoke from over in the doorway. After all her frantic fretting, the rat had sneaked in without her noticing.