The Marriage Bargain

by Michelle McMaster

  He was suddenly quite awake.

  Beckett bit his lip as he tried not to feast his eyes on her now naked breasts, but he was drawn to them like bees to honey. His hands itched to touch their snow-white delicacy, and his lips ached to kiss the crowns of softest pink.

  He shook his head, trying to keep his thoughts in order, and succeeded in peeling the dress off her warm, wet torso and down around her legs.

  Now the girl was completely, beautifully naked, lying vulnerable on the bed before him. Almost painfully, Beckett sensed her nakedness in every inch of his body. It called to him like a siren of the sea.

  Steadying his breath, he turned and dampened a soft cloth in the basin. He gently dabbed her face with the cloth, careful to keep the pressure light.

  He eased the cloth down along her neck and arms, gently washing away the grime that stained her ivory skin. And every time his fingertips brushed the softness of her, he felt an infusion of warmth spill through his veins.

  She moaned and turned her head on the pillow.

  Beckett froze.

  She did not wake up. He grinned in spite of himself, and shook his head. It was terribly wicked, what he was doing… terribly wicked, indeed.

  Was it his fault that bathing a woman’s body could be so damnably diverting?

  Gently, he slid the cloth along her stomach, his groin suffusing with heat as he came to that secret place between her thighs. Oh, he had always loved that part of a woman. He had never understood why the women he’d been with had been so shy about that piece of themselves, why they had not been proud to possess such an instrument of exquisite beauty and pleasure. His hands came very close to her there as he smoothed the wash cloth along her hips and down the creamy skin of her thighs, and he found himself biting his lip to keep control. This bath alone was an exquisite torture.

  Then he came to her feet, and was sobered by their terrible state. He had to rinse the cloth many times before he’d removed the last of the dried blood and dirt.

  Beneath the filth, her feet were soft and dainty, though marred by shallow cuts. As he had suspected, these were not the feet of a guttersnipe.

  Questions turned in his head, quelling the desire that had begun to overtake him.

  Who was she? Could she be in danger?

  He turned to the end of the bed and reached for the blankets Hartley had brought. Finding a soft, thick one of virgin wool, he placed it on the bed beside her.

  Beckett slid his arm under her shoulders and lifted her, feeling his fingers brush the round underside of her breast as his hand reached around to grip her.

  It sent a tingle through his stomach.

  Pulling the blanket about the girl, he looked down at her face, and again felt that overwhelming need to protect her.

  Unable to resist any longer, he reached out to touch the perfect beauty of her face.

  As if to remind him of the late hour, a huge yawn came upon him. Reluctantly he lifted his hand from her cheek, and wiped his watering eyes. He checked her pulse, and felt the soft skin of her wrist growing warmer.

  Tomorrow he would tell her that a maid had undressed her. Of course, he didn’t employ a maid, but that was a minor point easily addressed.

  He yawned again and sat down on the other side of the bed. Where was he going to sleep tonight? Had he really intended to sleep in the sitting room, as he’d told Hartley? Alfred was in the Blue Room, and the other rooms weren’t prepared. He didn’t feel like waking his valet. The sofa in his sitting room would have to suffice.

  He crossed the chamber and beckoned to Monty. “Come on, boy.”

  Panting calmly, the dog showed no signs of movement.

  “Monty, come!” Beckett whispered. In response, the dog moved to the foot of the bed and flopped down on the floor.

  “So that’s the way it is, eh? One pretty face is all it takes to make you forget your master?”

  Monty raised his head and looked at Beckett, then laid it down again.

  “Alright, have it your way.” He took one candle and blew out the others.

  It was difficult to simply leave the girl there all alone in his bed. So, watching her through the golden haze of candle-light, Beckett quoted one of Mr. Shakespeare’s sonnets. ” ‘Is it thy will, thy image should keep open my heavy eyelids to the weary night?’ ” With one last look, Beckett closed the door behind him.

  He made his way toward the sitting room sofa, weariness dragging at him like a clinging child. Resting the candle on the table, he struggled to remove his boots, which hit the floor with a dull thud.

