Gerard’s lips twitched despite himself. “Perhaps he’s getting married himself. And he’s so passionately devoted to the woman that he couldn’t bear to wait for a wedding license.”
“That is ridiculous.” Lady Cordelia giggled anyway, and Gerard’s heart expanded. This wasn’t a moment for laughter, but he loved that she could still find some humor.
“Whatever Oggleton’s faults are,” Gerard continued loftily. “I’m sure you can confirm that he’s a passionate man.”
Lady Cordelia giggled again. “So he is.”
The other couple stared at them. A bride in a plum-colored gown, festooned with ruffles that seemed to match her carefully curled locks, peered at them.
“I’m sorry folks,” Gerard declared. “We must cut in front of you.”
The groom looked horrified. “Sir!”
“It’s an emergency,” Gerard explained. “An absolute emergency.”
“We’ve been in line for hours,” the groom said. “It’s nearly dark.”
“Well—”
They hadn’t been in line for so long. In fact, they’d cut past quite a few people on the way into the blacksmith’s shop. But that couple didn’t need to know that.
The bride narrowed her eyes and scoured Lady Cordelia. She raised her nose. “I am not going to have some disorderly peasants rush before me.”
“If you had wanted a proper wedding, you wouldn’t be doing it here,” Lady Cordelia retorted.
“You are English.” The woman tilted her head in the manner that most Scottish people seemed to do when spotting one of their southern neighbors, in the same suspicious manner in which he’d greeted them himself. Shame swept through him as the woman raised her chin. “I live here. Just because Gretna Green has gained a reputation as a place where slovenly English people can rush about and marry, does not mean that I will postpone the wedding a moment more.”
“My future husband is Scottish.”
The bride scrutinized Gerard, and her steely gaze lingered on his kilt. “Good. I’d hoped he wasn’t wearing that to pretend to be Scottish. Still that does not halt the fact that my fiancé and I would like to marry now.”
Dear Lord. The couple were in love. Something squeezed Gerard’s chest, but he pushed any negative thoughts aside. No need to dwell on the impossible.
“Next, please.” The blacksmith pulled down his glasses. He had a heavy Scottish accent and spoke with a dry voice, the only thing in this blasted soggy region that was.
The man may have wedded thousands of couples and clearly saw the matter as routine as ploughing a field.
“Come on. Let’s get married,” Gerard said, pulling Cordelia up. He pushed coin at the waiting couple. “This should more than compensate you for the extra waiting time.”
They strode toward the blacksmith.
“Er—I meant the couple that has been waiting in line to get married,” the blacksmith said.
The other couple gave him a smug look.
“We are terribly eager, sir,” Gerard said.
“Everyone here is terribly eager,” the blacksmith said. “Everyone is willing to break English law and elope here.”
Gerard mustered all his indignity. “I am Scottish.”
“Not your bride,” the blacksmith said.
“When we good Scottish folk need to marry too,” the bride said. “Typical English people.”
“Think the law don’t apply to you,” the blacksmith continued. “I’m frankly appalled by it. You are supposed to get proper parental consent.” The blacksmith peered down at Cordelia. “How old are you?”
Cordelia raised her chin. “None of your concern.”
“If you’re under twenty-one, lass, you would be breaking the law by getting married here,” the blacksmith said. “The Hardwicke Marriage Act of 1753 is quite clear.”
“Come, now,” Gerard said. “You can’t be such a strong proponent of English law.”
“If the English people weren’t proponents of the law, then they wouldn’t oppress us with military force.”
“I don’t think they’re actively doing any oppressing now—”
“You are a cruel race,” the bride said to Lady Cordelia.
“I—” Gerard swung his head toward the door, half-expecting Oggleton to burst in.
The man wasn’t there though.
He could do this. They would get married.
He sucked in a deep breath of air, and the blacksmith gazed down at them. “No wedding dress for the lass?”
“We’re eager to be wed,” Gerard said. “The whole true love and everything.”
