The Perks of Loving a Scoundrel

by Jennifer McQuiston

  And he would not do this in a way that marred her reputation any further.

  He reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “I imagine this would help your sister come around. She couldn’t say ‘no’ to the notion of you staying here, at any rate.”

  She gasped, looking down. “But . . . this is a special license!”

  He nodded. It was the very one he’d obtained the morning after the literary salon. He’d taken to carrying it around in his pocket as a reminder to stay far away from her, though the reminder had gotten harder and harder as the days had dragged by. “A wedding ceremony would permit us to place an announcement in the Times, let the world know you have my protection. That should send a stern message to whoever did this.”

  “Surely there is another way,” she protested, her voice close to a squeak.

  “I cannot see one.” And he wanted to make her lean this way, with a ferocity that had only partly to do with the danger. Whatever the reasons, the direction felt right. Little else did at the moment. “I swear, Mary, I will do everything in my power to protect you.” He stepped closer, taking up her hand. “You did say you would do anything to keep your sister safe.”

  “But . . . that is . . . I would be nothing but a burden to you.” Her eyes searched his. “You don’t want to marry me.” She swallowed. “Do you?”

  He stepped toward her. “Don’t I?” He turned himself over to the truth he’d been running from since that moment when she’d first told him “no”. “Even if there wasn’t an assassin’s plot, or the danger to your sister . . . I would want this.” He lowered his head, until his lips were brushing against her temple. “I would want you,” he murmured against her skin.

  “Oh,” she breathed, and as he pulled back, he could see that his gesture had brought a welcome bit of color to her cheeks. But had it convinced her?

  “I . . . that is . . .” Her brow pinched, and he didn’t—couldn’t—say anything, even though his breath was close to bursting from his chest as he waited for her answer. “I suppose,” she said, her chin lifting up and then down, “my answer would be yes, then.”

  West wanted to pull her into his arms, to kiss her senseless and make short work of the thin cotton that lay between them. Instead, he yanked on the bell pull.

  There was no time to waste, and a dozen things to do.

  “But what if Eleanor still refuses to come here?” she asked, wrapping her slender arms about her body. “She thinks you are a degenerate.”

  “Well then, we can invent a reason. Something unlikely to cause her harm, but dire enough to force her to seek temporary shelter here at Cardwell House.”

  “I suppose we might let loose a few rats in the foyer?”

  Though it was a brilliant suggestion, a shudder worked its way down West’s spine. “God, no,” he choked out. “Not rats. Perhaps an infestation of fleas instead. If she is worried about the health of her unborn child, she will do what she must.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward Wilson, who had materialized at the drawing room door.

  If he could keep her close, he could keep her safe.

  She would not die, not on his watch.

  And he would willingly kill any man—or woman—who thought otherwise.

  From the Diary of Miss Mary Channing

  From the Diary of Miss Mary Channing

  June 13, 1858

  It seems I am to be married.

  I know . . . I can scarcely believe it myself. The entire thing feels like a torrid novel, where in order to escape a villain, the heroine is forced to marry against her will, the circumstances spiraling beyond her control. But it isn’t exactly against my will. It’s something I brought upon myself, and West is being exceedingly chivalrous to sacrifice himself in this way.

  I know I would never be his first choice for a wife. But truth be told, even if the circumstances were different, I would have been tempted to say “Yes.”

  And that has me worried for a different set of reasons.

  Chapter 15

  “Eleanor, for heaven’s sake, you are the one who told me I needed to stop reading unrealistic novels and find a husband. My present circumstances have imperiled any future chance for a good match, and so I’ve decided to do something to erase the scandal hanging over me by the only means possible. What does it matter whom I marry, as long as it is done?”

  But even as she shaped the lie, Mary anxiously watched Eleanor’s face for signs of distress, worried that this unwelcome news, while better than word of a possible assassin on the household staff, might still be enough to send her sister into labor. God knew she was already doubting her own agreement to this crazy plan.

