The Wedding Chase: In His Lordship's BedPrisoner of the TowerWord of a Gentleman

by Kasey Michaels

She remembered Walter telling her that the Prince Regent had fortified himself with cherry brandy or some such thing before meeting his soon-to-be queen for the first time. And then he’d laughed. Just as everyone at this table must be laughing up their sleeves now. Just as all of London would be laughing once the word spread through Mayfair. The Earl of Buckland and—who? What happened? Did the man lose a wager?

  Eleanor stood up abruptly, causing all the men at the table to likewise stand, a few of them none too steadily. “Please excuse me, gentlemen. Francesca. I wish to retire now. Francesca? Perhaps you do, too. You have a day’s drive ahead of you tomorrow, remember?”

  “Yes, I do,” Francesca said, getting slowly to her feet. “And isn’t it above all things wonderful? The Reverend Thorton has offered to accompany me to Fiske Hall.”

  Eleanor frowned, realizing that Francesca would be traveling alone, because she, the new Countess Buckland, would be journeying in quite the other direction, back to Mayfair. She wouldn’t be accompanying her sister. She would be accompanied by her husband.

  Suddenly everything that had happened, everything that could yet happen, was removed from the realm of “silly fairy tale and almost romantic” and placed squarely into “Oh, my God, what am I to do now?”

  The urge to scream rocked her to her toes. “Umm, yes, how nice. Thank you, Reverend. If…if you’ll excuse us?”

  “I’ll be up directly, my dear,” Nicholas called to her, bowing rather unsteadily.

  Eleanor turned on her heels and fled, her sister bringing up the rear with her usual waddle.

  “Eleanor?” Francesca asked as they paused at the top of the stairs for Francesca to catch her breath. “I have a small problem you might help me with, my lady.”

  “Your lady? Oh, please, don’t do that.” Eleanor frowned. “What’s your problem?”

  Francesca sighed, averted her eyes. “It’s…it’s money, Eleanor. Walter doled out very carefully, but we were to spend but a single night here, not two. I—I have no more money.”

  “He gave you nothing for emergencies?”

  “Is this an emergency?”

  “I wouldn’t call it a lark, would you?” Eleanor bit her bottom lip as Francesca’s face paled. She didn’t need the woman turning into a watering pot. She had ample problems as it was. “All right, all right. I’ll simply have my—Lord Buckland pay the innkeeper in the morning. All right?”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  “Would you stop that!” Eleanor headed off down the hallway.

  “Silly,” Francesca said, giggling. “You missed your door again.”

  Eleanor looked back down the hall, to Number Two, and stiffened. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ll stay with you tonight, Francesca.”

  “But you can’t. You’re married now, and belong with your husband. That nice Sylvester has already moved your bags into the earl’s room.” She turned her sister about and gave her a slight push. “Go on. You’ve made your bed, Eleanor, and now it’s time to lie in it. Again.”

  Condemned prisoners walked to the gallows steps with more spring in their step than Eleanor Oglesby Marley, Countess of Buckland, employed as she dragged herself back down the hallway.

  “SHE’S IN THERE?” Nicholas asked Sylvester, who merely nodded. Nicholas sighed. “All right. Thank you, Sylvester, for today, for tonight, and most especially for this morning. You saw that atrocious dressing gown on the floor, didn’t you? At least you tried to protect me.”

  “I was protecting the young lady, my lord,” Sylvester corrected punctiliously. “Allow me, my lord,” he ended, stepping forward to depress the latch, finding it locked.

  “She’s locked herself in?” Nicholas said, raising one eyebrow. “Or locked me out? Which do you think it is?”

  “I’d rather not say, although I have my suspicions, my lord,” Sylvester said, trying to hide his smile. “You are fairly deep in your cups, which might have caused you to forget that we are located in a rather mean little inn, which might not be the most optimum location for a wedding night.”

  “The devil with a wedding night, Sylvester. I just want to get out of these clothes and sink my head into some pillows. I’m in no mood to bed a virgin.”

