Her logic only made it worse. “You have a history of writing lies about me, yet you wonder why I keep silent? Oh, that’s rich!”
Her eyes flashed. “That’s just an excuse, and you know it. Have I mentioned you once in my column in the past week? While you slobbered over every eligible woman in sight, did I write one word about you or the women you courted?”
“Slobbered over—Damn you, Felicity, I see why you insist on knowing my past.” His anger at himself twisted into anger at her. “You’re jealous of women I didn’t even bed! It’s a wonder I had time for fighting a war or for running Chesterley, considering all the women you think I lusted over.”
He paced the room furiously. “There’s my aunt, whom I apparently seduced at the precocious age of nineteen. Then I ran off to the Continent and into the arms of a score of Spanish women, depending on which source you credit. Oh, and let’s not forget Josephine, who apparently came to my bed despite the troublesome fact that I’m English and her sworn enemy. Not to mention all the women I’ve courted or supposedly bedded in the past three years in England.”
Stopping short, he glared at her. “And poor Miss Greenaway—I suppose you still believe her to be my mistress.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Is that all of them, or have I missed a woman or two whose association with me you wish to question?”
“Yes, you missed me—the woman you want to marry. But apparently you don’t want her badly enough to entrust her with the truth.”
The accusation fell between them like a gauntlet. Her pain was so palpable, her green eyes so bleak. Bloody hell, he hadn’t meant to hurt her. It was just that the thought of her knowing so much and yet so little roused his temper as nothing ever had.
Frustrated, he stabbed his fingers through his disheveled hair. How he wished he could unfold the entire ugly story. It would almost be a relief.
Except that once she knew, she’d never marry him—not his self-righteous Felicity.
And besotted fool that he was, he couldn’t walk away from her.
“This isn’t a matter of trust,” he said in an attempt to placate her. “Surely the very fact that I wish to marry you shows I trust you. I trust you not to shame my family name, and I trust you to be a good wife to me. I even trust you with the management of my home and the bearing and rearing of my children. Isn’t that enough for you?”
She squared her shoulders. “Ian, I’m not insensible to the amazing compliment you pay me with this offer of marriage. I’ll even admit I’d like nothing better than to marry you. But I don’t want a marriage full of secrets. Why can’t you understand that?”
“And why can’t you understand that none of my secrets has anything to do with us? You’re torturing yourself needlessly with all these questions about other women in my life. You’re jealous of a woman who died ten years ago, another woman whom I consider merely a friend, and a former empress whom I never even met, for God’s sake, much less bedded. You’re jealous of ghosts when all I want is you.”
She sighed. “You insist on seeing this as mere jealousy. You can be such a vain, arrogant ass sometimes.”
How much more insulting the words sounded on a woman’s soft lips. “That’s why you should marry me,” he said in a weak attempt at humor. “It’ll give you ample opportunity to prick my vanity and subdue my arrogance.”
She raised one eyebrow. “That is indeed a temptation.” Then she added, “But not enough of one. As long as you won’t be honest with me, I can’t marry you, Ian. I’ll always know you don’t trust me, and the thought will eat at me until I grow to hate you. I care about you too much to have that happen. I’m sorry.”
He’d seen it coming, yet he couldn’t believe it. How could she be so bloody stubborn? Well, she wouldn’t deny him this marriage simply because of old gossip and wounded pride, not when it was the means to her salvation as well. He wouldn’t let her!
“You have no choice in the matter,” he told her grimly. “You will marry me.”
She stiffened. “I told you, I don’t care if you’ve compromised me—”
“But you do care about starving, don’t you? Have you forgotten your financial situation? I haven’t. If you don’t marry me, I’ll seek out all your father’s creditors and tell them you have no real inheritance. You know too well what’ll happen then. They’ll swarm over this place like rats.”
