The Wedding Gamble

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by Julia Justiss


  She smiled at his teasing. Despite her resolve not even to contemplate so unequal a match, a wild hope was licking through her veins. She tried hard to squelch it, to do the right thing.

  “N-no, my lord. Your offer is amazingly kind, but I mustn’t consider it.”

  “Sarah, do me the credit of believing I know my own mind. I want to marry you, and I will do all I can to make you happy. Will you not make me happy, and say ‘yes’?”

  “Oh, but you can’t truly—”

  “Sarah!” He put a finger to her lips. “Say ‘yes.’”

  He gave her a quick, encouraging nod and removed his hand. Could she seriously contemplate marrying Nicholas Stanhope—this surprising man who had somehow fashioned himself her champion? ’Twas unsuitable, impossible—and yet…to be forever free of worry, beyond Findlay’s reach.

  A euphoria of deliverance and relief swamped the last noble vestiges of self-sacrifice. “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Thank you.” Nicholas grinned and led her back to the sofa. “I’ll arrange for the special license and inform my mother. We can be married at her house, if you like. Shall I bring you by there tomorrow afternoon?”

  Alarmed, Sarah swallowed hard. The dowager marchioness couldn’t help but be stunned by her son’s announcement. Yet if they were truly going to marry—fantastical as that seemed—she must certainly be presented to that lady.

  She summoned up a brave smile. “Tomorrow would be fine.” Memory stirred, and she gasped. “Oh, dear! Sir James is calling tomorrow! To make his proposal.”

  Nicholas smiled grimly. “Much as it saddens me, you will have to disappoint him.” He lifted her injured hand, discreetly bandaged under its glove, and kissed the wrist. “Sweet Sarah, he shall never hurt you again.”

  A lump filled her throat and she blinked rapidly. Unable to trust her voice, she nodded.

  “I must also send my secretary to settle the mortgage on Wellingford. What was the amount?”

  The simple question hit Sarah like a rifle fusillade. She’d tossed the total off to Findlay with bitter bravado, but now, all the humiliation the baronet had meant her to feel rose up to choke her.

  Though she knew the pride that shackled her tongue was false, and futile, still it took her two attempts to get it out. “N-nine thousand eight hundred fifty-six pounds.”

  “A paltry sum,” Nicholas drawled.

  “Paltry?” She gasped. “’Tis a fortune!”

  “Hardly a fortune. Well, perhaps a smallish fortune. Certainly not a large one. Whereas my fortune is generally accounted to be somewhere between ‘enormous’ and ‘obscene.’”

  He grinned, and her discomfort slowly dissolved in a gurgle of laughter. “You are absurd.”

  He gave her a theatrically exaggerated look of reproach. “Absurd, me? Never. Arrogant, autocratic, spoiled, perhaps. You must work upon my failings.”

  “As if I should! You have been, as you well know, all that is noble. I can only promise to interfere in your life as little as possible, and to do my utmost—”

  “If you thank me, sweet Sarah—” Nicholas once again stilled her lips with his finger “—I shall strangle you.”

  “I shan’t tease you with gratitude, then,” she replied when he removed his hand. “Still, I want you to know if…if you should come to your senses in the night, and wish to withdraw your offer, I shall perfectly understand.”

  “Sarah, Sarah,” he admonished. “I promise you I shall not suffer second thoughts, cold feet, bridegroom’s jitters or any other premarital malady you can conjure up. I shall come for you at Lady Beaumont’s at noon tomorrow.”

  Her heart and mind churning with a riot of conflicting emotions, Sarah nodded. “Until tomorrow, then.”

  She started to rise, but Nicholas stayed her.

  “Is it not customary to seal a betrothal with a kiss?”

  While Sarah stared at him, mesmerized, Nicholas pulled her close. At first his lips gently brushed hers, tentative, questing. Then he deepened the kiss, and Sarah’s stupor dissolved in a wave of remembered pleasure.

  His touch ignited long-dormant desire to a flame that sputtered, caught and then blazed through her. Sighing, she opened her mouth and wrapped her arms around his neck.

