The call came for them to take their seats and without waiting for him to offer it, Lady Annabel took his arm proprietorially. ‘I insist you sit beside me, Mr Wolfe. I have so many questions.’
‘Such as?’ At her encouragement, they lagged behind the others as they made their way to the Earl of Grantley’s private box.
‘Well, to start with…’ Taking advantage of the privacy of the narrow staircase, Lady Annabel smoothed her other hand up his biceps. ‘I wanted to know if all the scandalous rumours about you are correct?’
‘Probably.’ He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Do you mind?’
The lusty young widow laughed the breathy laugh of a woman who knew how seductive she was. ‘On the contrary, Mr Wolfe… I cannot resist a scoundrel.’ In case he missed her implication, she positioned herself closer, until he felt the soft press of her ample bosom against his arm as they continued up the stairs.
If he played his cards right—and he already knew he had been dealt a hand of kings—he would warm her bed later. A prospect which should have excited him more than it did thanks to another unwelcome image of Lydia, looking as perennially hurt and disappointed in him as she had the day he’d been dragged away from her father’s house clapped in irons.
He almost growled in frustration at his brain’s inability to put the past behind him where it belonged, but instead forced a charming smile as he helped the earthy Lady Annabel into her seat and lowered himself to sit beside her. When she shuffled closer so that their bodies touched from hip to knee, then used the shield of her programme to disguise her hand as it brazenly stroked his thigh, he decided to seize the moment and to hell with his stupid blasted brain and damned Lydia!
She really was not his problem and in a few short weeks, he would be rid of the allure of her for ever, too. In fact, now he was rationalising it alongside the tempting prospect of pastures new, in a funny sort of way her impending marriage was probably the best possible thing which could happen.
It drew a line in the dirt.
A decisive halt to their relationship.
A fresh start which would finally release him from her thrall to channel his pent-up lust elsewhere and perhaps quickly to become Owen Wolfe, the legendary ladies’ man…
Now that was another layer to his mythical character he wouldn’t mind adding.
He was sick and tired of feeling disloyal if he as much as glanced another woman’s way when he should be glancing here, there and everywhere with unburdened impunity! Wouldn’t that be a splendid reward for all his years of hard work and suffering? And so much better than Randolph’s ridiculous suggestion.
In fact, he would start tonight and continue as he meant to go on. Once the wench was well and truly hitched, he would throw himself into the endeavour with the same determined vigour as he’d thrown into becoming the master of his own destiny. Something much more agreeable to ponder tonight than the unresolved ghosts of his past.
Already he was feeling better. Already the temptation that was Lady Annabel St John was starting to give his body other ideas. Much better ideas than the ridiculous one Randolph had just peddled. He would not waste a second on feeling guilty or feeling pity for the woman who so openly despised him.
No, indeed!
And while he was warming the luscious Annabel’s sheets, nor would he give a passing thought to the disturbing images of Lydia similarly ensconced in Kelvedon’s.
Enduring the smelly Marquess’s hands on her body was nowhere near as awful as feeling the lash slice your back or the constant chafe and dead weight of your chains around your ankles as you languished helpless in the bowels of a ship headed nowhere. Owen had had to make the best of his sentence just as she would have to make the best of hers. At least she had the peace of mind her punishment served a higher cause. Owen’s had served to rob him of seven long years he would never get back. Something Lydia’s mute betrayal had had a hand in. Perhaps if she had stepped forward? Stood up for him…
‘Can I tell you a shocking secret, Mr Wolfe?’ His new companion’s lips grazed his ear as she practically sighed the question into it. ‘I abhor the opera… I only came here tonight for you… Do you mind?’
‘On the contrary…’ Owen smiled and was about to allow his own hand to cover Lady Annabel’s unsubtle one on his leg when the atmosphere around him seemed to shift and he almost groaned aloud.
He did not need to see her to know she was here.
Every nerve ending positively fizzed with awareness.
Nor did he need to search for her frantically in the crowd. His eyes were instinctively drawn to her the moment she entered the box, just as they were always drawn to her whenever she was close by.
Which meant he saw the Marquess of Kelvedon enter directly behind her and saw, too, the hauntingly pained expression in her eyes when the old lecher placed his hand possessively on her elbow to guide her to her seat, then the utter disgust when he slipped it down to pat her bottom. Lydia brushed it away like a gnat, but it didn’t stop him, forcing Owen to watch Kelvedon’s ugly face contort into a cruel scowl and his filthy hand to head back forcibly towards her body as the auditorium dimmed.
CHAPTER FOUR
Despite the steaming hot bath she had insisted upon the moment they returned last night, Lydia had deemed it necessary to order another this morning and to request all the bedding be changed and her night rail boiled because she felt so dirty and soiled.
Kelvedon made her nauseous. Everything about him disgusted her, from his uneven brown teeth to the creaking corset he wore under his coat. But the thing which disgusted her the most was the way he continually touched her. He had squeezed, then groped her thigh so many times during the performance, she was certain his horrid hands had left a greasy stain on her silk gown and each unwelcome touch, no matter how swiftly or vehemently it was rebuked, made her want to gag.
