Dangerous Loves Romantic Suspense Collection (21 page)

Unlike now. She must be dying from that silly, stray bullet. Why else would the local vicar be standing beside Nigel, incanting some terribly formal-sounding ceremony? Though she couldn’t seem to make her drowsy mind concentrate on his words for more than a sentence or two, she could tell by his tone that he was performing a ceremony.

“… charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together…” his droning words trailed away.

Wait a blessed minute!

The vicar was asking a question…an important question. She really needed to tell him what she had unsuccessfully tried to confess to Nigel earlier under that sprawling oak.

My, that tree was enormous.

No, if those men were discussing the wedding engagement, she really needed to stay sharp.

“I cannot marry Lord Edgeware,” she said. They must have understood her words, which was saying something since she could barely understand her slurred speech herself.

Edgeware sent her a quelling look that really disrupted her concentration. He gently squeezed her hand. His touch comforted her.

The vicar, who was the image of George, placed his hand on her arm and gentled his expression. “What are you saying, my dear?”

“I cannot marry. I-I tried to explain to him already this morning.”

“You
cannot
? But I thought—” He turned to Edgeware. “The-the lady is unwilling?”

“She is confused, Vicar. Please proceed.”

But the vicar didn’t seem at all pleased. He gently shook her arm, rousing her from another batch of wandering thoughts. “Speak, my lady.”

The room shifted and swam around. But she was determined.

There was no need to be embarrassed, she told herself. The only other people in the room, at least visible to her, were Molly and Doctor Pryor…nice man.

Wait, what did she need to say?

“I am barren,” she blurted out.

“I…see…” The vicar drew out those two words. At least it sounded like he had drawn them out. But in her drugged state, she couldn’t be too certain of anything.

Edgeware bent down and kissed her on the cheek.

“It doesn’t matter,” she could have sworn she heard him say.

* * * *

Nigel lurked in the butler’s pantry, the tiny room that served as a corridor between the kitchen and the dining hall. The hall just beyond the door echoed with voices. The guests at the house party were undoubtedly dissecting every tidbit of information they knew regarding the “hunting mishap” while waiting for their host to arrive and supper to be served.

In no way did he want to join his guests gathered in there, but it was beyond rude—though forgivable considering the circumstances—that he hadn’t attended to them earlier. As host, he should have sought them out and offered reassuring words.

He had not.

And now he had to face them—those vultures—with the knowledge that they had already filled those nosey heads of theirs with a plethora of servant gossip.

He took a sip from the glass in his hand and gave a nod to the two footmen who had arrived with bottles of Nigel’s best wine.

“Good evening,” he said in a booming voice as he stepped into the dining hall. “Supper will be served in a trice. But first, I would like to raise our glasses in a toast.” He paused, giving time for the footmen to make their way around the table to fill the spiral-stemmed crystal goblets.

The room fell silent. All eyes turned to Nigel. George appeared especially perplexed and perhaps a bit out of favor with his friend at the moment.

“What the bloody hell is this nonsense about?” Uncle Charles muttered as Nigel took his place at the head of the table next to him.

Nigel raised his glass and gave all his guests a smile to placate them. They followed, lifting their wine goblets in the air, with a variety of confused emotions coloring their faces.

“I wish to offer a toast to my new bride, who because of the accident this morning sadly cannot join us tonight.”

“Bride?” nearly every guest at the table echoed.

“Elsbeth, the former dowager Lady Mercer, now the Marchioness of Edgeware, and I were wed this afternoon in a private ceremony. I hope you’ll join me in taking a drink to my bride’s quick recovery and our future happiness.”

A delicate crystal goblet dropped to the table, shattering. The amber liquid soaked into the lace tablecloth.

Nigel lowered his hand and met Charlie’s burning glare.

* * * *

After a rather awkward supper and an even longer couple of hours in the drawing room listening to the disappointed young women entertain the guests with performances on the pianoforte, Nigel was finally able to escape into the cool night air on the terrace. Each and every mama in the drawing room watched his departure, frowning deeply and their eyes angry.

“A hunter’s stray bullet?” George asked from the darkness.

Nigel started at the voice, but quickly regained his composure. He leaned against a marble column. “The hunting party was traipsing through my open fields…on the opposite side of the estate. If this were a hunter, it was human prey he was after.”

“Our villain becomes more bold, Edgeware.”

Nigel tightened his fist, not able to stop himself from imagining the terrible fate that had nearly befallen his Elsbeth. “These attempts on my life must be linked back to the smugglers who used my beach the other night. Perhaps I’m a damned inconvenience to them, so the blackguards feel justified in resorting to murder. What a lucrative business they must have.”

“I’m not at all convinced that local smugglers are involved with this treachery.”

“You don’t need to be convinced.” He threw his arms up in frustration. “You aren’t the one they are trying to kill. Your wife wasn’t shot this morning. I have a plan to trap those outlaws, to smoke them out. And I intend to personally witness the hanging of every single person involved.”

“Be reasonable, Edgeware.”

“They will hang. I vow it.”

“And what if the people you hope to entrap are your villagers? The men and women who have grown up with you? What if they are only trying to make a living during tough times?”

“What do you know of this?” So George
had
been holding back information. Nigel should have pressed him harder in London when his friend’s reluctance to speak on the matter first arose. If he had, Elsbeth’s life might have never been endangered.

“Nothing…nothing of import, Edgeware. A rumor here and there, is all.” George withdrew back into the shadows of the terrace. “I feel the need to scold you, though. I thought you were my friend.”

“I am. What the devil does our friendship have to do with anything?”

