The Rake's Arranged Marriage

by Ruth Regan

  "Quite right, quite right. We're sisters. So to keep from confusion, everyone just calls me Gertie. I hope you don't find the informality untoward, ma'am."

  "No, Gertie. It's fine."

  "Good, good!"

  Cara could plainly see that the cook and the housekeeper shared quite a few similarities of personality, as well as appearance. Although she was sorely disappointed to have missed Eliot, she managed to enjoy the next hour in Gertie's company. And, the sausages and gravy (and fresh brown bread straight from the oven) were positively delicious.

  After promising to visit Gertie again the following morning, Cara departed and set out for the library, which she'd seen briefly the day before. Knowing Lord Eliot was out for a hunt, she didn't expect him for the rest of the afternoon. So, she began to explore the contents of the library, pausing for tea now and then and to talk with Mrs. Cooper, who served it. Cara had instructed the housekeeper to have a late dinner presented in the parlor. She felt sure that Lord Eliot would be home by the time the sun had gone down and the lack of light stopped the day's hunt. So, at seven-thirty she made her way to the parlor for the meal, but Eliot never materialized.

  By the time Cara rested her head on her pillow that night, she was exhausted. Not from any particular physical strain, but simply from waiting. All day long, she'd been hoping for Eliot's return. She'd been longing to talk to him. To perhaps try and explain why his comment the day before had cut her so and made her disagreeable. But the opportunity never came. At midnight, she gave up all hope of Eliot popping into her room (as he had done so freely during her convalescence) and blew out her candle.

  ***

  The rest of the week passed in much the same fashion. Cara would wake and descend to the kitchen, only to find that Lord Eliot was already gone. She'd wait all day, hoping for his reappearance. And, always she would go to sleep disappointed (although she had truly begun to cherish her time with Gertie in the kitchen).

  On Thursday night – the eve of the wedding – she had finally had enough. It was past ten o'clock when she sought out Lord Eliot's valet, a young man named Pierson. She had never been inside Lord Eliot's chambers, but she knew where they were and she marched herself there and rapped solidly on the great door. In a matter of moments, it cracked open and young man's worried face appeared on the other side.

  "Mister Pierson?" Cara asked, trying her best to sound authoritative.

  "L-lady Boyle!" Pierson stuttered.

  "May I come in?"

  "Excuse me, my lady, but Lord Eliot says that no one is to enter his chambers without his permission. No one but me and Mrs. Cooper, that is. Until you're married."

  "I see," she said. She was in no mood to quarrel with the young man, so she didn't press the issue, although it irked her greatly to be forced to conduct a conversation standing in the hallway where any number of servants might hear.

  "Well," she continued resignedly. "I have been trying to see him these past four days without any success. As I'm sure you can imagine, Pierson, that is a mite distressing. Our marriage is on the morrow."

  "Is it, ma'am?" he asked stupidly.

  "Yes," Cara said, her frustration flaring. "Lord Eliot's not within, is he?"

  "No," Pierson replied, then he cleared his throat in a way that Cara found suspicious. She judged it quite possible that Eliot was just on the other side of the door, listening to every word. She sighed with exasperation.

  "Well. When he returns, would you please tell him that I should like to see him? Preferably before we meet at the altar? I know next to nothing about the plans for tomorrow. Perhaps Lord Eliot will remember, I'm not always at my best in the middle of a crowd."

  This last was, in fact, a veiled threat. Cara wanted Eliot to understand that she would not be happy in the least if she had to meet him before their wedding guests for the first time in four days. Just the thought of that set her nerves on edge terribly. It was also true that she knew nothing about how the day was to unfold. Mrs. Cooper had been told to set a brunch for guests at ten, but didn't have an inkling about when the ceremony was to take place.

  Cara waited for Pierson to reply, but he said nothing. The silence became uncomfortable, so she decided to try a different approach.

  "Mister Pierson, you're up with Lord Eliot in the mornings, surely?"

  "Yes, my lady," Pierson confirmed, his tone flat.

  "In that case, would you be so kind as to rap on my door when Lord Eliot is up and about?"

