“You wish to marry me because your family is in some sort of financial straits in Nottingham, and you believe that as the son of a duke I could do nothing less than to rescue them.”
“I would expect that of you, yes.”
He stared at the mist on the windowpane and recalled her confession that his hair reminded her of the curling shadows. For a moment, he could not think beyond it. She had lain just here, looking at this window, thinking of him.
A strange sensation slid through his chest. He turned his head and studied her. Eyes shut, she breathed in a shallow, pained manner. Would she die? Did he care?
How odd that his own mother had fallen so ill at news of the shooting that she had been unable to visit her son. Yet Anne Webster, mortally wounded herself, had managed to concoct a grand plan to save her family. From her deathbed this little woman with the courage of a lion had intimidated the vicar and everyone else into believing she meant exactly what she said. Amazing.
“About this information that would be so useful to my enemies,” he said. “Could you expound?”
As she lifted her head, an expression of pain crossed her face. “Lace machines,” she said in a ragged whisper. “Smuggling them into France. I heard your plan.”
“Good heavens. You were there. Serving tea in Alexander’s drawing room.”
A little smile tugged at her mouth. “You must learn to be more discreet, my lord.”
He studied her for a moment. How could a pair of brown eyes be so entrancing? She was a servant, nothing more. And near death. Yet the intelligence and determination that sparkled in her eyes made him feel he was speaking to an equal.
“And what will you do with your ill-gotten information about my plan to smuggle lace machines into France, Miss Webster?” he asked. “How do you propose to use it against me?”
“Blackmail is a harsh accusation.”
“Extortion, then?”
Her shoulders sagged, and she shut her eyes. “I prefer to say we shall strike a bargain of benefit to both of us. A plan that will give us . . . encouragement.”
He chuckled. “Exactly how do you mean to encourage me to accept this bargain?”
“If you do not, I shall be compelled to relay your plans to Lady de Winter, the baroness who attended my father’s church and supported his cause against the owners of the stocking mills.”
Ruel sucked in a breath. The de Winter family held Nottingham’s lace industry in the palms of their hands. They were rich and well-connected with English royalty. The baroness— a small, withered old lady who scented herself heavily with rose water—was a close friend and confidante to Queen Charlotte, wife of the mad King George and mother of the regent.
Worse, perhaps, the baroness abhorred the Revolution that had brought an end to the French monarchy. She knew every aristocrat in Paris, she had been personally responsible for smuggling vast quantities of lace into that country, and she would stop at nothing to keep England foremost in the manufacture of handmade lace.
“Trump!” Ruel said, sitting up and leaning across the space that divided them. “Miss Webster, you have played your hand like an expert.”
Her brow furrowed, as if she found it difficult to concentrate. “I know nothing of cards, sir. We do not play.”
“Ah, yes, the innocent minister’s daughter. She reads her Bible every night, wears her pelisse buttoned to the throat, and would never dream of playing at cards. Can she be the same Anne Webster who would hazard her position in order to sell lace to the son of a duke, who would boldly announce that her family’s weaving trade was equal to the calling of the nobility, who would dare to coerce a marquess into marriage—”
“You asked me!” she hissed, struggling up onto one elbow. “I had nothing to do with it.”
Ruel slid from his chair to the floor, leaned over her, and placed one hand on either side of her head. Her eyes widened.
“You had everything to do with it,” he said in a low voice. “You made a beggar child believe she was a duchess. You wove a lace that captured the essence of my homeland in springtime. You faced down my father, my brother, and the vicar of Tiverton. You very sweetly blackmailed me. And, yes, Miss Anne Webster, yes, indeed, you had everything to do with it.”
He stared into her face and was surprised to find that a pink flush had suddenly colored her high cheekbones. Though she was scowling at him, he took note that her lips were full and slightly damp. The image of kissing them took him by surprise, but he reminded himself that the prim Miss Webster would in no way welcome the action.
