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

by Kasey Michaels

  They watched him stalk off, slapping his hat against his leg. He mounted a saddled gelding hitched to a post near the smithy’s shop and rode away south.

  “There’s an end to that unpleasantness,” Hugh said brightly, dusting his hands together before taking her arm. “Shall we repair to the inn here and commence with our celebration?”

  “Oh, Hugh,” Clarissa said, very nearly wailing. “I am destitute.” Her knees felt like they would collapse beneath her as the reality of it sank in.

  “Well,” Hugh said with a sunny smile, “even poor people need sustenance. Come along now.”

  “Are you mad?” she cried, tugging out of his hold. “I don’t want food! How can you imagine any sort of celebration? I’m so mortified, I want to die right here! What a mess I’ve made of things! I—I can’t keep my promise to you, Hugh,” she cried. “You have kept your end of the bargain, but I cannot.”

  “Of course you can.” He smacked his palm lightly against his forehead. “Small wonder you’re upset after what I forgot.”

  “What?” she asked, sniffling, wiping her eyes with the edge of her sleeve.

  “Something that will make everything all right and solve all our problems,” he explained. And then he kissed her.

  How she regretted that the pure ecstasy of his mouth on hers, his body pressed against her, his long fingers sliding through her hair and dislodging her bonnet, could not resolve their dilemma. They were poor, she had nothing to offer him and he was bound to her as surely as if they had wed in St. Paul’s before hundreds of witnesses. His honor would never allow him to deny their marriage happened, however informal it had been. There were papers. It was recorded.

  When he finally released her, leaving her shaking while he appeared more than a bit disconcerted himself, she informed him breathlessly, “I fear we’ve only created more problems, Hugh.”

  “So we did,” he answered with a grin, “but we have a ready solution to these.” He took her hand and looked down at her, then over at the inn, his amber eyes sparkling. “Do we not, Mrs. Richfield?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  HUGH WAS STILL pouting at the end of the day when they arrived at Hartcastle, forty miles southeast of the Scottish border.

  There had been no available private rooms at the small inn at Gretna. It seemed the marriage trade was busy, and not all the couples were outrunning irate relatives. Unfortunately, Hartcastle’s direction was by way of a byroad where there were no posting inns and Clarissa had insisted they travel on to his brother’s estate to pass the night.

  Aside from the delay in consummating their marriage, Hugh was in no mood to confront the unpredictable Nigel. If offered the same welcome as the last time he was here, Hugh feared they might very well have to sleep in the chaise.

  Had Nigel forgiven him for returning alive without the two Archer boys? Though he had never said as much, Hugh knew his brother held him responsible for them. They had been tenants of the estate. Neighbors and friends.

  The guilt Hugh suffered over the deaths he had witnessed at Waterloo still troubled him, but he knew he could have done no more than he had and must live with that fact. He had decided that, in their honor, he must make his life count for something instead of grieving uselessly.

  Clarissa had, in her direct and sensible way, urged him to that conclusion. With her trust in him and her insistence on his openness, she had helped him to put it in better perspective. How was he ever to thank her for that? Certainly not when they were tearing through the north of England looking for a place to light.

  Devlin and the lads followed directions to the letter and the chaise was now approaching the ruin Hugh had once called home.

  “Do not expect much,” he warned Clarissa as they wound their way up the long drive.

  The moonlight revealed signs of further dilapidation in the main house as they approached. “Damn,” he said on a sigh, noting several black rectangular holes across the front where there were once windows. The abundant ivy that had covered a multitude of cracks in the facade had been ripped away, leaving the time wounds bare. Abandoned scaffolding stood affixed to one side of the entry where someone had obviously attempted repairs.

  Clarissa covered his hand with hers, offering comfort without words.

  They alighted and Hugh pointed out the stables to Devlin so that he could water and rest the team. Then he escorted Clarissa to the door and raised his hand to knock.

  Before he could, the stout oak door—which on closer inspection Hugh saw was new—opened. Nigel himself stood there, tall and pale, a much older, sicklier version of Hugh himself. His brother still bore the ravages of the scarlet fever that had invalided him when he was twenty. Given the difference of fifteen years in their ages, Hugh could not even recall when Nigel had been hale. Or happy.