  "Well, ma'am, I-"

  "Pierson, tomorrow I am to become Lady Quentin Eliot. I'll brook no disobedience. Do as I say."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  And then, most rudely, Pierson simply closed the door in her face. Cara took a deep breath. It was difficult enough to come into a new household, to make the correct impression on the servants. When those servants were resistant and headstrong from the outset, it made things even more difficult. But it might very well be that Pierson was simply devoted to his master, bent on keeping Eliot's privacy at all costs. She decided she would believe this, in the interest of giving Pierson the benefit of the doubt and smoothing the way ahead. She had no desire to make enemies. She already felt as though she were fighting some strange battle with Lord Quentin Eliot.

  ***

  Back in her own room, Cara tried to sleep. It was a difficult task. Finally, she reached for book of French verses she'd found days before, which had given her such pleasure. But it was tiresome now. Her stomach was in knots and her heart all fluttery. I am to be married tomorrow...I am to be married tomorrow...

  The sentence played over and over in her head.

  At two in the morning, she was at her wits end. She flung her covers aside and wrapped a shawl about her shoulders. Then, guttering candle in hand, she made her way downstairs to the parlor. She'd discovered that Lord Eliot kept his spirits in an ornate sideboard there, and she was willing to try anything to set her mind at ease.

  She padded across the drafty room, shuddering against the chill in the air. When she reached the large sideboard, she set her candle down and bent to unlatch the appropriate cupboard. But just as her fingers found the crystal brandy decanter, a sound behind her startled her. She straightened and spun around.

  "Tsk tsk. Out for a late night tipple. Well, it's refreshing to not be the only one, for once."

  He was casually seated in an armchair, looking right at her. She could feel his eyes moving over her body, probably seeing right through the thin dressing gown. Her stomach was gripped with a sudden excitement. His knees, legs, and hands were lit in a shaft of moonlight filtering in through the French doors that led to the terrace beyond. But his face was in shadow. The effect was odd. Cara wondered briefly how she'd missed him when she'd entered the room, but then she knew. The armchair was so large that from behind, she wouldn't have been able to see that anyone was sitting there.

  "We're to be married tomorrow, Lord Eliot," she said slowly, eyeing the half-full brandy snifter in his fingers. "I would have thought the fact would curtail your revelry to some degree."

  "First off, my Lady, we are to be married today. It is quite a deal after midnight. And secondly, I don't think there's anything under the sun – or the moon, as it may be – that could curtail my revelry. That is, if I've set my mind on reveling."

  He swigged back the last of his brandy, then sat forward in his chair. The moonlight spilled over his features. It twinkled in his eyes and off the light dusting of reddish-blonde stubble on his chin. He is so handsome as to be almost otherworldly, Cara thought. She looked from his face to the bundle of blue that was sitting in his lap.

  "What are you doing with my wedding dress?" she asked, recognizing the gown immediately. Mrs. Cooper had taken it the afternoon before to air it and press it. But apparently, it hadn't made it back to her wardrobe, for here it was with Eliot.

  "Ah. A very good question. I'll tell you. If you pour me a drink," he said, extending his empty glass.

  "And if I refuse to? On the grounds that
you've probably had quite enough?"

  "Then I shan't speak to you again until we're at the altar. A little birdie told me you were worried about that."

  So, either he had been listening to the whole conversation with Pierson or the young valet had indeed conveyed her message.

  "Blackmail!" she said angrily, under her breath.

  Lord Eliot only chuckled. "Perhaps it is blackmail. But then again, who practices blackmail? I know your answer. Blackguards. And do you truly believe I'm a blackguard?"

  She searched his face. And she searched her heart, although, it didn't take long.

  "No," she said softly.

  "Well, then. I guess it's not blackmail. Perhaps it's just...a little fun. Something that your life has been sorely lacking, I fear, my dear Lady Boyle."

  It was the truth. But it was also a challenge. Cara rose to it. She reached back into the sideboard for the decanter and a second glass, then poured them each two fingers of brandy.

  She was aware that Lord Eliot was looking up at her as she poured. Again, she had the distinct feeling that her nightdress was somewhat sheerer than she'd imagined.