  “And in no condition,” Sylvester added, clearly more the older and, if not wiser, at least more sober half brother now than the loyal valet. “However, as this inn is still filled with your compatriots, all of them expecting you to join your bride, passing the night deep in your cups in the common room simply would not be prudent.”

  “I’ve had more than enough to drink, thank you. I’ll bunk in with you,” Nicholas said.

  “Oh, I think not, my lord. I’m already sharing with Sir James’s valet.”

  “You’re sharing a room? Gad, man, I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “We’re not, my lord,” Sylvester said, drawing himself up to his full height. “Chester and I have been seeing each other quite frequently for two years now. He may take me home to meet his mother, any day now. I am atingle with delight. I’ll knock tomorrow at eight, to shave you?”

  Nicholas smiled, shook his head. “Poor Maude,” he said, referring to the housekeeper at his seat in Kent, Sylvester’s wife of twenty years and mother of their six strapping children. “But you’ve done what you wanted, Sylvester. I’m much more clear-headed now that you’ve shocked me sober. And make that seven, if you please. I want to get back to London as quickly as possible. The Countess and I will take the curricle, and you can follow in the coach.”

  Once Sylvester had bowed and departed, Nicholas faced the door to his room, took a deep breath, then lifted his fist and knocked mightily on the door. “Wife! It is your husband! Open the door, if you please!”

  He heard a faint shuffling on the other side of the door and then a voice, low and intense. “Go…away.”

  Nicholas shook his head, smiled. “I think not, my lady. Now, open the door.”

  “No. And lower your voice.”

  “Open…the…door,” he said, hearing footsteps on the stairs. This would be all it needed: his peers seeing him standing in the hallway, denied his room, denied his bridal bed. “Eleanor, I’m warning you…”

  “What’s the trouble, Nick? Your bride lock you out?”

  “Very amusing, Thorny,” Nicholas said, glaring at his friend, who was advancing down the hallway. “And not at all. As a matter of fact, seeing as how we’ve anticipated our vows these past months, my naughty Elly has decided she must make this evening more exciting for it to be special. Memorable, you understand. If she lives up to her whispered promise at our makeshift altar, she is even now dressing in the marvelous red satin gown I bought for her. Black feathers, black stockings. And, I swear to you, she’s even spoken of a small riding crop for—”

  The door had opened, an arm had snaked out, and suddenly Nicholas was inside the room, the door already closed, the latch thrown.

  “You!” his bride declared, giving him a push in the chest. “You…you…you rotter! What were you saying out there?” She gave him another push. “A riding crop?” One more push. “What about a riding crop?”

  “I thought it would complement that horse blanket you’re wearing, my dear,” Nicholas said, stepping back to avoid another jab. The brat was hurting him, damn it. “Now, what were you doing, denying your husband entrance to his own room?”

  “I am not sleeping with you.”

  “Really?” Nicholas said, already stripping off his neck cloth. “Suit yourself, although I think you’ll find the floor rather cold.”

  He bit the insides of his cheeks to keep from grinning as the girl’s eyes grew wide. “You…you’d let me sleep on the floor? Not you?”

  “When there’s a lovely bed in the room, a bed covered in my own sheets, topped with my own cover, softened by my own pillows? Hardly, my dear.” He shrugged out of his jacket, began unbuttoning his waistcoat.

  “Put that back on,” she commanded, pointing at his jacket.

  The waistcoat la
nded on top of the jacket, which had found its home over the single chair in the room. He looked into the dark corners, locating the boot-jack, knowing that the jack would ruin a perfectly good pair of Hessians, but he wasn’t about to summon Sylvester at this stage of the game.

  “Don’t do that,” Eleanor warned him. “Don’t use that jack. Oh, for pity’s sake, sit down, let me help. Or are you so wealthy you can afford to ruin perfectly good boots?”

  “As a matter of fact? Yes, I am,” Nicholas said, removing his jacket and waistcoat from the chair and sitting down, holding out his right leg. “I must be more than three parts drunk, me who barely ever imbibes. To let a woman pull off my boots? Shame on me. There. That said—feel free to commence your, um, services at any time, madam.”

