Cheryl Holt (34 page)

“I’ve quit drinking, Mary,” he vowed. “I swore to
Michael, and I swear to you, that I’ll never permit another drop to pass my lips.”

“Good. It was killing you.”

“I’ve quit gambling, too. It’s over, done.”

“I’m so glad.”

“I’m determined to turn over a new leaf. I want to show you that I can be the man you assumed I was.”

“You won’t have to try very hard,” she conceded. “I was always convinced that there was a gentleman lurking under the surface.”

“In any of my drunken ramblings, did I ever tell you that I love you?”

“No.” He’d previously uttered one endearment that she hadn’t believed, and at this late juncture, she wasn’t sure she was ready for any others.

“Then, I’ll tell you now: I love you, Mary Barnett Livingston. Will you marry me?”

“What? Are you mad?”

Mystified by the sudden declaration, she jumped off the couch and marched across the room to dawdle at the window. He’d spewed so many lies. Was this just one more? Or—for once—was he sober and speaking the truth?

How could she be certain? He’d traveled all the way from London. Why would he invest so much time and effort merely to perpetuate another falsehood? Could anyone be that despicable?

Behind her, he rose and walked to her. He nestled himself to her backside, and he cradled her in his arms.

“I’ve missed you, Mary, so much. I need you. Without you, I’m only half a man.”

“Don’t say such things to me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I doubt you’re sincere.”

He kissed her hair, her nape. “Considering my treatment of you, that is a perfectly valid and logical concern.” He spun her toward him and dug into the pocket of his vest; then he shocked her by slipping a ring onto her finger.

She traced its shape, noting the numerous stones. It had to be a priceless family heirloom, and thus was much too extravagant for a person as modest and ordinary as she deemed herself to be.

On observing her consternation, he advised, “This ring was my mother’s favorite piece of jewelry.” He guided her thumb across the gems. “It has a gold band, with a sapphire in the middle, encircled by tiny diamonds. Michael gave it to me, so that I could give it to you.” He stunned her further by dropping to his knee. “Will you marry me?”

She gasped. “You’re serious.”

He gazed up at her. “I can provide you with a fine home, Mary. Not anyplace as grand as Michael’s, but I enjoy some affluence, so I can support you and your daughter. Let me. Please.”

Can I trust him? Will he follow through?
The questions screamed at her. She’d been down this road before, but at the last moment, he’d declined to join her, and her broken heart was still healing from that earlier misadventure.

“I’m so confused,” she confessed.

“Pardon me for my many sins so that I can prove how much I love you. I want to carry on as the man I was meant to be. For you, Mary. Just for you.”

“I’m pregnant,” she blurted out, having never intended to confide in him, but it was vital that he be informed so she could assess his opinion of this new fact.

He pulled away, and she could sense him grinning. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“I knew it!” he crowed.

“How could you have?”

“I could feel it in my bones.”

She waited for him to scoff or deny her statement, but instead, he hugged her tightly and proclaimed, “I hope it’s a girl who looks like you.”

“You
are
insane,” she decreed. There was no other explanation. His injuries had left him deranged.

“You’re wrong. I’ve never been more clear about what I want, and I want you. Have me, Mary. I’ll be a father to this child we’ve made, and we’ll build a family together.”

“When?” she demanded, recognizing that this was how she could test his earnestness. “If you’re resolved to wed me, when would we do it?”

“At once,” he responded. “I brought Michael’s fastest carriage. We can leave for Scotland as soon as you pack your bags.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now. And when we return, and we’re not so rushed, we’ll have a second ceremony at the cathedral in London. Or if you’d rather, we can hold it here, at your local church.”

He stood, his excitement and affection shining through, and she couldn’t fathom why he was doing this.

“I’m blind,” she declared.

“Yes, you are, but you
see
more than any individual I’ve ever known. You’re also sweet and caring and tolerant. You put up with me when I was at my worst. I want you with me when I’m at my best.” He grabbed her shoulders and gave her a firm shake. “Say you’ll have me, Mary. I’ll spend the rest of my life making you happy. I swear it.”

He seemed convinced that it could work out, yet she was trembling with uncertainty. Her wild, impetuous side yearned to clasp his hand, to waltz out and commence a mad dash for Scotland. But her rational, judicious side was terrified that if she totted off with him, he’d change his mind halfway there and abandon her at some coaching inn.

Could she take such a risk? If she relented and went with him, there’d be no going back. If he deserted her, she’d be on her own, and Reginald would never open his door to her. Then again, when she apprised Reginald of her delicate condition, she’d be tossed out anyway.

By accepting Alex, what did she have to lose? Absolutely nothing.

What did she have to gain?

A slow smile spread across her face. She would have a randy, handsome husband. She’d have a home of her own, a father for her children, a family that needed her. She’d have independence and security and . . . she’d have Alex. She’d have Alex forever.

She didn’t imagine it would be easy, didn’t suppose that there wouldn’t be bumps in their path, but wasn’t this precisely the sort of escapade she’d always craved? For years, she’d sat docilely by the hearth, listening as others went about their lives, but never actually living her own.

Here was her chance. Here was her destiny.

She reached out and linked their fingers. “Yes, Alex Farrow, I will marry you.”

“Do you mean it?”

“Of course, you silly oaf. Do you think I go around accepting marriage proposals every day?”