And then he realized that it hardly mattered what happened between them at this moment. Her body was swiftly betraying her into the hands of death, and this woman . . . this very beautiful, very intriguing creature might be lost to him forever.
Before she could speak, he turned his head and shouted at the shut door. “Alexander! Send in the vicar. I am getting married.”
Anne clutched the sheets to her neck as the door burst open and people poured into the room. Like angry bees, they swarmed and shoved and shouted, each determined to speak his mind.
Ignoring them, Ruel leaned close to the young woman’s ear. “You win this round,” he whispered. “But we have only begun our game, Miss Webster. You said our bargain must benefit both parties, and I have a purpose for you as well.”
She pressed the heel of her palm against her chest as if trying to steady her heart. “This is no time for games, sir,” she replied. “I am dying.”
He rose from her bedside and smiled as he shook his head. “I think not.”
Sir Alexander reached his brother just as Ruel turned. “Take care of the arrangements between the vicar and our father, will you, Alex? This afternoon should be soon enough for the ceremony. Have the young lady carried down into the front parlor. See that she is bathed, fed, and dressed in something suitable.”
“Ruel, you cannot be serious.”
“I am always serious.” He spread his hands to indicate a path to the door. “You must excuse me now, ladies and gentlemen. There is someone in Tiverton I must see.”
Without a backward glance at the woman to whom he had just become betrothed, the Marquess of Blackthorne walked out of the room.
The Duke of Marston studied the huge bed at the far end of the long room he had just entered. The bed’s canopy of blue and gold velvet rose almost to the ceiling. At the side of the small bed where Anne rested, Miss Watson rose from a chair of carved walnut and curtsied to her unexpected guests.
Anne was pleased to see that in the past twenty-four hours, her friend had regained a measure of her former fortitude and spirit. The shooting on the roadside had mobilized and enliv- ened Prudence—almost to the point that Anne saw hope for a complete recovery from the despondence that had plagued the young woman these many months.
“That is her, is it?” the duke murmured to his butler. “That pale creature?”
“That is Miss Prudence Watson, my lord. She has been your guest here at Slocombe House since March.”
The duke appeared surprised. “Has she? Well, they do come and go, these guests. Where is the woman in question?”
“I believe the young lady lies abed.”
His cane tapping softly on the thick, rose-patterned carpet, the duke approached the canopied bed and scrutinized the mound of white pillows, the spread of heavy blankets, the monogrammed hem of the silk sheets. “I see no one here,” he said. “Has she died already?”
“No, my lord. She is still alive. In the maid’s bed, over there.”
Though Anne could see and hear them perfectly well, the duke continued addressing his butler as if they were alone. Standing at a safe distance across the room, they ignored Miss Watson and peered at Anne as though she were a statue and not a living, breathing soul.
“My son should never have been permitted to ride to Tiverton,” the duke said. “His health is not strong.”
The butler nodded. “I believe it is of great import that you know Lord Blackthorne was under the influence
of laudanum when he confirmed the marriage proposal.”
“He is gone off to Tiverton in a cloud of laudanum? This is not to be tolerated. Errand, send someone after him,” the duke ordered.
“Yes, Your Grace.” The butler signaled to a footman who had taken up his post just inside the bedroom door. “Robbins, see to it at once.”
“Now about the girl,” the duke continued. “What do we know of her?”
“Your Grace, the doctor has informed me that the young woman is wounded and is likely to perish within the week. Her injury is most grave and infection is setting in. Putrefaction is assured, and not even removal of the limb can ensure her survival.”
“Dire news. You are quite certain of this, Errand?”
“Absolutely. If I may be so bold, sir, confining your son to his quarters for a few days will likely solve the problem.”
Anne opened her mouth to object to such a cruel suggestion, but the duke resumed speaking.
“This rash impulse to wed is not unlike something Ruel would do. And yet, I should have expected a wiser choice. You tell me she is a housemaid?”