He laughed as Cordelia rolled her eyes.
He sobered. “We’re in a rush.”
“This is a moment to be savored for the rest of your life,” the blacksmith said.
“Er—yes.”
“Your life’s journey as a couple begins here.” The blacksmith leaned toward him.
Gerard offered a beatific smile that wouldn’t have appeared out of place in the celestial depictions displayed in more typical wedding venues. “We’re so eager, so in love, that we want to get married at once. Not a moment to lose.”
“All in good time.”
“We even know our vows,” Gerard said brightly.
The blacksmith paused and frowned. “You better know your vows. The only thing you have to say is yes.”
“Marrying a pretty lass like that,” the blacksmith said. “And you want to rush.”
The blacksmith leaned down toward Cordelia. “You know, you don’t have to say yes”
Gerard cleared his throat. Loudly. “I’m right here.”
“Of course you’re right there,” the blacksmith said. “That’s where you ought to be. You’re supposed to get married.”
Other couples made their way into the room and murmured behind him. And the murmurs for once didn’t seem pleasant. When Gerard entered a ball, people murmured—but pleasantly. Women fluttered their fans at him. And little boys wanted to grow up and be like him.
Nobody here seemed to want to be him.
But then why should they? His hair was rumpled, his clothes dirty, unhelped by the occasional rain that had pounded against the coach with increased regularity as they headed north toward Scotland.
“You should be glad I’m not English,” the bride said loudly.
“Would never have taken you if you were,” her groom said, equally loudly.
“That poor lad,” one man said.
“Likely had no other options,” his bride said.
The words stung, and Gerard swallowed hard. “Just carry on.”
“Dearly beloved.” The blacksmith cleared his throat. “We are gathered here today—”
Gerard beamed. It was going to happen. They were going to marry, and they would be able to escape this bloody place.
The blacksmith took the piece of paper with their names. “You’re a marquess.”
He leaned forward as if expecting Gerard to be shocked.
“Sure am,” Gerard said cheerfully. He squeezed his future wife’s hand.
The blacksmith gritted his teeth together. “And you’re marrying, let’s see, Lady Cordelia Haywood, only daughter of the Duke of Belmonte.”
“Aye,” Gerard said.
The blacksmith crumpled the paper and flung it into the fire.
“But—”
“I will not tolerate impertinence in my shop.”
“But—”
“Out. At once!” The blacksmith leaned forward. “This is a place for marriage. You’re not supposed to lie in the house of god. The man won’t like it.”
Gerard blinked and gazed around the dusty shop. “But we didn’t lie at all.”
The blacksmith laughed. “You expect me to believe that you’re really a marquess?”
“It’s not so impossible,” Gerard said, affronted.
The blacksmith waved his hand. “You’re no marquess. And this is no future marchioness,” he continued. “Granted, I reckon she’s a pretty la
ss, underneath all that dirt.” The blacksmith’s eyes gleamed as if he’d like to be ascertaining that fact himself.
The door pushed open, and Gerard’s heart sank.
Oggleton stepped into the blacksmith’s shop.
“Ah, ha!” The man said triumphantly. “I found you.”
Gerard’s smile wobbled, and Lady Cordelia clutched his hand.
“Do not marry that couple,” Oggleton declared. “I demand you not marry them.”
“I wouldn’t have dreamed of it,” the blacksmith said solemnly.
“Ah, His Grace will be very grateful about that,” Oggleton said, scurried down the aisle with surprising force.
“His Grace?” The blacksmith blinked. “Are you to tell me that this woman is really the daughter of a duke?”
“Come on.” Gerard grabbed hold of Lady Cordelia’s hand and pushed open a door. They exited and Gerard jammed a chair beneath the door handle. He then frowned and shoved an entire bench against it.
“Hurry!” He jerked Lady Cordelia forward.
She moved swiftly, and her strides were long.
But not long enough. With a sigh, he hurled her over his shoulder. Her plaid blanket billowed in the wind, and he tightened his grip around her.