Worse, as he pawed her, his breathing became erratic, heavy and laboured and the blatant lust in his beady eyes was horrifying. He was looking forward to their wedding night. She knew that because he had seen fit to tell her not once, but three times while the theatre lights had been dimmed and her brother could not see or hear what he was doing.
But Owen Wolfe had seen.
His gloating eyes had been on her all night, doubtless enjoying the sight of her with the very man he had predicted she was being sold to. It was humiliating in the extreme and, somehow, his presence made the ordeal of the evening worse. Especially because he was sat beside a very beautiful woman. Very closely beside a beautiful woman who had gazed at him longingly all evening like a starving dog outside a butcher’s window, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.
Yet another bitter blow she had not been expecting and one which cut her to the quick.
Before she had bolted for the carriage and wept bitter tears into her powerless brother’s handkerchief, the hideous Marquess had insisted on kissing the back of her hand. It had been a sloppy kiss. A lingering torture. One which had left a sticky patch of spittle clinging to her skin. Despite all the hot water, and the stiff brush she had taken to it which had made it red and raw, that hand still did not feel like her own.
And even though her dear brother was still hopeful he could convince their father to consider someone else as her husband, to widen his search for a better suitor, she couldn’t help wondering how she would ever cope with the ordeal of the marriage bed if just the man’s touch could make her feel so hideously violated? Unless she procured some laudanum and rendered herself incoherently nonsensical on her wedding night and was spared from ever remembering it at all.
The past five days had been horrific. After barely digesting the fact she had to marry for the sake of the family and fast—the man she loathed above all others had been the one to tell her who she was to be shackled to. That Owen had known it was Kelvedon before her father had deigned to tell her had been a humiliating and bitter blow. Y
et when she had challenged her father, he had been dismissive in his acknowledgement.
Kelvedon was a marquess. A respected peer and politician. He was wealthy and he was agreeable to the speedy marriage the Barton coffers required because he was in dire need of an heir and desirous of a wife young enough to provide him with one. Of course there was no other groom being considered. Why would there be? She should be grateful to be marrying so well after all her fickle years languishing on the shelf, refusing wealthy peer after wealthy peer. Grateful to Kelvedon for rescuing her from that shelf and grateful, too, to her father for finding her such a good catch at such short notice when she was long past her prime.
Not that he was the least bit grateful that her speedy marriage to a groom no other woman wanted also brought him a swift ten thousand. That was by the by. Her duty.
In desperation, and she was not proud of herself for this self-centred and selfish outburst, she had argued it made better financial sense if Justin married. Not only was he five years older, he was the heir to an earldom and quite a catch. He could command a dowry of twenty thousand at least. And it was his inheritance after all. All for his ultimate benefit.
Papa had practically had a fit at that, which his physicians had expressly warned against since his heart had turned bad. He was so incensed at her question he had gone purple and his lips an ominous blue. How dared she?
How dared she?
The marriage of a future earl with such close connections to His Majesty, no less, was much too important to rush! The right wife needed to be found and Lydia could hardly expect her brother to appear impoverished and begging for a wealthy woman. That would lead to them being short-changed in the settlements! Whereas her brother would not have to appear desperate once Kelvedon had paid for her, because he wouldn’t be desperate. Refusing to marry him not only jeopardised the estate and everyone who depended on it—it sabotaged her brother’s future as well.
That, rather than her father’s plight, had been the clincher. So she had agreed to it all under duress, in case her father’s heart gave way on the spot because of her insolence, thoroughly ashamed she had tried to save herself by sacrificing Justin, when he had quite enough on his plate already trying to manage the mess her father had made of their finances. Feeling pious as well as beaten, she decided the only way to cope with it was to be matter-of-fact. It was what it was and she would make the best of it. It wasn’t as if she had a choice.
But since her agreement, everything had been planned around her. Earth-changing things were decided for her without either her presence or her input in the decisions and she was apprised of them when her father saw fit. Or when Justin came to seek her out, his expression filled with pity and remorse, as he passed across those details neither her sire nor her aged new fiancé thought important enough to concern her with.
That was how she knew the settlements were being signed today. In fact, they were probably being signed right now as she sat here in her bathtub, pathetically trying to blot it all out and pretend it wasn’t happening. The panting, groping, odious Marquess had procured the special licence, a bland and insipid bridal gown she had neither been measured for nor chosen had arrived yesterday and in just three days Lydia, Justin and apparently her ailing father would all travel to Kelvedon’s estate several hours east of the city where the wedding was to take place in his private chapel.
In view of the haste of the affair and the dubious circumstances, the announcement would not go into The Times until that fateful morning because her advantageous marriage was to be a private affair with no pomp or ceremony.
That was one detail she was relieved about. She could not fake happiness or celebration and was determined not to try. She had been bought and sold like a piece of meat, with no consideration of her feelings or concern for her happiness, to pay her father’s debts. If her sacrifice wasn’t the only thing which would prevent her brother from inheriting complete chaos and ruination, too, she wouldn’t be doing it at all. But of course her father knew that, which was why he had ruthlessly used it as leverage.