“Indeed, sir. She came highly recommended by Mrs. Charles Locke of Trenton House on Cranleigh Crescent, and she has been in your service less than a year.”
“A fisherman’s daughter, no doubt.”
“A minister’s daughter from Nottingham.”
“She is no great beauty,” the duke observed, taking a step closer to the bed where Anne lay. “I cannot think how my son noticed her in the first place. She is very thin.”
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” Prudence spoke up. Holding her head high, she stepped toward the two men. “Anne . . . Miss Webster, that is . . . she is my lady’s maid. I assure you that she is beautiful in every way and utterly without fault. And now, I must kindly beg you to depart my private chambers that she may be permitted to dress for her . . . for her wedding.”
The duke scowled. “Her wedding? Bah! That is not to be!”
“You are wrong on that account, sir,” Anne said firmly. Ignoring the intense pain, she managed to push herself up and, with effort, to set her feet on the floor. She steadied her voice and said carefully, “I am to wed Lord Blackthorne this afternoon. We have spoken together this morning, and we are agreed on every matter.” She took a deep breath as the throbbing in her leg threatened to overtake her, then continued. “Your son and I are firmly attached.”
The butler gave a cough. “Your Grace, Laurent Chouteau, Duke of Marston,” he intoned, “may I present Miss Anne Webster of Nottingham.”
Determined to make a good impression on her future father-in-law, Anne forced herself to her feet, supported herself by clinging to a bedpost, and even wobbled through a semblance of a curtsy. She was thankful for her clearheadedness; knowing she would need to be able to think, she had refused laudanum despite her excruciating pain.
“Your Grace,” she said softly, “I beg your pardon for my disruption of your day.”
“My day? My life, you mean!” He waved a hand at her. “Sit down, sit down, girl! For heaven’s sake, do not perish right in front of me.”
Prudence rushed to throw a combing gown around her friend’s shoulders as Anne limped to a brocade settee and lowered herself onto it. She could manage the duke better than his son at this moment, Anne decided. Every time she thought of the marquess, she remembered him hovering over her as she lay in her little bed, his mouth so close and his breath so warm.
“Do you plan to die quickly, Miss Webster?” the duke asked, seating himself across from her. “Everyone has assured us you will, and yet I find you looking quite pink at the moment.”
“Take comfort, sir, for I am sure I shall not trouble you long,” Anne said. “Though I do not wish to die, I understand little can be done.”
“My deepest regrets, of course. Now, Miss Webster, it is my understanding that you are the cause of my son’s grievous wound.”
“It is possible, my lord. I am told that everyone believes the gamekeeper fired upon our party in revenge for my refusal to wed him.”
“You may have led to the injury of the marquess,” the duke said, leaning forward and pointing at her with his cane, “yet you presume to hold him to his marriage-proposal amusement?” “I did not find the proposal amusing.”
The duke stared at her as though he had not expected such a prompt response. “Indeed. Well, neither did I. But it was clearly a jest, Miss Webster, and you were not to take my son’s words to heart.”
“My heart holds no place for your son. I merely considered his offer and decided to accept.” She lifted her chin. “You yourself stated that any woman would have him.”
“I beg your pardon,” the duke spluttered. “I said no such thing.”
Anne glanced at the butler. “Witnesses will confirm my assertion, Your Grace.”
“You are a shameful, wicked young lady!”
“I bear no shame for my actions. On the contrary, I consider my behavior exemplary under the circumstances. Your son derided, mocked, and ridiculed me before such esteemed persons as yourself and the vicar. He then appropriated a very dear possession of mine, which he refused to return until I gave him my answer. He further tormented me by walking at my side after church and exposing me to the scrutiny and gossip of all my acquaintances.”
“Well!” the duke exclaimed.
