Her Reluctant Groom (Groom Series, BOOK 2)

by Rose Gordon

  Alex shrugged. “I just thought they looked rather dapper. Especially for someone who thinks going to town means a ride to the village once a year to search for some pathetic looking feathers and fur because he’s too lazy to either go gather the material himself or go to London and have a look about.”

  “Emma left them,” Marcus informed him curtly, ignoring Alex’s other senseless remarks.

  Making a big show of removing his spectacles and cleaning them, Alex mused, “Now, I wonder why she’d leave a perfectly good set of cufflinks with you when she could have saved them and given them to her new husband on their wedding day?”

  “Because they have my initials on them, you dolt,” Marcus said gruffly. Since when had Alex become so perceptive or annoying? It must be Caroline rubbing off on him. “Now that we’ve discussed everything, perhaps you should go.”

  “I’m in no hurry.” Alex stretched his feet out in front of himself.

  Marcus nearly groaned in aggravation. Just his luck, Lord Perceptive was gone and the usual Alex had once again taken his place. “Alex, why are you still here? Go home. Go kiss Caroline and hold your son.”

  A slow smile spread across Alex’s lips. “Marcus, old chap, that is exactly what I’d love to be doing. I want nothing more than to walk through the doors of my house and feel Caroline’s arms wrap around me, and I’d wager you’d like to come with me and feel Emma’s close around you, too. But it seems I haven’t convinced you to put aside your stubborn pride. Therefore, I cannot go home yet.”

  “Why not?” Marcus growled, fury bubbling inside him.

  “I just told you. I cannot go home until you’re with me.”

  Marcus clenched his fists and ground his teeth. “Did Caroline put you up to this? Did she threaten to refuse you entrance to her bed until you dragged me to your house?”

  A muscle ticked in Alex’s face and he jerked to a standing position with record speed. “Marcus, that is my wife you’re talking about. She may be your cousin, but she is my wife. You have no call to talk about her that way. If you do so again we’ll be naming seconds. Clear?”

  Marcus blinked at his friend. Alex was never one to get into a temper. He must have touched on a particularly sensitive spot where Alex was concerned. He nodded. “I’ll be sure to watch my tongue around you in the future as long as you do the same.”

  Alex tersely nodded his agreement. “I’ll say no more to you about Miss Green. I’ll handle everything from here, starting with announcing her engagement to Sir Wallace next week at Andrew’s ball.”

  “Sir Wallace,” Marcus thundered. “You mean the one who—”

  “The very one.”

  Chapter 22

  “What the devil do you think you’re doing?” Marcus shouted, bursting through the door of Patrick’s study, heedless to the fact that the three young girls were playing in the corner.

  “Girls,” Patrick said slowly, piercing Marcus with his cold stare. “Why don’t you go see if Mrs. Jenkins is ready for afternoon tea?”

  Marcus crossed his arms and murmured a halfhearted apology as the three girls walked past him. Once little Helena shut the door, his tirade immediately continued. “What have you done? How could you have paired those two together? Emma deserves a chance at a real marriage—”

  “She’ll have a real marriage,” Patrick cut in sharply. “Wallace is a man.”

  “Barely,” Marcus bit off.

  Patrick shrugged. “I fail to see the problem. She’ll have what you seem so reluctant to give her.”

  “No, what she’ll have is a cold, loveless marriage without children. I could have given her that.”

  “Then why don’t you?” Patrick’s shrewd eyes searched Marcus’ for the answer he’d never say aloud.

  Jerking his gaze away, Marcus angrily shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. “That’s not what we’re discussing. We’re discussing your interference. Why did you do that?”

  “I want her to be happy as much as you do,” Patrick admitted. “I didn’t see any other way.”

  “No other way? No other way, you say. So instead of leaving her alone to have a Season and find a suitable husband, you suggest she marry your molly of a cousin!”

  “He’s not a molly.”