  “Hugh!” he cried, holding out one arm while the other held a lantern high. “My God, boy, how did you get here so quickly? I only sent word to London two days ago!”

  Mystified at the effusive greeting and the unexpected welcome, Hugh allowed himself to be hugged, pounded on the back and drawn across the threshold. “Nigel,” he said. “You sent for me? Why?”

  But his brother was looking past him, smiling. How long had it been since he had seen Nigel smile? Belatedly, he recalled that Clarissa was still standing there. “Oh, this is Clarissa Fortesque…Richfield. My wife. Clarissa, my brother, Earl Hartcastle.”

  She curtsied beautifully. Bedraggled as she was in her wrinkled carriage gown and creased velvet spencer, she appeared regal as any queen. “My lord,” she acknowledged brightly.

  “Wife?” Nigel croaked. He stared openmouthed at her and then at Hugh. “Dash it all, you’ve married! How wonderful!” He reached for Clarissa’s hand and stepped back, tugging her inside. “Well, come in, my dear, come in!” He kissed her on the cheek. “Oh, this is too grand, isn’t it just! Mind the tools there and don’t trip. We’ve a bit of a jumble here what with all the renovations.”

  “Renovations?” Hugh parroted, only then noting the plethora of instruments scattered about and the stacks of rolled paper for doing the walls. “What…what is all this?”

  Nigel laughed as he ushered them into a parlor bare of all but two settees and a small table set in between. “We’ve come into blunt, m’boy. The gamble’s paid off at last. Sit, sit. Drinks are in order and then you shall eat. Or have you eaten?”

  “No,” Hugh admitted, “but I’d as soon have an explanation. What gamble do you mean?”

  “A moment, please.” Nigel seated Clarissa, then reached for the bellpull. Only after a stiff-kneed butler appeared and disappeared with an order for a late supper and rooms to be readied did Nigel sit down and explain. “First of all, I must apologize for all but ordering you away when you came home last, Hugh. I was in a sorry state then, horribly guilty for having risked everything. I wanted you well away so I did not have to face you with my foolishness.”

  “But I thought it was because of the Archers. That you held me accountable.”

  Nigel frowned, leaned forward and shook his head. “Oh, no, Hugh. That never entered my mind. They were grown men, as old as you were at the time, certainly capable of making the decision to become soldiers. No, it was my own folly that preyed on me. You see, George Notting had in mind to finance an expedition to the Orient, a private venture, as it were. He was quite persuasive and I fear I wagered everything. The ships were delayed beyond hope, but if they had been captured or gone down, well…”

  “But I take it they recently arrived?” Hugh said with a grin. “You are flush again. Rebuilding. Replanting?”

  Nigel nodded emphatically. “We are flush, Hugh. All’s right with Hartcastle and I can’t tell you how relieved I am.”

  He then turned his attention to Clarissa. “I thought I had come into luck, but it appears you have put my good fortune to shame. How is it this lovely creature has surrendered herself to a muck-about such as you?”

  Clarissa replied, “He married me for my money.”


  Nigel threw back his head and laughed. That, Hugh had never seen him do. Probably foxed, celebrating his newfound wealth.

  “However,” Clarissa quickly added, “it has come to nothing, you see, which is why we are here imposing upon your hospitality. The uncle who had charge of my inheritance made much the same gamble as you did, my lord, but without like results.”

  “Oh? His ships sank, did they?” Nigel asked with all concern.

  “No. As far as I know, they are not even built yet.” She dropped her voice to a woeful whisper and shook her head. “Steamships. Pleasure yachts. Whatever was he thinking?”

  Nigel worried his brow for a moment, then leaped up and strode out of the room without a word.

  “Now I’ve done it,” Clarissa said, exhaling sharply. “He’s probably ordering Devlin to hitch up the team and haul me away. No doubt he believes I’ve tricked you into marriage.” She raised her hand to her forehead and pressed her fingertips to her brow. “Would you mind terribly if I forego supper and excuse myself before he comes back? I have a bit of thinking to do.”