“Although the ball that was fired upon us may have been meant for me, Your Grace,” Anne continued, unable to hold her tongue, “it just as easily may have been intended for your son. I have the unwelcome intelligence that the marquess has made many enemies, some of whom would take satisfaction in his demise.”
“Upon my word, you are quick to voice your opinions!”
“At the hand of the Marquess of Blackthorne I have been ridiculed, robbed, exposed, and mortally wounded.” Anne fought back the sudden tears that sprang to her eyes. “I am a godly and moral woman, Your Grace. I was made a proposal of marriage. I accepted that proposal, and I intend to see myself wed. Your son has shown no inclination to withdraw his offer, and to my way of thinking, the matter is settled.”
“Good heavens!” The duke stared at the butler. “Mr. Errand, she is eloquent!”
“Indeed, my lord, most articulate.”
“Young lady, what do you mean to gain by this marriage? Surely your motive to wed the Marquess of Blackthorne lies deeper than the redemption of your wounded pride.”
“My motive is monetary.”
“Aha, I thought so! You may claim to be godly and moral, but greed flows through your veins.”
Anne’s eyes narrowed. “I am far less greedy, Your Grace, than any more socially suitable mate. You cannot deny that the family of another woman would demand titles, property, retirement of debt, and all manner of other material advantage.”
“You do not believe my son capable of a marriage founded on love?”
“I doubt Lord Blackthorne would know the meaning of true mutual affection. I am even more certain that no woman could ever find reason to love him.”
“That bad, is he?” The duke dipped his head, attempting to smother a smile. “Well, my dear, if you do not want his affection and you do not expect to live long enough to make use of the social privilege connected to his title, what is it you do want of him?”
Anne squared her shoulders, determined to face this moment with all the poise she could muster. She forced away the agony in her thigh and the feverish heat flowing through her body.
“Your Grace, my father was a Luddite,” she said softly. “He is imprisoned in Nottingham for his activities. Had his trial been conducted earlier, he would have been transported for fourteen years. Now he will surely face execution.”
“A Luddite. I am all astonishment.”
“The Baroness de Winter preferred my father to a small rectory, where he ministered for many years prior to his imprisonment. Now my family is near destitution, and we have no hope of hiring an attorney to speak in my father’s defense. Money to speed my
father’s trial and release is all I would ask of your son, my lord. It is the least I can hope for as the wife of a marquess.”
“How very noble.” The duke turned to his butler. “She wishes to save her father. Shall we simply give her the funds and be done with it?”
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
The duke leaned back in his chair and studied the young woman seated across from him. Anne tried not to stare back. She had recognized the note of sarcasm in his voice and knew where the marquess had learned it. They were a pair, father and son. Clearly each man had confidence in his own power, each acted with little consideration of others’ feelings, and each enjoyed manipulating people as though they were pawns in a game of chess.
Circumstances might play with Anne Webster, but people never had. She would not allow it. She knew her own mind and had never felt compelled to hide her thoughts. Her father’s sermons had taught her that all men were the same in the eyes of God. His participation in the Luddite movement had illustrated the importance of standing up for right and truth—no matter that one might butt one’s head against authority.
“I am inclined not to give you the money,” the duke finally said.
“I never asked a donation of you, Your Grace.”
“True. You asked a more preposterous thing—the hand of my son.”
“Lord Blackthorne asked for my hand, as you well know because you were in the room when he did so. I would not reject your financial assistance, however, should you find it in your heart to help my family.”
“If I were to give you the funds to pay an attorney, Miss Webster, I expect you might willingly expire rather soon. You would have saved your father from execution, and you would lose the will to battle this grievous injury to your leg. In short, you would die, and I should feel most melancholy at having played a part in your demise.”
Anne prickled. “If you do not wish to help my family, Your Grace, simply state your position. Your vain attempt to wash your hands of the matter by claiming to want to extend my life is very low.”
“Low, am I?” Again the duke turned to the butler. “Errand, do you take note of this girl’s insolence?”
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