  He then stretched out on the firm sofa, and let sleep take him where it would.

  Chapter Four

  Beckett rolled over, his eyes still closed. He vaguely remembered stumbling into his bed in the dark, wee hours of the morning.

  For some reason, he’d fallen asleep on the sofa in the sitting room. Oh, well, he was in his own bed now, and that was all that mattered.

  Half-awake, he flung his arm out and it landed on something soft and warm. It felt like a…

  Please, please don’t let that be what I think it is.

  Beckett opened his eyes.

  It was what he thought it was. Gingerly, he removed his hand from the girl’s naked breast, but it was too late.

  The girl opened her eyes, a look of terror in their golden-brown depths. She opened her mouth, and screamed.

  Beckett sprang from the bed like a cat. The girl jumped up as well, not realizing her nakedness until she was standing. She screamed again, her face white as she grabbed the blanket and wrapped it hurriedly around herself. She stared at Beckett as if he had struck her.

  Monty skittered up, and tail wagging, barked at all the commotion.

  “Who are you?” she shrieked, grabbing a nearby candlestick. “Stay away from me—or I swear I’ll bash your head in!”

  “Please refrain, madam! You will ruin my coiffure, not to mention my health.”

  “I said, stay away!” she yelled, brandishing the candlestick when he took a step closer.

  “I’m staying away, see? Far, far away over here. Now, be a good girl and put that thing down.”

  “Why? So you can ravish me again?” she shrieked incredulously, pulling the blanket closer around her naked body.

  “Ravish you? No, no—you misunderstand. I can explain everything, but you must be quiet!” He half-shouted, half-whispered his words, not wanting to wake the household.

  “I will not be quiet until you explain who you are and why you’ve brought me here! And what have you done with my clothes?”

  “Ah, yes. Your clothes—are not here at the moment.”

  “Not here? I suppose they grew tired of my company and simply walked away?”

  Beckett tried not to laugh, but the effort seemed to rile the girl’s anger even more. She grabbed a little clock and launched it at his head. Beckett ducked, and just missed having his face rearranged by the marble timepiece.

  He stood straight again and whistled. He had to admit—he was impressed by her spirit.

  “So you intend to keep me prisoner like this?” she asked heatedly. “Am I to spend the rest of my days naked in your rooms?”

  Beckett paused for a moment, regarding her. She looked like a wild angel, golden hair flowing, creamy shoulders bare, with a mouth the color of roses and eyes that flashed like diamonds. “Don’t put ideas into my head.”

  There was a commotion in the hallway. He heard Hartley’s voice: “No, no, Lady Thornby, don’t go in there!”

  The door creaked open. In his strangest nightmare, Beckett could not have imagined what he would see there, standing in the hall behind his worried valet.

  His mother and his solicitor.

  They stared with pale, bloodless faces at the scene before them. Beckett realized what it must look like, standing there with a beautiful, half-naked woman in his bedchamber. Of course, being bare-chested himself wasn’t going to give the correct impression at all.

  “Oh,…” his mother c
ried, her hand to her mouth. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she fainted in a heap of ribbons and lace.

  Hartley quickly attended Lady Thornby, but Beckett had the brief thought that his mother resembled nothing so much as a fallen souffle that had been dropped to the floor.

  Mr. Livingston of Livingston, Farraday & Peel stood frozen with his great mouth agape, and seemed to be transfixed by the tableau before him. Behind him Martha, the portly cook, mimicked Mr. Livingston’s expression but covered her mouth with a flour-stained hand.

  Alfred suddenly appeared beside Beckett as well, seemingly quite amused by the scene.

  Monty skittered around the room, still wagging his tail and barking loudly at the girl in the blanket. She still brandished the heavy candlestick, and sized up the new arrivals as if to choose who first to clobber.

  “Monty, quiet!” Beckett shouted.

  The dog hushed, but everyone else seemed to take it as a cue to pelt Beckett with questions, though Lady Thornby was still out cold.