  “Sweetheart, you mustn’t worry. Not at all. I suppose I should have reassured you sooner about—”

  “Later, perhaps,” she said, interrupting him as she stood. “But I would like to retire now.”

  “Of course. I’ll see you upstairs. We’ll most likely be staying in my former room. That is, if the windows aren’t knocked out.” He grimaced.

  “No, please. Stay and visit with your brother. The butler is just there,” she said, gesturing toward the open doorway. “He will direct me. Do stay, Hugh. And wish Lord Nigel good-night for me.”

  “If you’re certain,” he said, wanting nothing more than to carry her up the stairs himself, but realizing she was right. He needed to discuss everything with Nigel.

  No sooner had Clarissa disappeared up the stairs than Nigel strode back into the room and tossed a periodical into Hugh’s lap. “Page twelve,” he said, pointing and nodding, obviously excited. “The article by Isaac Weld, Esquire. Read it.”

  Hugh examined the cover of the Journal des Mines, dated September, 1815, turned to the correct page and read aloud.

  “‘A newly launched ship, The Thames, has successfully completed her maiden voyage. The steam vessel traversed, in spite of contending seas and opposing winds, 758 miles in 121 hours. This voyage has established the utility of vessels so propelled, and the reliance that may be placed in them when controlled by skillful persons. Several other vessels, on similar principles, are being constructed and will be employed in conveying persons to Richmond, Sheerness, Southend and Gravesend, as well as to Margate from London. Vessels with steam engines will doubtless become adopted in various other parts of England as a commodious and pleasant means of travel.”

  Hugh looked up at his beaming brother and smiled. “It seems her ship has come in as well as yours.”

  “Half of what I’ve gained belongs to you, Hugh. I wagered everything you sent from your army pay that was intended to support the estate. Foolish, I know, but fortunately it’s turned out well in the end. The funds are in your account.”

  “I could have supported her in comfort, if not luxury,” Hugh said by way of defense. “I have a tidy sum put by.”

  “I heard how you got it, too,” Nigel said, frowning in disapproval. “That sort of thing must cease. You’ve gained a reputation for foolhardy risks, boy.”

  “Foolhardy, profitable risks, old man. The tendency must run in the blood.”

  Nigel shrugged. “Brandy?”

  Hugh grinned and glanced meaningfully at the ceiling, above which Clarissa rested in his former room. “No, bride.”

  Nigel embraced him again, then gave Hugh a playful shove in the direction of the door. “Then go on and make us an heir, you scapegrace. Supper can wait.”

  WHEN HUGH SLIPPED INTO his familiar old bed and took Clarissa in his arms, she sighed with pleasure and snuggled back against him. “You know, I have been lying here thinking of what we might do,” she whispered.

  “Have you?” he growled. “I’ve been giving it a bit of thought myself.” He slid one palm down her midsection and cradled her intimately.

  She groaned a low sultry laugh and covered his hand with hers pressing him to her. “We should return to town. I have a notion how we could replenish my lost fortune now that I am used to adventuring.”

  Hugh kissed the curve where her exquisite shoulder met her swanlike neck. “Have you? And here I had expected to let a small, comfy cottage and live frugally with you into our cheese-paring dotage.” He had quite looked forward to it if the truth be told.

  “Racing,” she declared. “I believe I should like to race.” Her breath caught fetchingly as he cupped one pert breast and caressed it through the thin lawn of her chemisette. “Ah. You could…could teach me to drive a high-perched phaeton. Bet on me and I’d win. Not a soul would ever expect a female to know how to race one. And shoot. You could instruct me in…all your games of chance. Um,” she hummed as he stroked her, the sound of her pleasure exciting him to a fever pitch.

  “Whatever you wish to learn,” he assured her as he raised the hem of the one garment she had not removed for the night. “Here’s a lesson you’ll love.”

  She reached back and smoothed one hand along his hip. “Why, Richfield, you’re not wearing any clothes,” she whispered with a lazy giggle.