Shock filled her face. “You wouldn’t! No gentleman would do such a cruel—”
“No gentleman would leave you penniless and compromised. I’ll do what I must to ensure that you marry me, and if that means throwing you to the wolves until you see your folly, so be it. Don’t be foolish, Felicity. How long do you think you’ll last once those money-grubbers divide this house between them? How will you live when it’s gone? In a garret, supporting four growing brothers on the proceeds from a newspaper column? I think not!”
“I have prospects! Mr. Pilkington says he’ll print my book—”
“Mr. Pilkington will say anything to keep you writing that column he pays you a pittance for. Do you truly believe he cares about your book? Even if he did, it wouldn’t bring you enough money to support a household of this size.” He neared her and lowered his voice. “You’d turn down a secure future for your family simply because of your damned principles? No. I won’t allow it. You’ll marry me tomorrow, and that’s the end of it.”
He stalked toward the door, but she caught him by the arm before he reached it. “You don’t want to do this! What kind of marriage can we have if I hate you?”
Though that was her best thrust yet, he forced himself not to heed her plea. “You won’t hate me. You’re too sensible for that. Eventually you’ll thank me.”
“Oh, you really are an arrogant ass! And a foolish one, too, if you think I’ll ever thank you for forcing me to act against my will!”
“I’m only doing what’s in your best interests,” he bit out.
“And yours.”
“Yes, and mine. But our interests mesh very well together.”
“Do they? Well then, Lord St. Clair,” she said, his title sounding like a curse on her lips, “I have a surprise for you. I want a real marriage, and we can only have that if you’re honest with me. So until you are, you’d best pray our encounter tonight produced your heir. Because that will be the last time I take you into my bed willingly. If you force this upon me, you’ll have to force the other upon me as well, do you hear?”
The thought that she might actually mean it momentarily paralyzed him. Then he shook it off. She was already relenting on the subject of marriage; the other would come. “I hear you, but this petty threat won’t deter me. I’ve reached the end of my patience. We’ll be married Christmas Eve if I must drag you into the church myself.”
She visibly recoiled at his words. “I mean what I say.”
“I don’t doubt it.” He caught her chin and ran his thumb deliberately over her trembling lower lip. “But I know how easily your passions are roused. Mark my words, querida, I’ll have my heir by Martinmas next, and I won’t need force to get him, either.”
He waited until he saw the doubt flicker in her eyes before he released her. “So no matter what you threaten, we will be married. Is that understood?”
She stared at him white-faced, but he could see the look of defeat in her eyes.
“Felicity?” he prodded sternly.
With a sigh of exasperation, she nodded.
His triumph tasted like the bitterest wormwood; he wished he could have gained her some other way. On impulse, he drew off his signet ring to press it into her cold palm, closing the fragile, ink-stained fingers around it with a twinge of guilt. “Present this if any more of your creditors come to call. I’ll notify you of the arrangements for the wedding once I’ve procured the special license.”
When she merely stood there woodenly, he released her hand. But as he left her behind him in the drawing room, her words stayed with him.
If you force this upon me, you’ll have to force
the other upon me as well. Damn the obstinate witch to hell—he’d do whatever was necessary to prove her wrong.
Chapter 18
My sources tell me that Lady Marshall was seen in the Strand with her husband’s paramour. If this is true, it sets a dangerous precedent, for the moment two women consult together about one man, he is likely to lose both of them.
LORD X, THE EVENING GAZETTE,
DECEMBER 24, 1820
It was Christmas Eve morning, and Felicity and Mrs. Box had been up since dawn. With two hours left before the wedding, they were in Felicity’s bedchamber. She stood stiffly on a stool with arms outstretched as Mrs. Box altered her mother’s bridal gown for her.
“’Tis well that gowns were less fitted in your mother’s day,” Mrs. Box commented, “or you’d have to wear a corset with this. I know how you dislike corsets.”
I’m glad you don’t wear those abominable corsets, Ian had said. When we’re married, you must wear nothing but your chemise when we’re alone.
Married. They were going to be married. Heat spread through her breasts and loins at the thought. “Damn his hide,” she muttered under her breath.