  He watched as she approached, clearly weighing her options as to how to remove his boots and still look like a lady. As if any lady of his acquaintance put her hair in braids and wore plaid horse blankets.

  “I believe you’ll have to turn around and, um, straddle my leg,” he offered helpfully.

  “I know, I know, I’ve removed my father’s boots when he was in his cups,” Eleanor said, rubbing her hands together. He was surprised she didn’t spit in them first. “Now just sit there, all right? And don’t say anything.”

  He smiled, with his lips firmly closed, and gripped the sides of the chair seat. This was mean of him, terrible of him, but damn it if he didn’t deserve some enjoyment after the chit had so firmly corralled him, made him into a married man.

  “Good. Stay just like that. Oh, and hold this,” Eleanor said, handing him his signet ring.

  He took it, looked at it. “What have you done to my ring? What’s all this string wrapped around the thing?”

  “Don’t whine so. I didn’t hurt it. I simply wrapped that string around the bottom of it. I couldn’t keep it on, otherwise, and didn’t want to lose the thing,” she told him.

  He inspected the ring again, amazed at how much string had been wrapped around it, and how small the opening was now, how slender her fingers must be. Then, because he really did not want to think about her as a female at this moment, he turned his head as she lifted one leg, careful to keep the horse blanket dressing gown around her, and straddled his right leg, her back to him.

  Interesting view, even in the near dark of this badly lit room.

  She didn’t have the finesse Sylvester could lay claim to, didn’t cover her hands with white cotton gloves so as to not mar the shiny surface of the leather with her finger smudges the way his valet did, but she did know where to grasp the boot for the best leverage, he’d say that for her.

  She did not, however, seem to possess sufficient strength to pull the boot over his heel without assistance. He let her struggle for a few moments, then lifted his left leg, holding tightly to the chair seat, placed his boot sole against her backside…and pushed.

  She flew across the room, still holding his boot, and crashed into the wall; the impact, followed by her short shriek of surprise, making a racket that would have Thorny, who had the room beside his, thinking lascivious thoughts for the remainder of the night.

  “Why didn’t you warn me?” she asked, shaking her head, her dark braids flying out as she did so.

  “You told me not to say anything,” he reminded her.

  “You’re not amusing, you know,” she said, putting down the boot, then approaching again. “All right. Left leg, my lord. And I warn you, if you push that hard again, my revenge may well terrify you.”

  “You read that somewhere, didn’t you?” he asked as she straddled his left leg. “In one of your novels?”

  “And if I did?”

  “Nothing. Consider me well and truly terrified.” He wiggled his foot slightly, to help her, and the second boot slid off without incident, leaving him in his white hose, his shirt, his breeches, and wondering what in heaven’s name he was to do next.

  He wasn’t going to bed the chit, that was for certain. Not here. He wasn’t such a monster.

  Still…it might be amusing to let her think so.

  “Would you care for the right or the left?”

  “I beg your pardon?” she asked, lining up the left boot with the right. “You’re talking about your boots?”

  “Hardly. I’m talking about the bed, wife. Which side do you prefer, if you have a preference?”

  “I told you, I’m not sleeping in that bed with you.”

  “Did I mention sleeping?”

  She backed up two steps, picking up the boots and carrying them with her, holding them in front of her, whether as protection, or planning to use them as “revenge that may well terrify” him, he wasn’t sure.

  But she didn’t look frightened, cowed in any way. She looked angry, and belligerent, and ready to give as good as she got. He found himself admiring her and wanting to kick himself for frightening her.

  “Oh, put down your weapons, my lady,” he said, pushing his fingers through his hair. “I’m not the ogre you think me. However, I’m also no monk. We are married, for good or ill. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “No, thank you,” she said, most primly.

  “I beg your— Wait a moment? ‘No, thank you’ to what?”

  “To your invitation to share your bed, of course. I’ve given this some thought, my lord, and there is no reason not to seek an annulment the moment we’re back in London. I can go directly to my father’s house, you can go to yours, and you can then petition—”

  “Are you out of your mind?” he asked, cutting her off. “The whole world and his wife already knows that we’ve anticipated our vows. We’ve said so. Reverend Thorton found us here, together. You were in…in that, and I didn’t have my boots on. An annulment? Impossible. We’re bracketed, madam, for good or ill.”