  “—What is going on, sir?” said Livingston.

  “—Oh, m’lord, who is that lady? What shall we do?” said Martha.

  “—I demand to know who all of you people are!” shrieked the girl.

  “I said, quiet, all of you!” Beckett commanded. To his surprise, it worked. “Martha, would you take the young miss into my chamber and try to quiet her nerves?”

  “My nerves don’t need quieting,” the girl retorted, eyeing the cook distrustfully.

  “Come on, now, miss,” Martha said. “Just do what the master asks.”

  “He’s not my master,” she said haughtily. “He hasn’t even told me who he is.”

  “Lord Beckett Thornby, at your service,” Beckett said, and made a grand, sweeping bow.

  “That means nothing to me.” The blanket slipped farther down her shoulder, and she fought to pull it up.

  “How do I even know that you are who you say you are?”

  “I can vouch for Lord Thornby’s identity, madam,” Mr. Livingston said. “I am his solicitor, and have been for many years. He is of the utmost character and breeding, I assure you.”

  “I don’t care if he’s the regent himself. He has brought me here against my wishes, and now I want to leave.”

  “No one is stopping you, Miss…” Beckett prodded.

  She sidestepped the question. “You know I can’t leave. I haven’t any clothes—thanks to you, Lord Thornby.”

  “We shall procure you some clothes, then, posthaste. And then you may do as you wish. But I insist that you at least stay for breakfast. My reputation would be ruined if it became known I didn’t properly entertain my guests.” Beckett folded his arms in front of his chest and gave a wry smile. “Well? What shall it be, my dear?”

  She seemed to weigh her options, and Beckett felt a wash of relief when she nodded her agreement. He nodded to Martha.

  “A pot of strong tea for our guest, then, Martha. And whatever else she desires.”

  Beckett saw the girl look at him, then. It seemed the implication of his last comment was not lost on her.

  Still clutching the candlestick, she followed Martha from the room.

  “And you thought bringing her home was a good idea,” Alfred whispered into Beckett’s ear.

  “It seems I’ve made nothing but a mess of this.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  Beckett patted his thigh to summon Monty, who trotted over to sit obediently beside his master. Beckett crouched down beside his still-unconscious mother.

  “Fetch the doctor, Hartley.”

  “For the lady, sir?”

  “No, for me, after Mother comes ‘round.”

  Alfred chuckled.

  “I’m glad you find this amusing,” Beckett said, glaring at Alfred, and then at his solicitor. “Livingston, what exactly are you doing here, at this hour of the morning?”

  “My lord,” offered Mr. Livingston. “It is well past noon. I met Lady Thornby as she was coming to your door. It was then that I was able to share with her the good news.”

  “What good news, Livingston?”

  “Why, of your inheritance, my lord.”

  “I haven’t got an inheritance, man. That’s my whole problem.”

  “Oh, but you do, sir. Your mother’s cousin, the Earl of Ravenwood, has died without any heirs of his body, leaving you the next in line.”

  Beckett shook his head. “Lord Ravenwood has both a son and a grandson, Livingston. You are terribly misinformed.”

  “Actually, my lord, I am very well-informed. The earl’s son, Lord Haughton, was killed in a boating accident only days before Lord Ravenwood’s own death. Unfortunately, Lord Haughton’s only son was with him and also perished in the accident.”

  Mr. Livingston cleared his throat, as if to introduce his next announcement. “I have the honor, my lord, of naming you heir to the sixth earl of Ravenwood.”

  Beckett looked from Livingston to Alfred and back again. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “I assure you, it is not,” Livingston replied.

  “Oh… I have swooned…” Lady Thornby murmured, regaining consciousness.

  Beckett crouched down beside her, assisting Hartley as he struggled to raise Lady Thornby to a sitting position.

  “Mother, are you alright?” Beckett asked, daintily adjusting her lace cap from where it had fallen over her eye.

  He was rewarded with a hearty slap across the cheek. Well, he thought, as he rubbed the stinging flesh, at least his mother was feeling better.