  What was she thinking, agreeing to marry West?

  The armed footman hovering in the hallway did little to settle her fears, though she was grateful that West had reluctantly agreed to her demand that he not accompany her himself. It was hard enough to have this conversation with Eleanor without giving it all away. The last thing she needed was a handsome blond scoundrel glowering over her shoulder.

  Thankfully, her sister seemed more interested in doubting her capacity for rational thought than succumbing to panic. “While I can concede it is important for you to marry someone, and rather quickly at that, whom you marry matters a good deal when the man in question is that damned Westmore!” Eleanor retorted.

  “Well, he is the only one who has asked me,” Mary pointed out.

  Eleanor waved a fist, clutching the scandal sheets—which had indeed printed the news of Mary’s eventful night out. “A fact which would not have happened again if you hadn’t snuck out last night to dance with the scoundrel!”

  Mary spread her hands. “I can admit Westmore isn’t the optimum choice for a husband. He’s rude and crude and a bit too handsome for his own good. But the point is, I doubt I will receive another offer, particularly now that I’ve made the scandal sheets a second time. And I do so want to be a wife. A mother. Like you.” She smiled, hoping she looked at least a little besotted with the man. “I cannot help but feel this is my only chance for happiness.”

  A lie, that. Because beneath such a flimsy, fabricated argument ran a ribbon of solid steel. In the end, Mary hadn’t hesitated to say yes. Hadn’t considered whether her answer might be based more on want than need. It might be unfathomable to her sister, but deep in her heart, in a place she didn’t care to unlock for further dissection, she wanted to be Mrs. Geoffrey Westmore.

  Good heavens. No wonder her sister doubted her sanity.

  Eleanor began to look uncertain. “You really . . . like him?” she asked dubiously. “You do not mind his . . . er . . . significant reputation?”

  The blush that claimed Mary’s cheeks did not have to be manufactured. Did she like him? She was afraid she might feel more for him than such a bland, simple emotion.

  But she was terrified, too. He was a man of a certain reputation. He made her feel things. Deeply. And as worried as he seemed to be for her safety, she was equally worried for his. They were tracking potential killers, one of them the most powerful of peers. History had taught her that love, whether for a father, a brother—or, she feared, a future husband—could be lost in the space of a moment. And in spite of his assurances that he wanted to marry her, in spite of her own desires, she couldn’t shake the feeling she was agreeing to a future heartache.

  “I know he is a bit of a rogue, but perhaps I might yet shape him into a better man,” she said softly, wondering if perhaps she was giving too much rein to her imagination once again. After all, heroines might change the men they loved in books, but as she was discovering, things were a bit more difficult when experienced in the flesh.

  In response to such nonsense, Eleanor gave a soft cry, swatting at her arm.

  Mary looked down as something pinched her wrist as well. She could see a half dozen fleas, jumping across the lace edging of her sleeve, and hid a relieved smile to see her future husband was a man who kept his promises, even when they were of the “
vermin-producing” variety.

  “Fleas!” she cried, leaping to her feet.

  “Fleas?” Eleanor echoed, looking dazed.

  “There must be an infestation.”

  “But . . . we don’t even have a dog! Or a cat . . .”

  Inspiration seized Mary. “Well, you probably ought to get one, don’t you think?”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because if you had a dog, or a cat you probably wouldn’t have rats, which is no doubt where the fleas are coming from.” As Eleanor turned pale, Mary pulled her sister to her feet. “Come on, then, you can’t stay here. We’ll need to call an expert in to deal with it.” She all but dragged Eleanor from the bedroom. “But do not worry, you can stay with me tonight.”

  “Stay with you?” Eleanor asked in confusion. “Where?”

  “At Cardwell House. After all, where else would I spend my wedding night?”

  “Today?” West’s mother asked, her hand fluttering about her high lace collar. She looked around the drawing room in horror. “Here?”

  “This evening,” he affirmed. “Six o’clock.”