  “No. I won’t have it. I’ll…I’ll join a nunnery.”

  “Oh, for the love of—put down those boots!” When she didn’t move, he grabbed them from her hands and flung them into a corner, pretty much destroying any hope that his Hessians might have survived this night unscathed.

  “My father has a temper, you know. He bellows and throws things all the time. You don’t frighten me.”

  “Good for your father. Riding herd on you and your hysterical sister, I imagine he had frequent reason for aggravation. And good, that I didn’t frighten you. I didn’t want to frighten you, just to shut you up. Look…Eleanor. We’re married. Absolutely, completely, and irrevocably married. I will not divorce you, I will give you no cause to divorce me, and there will be no annulment. I would wait, give you time, be a gentleman—for God’s sake be in the comfort of my own bedchamber—but if you think this will remain an unconsummated marriage then you could not be more wrong.”

  “I’m…I’m not attracted to you,” she said, lifting her chin.

  Nicholas stared at her for several moments, his jaw dropped, then threw back his head and laughed. “Lord love you, brat, you don’t make me go weak in the knees, either. What has that got to do with anything?”

  NICHOLAS AWOKE reluctantly, with the world still mostly dark, aware that his feet were cold. So were his knees. Where had his covers gone?

  He lifted his head. Attempted to lift his head. He’d raised it up only a few inches before his muscles protested. The muscles in his neck, in his shoulders, in his back.

  Slowly, his brain called his attention to the events of the previous evening, and he winced, realizing that the reason he was cold was because the fire in the grate was dying, his greatcoat only stretched so far when used as a blanket, and that he was lying on the floor.

  What an idiot he’d been. What had he said to her? Oh, yes, he remembered now. Something about not being attracted to his wife. Well, she had insulted him, hadn’t she? Wasn’t attracted to him?

  Cheeky brat. He’d thought so, and said so, when they’d first laid eyes on each other, and he thought so now. Not attracted to him? Well, she damn well was the only woman in London who could say that.

  He
was unattractive? He didn’t think so. Nobody thought so. He was a handsome man, damn it. Handsome, titled, wealthy. The most eligible, sought-after bachelor in all of London…until seven o’clock last night.

  And now what did she want? Some sort of romantic hero? The stuff of marble-backed novels?

  Cheeky brat.

  Speaking of cheeks…Nicholas raised a hand to his left one, remembering the sting of the slap his bride had delivered as he’d said that business about not being attracted to her, either, not that it mattered how they felt about each other.

  That probably had been a bit cold, even for him.

  Which was why he’d watched her blink back tears, then hop into his bed, move as close to the edge as she could get, pull the covers tightly around herself, and let her win that battle for the night.

  But now it was almost morning, and he was freezing, and if he couldn’t feel a soft mattress beneath his body for at least a few hours, he’d be damned if he knew the reason why.

  He pushed to his feet, looking toward the bed. Yes, his bride was still there, sound asleep, the covers lying lightly on the raised sweep of her hip. Her feet were drawn up slightly, he could see the bend of her knees in the way the covers draped her body, but even if she slept straight out, he doubted her toes would come within a half foot of the bottom of the bed.

  So small, and with those ridiculous braids lying dark against the white of the single pillow she had claimed as her own.

  She was on her side, as he’d already deduced, with her back to him, her body still on the far side of the bed, as far from him, he imagined, as she could muster without falling off the other side.

  And there were the covers. There was an unoccupied pillow. There was more than half of the bed…calling to him, luring him like a siren’s song.

  He didn’t wait for his conscience to awaken and give him any reason why he shouldn’t lift those covers and crawl under them. Picking up his pillow from the floor, he tossed it onto the bed, and quickly followed, pulling his share of the covers over him and sighing, deeply, as he sank into the softness.

  But his wasn’t the only sigh in the room. His wife echoed his sound, slowly stretched, and turned onto her other side, her arm draping across his waist. She sighed again, snuggled closer, as if unconsciously seeking out a source of heat.