The Way The Wallflower Wed

by Devon, Eva

  How could anyone hate another human being so much that they were willing to ruin or marry someone just for revenge?

  A ragged sigh tore from her lips.

  Whatever was she going to do? She did not doubt that her father would indeed make her marry the Earl of Westmore. He would see it as an opportunity to lift himself up, to improve the family status.

  Could she wait for Roxley to come to London and save her with his plan?

  Waiting seemed a foolish thing to do.

  She’d never been one to wait for saving before.

  And Roxley couldn’t know the extent of the danger that she was now in.

  No, she would have to take matters into her own hands, but how?

  Her father was keeping her a veritable prisoner and the servants were in on it too.

  They all knew that she was not to leave the house.

  Devil take it! It was difficult to be a woman.

  It was deuced challenging to get out of the house and to travel about the streets without being noticed unaccompanied.

  She’d done it before, but it had been a huge risk.

  And she’d only had to travel from London to Cornwall.

  Now what would she do?

  She’d find a way.

  That was for certain. It didn’t matter that all the servants were watching her or that her own family was against her.

  Nothing would stand in her way again. She was far too resilient for that. She had tasted a bold life, and she was not about to let that go.

  Chapter 21

  Marcus did not fancy dressmakers, but it was something that could not be avoided.

  “I will need this in less than a day’s time,” he instructed Madame Yvette.

  “Monsieur,” the young French woman trilled, “that is almost impossible.”

  “I do not care about the cost,” he returned, longing to escape the frills of the establishment. He was here for Pippa and Pippa alone. Because come what may, she was going to Egypt with him and she would need more than a simple frock or two. “Here are her measurements. Hire as many women as you need. Please make them overnight.”

  She gaped at him. “Non!”

  “Oui!” he countered. “I beg of you, Madame, for it is a matter of the heart.”

  “A matter of the heart?” she echoed, and then the young dressmaker relented. “I will manage it, somehow.”

  Madame Yvette looked from the measurements to the requests of clothing to the amount of coin that he had dropped upon the desk before her.

  Her face bloomed with positive delight and mixed horror. “Come tomorrow morning,” she said with a slight Gallic shrug.

  “You shall do it, Madame Yvette,” he encouraged, determined to do this for Pippa. “I have full confidence in your abilities.”

  “Oh la la,” she announced. “We shall be up all night, my lord.”

  “Thank you,” he replied simply.

  That secured, he turned out of the dress shop and headed onto the pavement.

  The energy and frustration pumping through him was inexplicable. He had been unable to catch sight of Pippa. And short of breaking down her father’s door, he was not able to visit her.

  The frustration of it was so intense he longed to ram his fist into someone’s face. Not anyone would do, of course.

  He was going to have to do something right now to alleviate his temper and the only thing that he could think of was Gentlemen Jackson’s boxing arena.

  He had not believed her father would be so taciturn, refusing to meet him or receive any correspondence.

  Marcus headed down, cursing as he went.

  The street was crammed with people and he found himself weaving his way through Londoners, wishing that he was in the souks of Egypt, but he was not.

  And he certainly wouldn’t wish to be there now without Pippa.

  No, he had to get ahold of her as soon as possible, but it was proving as difficult as locating a long-hidden tomb.

  Worse, it seemed that most of society was on Pippa’s father’s side and the side of Westmore in this.

  Marcus knew he was not well liked. He had a habit of telling people what they did not wish to hear.

  True, he was a man of money and a man of power because he was an earl, but so was Westmore.

  At last, Marcus strode into the club, ready to work out his coiled fury, hoping someone would give him a good pummeling and he would give them one in turn.

  It was rare that someone could best him in the ring, but when they could, it was welcome.

  Right now, he could truly use a good bruising.

  The pain would distract him from the difficulty of the moment.

  He headed towards one of the long benches and easily whipped off his coat and waistcoat. He tugged his cravat free, wound it up, and placed it atop his other belongings.

  The club was full to the brim of men practicing, boxing, and doing other various activities which would warm them up, making them ready for the ring.

  He began to warm his own body up, rolling his neck, stretching his muscles, flexing his hands. He eyed the room, looking for someone who would be willing to meet him in the ring.

  Most wouldn’t.

  They knew his reputation.

  He didn’t pull any punches. He wanted a hard fight, not something soft. He wasn’t there to preserve other people’s faces. He didn’t care what he looked like in a ballroom, and so he expected that other people shouldn’t either. It made him a difficult person to fight. Most of the gentlemen here seemed to like to avoid getting fists to their cheeks or jaws, which to him seemed counterproductive of the whole point.

  But then his eyes locked on a single figure at the other side of the room and a feeling of anger pulled through him so fierce, he could scarce draw breath.

  Life was full of irony.

  It couldn’t possibly be true.

  But then Westmore turned and their eyes locked.

  A slow smile turned his former friend’s lips. It was a smile of deep anticipation, and Westmore began to saunter across the room as if he owned it.

  Marcus wanted to laugh, but he didn’t dare.

  Too much was at stake.