  “But . . . we’ve no flowers!” his mother protested. “And I’ll have to send cook to the market if we are to arrange a wedding luncheon—”

  “We do not require flowers.” It wasn’t as if this was a joyous celebration. Someone had threatened Mary’s life. The more planning that was put into this furtive ceremony, the more delay that was introduced, the more chance there was for something to go wrong. “Or a wedding luncheon,” he added, seeing his mother’s forehead wrinkle in objection. “We wish to keep everything simple.”

  To have Mary gone so long from sight made his fingers twitch with worry. He’d accompanied her home, but had been forbidden to stand guard while she spoke with her sister. She’d insisted she needed privacy to convince her sister of this plan, and that his presence would only make things more difficult. Still, he’d dispatched his own footman to stand guard—he didn’t trust any of Ashington’s staff—and pressed his pistol into the man’s hand, warning him to be on guard. He’d dutifully loosened the fleas on his way out.

  And he’d been on edge, every moment since.

  His father laid a hand on his shoulder. “Geoffrey. I can see you are eager to have this done, but could we not even wait until tomorrow? Why such hurry? For heaven’s sake, it’s a Sunday. And we need time to send an invitation to your sisters.”

  “I already sent a footman to Lucy’s house a half hour ago,” West countered, “and Wilson is delivering an invitation to Clare as we speak. I am afraid it is too late to summon Lydia from Lincolnshire, but I will simply have to beg her forgiveness when we see her at Christmas. I’ve sent a note to Grant, although I suspect it will be a miracle if he wakes in time to read it. They have all been instructed to be here by six o’clock this evening. Never fear, there will be the appropriate number of witnesses.”

  His father took off his glasses, and peered myopically at West, as if trying to see his son for the very first time. “For God’s sake, Geoffrey, it isn’t only about witnesses. We’ve not yet even met Miss Channing. I know you intended to marry the girl after that business with the gossip rags, but I thought she had refused you, to our great relief.”

  West bristled. Why should his parents be relieved Mary had initially refused him? And why would they hesitate to wish him well now? “When you meet her, you will think she is wonderful, as I do. I’ll have you know I feel fortunate to be marrying this woman.”

  At their matching shocked expressions, he realized, then, how odd such a thing sounded coming from him. And how odd it felt to realize that it wasn’t even a lie.

  He did think she was wonderful. He was fortunate. The threats delivered by that note may have provided the means to this marriage, but he was by no means averse to the outcome.

  “It isn’t that we object to Miss Channing,” his mother protested. “It’s that we haven’t had a chance to meet her. You’ve never shown the slightest interest in a woman before, at least not seriously.” She hesitated a telling moment. “Does she know what she is getting in you?”

  West realized, then, that perhaps they weren’t worried about him so much as they were worried about her. He was glad, perhaps, that their doubts were of the more familiar variety, a disappointment in him, rather than a disapproval of her. “I think she has a fair notion. And in spite of it, I vow to do my best to make her a good husband.” He turned on his heel. “I will leave the preparations to you then, Mother.” He aimed for the door. “No flowers. No luncheon. No guests beyond family and Grant.”

  “But Geoffrey!” his mother’s voice tugged at him. “Where are you going?”

  “I need to buy a wedding gift.” And given his future wife, he knew just the one.

  By half past six, it was done.

  The vows were mumbled, the rings exchanged. The sure, quick pressure of West’s lips against her own told the small audience of family and friends that she now belonged to him, but the gesture sent confusion cascading through her.

  No matter his earlier claims to the contrary, he’d well proven himself a hero this evening, marrying her, giving up his future for her protection. They’d put on a proper show, but did he mean for this to be a real marriage? And what did she want out of it, beyond an assurance of Eleanor’s safety? All good questions in need of answers.

  But first, she had a small gauntlet of guests to survive.