  He responded instantly, pulling her closer still until she felt the strong hard warmth of him down the length of her, felt the rapid beat of his heart against her own. His fingers caressed her back, curved toward her breasts.

  He stopped abruptly, pulling away and leaving her bereft, every nerve afire with wanting. A little mewing sound of protest escaped her lips.

  “Sweet Sarah,” he whispered unsteadily, his eyes glowing with a heat she’d never seen in them before. “I’m beginning to believe short engagements have much to recommend them.”

  Nicholas tried not to grin as he awaited the return of his hat, cane and coat from Lady Standish’s butler. After beginning a fiasco, this day had ended a complete success.

  He relived the kiss that sealed their bargain, well pleased with her response. No reluctance or skittishness there. Marriage to Sarah was going to be a delight.

  As he placed the beaver on his head and strolled out, the various sensory impressions suddenly coalesced into one startling realization. Someone had taught his spinsterish, on-the-shelf Sarah to kiss, and taught her very well indeed.

  Chapter Six

  For the fourth time, Sarah walked from her chair to gaze out the window at the deserted square. She glanced again at the mantel clock: five minutes to noon.

  One daisy in the flower arrangement on the side table perched awry, and absently she plucked it out. ’Twas not until she returned from the musicale to the haven of her bedchamber that the shock, euphoria and confusion had diminished enough for her to realize the incredible truth. She, Sarah Ann Wellingford, had pledged her hand to the most notorious gambler in London.

  Consternation seized her, and her first impulse was to dash back out to find Englemere and retract her acceptance. A moment’s reflection squelched that notion. What could she say to Englemere, even should she run him to ground?

  By society’s standards, his was a brilliant offer. Despite his protests of their equality, Englemere surely recognized the disparity of the match. Her deeply rooted fear of gambling might be a valid concern, but ’twas also one she could hardly expect him to understand. As he had joked, to reject him would be to tender a humiliating insult. After his many kindnesses, such an action would be unconscionable.

  But…marriage? Could she ever rest easy, knowing her fate—and that of her eventual children—rested in the unreliable hands of a gambler?

  There was Englemere’s Luck, of course. But what would happen should it fail? Would he be able to toss down his cards and go home? What if he could not?

  Even should that theoretical event transpire, the consequences couldn’t compare to the immediate physical threat Findlay posed. Was she truly prepared to spurn Englemere’s rescue and deliver herself back to the baronet?

  For an instant, she felt herself again trapped against the wall while he forced her wrist into the candle’s flame. No, she concluded, swallowing a wave of nausea, bankruptcy held no terrors worse than that.

  Except for Englemere’s gambling, she saw much to admire in him. Generous, intelligent, perceptive, he had been a kind and supportive friend. She enjoyed his company—and his kiss awoke her to desires she’d forgotten she possessed.

  As for his late wife, she couldn’t recall his ever so much as mentioning Lydia’s name. If he still mourned, he kept his grief close. She could respect that.

  He would remove the burden of debt from Wellingford and secure her family’s future. With careful management, in time Wellingford could be restored to its former wealth and productivity. Having been willed to her brother, it would be there always—a safe haven beyond any gambler’s reach.

  So, she had concluded, she would marry Englemere. She might never be able to trust him enough to commit her whole heart—but he didn’t want i
t anyway. She could offer what he did want: a well-bred, competent wife. And an heir.

  Her mind skittered to the night of Clarissa’s ball—the smell of his shaving soap, the warmth radiating from his tall body. And the betrothal kiss—her cheeks burned and a tremor spiraled down her spine as she remembered the hot velvet of his mouth, the liquid stroke of his tongue against hers. Marriage to Englemere might hold unexpected delights.

  Assuming he still wanted her, of course. She looked down and realized she’d been methodically plucking petals from the daisy until only one silken bit remained. ’Twas nearly noon.

  She’d advised Nicholas to think carefully, and think again. Sober reflection might well have convinced him the match was as unsuitable as she’d declared it. She thought of Chloe Ingram—violet-eyed, alabaster-skinned, voluptuous Mrs. Ingram. Why would a man sampling delicacies such as those want a tasteless pudding like Sarah Wellingford?