  “Isn’t he?” Marcus countered sourly. “Let’s see if I recall correctly what you told me. Oh, yes, it goes something like this: ‘Marcus, can you ask Caroline to entertain my girls for the next two afternoons? I have to make take a quick trip to London to play the sympathetic cousin for Wallace tomorrow when his bride jilts him.’ Bewildered that you knew she was going to stand him up, I inquired as to how you could know she was going to jilt him and why you were going to let him suffer the embarrassment. To which, you replied, ‘She’s not really standing him up. Well, she is. It’s complicated. See, Wallace has always been a little off. His family seems to think he might have…different interests, if you take my meaning.’ Then you cleared your throat about half a dozen times and had a hard time meeting my eyes as you finished by saying, ‘The plan is to have a woman break his heart at the altar and let everyone assume his subsequent devastation made him the way he is.’”

  “You have a surprisingly good memory. You remember more of the situation than I thought you might. However, I need to correct you on one point. Wallace doesn’t have any unusual interests like the one you’re implying. Nor is he a limp lily. At least I don’t think he is.” He shook his head. “The unusual interest he has revolves around his need to incessantly count and other such odd behaviors that I’m not entirely certain of.”

  “Don’t flick your wrist in nonchalance,” Marcus snarled. “That’s the woman I love. I want her to experience every happiness available. Not for her to be trapped with a man who walks around the world thinking everything he sees is a substitute abacus.”

  “Cool your heels. He only does that when he’s nervous.”

  “I don’t care. He’s not good enough for her. Go back and persuade her to cry off.”

  “No,” Patrick said tightly.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t see a reason to interfere.”

  Marcus stared at him unblinkingly. He clenched his fists in rage and willed them to stay in his pockets where they belonged. Though punching Patrick might be satisfactory for the moment, it wouldn’t solve the problem. “You interfered before. Do it again.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Marcus demanded angrily. “She’ll be miserable.”

  Patrick shrugged. “You’re likely right. But she’ll be less miserable with him.”

  “Than with who?”

  “Just about anyone else.”

  Closing his eyes, Marcus leaned his head back and took deep breaths, silently counting in his head. He got to fifteen and snapped his eyes open, no less angry than he was before. “Patrick, you had better pray there is no wedding.”

  “Then you had better act.”

  “No, you’d better do as I suggested and convince her to find another match before the announcement is made.”

  Reaching forward to smooth out a wrinkle in one of the pages in his account ledger, Patrick casually said, “She’ll have to cry off on her own. And you’ll have to be the one to give her a reason to do so.”

  Marcus closed his eyes and, as usual, an image of Emma flashed before him. This particular image was what she’d looked like wearing her chemise in the river right after she’d flung mud at his face. The smile on her face was so bright and full of joy. He squeezed his eyes tighter, willing the picture to evaporate. Would he forever be tortured with images of her whenever he closed his eyes?

  “Just go to her Marcus,” Patrick said softly.

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can,” Patrick countered. “Whatever foolish thing you’ve done, she’ll forgive. She loves you. She always has. Just go to her before it’s too late.”

  Sadly, Marcus shook his head. “Are you sure your cousin Wallace is…er…able?”

  Patrick nodded once
. “I can’t verify from firsthand knowledge, but we had a talk or two about his activities at Oxford.”

  Marcus twisted his lips bitterly at the thought. This was what he’d wanted, he reminded himself. What he’d planned, even. Patrick was right when he said Emma would be happier with Wallace than with the other gentlemen who pursued her. At least Wallace, with his bizarre tendencies, wasn’t likely to hurt Emma in any way.

  “You know, Marcus,” Patrick said slowly, resting his elbows on his desk and leaning forward to rest his chin on the little bridge his hands were making. “Even after five years, I still miss Abigail as much as I did the day she died. There’s no land or estates or possession I own that I wouldn’t give to go back in time and change the outcome that day. And while I love my girls more than anything, nothing quite replaces the feelings I had for her.”