The only act of recourse available to her at this late hour, the only futile act of rebellion, was her utter disdain for the proceedings and the two callous old men who controlled them. She might well be doing her duty exactly as a Barton daughter was expected to do, but she fully intended to be the most disgusted and disappointed bride who ever walked down the aisle as a mark of protest. Let Kelvedon see from the outset exactly what he was getting for his money. A chattel, yes, but not a submissive and willing one. She fully intended to make him as miserable as he made her, for as long as they both should live.
Beyond that, she couldn’t bring herself to think about her future, despite Justin’s assertions her intended was old enough and unhealthy enough he wouldn’t last long and she’d be free soon enough in the worst conceivable scenario.
That was easy for him to say when it was those daunting intervening years which terrified her the most. So much so that, until further notice, she only wanted to contemplate the present and cope with living in it hour by hour. And this hour, and very probably the next, would be spent here in this bath.
‘My lady! You are wanted immediately in His Lordship’s study.’ Her flustered maid dashed in wide-eyed and snapped open a towel. ‘We must make haste.’
‘Does he know I am bathing, Agnes? And therefore indisposed?’ At least her marriage would release her from her father’s dictatorial demands. A tiny glint of sunlight in the darkness until she remembered she would be her husband’s to order around instead.
‘I don’t think he cares, my lady. And in case you were thinking of defying him and taking your time, you should also know there has been an argument. A huge one. Between His Lordship and your brother. Your brother is fuming.’ That didn’t sound good. Justin wasn’t one for arguing with their father. Or anyone for that matter. He always bowed down to pressure. ‘I would even go as far as to say I’ve never seen him so angry.’
‘Do we know what they were arguing about?’ Lydia grabbed the proffered towel and began to rub herself down briskly while Agnes rushed around like a whirling dervish collecting undergarments and stockings.
‘Your name was heard by the footman stationed in the hallway. And more than once, too, so I’m told.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Fresh dread settled in the pit of Lydia’s stomach as she dressed. Justin was clearly having little luck fighting her corner this morning as he had promised and, with the sands of time rapidly running out, it appeared her fate was sealed. Her brother wasn’t one to shout, unlike Lydia who was always too fiery. It was one of the reasons Justin sometimes managed to break through their father’s stubbornness when she only ever met deaf ears. For Justin to be fuming and to have raised his voice, things had to be dire, when normally he would surrender swiftly and back away.
Their father did not like to be crossed and, knowing Papa, he’d have brought the wedding day forward as a punishment to the both of them for having the audacity to attempt to defy him.
While the maid laced up the back of her gown, Lydia gathered her damp hair into an unceremonious knot and clumsily pinned it to her head before flying out the door and into the vipers’ pit.
She skidded to a halt outside, took a deep breath to steady herself and then knocked.
‘Enter.’
Her father was sat behind his desk, looking fearsome despite his increasing frailty, yet suspiciously calm all things considered, whereas barely suppressed rage positively rippled off her brother in waves as he stood ramrod straight next to his elbow.
‘There has been a development.’ Never one for pleasantries, her father got straight to the point. ‘A counter-offer.’
‘I don’t understand?’ Her eyes flicked to Justin’s for clarification and with gritted teeth he shook his head. ‘From someone else?’
Please God let it be someone else!
‘Someone else…’
Lydia’s relief was so palpable, she slumped into the nearest chair. She wasn’t going to marry a lecher. The miracle she had prayed for had occurred.
‘Someone entirely unsuitable!’ Her brother’s fist slammed on the table, popping the bubble of relief before she had had a chance to enjoy it. ‘Someone I cannot believe was allowed through the front door, let alone granted an audience!’
‘He offered significantly more than what Kelvedon did for her!’
‘Then let us use that as a bargaining chip and get Kelvedon to raise his offer!’
Lydia reeled back, stunned her brother would even suggest such a thing when he knew how much Kelvedon disgusted her.
‘Getting ten out of him was like drawing blood from a stone!’
‘Let me try, then… Perhaps I can convince him?’
Had Justin gone mad? He wanted to negotiate with the Marquess? Sell her to a man he knew she could not abide the sight of? ‘I do not want to marry Kelvedon, Justin! Under any circumstances!’
The panic in her voice brought her brother up short and his expression instantly collapsed in remorse. ‘I know, poppet…but the alternative…’ He looked bilious. Pale. Scared.
‘The alternative is a lucrative one.’ An unspoken message passed between father and son, one she was clearly intended to be excluded from. ‘It would be foolish to dismiss it and I am no fool and nor should you be. I insist we take it.’ For the first time her father looked rattled, as if he, too, was frightened of the new candidate. ‘As I see it, we have no choice in the matter anyway and it is agreed in principle already.’
‘You never should have entered into a negotiation with him! And certainly not without me there!’
Harlequin Historical July 2020 - Box Set 1 of 2 Page 4