  “First rule in this race,” he told her, slipping the soft filmy fabric over her head and tossing it away. “Now on to the next, if you don’t mind.”

  “Such an eager teacher…and willing student,” she crooned, turning in his arms and pressing full against him, her lips open and trailing across his chest while her hand wandered in dangerous territory. “I do believe I have some small notion how this goes.”

  “The trick is not to rush your…fences,” Hugh warned, “or the race will be over all too…soon.”

  “Wrong sort of race, my darling,” she advised him. “I believe I already know how to ride.”

  “You think so, eh?” he asked as he drew her on top of him and smoothed his palms down her lithe, firm body, encouraging her to fit hers to his in a way she had not yet experienced. “You want adventure, do you?” he dared. Was there anything she was unwilling to try? he wondered.

  She sank onto him, encompassing him completely, turning his grand plan of instruction to ashes as she began to move, sinuously, slowly, with an eroticism he had not dared hope for in one so untrained. Her mouth found his, devouring him as he constantly dreamed of doing to her. As he had done too few times. Her breasts grazed his chest, leaving twin paths of sensation he arched to recapture. Her scent filled his senses, rosewater and something indefinable that was hers alone. Essence of Clarissa, intoxicating.

  Leisure was not her intent, he soon found out. Though he’d intended to draw out her pleasure, make up for their first hurried encounter and his near abandonment of her afterward, she had other ideas. Hugh relinquished any semblance of control, gladly allowing her to set the pace, helpless to devise any measure that would grant any greater ecstasy than she provided. The best he could do was try to rein in the urge to finish until she demanded that, too.

  Her sweet cry of completion forced his complete surrender and he filled her, groaning both in blessed defeat and keenest victory. Ribbons of sheer feeling stretched to the limit, burst in stages, their remnants curling through him like slithers of rich, smooth silk.

  “Beginner’s luck,” he gasped, laughing breathlessly.

  “Not so.” She lay draped on top of him, one hand tangled in his hair, the other resting bonelessly on his shoulder. “I am a natural,” she argued softly. “Anything you can do, I can do as well.”

  “Can you box?” he asked, teasing her.

  One small fist bounced playfully off his head. “Anything.”

  WHEN HE COULD BREATHE normally again and held her securely in the curve of his arm, her silken, sated body nestled against his side, Hugh toyed idly with the long, da
rk curls that had come loose from her chignon. He twisted and untwisted one about his finger and gave it a gentle tug. “We should marry again, don’t you think? Here, at Hartcastle. There’s a beautiful little church in the village. A kindly old vicar. Neighbors we could ask to attend.”

  “If you like,” she said with a heavy sigh. “And then we should return to London.”

  “Why? I had thought we might stay on. The old dowager cottage down the way is empty. We could set up there.”

  She shook her head, then snuggled closer. “We cannot live upon Nigel’s charity, Hugh. We must make our own living now. I see no other avenue but to join forces and win what we may. You were doing rather well at it, weren’t you? With me at your side, who knows how successful we shall be?”

  Hugh sighed. He knew her better than she knew herself. Winning her fortune back was secondary. After living the mundane, restricted existence she had for so many years, it was excitement and adventure Clarissa craved. Now that she’d had a taste of it, she obviously had acquired a taste for it. And whatever Clarissa wanted, she should bloody well have.

  Not that he would always give in to her, but a bargain was a bargain. He had promised to marry her, take what she offered and ask no more. He had done that. But he had also promised to continue doing exactly as he pleased in order to amuse himself, not to give her orders and to leave her fortune alone.

  He could do that, too. A gentleman always kept his word. No need to bring up the crass subject of money at this juncture. At present they still had nothing but what he had put by. His longing for the quiet life could wait awhile.

  So he simply smiled, kissed the tip of her pert little nose and murmured, “Yes, dear. You shall take London by storm. I do believe you were meant for it.”

  “And this,” she said, stretching a bit to reach his lips with hers.

  “And this.” Perhaps he would always agree with her, after all. She certainly did agree with him.