He let out a whoop that rattled the glass in the windows, and he lifted her up and kissed her. His tongue was in her mouth, his hands in her hair, which vividly triggered memories of the more intriguing aspects of what their marriage would entail. He twirled her around and around until they were both dizzy, but he quickly grew fatigued, and he flopped down on the couch, with her sprawled across his lap.

“I can’t believe you agreed,” he admitted.

“How could I have refused?”

Like a pair of enamored half-wits, they dawdled and grinned. There were so many details to discuss and arrange, but she couldn’t break the wonderful moment.

Finally, he ended it, shifting her so that she was seated next to him, and he said, “I’d like to do something I should have done long ago.”

“What is that?”

“Might I meet your daughter?”

A warm glow of assurance swept through her. “I thought you’d never ask.”

 24 

Emily sat at her dressing table, staring at herself in the mirror. She looked ill, as if she’d been sick at her stomach or was about to be. Her hands were so icy that she couldn’t pick up the combs to pin her hair.

In less than half an hour, she’d be Mrs. Reginald Barnett. Could she go through with the wedding? How could she not?

At all costs, Mary and Rose had to be safeguarded. She couldn’t fail them, as she had when she’d instigated their London catastrophe. She would never again place them in such a precarious position.

Reginald was her past and her future. She comprehended his ways and his habits. Yes, he’d been distraught when she’d initially arrived home, but since then, he’d reverted to his usual demeanor. He could be annoying, he could be patronizing, but he was Reginald. Her dear father had chosen him to be her husband, and she’d been wrong to flout her father’s wishes, daft to fight her destiny.

She wasn’t the first woman in history to wed a man
she didn’t love, and she wouldn’t be the last. She wasn’t the sole female who’d had to marry to protect her family. She could do this! She could! It was just one day in a lengthy parade of days. She was strong, and she’d persevere.

Reginald’s sporty new gig pulled up out front, but she didn’t glance at it. He’d been in a dither about the preparations at the church, so he’d gone on ahead and had sent the vehicle back to hurry her along. Well, she had many minutes of freedom remaining before she had to join him, and she wasn’t about to rush.

She sighed and gazed out the window. Far out beyond the hills was the city of London. Occasionally, she reflected on her adventure there, on her foiled affair with Michael Farrow.

Did he ever think of her?

After she’d fled, she’d foolishly supposed that he might be sorry for how he’d hurt her, that he might seek her out to apologize.

At other times, she was positive he would furnish her with the money he’d promised, and she’d watched the post for weeks. Waiting. Waiting. To no avail.

If she hadn’t been crazed before she’d met him, her constant conviction later on—that he wouldn’t fail her—was a glaring illustration of how deranged she’d been after.

How could he abandon her to this cruel fate?

She stood and trudged downstairs. She had to find Mary and Rose, had to proceed to the church. She’d told Mary that she didn’t have to attend the ceremony, but Mary had sweetly refused to stay away. No matter how much Mary detested Reginald, she would support Emily throughout the trying ordeal.

It was the only incentive that kept Emily moving forward.

As she reached the foyer, the doors to the parlor were closed, and Rose was on her knees and spying through the keyhole.

“Rose Livingston!” Emily scolded. “What on earth are you doing?”

Rose gestured for silence and whispered, “Mother is inside, with Mr. Farrow.”

“Alex Farrow is here?”

“Yes, and Mother is kissing him! Right on the lips!”

“What?”

Emily urged Rose away, then yanked on the doors, and the spectacle was just as Rose had claimed. Alex Farrow was sitting on their sofa and kissing Mary as if there were no tomorrow.

On her entering, they jumped apart. Red-faced and chagrined, Mary stammered and said, “Emily, this may come as a bit of a shock—”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Emily interjected.

“—but Mr. Farrow, that is, Alex, and I are a bit better acquainted than we ever let on.”

“I can see that.” Emily wasn’t certain of what was happening or what her reaction should be.

She hardly knew Alex Farrow and, other than rumor, had no genuine reason to dislike him, but she’d had her fill of the Quality. No good could be achieved from Mary’s having a relationship with him.

Why had she and her sister both been attracted to the Farrow brothers? Was it a defect in their blood? A weakness in their character? Had Mary been carrying on with
Farrow, slipping in and out of his room, as Emily had been with Michael?

The prospect was too humiliating to ponder.

“We’re going to be married,” Mary declared.

“You’re what?”

“We’re eloping to Scotland. At once.”

“Oh, Mary. . . .” Emily sank into the nearest chair. “Are you sure you should?”

Rose had been eavesdropping, and she peeked in. “Truly, Mother?” she queried. “You’re to be married?”

“Yes, Rose.” Mary held out her hand. “I want you to meet Mr. Farrow.”

Farrow stood, and Mary stood with him. As Mary made introductions, they were joyous and content. Farrow chatted with Rose and politely asked if she would mind terribly if he wed her mother.

Rose—in typical nine-year-old fashion—deemed it very romantic, but she hadn’t the maturity necessary to peer down the road and wonder what Mary’s future would be like with dissolute, drunken Alex Farrow as her spouse.

Emily was aware of his bad habits, but then again, he’d come for Mary, had sought her out and proposed. Should Emily paint him with the same dark brush with which she’d colored Michael?

Emily was conflicted. Didn’t Mary deserve someone to love her? If she and Farrow could build a life together, didn’t they merit the chance to try? Who was Emily to interfere with their happiness?