  Westmore took himself so seriously and was easily offended now. Marcus, on the other hand, just got on with things. But it was damned difficult to just get on with his present circumstances. Westmore was making Marcus’s life difficult in a way he had not anticipated.

  Indeed, Westmore was being vicious and not just about artifacts, but about people. He had truly gone out of his way to make Pippa’s life hard, and thus Marcus’s.

  It had never occurred to Marcus that he would lose Pippa so quickly. And certainly not through Westmore. If he had thought so, he never would have allowed her into Westmore’s house.

  But how could he have known that Westmore would play so foully?

  Westmore stopped before him. “Fancy a turn in the ring?”

  “If you dare,” Marcus drawled. “I’d love to bruise your face.”

  “Hmmm.” Westmore smiled. “I shall have to beat you quickly. For I should hate to have bruises when I wed Miss Post.”

  Marcus’s teeth ground together and he had to fold his hands into tight fists, lest he punch Westmore right on the spot, which would be quite the opposite of a done thing.

  “You’re not going to marry her,” Marcus gritted.

  “Oh, indeed, I am.” Westmore all but bounced with pleasure. “Her father has already given permission. I have the license in hand and very soon we shall wed. It’s tempting to wait three weeks for the banns to be called, but a special license makes it so much more romantic, don’t you think?”

  “But Pippa has not approved,” Marcus growled, horrified that things had gotten so out of hand.

  “Does that matter?” Westmore asked, his arrogance so thick Marcus felt he could reach out and almost grab it.

  “By the laws of the land, it does,” Marcus said tightly, all the while feeling waves of alarm.

  Westmore lau
ghed. “You two have such similar reasoning. I can understand why you enjoyed each other’s company. But as I pointed out to her, the laws of the land mean little for men like us.”

  Marcus longed to wrap his hands around his former friend’s throat. “I ought to murder you here and now.”

  “You could try,” Westmore mocked, “but then you would no doubt end up in prison or sent to Australia. After all, earls don’t murder earls in public, now do they?”

  “True,” he countered with a cold smile of his own. “I’ll have to wait till you go down an alley or into some brothel, as I know that you’re want to do.”

  “Oh no, I don’t do that anymore,” Westmore returned easily. “I have a mistress, after all. I like a little bit of luxury, not very interested in the rough anymore. I am growing older, you know, and ready to settle down. Miss Post will likely be a reluctant mother, but eventually I think she will be quite good at it. Don’t you?”

  Marcus sucked in a breath. Fury burned painfully through his entire body.

  How had they ever been friends? And how the hell had he let Pippa be exposed to him?

  Once they had been so close. It had not been until they had gone to war that things had changed. He had learned that Westmore was a coward at heart. Not the physical kind, but the spiritual one. He was a small man who cared only about wealth, power, and the use of them.

  Whereas, Marcus had found that he cared only about life and the story of mankind, which was why history was so important to him.

  “All right, then,” Marcus said. “This is what you want. Let’s go ahead and get in the ring. You can beat me to a pulp and then let Pippa go.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Roxley,” Westmore said merrily, clapping him on the back. “I’ll beat you to a pulp and have Pippa. That’s the way of things, don’t you know.”

  “Why the devil are you so twisted, Westmore?” Marcus asked.

  Westmore’s face paled with fury. “Twisted, am I? It is you who. . .”

  “It is I who what?” Marcus demanded, squaring off with his former friend.

  “You must always go about showing that you are better than I.”

  Marcus cocked his head to the side, unrelenting now. “Because I am. I am better than you, Westmore. And you know it. You’re a worm, no better than the scum beneath my feet. You’ve proved it time and time again. I was so certain you were different than you are.” He let out a slow breath then added, “I’m sorry for you.”

  “You’re sorry for me?” Westmore choked. “Well, let me show you what you have to be sorry about.”

  Before they knew what was happening, a crowd had gathered, for some knew of the animosity between them.

  Wordlessly, they stepped into the ring together.

  Slowly, they began circling.

  Right now, he wished to rip Westmore apart. But perhaps this was a fool’s action. Perhaps he should be thinking of a way of murdering Westmore in an alley somewhere to save Pippa from a life with him.

  He would have to come up with a plan to get her away immediately. Tonight even. As a matter of fact, he might just have to kidnap her.

  Why shouldn’t he go ahead and do something like that?

  He wouldn’t actually be stealing her away. She wished to go with him. She’d made that plain.

  He’d be freeing her, away from her father, away from Westmore. And as he stood in the ring, he did not hear the bell ring as the thought occurred to him.

  Before he could move, Westmore slammed his fist straight into Marcus’s jaw. His head shot back, his teeth clacked together, and the world spun. He lifted his hands at the ready now, drawing in a deep breath, letting the room come back into focus.

  He spotted Westmore’s grinning, idiotic face. It was a handsome face, one he couldn’t wait to mar.

  A great cheer went up from the crowd watching them. Everyone stood about pushing in against the ropes, making bets, waving pound notes back and forth.

  Already someone was making bets in a book ready to toss up scores to see who would be the victor and who would go home with a purse full of coins.

  Westmore tucked his arms in tight, circling easily.

  Marcus rocked back, keeping his feet light but balanced well into the floor.