“Come now, luv, don’t be like that. It ain’t the end of the world.” Pinching up a fingerful of satin bodice, Mrs. Box stitched through the fold. “You’re marrying a viscount, for heaven’s sake! He’ll be takin’ the boys under his wing—”
“Hah! He won’t even let me celebrate Christmas with them tomorrow!”
“Can you blame him? Who’d want four boys underfoot during his honeymoon? He could send ’em all off somewhere, but he ain’t. He only wants a week with you to himself, so’s he can show you ’round his estate. ’Tis a pity the week crosses Christmas, but you should’ve thought of that before you let the man bed you yesterday morn.”
She glared at Mrs. Box. “And he’s closing the house up—my home!”
Shoving Felicity’s arm up higher, Mrs. Box made a gather beneath her arm and tacked it quickly in place. “It ain’t your home no more, thank the good Lord. What was you plannin’ to do after you married? Live here? Separate from your husband?”
“It’s a thought,” Felicity grumbled.
The housekeeper laughed. “Don’t you lie to me, luv. You don’t want to live separate from that great strappin’ stallion, and you know it.”
Tears welled up in her eyes. “Oh, damn,” she whispered, fingering the heavy signet ring that hung from a slender chain around her throat. It was true. Despite Ian’s dreadful missive stating his “plans”—really a list of commands—for the wedding, and although she’d done nothing but complain about it for the past day and a half, she was secretly giddy at the thought of marrying him. She couldn’t wait for him to be hers. To belong only to her and to care for her.
She sniffed. Care for her, indeed! The man didn’t know the meaning of the word! Him, with all his wretched talk about advantages and generous allowances. And yes, his heir. He was willing to pay a high price for his dratted heir. Well, he’d soon discover that her performance as a brood mare was contingent upon his willingness to trust her.
Unfortunately, that meant keeping him at arm’s length until he came around. A bitter tear escaped her eye. As if she could manage that. Ian need only hint at seduction, and she turned into a blithering idiot. Another tear rolled down her cheek to fall headlong from her chin and onto the gown, darkening a tiny spot of shimmering blue satin.
“Here now, don’t you be weepin’ all over your mother’s pretty wedding dress!” Mrs. Box produced a handkerchief and dabbed at Felicity’s eyes. “’Tis a miracle that the gown survived until this, and now you’re like to ruin it before the wedding!”
“Good! Then I can wear what I really want—sackcloth and ashes!”
“The sackcloth I can arrange,” Mrs. Box said tartly. “But I won’t be puttin’ no ashes in your hair after I had to go halfway across London to find orange blossoms.”
“I don’t know why you bothered. It would serve him right if I had no flowers and an ugly gown because he couldn’t be bothered to consult me on the date of the wedding.”
“He did consult you, and you told him you wouldn’t marry him. So what else was the man to do?”
“Accept my refusal like any decent man would have.”
“No decent man would let a woman go on as you have. Not if he cared for her.”
“Care for me! He doesn’t care for me! He just wants any woman who’ll agree to be his wife, and I happen to be handy.”
“Poppycock. Men don’t know what they want, luv, and they sure don’t know how to ask for it. They put their brains away when a woman’s around. So you got to regard their actions, not their words. Take your viscount: you spoke badly of the man in your writin’, and you near tossed him out of the house, yet he came back for more and here he is payin’ off all your debts and sendin’ James back to that school the boy loves. What more proof do you need that he cares for you?”
She needed honesty. Trust. But she couldn’t tell Mrs. Box that. The housekeeper wouldn’t understand. “None of that counts because it’s mere money. Money means nothing to him. He’s only opening his purse because he has a substantial one to open.”
“Maybe. Or maybe he’s opening his purse ’cause he don’t know how to open his heart. Let him do the first, luv, and one day he’ll feel easier about doin’ the second.”
If only she could believe that. But she doubted he’d ever open his heart—he kept it buried so deeply beneath his past. If she could only learn what tormented him, she might see how to reach him. But no one knew the truth except him. And perhaps Miss—
She straightened. Yes! Miss Greenaway!