  “I am not alright, Beckett,” Lady Thornby said haughtily. “Thanks to you and your disgraceful shenanigans.”

  The portly lady rose to her feet with much grunting and groaning, slapping at the hands of those who tried to help her.

  Lady Thornby pointed her finger at her son and brought it and her pinched face slowly in front of his. “I want to know one thing.” She paused for effect, her eyes growing as wide as saucers. “Who is that woman?”

  Beckett knew how utterly absurd his reply was going to sound, but he took a deep breath and said it anyway. “I don’t know.”

  “This is no time for your silly games. Explain yourself!”

  “It’s no game, Mother. Alfred and I found her outside the Goose and Gunner last night and brought her home with us. That’s the truth of the matter.”

  “Oh!” Lady Thornby exclaimed. “Of all the—”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “I saw a half-dressed hussy in your bedchamber—what should I think?” Her lips compressed into a thin line as she waited for a reply.

  “The opposite of what you are thinking,” Beckett said dryly.

  Lady Thornby’s voice lowered to a harsh whisper. “To let your own servants see you with a—a trollop like that! Shameful.”

  “I told you; she is not a trollop, Mother. The girl was ill. Alfred and I brought her home and we took her straight to bed—I mean, put her straight to bed. I went to sleep in my sitting room, but I must have returned to my own bed without realizing.”

  “Ha! That is not in the least convincing,” his mother huffed.

  Beckett ignored her remark. “She was unconscious when we found her, so I don’t know who she is. But I’m sure of one thing, she’s no strumpet. She obviously doesn’t live in the street or her feet would not have been cut and bruised so by the cobblestones. And her dress was not in tatters. It looked quite finely made… merely soiled.”

  “That only proves that she’s new at the profession and she has a good seamstress,” Lady Thornby replied peevishly.

  “You’re wrong, Mother, and I won’t apologize for my actions. She most certainly would have died if we had left her in the street. You know I can’t abandon a creature in need.”

  “You want me to believe she’s another one of your strays?” Lady Thornby shrieked, disbelief in her eyes.

  “I am getting old, but my brain is far from addled. I saw what I saw. And what’s worse, Mr. Livingston saw
it as well.”

  “Well, I’m sure that Mr. Livingston can be trusted to keep this quiet.” Beckett gave a meaningful look to the solicitor. “And now that I’m the earl of Ravenwood, what does it matter how many strays I take in—or if they happen to be animal or human?”

  “Actually, my lord, you aren’t the earl quite yet,” Livingston said.

  “But you said that I was the heir.”

  “So you are, my lord, but there is a stipulation in the sixth earl’s will, which is quite standard.” Livingston cleared his throat and continued. “The will specifies that the heir must be married at the time the will is executed, or the estate will immediately pass to your cousin, Mr. Coles of Dorset-shire. In fact, I have already received a letter from his solicitor. As per the earl’s instructions, the will is to be executed tomorrow. Since Mr. Coles is already married, my lord, I would hasten to find yourself a bride.”

  Lady Thornby grabbed her son’s arm. “I’m sure the Honorable Miss Cordelia Haversham will take you back, under the circumstances.”

  “Mother, I will choose my own bride, if you please,” Beckett said stiffly. “Cordelia Haversham is the last woman in the world that I’d marry. And you well know the reason why.”

  “But that dreadful business is all behind us now,” Lady Thornby said, waving her hand in dismissal. “If only I had known that your father had less sense for numbers than a chicken, I could have stopped him from investing in his reckless schemes.”

  Lady Thornby yanked her son’s arm so that his ear was close and whispered loudly, “Now, we need only ensure Mr. Livingston’s promise to keep mum about the disgraceful events he witnessed here, and you can ask Cordelia to be your bride. I have always had an affection for her as well you know. She and I are truly kindred spirits. Her mother has been like a sister to me—we are such close friends. And Cordelia would make a wonderful countess!”

  “Mother, I would sooner marry that girl in there!” Beckett stood straight and pointed at the closed door of his bedchamber.