  He looked for an in, until finally he darted forward, twisting as he drove his fist into Westmore’s kidney.

  Westmore let out a surprising wail and nearly fell to one knee.

  Marcus knew his hands were like hammers. It was one of the few things that he truly loved about boxing, his ability to fell someone with a single blow.

  But then he pulled back rapidly, knowing he needed to keep quick and away, because Westmore was no shabby fighter himself.

  Quickly, Westmore managed to right himself, circling to the right. Then he quickly rushed in to the left and with a hard uppercut, slammed his fist into Marcus’s jaw.

  Again, his teeth clacked together, and Marcus stumbled back. A hand clapped onto his shoulder.

  “Get in there, man. You know this fellow’s weakness. He has no stamina.”

  He did not need to turn to look back and see Peterbrooke’s face.

  Viscount Peterbrooke was one of the few men who understood Marcus’s passion for the history around him and his strange worldview.

  For some reason, he found that the presence of an ally bolstered him at this particular moment.

  Marcus did exactly what Peterbrooke suggested.

  He began pacing about the ring, going from right to left, weaving back and forth, staying on the balls of his toes, working Westmore hard until Westmore’s face was growing red.

  The man’s big body was wearing him down as he tried to track Marcus in the ring.

  Being strong was all well and good, but it meant nothing if one did not have the ability to stay for a long fight.

  Marcus was a man who was used to running for miles and miles. His morning jaunts about his estates had prepared him for endurance.

  Westmore, on the other hand, was used to drinking port and no doubt wallowing in bed with his mistress.

  So, within a few minutes time, Westmore was huffing and puffing his great chest like a bellows.

  Suddenly, with little difficulty, Marcus moved in, hauled his fist back, and let it fly forward in a cross blow that sent Westmore to his knees.

  A quick count began and Westmore tried to stagger up to his feet, but he could not. He was far too out of wind and the match was quickly given over to Marcus.

  Westmore panted for breath and he looked up at Marcus from the corner of his bloodshot eye.

  For one brief moment, Marcus wondered if he had made a dread error. Perhaps he should have allowed Westmore to win.

  Perhaps with so much at stake, he should not have humiliated Westmore in front of this crowd. But he could not help it. He was not about to start pretending he was someone he was not, not for anyone. Certainly not for a man like that.

  Chapter 22

  Peterbrooke clapped him on the back. “Well done, old man. Well done. Now, come on. Let’s go and have a drink.”

  Marcus quickly pulled on his waistcoat, cravat, and coat. He gave Peterbrooke a nod. Like Westmore, he had attended school with Peterbrooke and they had been close enough.

  Peterbrooke was one of the more powerful military men in London at present. He was at Horse Guards and did things that no one really knew anything about, and he arranged things to happen on the Continent that no one really knew anything about either.

  Marcus was damned glad he had left that life behind him, but he was also glad to know that the future of England was in the hands of men like Viscount Peterbrooke.

  Together they headed out onto the pavement, thinking no more of Westmore, or at least trying not to.

  Marcus had a strong feeling that Westmore would be most furious and not forgive him for this latest perceived slight. But what was he to do? Westmore had challenged him to a fight. He winced. He’d been a damned fool, so frustrated that he couldn’t see Pippa that he’d take
n his anger out on the worst possible person.

  Westmore had the power to hurt Pippa.

  He should have bloody well walked away.

  “What the devil was all that about?” Peterbrooke asked as they walked towards the Queen’s Heart Inn.

  Marcus let out a sigh, eyeing the lamp lighters as they slowly began to bring light to the darkening night. “The damn man just has to have everything that I do, and he can’t seem to understand that whatever I have will not make him happy. He was never interested in Egyptology at all until I took an interest in it. And then, of course, he decided that he wanted to have everything. All of it.”

  “All of it? You mean the entire country?” Peterbrooke laughed.

  Marcus scowled. “Not the country, just the contents in it.”

  Peterbrooke frowned and led the way into the crowded, noisy inn. “Westmore always was greedy at heart,” he said above the din. “He constantly looked for approval. Not like you and I.”

  “True,” Marcus agreed, looking for an empty table. “It’s a rather sad state of affairs that the one who wants approval so badly can get up to such machinations.”

  “You’d better be careful,” Peterbrooke warned as he spotted an open place towards the back. “One day he might truly come after you.”

  “I can’t believe that Westmore would be capable of such treachery,” said Roxley. “He’s not that bad a sort, do you think?”

  “One never knows,” Peterbrooke said ruefully. “Humans are mysterious creatures.”

  They sat down at the empty table. Marcus eyed the rough surroundings, enjoying the noise and general love of life Londoners had.

  The unsanded wood boards rubbed against his hands as he leaned forward. They beckoned to a russet-haired barmaid, who sauntered over happily, eyeing the two prospects.

  Her cinched-in waist plumped up her ample bosom and her curly hair spilled over her shoulders. “Right then, governors. What can I get for you two today?”

  “I’ll have gin,” said Marcus, wishing to eradicate the desire to go off and pound Pippa’s father into the pavement. No, what he really wished was to liberate Pippa, but he wasn’t yet certain how.