  "You've seen far too much of me in my nightclothes since I've been at Hedgeton, Lord Eliot," she said, extending one of the snifters to him.

  "You're right, Lady Boyle," he replied, wrapping his fingers around the glass. "I should rather like to see you without your nightclothes."

  His fingers were lying over hers on the glass as he said the words and Cara felt a slight current pass through them. It made her flushed and excited. She'd waited for days to be near him again...

  "All good things to those who wait," she murmured softly. The statement slipped from her lips before she had much time to think about it. Surprised at herself, she extricated her hand quickly. Where did that come from? But Lord Eliot only began to chuckle delightedly.

  "You've been reading that French poetry I set out by your bed," he murmured.

  "Perhaps I have."

  "And what do you think of it, my dear Lady Boyle?"

  "I think it is utter trash."

  "Do you?"

  "I do. But that's not to say it isn't a great deal of...'fun,' to use your word."

  Lord Eliot smiled broadly now, and raised his glass.

  "Here's to fun, Lady Boyle. And here's to Lady Boyle, too. I warn you, I'm going to say that name as much as possible for the next little while. Because soon Lady Boyle won't exist anymore."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, soon someone named Lady Quentin Eliot will take her place. You see, Lady Quentin Eliot is getting a fresh start today. Chin chin."

  He clinked her glass and downed his brandy in a single draught. Cara followed suit, although much more slowly. She was thinking through what he'd said.

  A fresh start.

  "Lord Eliot," she began, but then she found that she couldn't go on. She wanted so badly to talk to him. To foster trust with the man who would soon be her husband, by revealing an important truth to him. The words, however, just wouldn't come.

  "Spit it out, Lady Boyle!" he said with mock severity. But then he smiled. He was a rogue – a desperately handsome, drunken rogue. She couldn't help but smile, too. The moment was...good. She didn't want to ruin it.

  "Nothing," she said finally. "That is, you said you would tell me what you're doing with my wedding dress if I drank with you. Will you keep your word, sir?"

  "I will, Lady Boyle," he said. "I will indeed. I was bringing this dress to your chamber...when I was waylaid here in the parlor. Now that you're here, too, though, I may complete my errand. Please. Take it to your chambers and put it on. When you're ready, meet me at the stables."

  "Now?" she asked. Wide-eyed, she took the beautiful blue gown from Eliot's outstretched hand.

  "Indeed," he said, standing and brushing himself off.

  "But it's-"

  "Two o'clock in the morning, I know. Do you trust me, Lady Boyle?"

  The question was sudden and overwhelming. Cara made a fast inventory. There were certainly things about Lord Quentin Eliot that she did not trust. But those things were all relatively small. For example, she would never trust him to show up on time, unless it pleased him. But when it came to important things, well... She found that in her heart of hearts, she did trust him. He'd cared for her when she was hurt. He'd given her a choice in the gallery four days ago, when he'd asked for her kiss. And he'd been hurt in the past, too. He was maddening. He was reckless. And, she wanted him very, very badly.

  "Yes," she said finally.

  "Then do as I say. I'll see you in a few minutes, Lady Boyle."

  ***

  As she dressed, Cara felt the brandy work its way through her. By the time she fastened up the final buttons of the lovely blue wedding gown, she felt pleasantly warm and languid. It was a new sensation, though she had tasted spirits before. It was just that she had never truly enjoyed their effects. Lord Boyle had gotten drunk immediately after their wedding – a fact which no doubt contributed to his behavior the rest of that poor night. The memory had always made her leery of alcohol and its dulling effects on one's good sense. But for some reason, perhaps it was the late hour and the strange circumstances, she felt tonight that all would be well. She felt delightfully relaxed.

  She didn't bother with jewelry, and she spent only a modicum of time with her hair. She braided the long locks with a deft hand. Then she affixed the braids over the crown of her head and fastened the ends behind her ears with pins. A few soft tendrils still framed her face.