“I forgot,” she told Mrs. Box in a rush, “I’ve got to go. I’ve something to attend to before the wedding.”
“What? His lordship’s carriage is callin’ for us in less than two hours! There’s a hundred things to do before then!”
“I know, but this is important. I must go now, before Ian whisks me out of London.” Felicity reached back for the top buttons of the gown. “Help me get this off!”
“You’ve lost your mind, that’s what it is.” Mrs. Box shook her head, but did begin unbuttoning the gown. “Runnin’ off two hours before your weddin’! The very idea! If you don’t make it to the church in time, his lordship’ll have my head!”
“It won’t take long, I swear.” Felicity leapt from the stool and swiftly dressed herself in an old gown. “I’ll return before you even know it. But if I’m not here when it’s time to leave, go on without me and bring the gown. I’ll meet you at the church.”
Less than a minute later, she raced out of the town house and flagged down a passing hackney. Oh, God, please help me, she prayed as she climbed inside. She gave the man the address in Waltham Street, then sat back, lifting her gaze heavenward. She hadn’t entreated the Deity since He’d deserted her at the Worthings, but she needed him now. Let the woman be home, God. Make her agree to talk to me. And don’t let me be late for the wedding. Please, I beg you, do this for me.
He must have been listening, for twenty minutes later when she knocked on Miss Greenaway’s door, the woman herself opened it, her baby cradled in her arms. “You!” she exclaimed, then tried to slam the door in Felicity’s face.
Felicity thrust her foot through the opening to block the door, wincing when it crashed against her boot. Lady’s footwear obviously wasn’t designed to serve as a doorstop.
“Go away!” a voice called through the aperture. “I’ve nothing to say to you!”
“Please, Miss Greenaway, let me in, just for a moment!” When the woman only kicked at her foot, Felicity called out, “I’m Ian’s fiancée!”
A sudden silence came from the other side of the door. Then Miss Greenaway leaned around the edge, clutching her baby to her chest. “You? His fiancée?”
“I’m afraid so.” Unclasping the chain holding the signet ring, Felicity held both out to the woman. “I really am.”
With a wary expr
ession, the woman shifted her baby to her shoulder and took the ring. But as she studied the object, confusion replaced wariness. “I don’t understand. Master Ian—I mean, Lord St. Clair—did tell me yesterday that he was marrying a Miss Felicity Taylor, but he didn’t say you were also—I mean, I never imagined—”
“He’d be marrying Lord X? No, I wouldn’t have thought it myself a few weeks ago.” So Ian had already been here to tell Miss Greenaway of the marriage. That would increase her jealousy if not for one thing—the woman seemed surprisingly undisturbed by the idea. And would a mistress call a man by his childhood appellation? “But I am Felicity Taylor and I am engaged to be married to him. In fact, the wedding is at eleven, so I don’t have much time. Would you please let me in? I truly must talk with you.”
The woman hesitated only briefly before opening the door. “His lordship will be furious if he learns of this.”
“Then let’s not tell him,” Felicity said as she stepped over the threshold.
Miss Greenaway surveyed her curiously. “All right. Let’s not.” She gestured to a coat stand. “You can put your cloak there, then come with me into the parlor, if you please. I have Walter’s crib in there while the maid is at market, and I was about to put him down for his nap.” She glanced at her son’s little head, with its golden baby fuzz. “Though I think he’s started on it already.”
The glow of love on the woman’s face heightened the flawlessness of her china-doll features. How could any one woman have such perfect beauty? Felicity thought, unable to squelch her envy. Only the faintest brush of tiny lines at the corners of Miss Greenaway’s eyes revealed her to be older than Felicity. And though the woman dressed in a practical wool gown that hid every inch of skin, it did nothing to hide her matchless figure. A quick stab of jealousy went right to Felicity’s heart.
As they walked down the corridor, Felicity said, “I’m sure you’re wondering what I’m doing here—”
The Dangerous Lord Page 25