“Let me down!” she yelped. “This is most undignified!”
“I’m holding your skirts down,” Gerard panted. “Your dignity is intact.”
“I doubt that.”
Gerard grinned. Lady Cordelia might squirm now, but he was thinking of their safety.
Now they just had to flee this village.
Gerard scrambled to think of options that wouldn’t end with Oggleton murdering him on the side of the road somewhere and whisking Lady Cordelia off in disgrace. He tried not to dwell on the fact that he’d just given the duke another reason to see him killed.
*
Dear Lord. She was dangling from a marquess’s shoulder as he raced through the town square. Her chin bumped against his back as he sprinted through the streets, and her gaze was fixed firmly on an unmentionable area between his torso and legs. She squirmed, and her skirt billowed up.
“Stay still,” Lord Rockport shouted.
Everyone was looking. Everyone was observing.
And somewhere behind them was Oggleton.
Or he would be here soon if he ever managed to exit that chapel.
The villagers laughed. Apparently she was the least dignified thing they’d seen in a while.
Maybe ever. Their laughter did seem very loud.
Even when she was removed from the ton, she still remained an object of ridicule. Their guffaws roared in her ears, and she forced her eyes down.
Which only landed her gazing again at a place no lady—especially an unmarried lady—should gaze.
Cordelia craned her neck slightly, focusing on the never-ending strip of dirt and mud that seemed to suffice for a road.
“Mr. Jones!” A surprised voice that she recognized ran out.
Mrs. MacGlashan.
“And Mrs. Jones,” a masculine voice said, managing to sound equally surprised.
Mr. MacGlashan’s face, now upside down, loomed over her. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“My husband does not desire to be a pig farmer’s assistant,” she said.
Lord Rockport laughed. The sound was warm and somehow—good. They rounded a corner, and she sighed. Maybe they could get away.
Mr. MacGlashan jogged after them, and his already red face reddened further. “Well, I wouldn’t want to be a pig farmer’s assistant either. But do you intend to run back to England?”
Lord Rockport slowed. “Are you leaving now?”
The man shook his hand. “The horses aren’t hitched up yet.”
“Shame,” Lord Rockport said. “Well—goodbye!”
Mr. MacGlashan squinted. “You can’t wait?”
“My uncle really desires me to join the pig farm.” Lord Rockport still kept her dangled on his shoulder, clearly just in case Oggleton managed to pop out. “Gotta go.”
“Goodbye,” Cordelia waved to Mr. and Mrs. MacGlashan as she bopped up and down from her perch on Lord Rockport’s shoulder.
They rounded a corner. Rockport set her onto the ground and motioned for her to be quiet. He pointed at a van with the word Cumbria painted on the side.
“The horses are hitched up,” Lord Rockport whispered. “Let’s put you inside.”
Lord Rockport shoved her into the back of the van between some crates and clambered up into the narrow space beside her.
After a few minutes footsteps sounded, and Lord Rockport squeezed her closer to him.
It better not be Oggleton.
The van jerked to a start, and they were off.
Chapter Twenty-One
Gerard squeezed Cordelia in his arms. The wagon rattled beneath them, moving steadily away from Scotland. Away from Gretna Green. Away from all hopes of propriety.
“We missed the wedding.” Cordelia’s usually calm voice wobbled.
They were whispering, because the driver, whoever he was, might not like to discover that two people had snuck into his cargo.
He shouldn’t touch her. But the urge to comfort her overwhelmed him, and he stroked her back.
“Don’t cry.”
“Of course not,” she said, but he didn’t fail to notice the tremor in her voice and the note made his heart ache. On another day he might tease her that she seemed distraught at the fact they were not marrying, but instead he brushed his hand over her cheek and stopped himself from commenting on its softness.
“It will be fine,” he said in his most soothing voice.