  Cara spared a moment to worry about mussing the beautiful gown. But she wasn't about to deny Lord Eliot or to sink in the face of his challenge. She had to hunt in her wardrobe for a suitable outer garment, but eventually came up with a thick velvet cape of dark brown that tied at the neck with a wide satin ribbon. The cape sported a hood, which she judged was a good thing. She didn't want to come down with a cold on this strange adventure, whatever it was, and face the priest in the morning with a cough.

  She pulled a pair of calfskin gloves onto her hands, glanced in her looking glass, and judged herself ready.

  She snuck out through the kitchen, where the embers from the fire were still glowing in the hearth. This was the most direct route to the stables and the route by which she was the least likely to be observed. Sure enough, no one interfered with her. All the servants were fast asleep in their beds at this hour. But the loud “bong!” of the grandfather clock striking the half hour in the hall did startle her. Two-thirty. What does he mean to do at two-thirty in the morning, the night before our marriage?

  She picked up her pace. She was flushed and excited as she unlatched the back door of the kitchen and stepped out into the yard beyond. She could hear the chickens clucking softly in their coop nearby as her sudden presence in the yard set them on edge. Carefully, picking her way through the mud, Cara made her way to the stables. She'd blown out her candle in the kitchen and left it sitting on the counter, and she hadn't even bothered to search for a lamp. But it was no impediment to her progress. The moon was nearly full and showed her the way well enough, even through the mist that had settled upon Hedgeton.

  As she approached the stables, a low whickering reached her ears, as did the jingling sound of a bridle.

  "Lady Boyle," he said, stepping into the yard. Excitement flared in her chest. Lord Eliot stood between two mares, wearing a long, dark cape. One of the horses she knew to be his. Lodestar was her name, Cara remembered. Strong and tawny, with a white patch on her nose in the shape of a star, the horse was unmistakable. The other horse was smaller, but no less impressive. She was a young, pure black mare with the shiniest coat Cara had ever seen. And now Lord Eliot held out the reins to her.

  "For Lady Boyle. On her wedding day."

  Another gift. She could hardly believe it.

  "What's her name?"

  "Shadow," he said. His features were serious now. "She's a bit spirited, but I thought that fitting."

  "Shadow," she rep
eated reverently, stepping forward to take the reins. The mare stamped and whinnied as her new mistress approached. But she calmed as soon as Cara moved to her side and began to stroke her nose.

  "Come on," Lord Eliot said, approvingly. Then he swung himself easily up onto Lodestar's back.

  Cara followed suit. Shadow accepted her weight without complaint, and Cara felt as though she and the black mare were old friends already. She was doubly glad that her fiancé didn't raise an eyebrow at her choice of riding style. She had always been more comfortable going straddled, instead of in the acceptable, ladylike sidesaddle fashion – much to her father's chagrin.

  "Where are we going?"

  "You'll see," Eliot said as he spurred Lodestar forward. Soon, they were passing through the gate at the edge of the yard and onto Hedgeton's open grounds beyond.

  Chapter Seven

  Lord Eliot didn't ride slowly on Cara's account. In fact, as soon as they had trotted out of the yard, he spurred Lodestar into a gallop with nary a glance over his shoulder. Cara didn't mind in the least. In fact, she appreciated his trust that she would be right behind. They'd never discussed riding, but obviously he'd guessed that she wouldn't be timid in the saddle.

  They rode hard for a good quarter of an hour, during which time she came to know Shadow well. The feeling that she and the dark mare had been a pair for years only continued to grow. Never had she been so comfortable with a new animal. Her attention was so engrossed by the delicious feel of Shadow's muscles moving beneath her that she neglected to pay attention to exactly where they were going. She knew they never encountered the road, though, just the gently rolling heather of the moors and an occasional tree. The mist partially obscured Cara's view, but she could tell by the position of the moon and stars above that they were traveling in somewhat of a northerly direction.

  "Whose land is this?" she asked out breathlessly.

  "Mine!" Lord Eliot called over his shoulder.

  She might have guessed. Hedgeton was a very large estate, and its hunting grounds were known for their vastness. Still, to ride hard for fifteen solid minutes and meet no border meant that Lord Eliot's holdings were even bigger than she'd known.