  Dr. and Mrs. Merial stepped forward to offer their congratulations, followed by Lady and Lord Cardwell. They welcomed her warmly, though they all seemed a bit dazed by the suddenness of it all. Eleanor drifted away on Mrs. Merial’s arm, murmuring something about “needing to find her bed and lie down for a nap.” Mary knew Eleanor wasn’t happy about the marriage. But no matter how angry or confused she might be, her sister was at least safe.

  Mary could not bring herself to apologize, or regret the lengths she’d taken to ensure it.

  The stooped, smiling butler who’d opened the door that morning materialized in front of them, clearly as much a part of the family as anyone else in the room. “Mrs. Westmore,” the man said with a delighted smile, bowing formally in greeting. “I am so pleased to meet you.”

  “And I you.” Mary smiled, appreciating the kindness she could see on his wrinkled face.

  “This is Wilson, our family’s butler,” West explained. “Enforcer of manners and all around meddler in things that ought not to concern him.”

  “Whatever you wish, Mrs. Westmore, you have only to ask,” Wilson said, chasing it with a small wink. “Especially if it’s a proper prank we might play on Master Geoffrey together.”

  “Oh?” She glanced up at West, who was glaring down at the servant with a mixture of affection and annoyance. “A proper prank? I am afraid only the improper ones come to immediate mind. I shall have to wrap my head around that.”

  “I shall eagerly await your ideas.” Wilson bowed again before taking his exit.

  “He seems nice,” Mary giggled.

  “You might wish to reserve judgment until you get to know him better,” came her husband’s dry reply. “Because if you let him, Wilson will harangue you within an inch of your life.”

  A sullen, dark-haired gentleman stepped forward next, and the laughter died on Mary’s lips. She had noticed the man’s belated arrival, which had come nearly at the end of the brief ceremony. How could she not? He was impossible to miss—bleary-eyed, unshaven, two buttons undone on his wrinkled jacket.

  And most importantly, glowering at her from the back of the room.

  “Grant!” West exclaimed, slapping the man on the back. “So glad you finally deigned to make an appearance at my nuptials.”

  “Yes, well, it seems I arrived too late,” the man growled.

  “Well, late or no, I am still glad you cared enough to get out of bed.”

  “Yes, well, if only I’d done so five minutes earlier, I might have had a hope of changing your course. Now it seems I must pr
ay for an annulment.”

  West tensed beside her. “Careful, my friend,” he said, his voice edged with a warning. “There is no cause for a lack of civility.”

  “No cause for any of this, near as I can tell. Friends forever, eh?” The man snorted. “What a crock. I can’t believe I saved your life, only for you to throw it away like this.”

  As he pulled a flask from his trouser pocket and tipped it to his lips, Mary felt a frisson of worry. So this was Mr. Grant, West’s friend and partner in infamy. Somehow, she felt as though she ought to try to make a good impression, though he clearly had no intention of doing the same. “It is nice to meet you, Mr. Grant,” she said softly.

  “I wish I could say the same.” He scowled at her. “Not that I hold it against you personally, but you’ve managed to trap a good man with your charms.”

  “I suspect charm had less to do with it than fate.” Mary looped her arm through West’s, knowing this performance would set the stage for how they meant to go on. “However I’ve acquired him, I am grateful. He is a good man.” Or at least, she wanted to believe he had the potential to be a good man—opera boxes and prostitutes aside. “And I intend to be a good wife,” she added, tightening her grip.

  “Well, the best wives permit their husbands a certain amount of freedom. I suppose it remains to be seen which category you will fall under.” Grant’s gaze narrowed toward West. “As a start, will I see you at White’s later tonight?”

  West shook his head. “I’ll be a bit busy, as I am sure you can imagine.”

  “Oh, I can imagine. You forget, I’ve spent many an hour with you at Madame Xavier’s.” Grant snorted, then made a lewd gesture with one hand. “Tomorrow, then?”

  Mary could feel West’s arm tense beneath her fingers. “I’ve only been married ten minutes, Grant. We shall have to see how it all goes.”

  Grant shook his head. “I hope to God you know what you are doing.” And then he made for the door, his flask still fisted in his hand.