  It appeared he wouldn’t. The mantel clock began to chime the hour. As the last peal faded, Timms walked up. “Sir James for you, Miss Wellingford. Shall I show him in?”

  Heart pounding, she nodded. She barely noted as the balled-up flower bits fell from her nerveless fingers, one lone white petal floating slowly to the floor.

  Nicholas glanced at his pocket watch, cursing. Giving Jeb scarcely enough time to grab hold, he sprung the horses.

  He’d had a devil of a time finding the bishop, and then the clerk who’d prepared the papers seemed to consider it a life’s work. ’Twas already five minutes past noon, and he’d be willing to wager Findlay, that unspeakable cur, was probably never tardy. If the man so much as laid a finger on Sarah, Nicholas would beat him to a bloody pulp.

  Narrowly avoiding two heavily laden carts and rounding corners with a recklessness that caused even his normally unflappable tiger to gasp, he arrived five minutes later at Beaumont House. He threw down the reins and took the steps two at a time, not slowing his pace until he reached the room to which an anxious Timms conducted him.

  He entered and stopped short. Findlay had Sarah cornered on the sofa, his arms trapping her against its back, his head descending toward hers.

  Stifling the urge to plant Sir James a facer, Nicholas said loudly, “Sorry I’m late, my dear.”

  Findlay halted and glanced at him. Surprise and irritation showed briefly before the faintly bored ton mask settled back on his face. “Englemere,” he drawled. “Do you not realize you’re decidedly de trop? Kindly pursue your red-haired vixen elsewhere.”

  While Findlay spoke, Sarah sat staring as if she’d seen a ghost. “N-Nicholas?” she whispered.

  Englemere strode over and grasped one icy hand, pulling her up as he kissed it, and planted himself between her and Findlay. “I beg you’ll not scold me for being delayed, darling. But I have the special license at last.”

  She nodded numbly. Nicholas turned to Findlay. “So, you are the first to offer us congratulations, Sir James.”

  Findlay looked from Sarah, who had retreated to the window, to Nicholas and back. “What farradiddle is this?”

  Nicholas gave Sarah a mock-reproving look. “Did you not inform him, darling? How naughty of you! If you must dash a man’s fondest hopes, you should do so quickly.”

  Sir James closed to a pace away. “I know not what your game is, Englemere, but enough joking. Miss Wellingford was about to accept my offer, so take yourself off.”

  “I’m afraid you’re tardy, Findlay. Miss Wellingford has already accepted an offer—mine.”

  The two men locked glares. Sir James laughed harshly. “You? Marry the likes of Sarah Wellingford? I hardly think so.” He cast her a dagger glance. “Your little jest does not amuse me, my dear. I fear you’ll answer for it later. Englemere, if you’d be so—argh—”

  Sir James gagged as Nicholas hoisted him off his feet by his neckcloth. “There’ll be no ‘answering,’” Nicholas hissed. He held the man suspended until Sir James’s handsome face turned from white to blue, his arms windmilling as he tried to break free.

  Nicholas dropped Findlay. “I fully understand your crushing disappointment. Naturally, you’ll wish to take your leave. You’ll excuse me a moment, my love?”

  Nicholas clamped a hand on Findlay’s elbow and propelled him toward the door. Coughing and clutching his throat, the baronet offered little resistance. In the hallway, the door closed, Nicholas released him.

  Sir James fumbled with the limp folds of his ruined cravat. “Englemere,” he croaked, “I’ll—”

  “You’ll shut your vicious coward’s mouth and listen.”

  Nicholas leaned toward Sir James until his nose nearly touched the shorter man’s. “Neither you, nor any of your hirelings, will so much as approach my wife. Should you ever disregard those instructions, I’ll do much more than wrinkle your pretty neckcloth.”

  Sir James did not retreat—Nicholas had to give him that much credit. “My, how bloodthirsty,” he sneered. “Are you threatening to shoot me, Englemere?”

  “I wouldn’t waste a bullet on you. But rest assured, by the time I finished, you would wish I had shot you.”

  “So insulting. For that, and this atrocity to my person, I almost believe I should call you out.”

  “Name your seconds.”