  Marcus stared at him. It all seemed so easy for Patrick. He’d had a wife, however, ill-suited for Patrick Marcus may think she’d been. And though Patrick had lost her through childbirth, at least he’d been able to give her those children. Marcus shut his eyes again and thought about Abigail. She’d been so happy and full of life around Celia and Helena. She’d take them outside and laugh and play with them in the sunshine, abandoning the norms of society right along with her slippers.

  But that’s what had made Lady Drakely so happy: her girls and being able to play with them. Before she’d had them, she was a different person entirely. She’d been quiet and reserved, barely even noticeable. Quite odd really, her sudden transformation. He shrugged uncomfortably. Emma would be the same way with her children. Except, while Abigail used her children as an excuse to indulge her inner child, Emma would see them as a gift to be truly loved. That’s why she needed to marry Sir Wallace, even if he was considered a bit of a pansy.

  “You’re certain he can perform?” Marcus asked again, startling both of them with the roughness of his voice.

  “He has a duty to his title, meager as it may be,” Patrick said easily. “He may not be rumored to enjoy the activity as much as most men, but he does know his duty. Though why you’re so eager to know Emma will be bedded by another man is rather odd, don’t you think?”

  Jerking his eyes away, Marcus clenched his teeth together so tightly his jaw hurt and he thought at any minute one of his teeth might crack. He didn’t want to think about Emma being bedded by another, he just wanted to make sure she’d have a child, even if it was just one. That’s what he wanted to think about, not her warming another man’s bed.

  “Just make sure he fulfills that particular duty, or it’ll be your neck I throttle.”

  Patrick shrugged. “I already told you he would. Besides, I think he just might have a sincere interest in Emma. Perhaps she’s just what he needs to indulge himself, so to speak.”

  Marcus growled and shot to his feet so fast a casual observer might have thought he’d been tapped on the bottom with a hot branding iron. “Not another word about that, Patrick. In the next six months I had better read in a scandal sheet that she’s retired to the country to await the birth of her babe. No other details are necessary.”

  “I have no control over her breeding,” Patrick said tightly, an unmistakable sadness filling the man’s eyes. “You know, Marcus, as much as I love my daughters, I would have still loved my wife just as much had we not had children. Perhaps, Emma feels the same.”

  Swallowing hard past the lump in his throat, Marcus gave one final glance at his forlorn friend and stalked from the room.

  Patrick was wrong. Emma would be happier with a man who could give her the life he couldn’t. Patrick wouldn’t have loved his wife just as much if they hadn’t had children. It was the children who brought out the fun, lovable side of Abigail. That’s what all women wanted. What made them come alive.

  And that was what he was determined Emma would have, no matter what he had to do to get it for her.

  Chapter 23

  Today was the day. The day Emma would become Lady Benedict, making her a real lady, a baronetess, and a wife, all at the same time.

  Closing her eyes tightly to keep the tears pricking her eyes inside where they belonged, she scooted to the edge of her bed, swung her legs over, and let her bare feet fall into the thick crimson rug. She squeezed her toes together, making a sad mental note of the soft fibers of the carpet. This would be the last morning she’d get to wake in a familiar house with familiar surroundings. Tonight she’d go to Sir Wallace’s house and wake up tomorrow in a bed that she was nearly certain she’d never be able to feel comfortable in. She swallowed and stood. She needed to get ready for her wedding.

  “May I come in?” Caroline asked a moment later, opening the door a crack and peeking inside.

  Emma smiled. “Please.”

  Caroline’s blue silk nightrail swished as she walked into the room and over to Emma’s side. Impulsively, Emma gave her a quick hug.

  “You can stay here as long as you’d like, you know.”

  “Thank you, Caroline. But I cannot. I must marry. Wallace really isn’t as bad as you think he is.”

  “I know,” Caroline admitted with a slight laugh. “I don’t know if it’s because I’ve gotten used to his odd tendencies, or if he simply doesn’t do them anymore. I’m sure he’ll be a good husband.”