“Yet now we’re rushing toward England, and away from all possibilities of elopement,” Lady Cordelia said miserably. “We can’t return to England. We’re not allowed to marry there. Not until I’m twenty-one. And—”
“Shh.” Gerard hushed her. “It will be fine.”
“We’ll return to Scotland,” Gerard promised. “Not Gretna Green. We’ll go to one of my estates.”
“But Oggleton is probably waiting for us to do just that. He’s probably rounded up other people to help him.”
Gerard’s chest squeezed. She was right. Traveling into the Highlands would be madness.
“You should just escape somewhere without me,” Lady Cordelia said.
“Nonsense. I promised you we would marry.” Gerard smiled and kissed her cheek before he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to kiss her, no matter how right she felt in his arms.
*
He’d kissed her. Again.
Cordelia shouldn’t—she absolutely shouldn’t—linger on the merits of the feeling of his arms about her body or of the softness of his lips.
His hand shouldn’t feel comforting. His touch shouldn’t make her burn and ache in ways that lacked all dignity. She shouldn’t be lying on the wooden planks of the wagon, while a man was pursuing them, being more intrigued by the movement of the marquess’s fingers than the danger they were in.
Safety shouldn’t be a feeling she associated with him. Lord Rockport was the reason for her disgrace.
Yet she wasn’t at her home in Hampshire, her visitors needing to pass through the scrutiny of the butler, and then her mother, before she might see them. Every moment now was to be savored, to be fought for.
At any moment the driver might discover them and cast them on the side of the road for Oggleton to find them.
“Forgive me.” He inched away, likely pressing against some awkwardly shaped crate, and she blinked into the darkness. “I shouldn’t have done that. You are so unbelievable tempting.”
She found his hand, and a jolt of heat seared through her body, stronger than any bonfire and reminding her that this was everything dangerous. “I think I stopped being proper several counties ago.”
“Aye,” Lord Rockport said solemnly. “They call that the northern affliction.”
“Indeed?” Cordelia whispered, distracted by the manner in which his hand squ
eezed her and send flickers of delight through her body.
“All genteel ladies of the ton lose their bearings when crossing through Leeds.”
Her lips twitched. “Leeds is the last arbitrator of respectability?”
“Perhaps the town takes the respectability out of a woman.”
Cordelia valiantly withstood the urge to giggle. Leeds was seldom in the news, but when it was, it was mostly to extol its pottery.
“I believe we just drove around it,” Cordelia said.
“Ach, lassie. Was it that easy for you?”
This time she actually did giggle.
“Shh,” Lord Rockport murmured, and she realized the space between them had narrowed. The marquess pulled her into his arms, and he stroked her hair.
“Am I like the other ladies then?” Her voice wobbled, and she regretted the note of uncertainty. Certainty was always something she prided herself in, but now, in the comfort of the arms of the man she’d most despised, everything was unclear.
“No, Lady Cordelia,” the marquess said. “You are braver, bolder and more intelligent than any lass I’ve ever met.”
“Oh.”
That sounded—nice. The tension from her shoulders eased, and she sank further into the warmth of Lord Rockport’s body, never mind that she was breaking every protocol of propriety by not upholding the most rigid barrier possible in their crammed circumstances.
She smiled. “If Oggleton hadn’t shown up, we would be married now, my lord.”
“Mmm . . . hmm.” He stroked her hair again, seeming to find delight in brushing his fingers through her locks even in the darkness. “Perhaps it is proper that we refer to each other by our Christian names.”
“Indeed?” She didn’t refer to anyone by their Christian names, and her heartbeat quickened as she uttered his. “Gerard.”
“Yes, Cordelia?” The word sent tremors through her body, and she leaned against him.
“Is it wrong if I don’t want you to stop?”
“No, darling.” Gerard’s breath roughened. Did it always sound so heavy? She strove to remember, but her own breathing caught in her chest as if she’d forgotten the process of exhalation.
He swung her around, so her face and his were mere inches apart. She shivered, blissfully.
A Rogue to Avoid (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 2) Page 14