  Anger blazed in the cold blue eyes, but Findlay was no match for Nicholas either with sword or pistols, and both men knew it. “I was speaking rhetorically, of course. So…violent you are, Englemere.”

  “You should know about violence.”

  Sir James brushed a spot of lint from his sleeve. “Indeed. You’ve crossed me before, Englemere. Remember the outcome of that little contretemps. I get what I want. Or no one does.”

  Nicholas held on to his temper, curbing the desire to finish strangling the baronet then and there. “Sarah’s not a horse I’ve outbid you for at Tatt’s. You found a way to have that colt garroted in his stall—”

  “No evidence ever linked me to that unfortunate incident,” Findlay protested, smiling. “Perhaps a careless groom left the check-rein too tight. When fire broke out, and the horse panicked…”

  Nicholas gave him a withering glance. “You had best pray my bride enjoys robust good health and suffers not the most trifling accident. If anything at all untoward befalls her, you will pay for it. Remember that.”

  “Oh, I’ll not forget. I’ll not forget—anything.”

  The mocking tone frayed the tattered edges of his control. As the man stepped past him, Nicholas whipped one limp end of the cravat around Findlay’s neck and hauled him back. Finely woven linen, he discovered when Findlay gasped and clawed at his throat, made a rather crude but effective garrote. “See that you do not,” he said in Findlay’s ear.

  “Y—your things, Sir James.” Timms’s high-pitched voice came over his shoulder. “If you please, Lord Englemere!”

  Nicholas gave the cravat one last, savage twist, and had the satisfaction of seeing fear flash briefly in Findlay’s eyes.

  “It appears you win this round, Englemere.” Settling his hat on his head, he managed a laugh. “You, and that ape-leader Sarah Wellingford. ’Tis almost amusing.”

  Before Nicholas could sidestep Timms to seize him again, Findlay slipped to the door. “Good day, my lord.” With an insolent wave of his cane, he walked out.

  Timms slammed the door shut, cutting off Nicholas’s pursuit. “Miss Wellingford awaits,” he urged, so distressed he abandoned decorum and actually tugged on Nicholas’s arm.

  Hands balled into fists, Nicholas took a deep breath and willed himself to calm. Satisfying as it would be to hunt down Findlay and horsewhip him like the scoundrel he was, he had more urgent priorities. He’d savor that idea for some later time—and keep careful guard over Sarah.

  She still stood where he’d left her. “I’m so sorry you had to deal with Findlay. The bishop was out, and his clerk was slow, and—”

  He stopped abruptly. Sarah was paler than her gown, her silver eyes enormous, her face expressionless as she stood clenchi
ng and unclenching her hands.

  Fury roughened his voice. “Did Findlay hurt you?” he demanded. She shook her head, displacing a tear that trickled down her cheek.

  Her words from yesterday suddenly echoed through his mind. If you should come to your senses…I shall perfectly understand….

  “You didn’t think I was coming, did you?” he asked incredulously.

  She opened her lips, but they were trembling so badly she could not speak. She shook her head again.

  He walked closer and saw she was trembling all over. Any urge to chide her for lack of faith evaporated. “Poor sweetheart, what a morning you must have had.”

  As he drew her into his arms, she threw herself against his chest and clung to him. Her hands dug into his shoulders and her body quivered with stifled sobs.

  “’Tis all right, sweeting,” he said against her hair. “He’s gone, and he’ll not trouble you again, I promise.”

  If he’d had any lingering doubts about the wisdom of wedding Sarah Wellingford, they were swept away as a wave of fierce protectiveness washed over him. Marrying her was right; having her in his arms felt right. He would guard her, and woe betide Findlay should he seek to do her harm.

  At last the tremors eased and her rigid fingers relaxed on his shoulders. She drew herself back, though still within the circle of his arms. “I’m s-sorry. I detest w-weeping females.” She swiped impatiently at a tear.

  Nicholas stayed her hand and kissed away the droplet. “Let us get you ready to meet Mama.” Seating her on the sofa, he produced a small box. “I wasn’t sure of the size.”

  Looking bemused, Sarah watched him open it. The ring reposed upon a velvet bed, its large central pearl flanked by winking diamonds. Nicholas slipped it on her finger.

 

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