  Silence filled the air as both women stared at each other, an unspoken message passing between them. A message filled with unanswered questions, curiosity, pain, sympathy, and more than anything, confusion and hurt. It had been more than five weeks since Emma had last seen Marcus. He truly wasn’t coming back.

  The day Alex had gone to speak to him, Emma had tried to intercept him before he left, but found she’d slept too long, thus reverting her back to her original plan—to let Alex talk to Marcus before publicly accepting Wallace’s proposal. She’d once again dared to dream he’d return to his senses and would come to collect her. But once again, he hadn’t.

  Alex returned home alone that next night, his solitary presence silently confirming what she’d already known in her heart: she’d marry Wallace and do her best to put aside any feelings she held for Marcus. She may never come to love Wallace, but she could do her best to make their marriage work.

  “Let’s get you dressed,” Caroline said with feigned excitement. She stood up and walked to Emma’s vanity. “These are awfully nice. Why haven’t I paid them any mind before?” She picked up the silver-plated brush Marcus had given her.

  Emma frowned. She really shouldn’t have those combs and brushes. They belonged to Marcus, not her. “I’m glad you like it,” she said, walking up to the vanity. “It’s yours.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Marcus gave it to me. I think it belonged to his grandmother or something like that. I really shouldn’t have kept it, and since his grandmother is also yours, you should have the brush. You can take the comb and mirror, too, if you’d like.”

  Caroline gently set the brush down. “I think he wanted you to have them.”

  “I don’t think so.” Emma fought to keep control of her emotions. “He only let me use them when I came to stay with him. I hadn’t brought anything with me.”

  “I disagree. He wanted you to have them. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have given them to you in the first place. Heaven knows Olivia required so many brushes and combs to manage that nest of hair she had, she could keep an army properly groomed.”

  Emma’s rebellious fingers reached out and traced the intricate designs on the handle of the brush. She closed her eyes and yanked her fingers away as if she’d been burned. “I can’t keep them.”

  “All right,” Caroline said softly. “I’ll take care of them for you. Why don’t you go find your gown, and I’ll help you put it on.”

  With a quick nod, Emma walked to her wardrobe and withdrew a silken pale blue dress. Caroline had commissioned one of the most experienced modistes in England to make this dress—at Marcus’ expense, of course, Emma reminded herself bitterly; unaware her fingers were squeezing the fab
ric so hard they were leaving marks. Loosening her grip, she laid the garment over the back of her dressing stool and weakly smiled at Caroline.

  Anxious feelings welled up inside Emma as she watched Caroline wordlessly loosen the fastenings of the blue gown to get it ready for wear. Maria, the maid who had been attending Emma the past five weeks, would be in shortly to attend Emma’s hair, because Caroline declared only a large mound of overflowing curls would be acceptable. Caroline, however, had made such a big to-do about helping Emma get ready for her wedding, Emma knew better than to argue about it. Maria may be allowed in to fix her hair, but Caroline would help Emma put on her dress.

  Three hours and two burns with the hot curling tongs later, Emma was a vision of beauty with a stilted smile and salve-glistening skin as she walked out the front door of Watson Townhouse to Alex’s carriage.

  “You look very lovely, Emma,” Alex murmured, giving her a hand up into the carriage.

  Emma looked down at him and smiled a genuine smile. Caroline had been very fortunate to find him. He might be unusual and rather awkward at times, but next to Marcus, he truly was the kind of husband girls dreamed of. “Thank you, Alex.” Sitting down on the red velvet squabs, Emma watched as Alex handed Caroline up into the carriage, determined not to get jealous at the loving look the two of them exchanged.

  “I wonder if Wallace is already there,” Alex mused aloud, presumably just trying to fill the awkward silence.

  “I’d assume so. He’s probably counting the pews,” Emma jested playfully.

  Caroline grinned. “That or the tiles on the floor.”