“I would have thought you’d want a friend to stand up with you at your marriage…”

“Oh, the marriage.” That was the last thing he wanted to discuss.

“According to Lady Olivia, your bride had been given a healthy draught of laudanum and was quite insensible all day. I wonder, does the new marchioness yet know of her elevated position?”

How was Elsbeth going to respond to the news of their hasty nuptials? Nigel had no clue. And though that singular worry had been gnawing at him all evening, it wasn’t something he was willing to admit to anyone. Not even to George.

With a shrug filled with aristocratic arrogance, he turned on his heel and walked away.

Perhaps he needed to find a new friend, one with a lesser ability to scour out details. But, in truth, he would never wish to trade George for some mindless dolt.

“I can imagine any woman’s ire when she discovers she was duped into a marriage, no matter how favorable the terms may be for her.” George chuckled. “Do you desire to have a second stand up with you when you tell her? The duel that will most assuredly occur promises to be terribly dangerous…for you, Edgeware.”

Chapter Seventeen

The next morning Elsbeth sat up groggily in bed. Her side, stiff and angry, punished her for the movement.

“Will you be needin’ another draught o’ the laudanum?” Molly, who was fussing by the bedside, was quick to inquire.

“No, please, no.” Her mouth tasted as if she’d swallowed a down-filled pillow during the night. “Plain water, if you please.”

Molly crossed the room to where a silver pitcher of water sat ready on a tray. “Brings back un’appy memories, this does.” She clicked her tongue.

Elsbeth agreed. Too many distressing memories were stirring, triggered by all too familiar twinges of pain and helplessness. At least she no longer had a husband to contend with. At least she was free to tend to her injury in peace.

“The ladies Olivia and Lauretta ’ave been pesterin’ me all morning to see you,” Molly said after she pressed a glass of cool water into Elsbeth’s fingers. She helped Elsbeth lift the drink to her lips.

“I think I would like my hair braided first.” She savored the tiny swallow of water and was ready for more when an even greater need suddenly plagued her. “Um, I believe I require a hand getting out of bed, as well.” She gave a meaningful glance toward the screened area in the corner where the chamber pot was hidden.

“Just like old times, milady,” Molly clucked sadly as she helped her mistress cross the room. Her eyes darkened. “That reminds me. That dastardly Lord Edgeware demands to have a word wit’ you as well.”

My, Molly had certainly taken a quick dislike to the dark lord. “You don’t approve of the Marquess?” Elsbeth asked after settling back into the bed.

“’E’s a bleedin’
man
, ain’t ’e?”

Elsbeth’s first instinct was to agree, but Lord Edgeware was so different from any man she’d ever known. She rather liked him—a realization that threatened to suck all the air from her chest.

“You better let my exuberant cousins in to see me now,” Elsbeth said as she fought to steady her breath.

Molly nodded to her mistress, and opened the door.

Olivia pushed her way in the room first with Lauretta not far behind.

“Oh Elly, we were so very worried,” Olivia cried. Fat tears dripped down her rosy cheeks. “You will live, though? Despite what everyone is saying?”

“Yes, my dear, I believe I will live. Who is saying I am dying?” She took Olivia’s hand and squeezed it.

“La, all the guests are saying you must surely be dying.” Lauretta rushed forward. “They are saying that is the only reason Lord Edgeware would marry you.”

“Beautiful girls.” She caressed her cousins’ bright cheeks. They were dears to worry after her so. “I am firm on my conviction. I will not marry Edgeware. I will not leave you.”

Olivia and Lauretta shared a silent frown.

“But-but Elly—”

“No, Olivia, my mind is set.”

“How could she not know?” Lauretta asked.

Olivia shrugged prettily and then drew Elsbeth’s hands into her own. “Elly, Lord Edgeware and you were married yesterday.”

Married?
Ice ran through Elsbeth’s blood.

The golden band encircling her ring finger served as proof. How could he do this to her? Without her consent? Without a license?

Devils and demons, she was plagued. She was doomed to be unhappy.

Molly pulled the curtains open. The light crimson color of the morning sky was darkening thanks to a line of encroaching storm clouds. Lord Mercer had once given her a painting that had captured such a sky.

“You will enjoy the colors,” he had said when he’d handed her the carefully wrapped package. That had been years ago when she still believed he was the artist. Foolish, blind child, she had once been, she had believed that a heartless man could create such wondrous works of art.

“You will enjoy the colors,” he had said. The colors in the landscape were indeed beautiful. But the brushstrokes were quick slashes of frustration. An ancient ruin sat on a distant hill, awash in a bath of golden sunlight. The ruin’s stone walls crumbling into the lush grasses. A tree, its pale bark scarred and its branches twisted from years of enduring storms, dominated the forefront. Only a few branches still supported life. A rocky creek frothed as it forced its way through countryside and threatened the roots of the dying tree.

When she’d seen the painting for the first time, tears had sprung to her eyes.

She should have known the truth right there and then. For all her husband saw in the painting was a collection of colors. While she had seen into the artist’s soul and loved him all the more for his ability to share his beautiful soul with the world.

And yet Edgeware…Edgeware, so different from her Lord Mercer, had merely thought the painting in his drawing room was no more than a “pretty splattering of colors”.

Dionysus…
Dionysus…
whoever he was, she needed to know why he would dupe her into yet another loveless marriage. Why did he need her to be the subject in yet another heartrending scene?

Why did he hate her so? What did she ever do to him to earn his scorn?

“Elsbeth?” Edgeware’s voice startled her. “You are crying?”

She tore her gaze from the window and glanced around the room. Her cousins were gone. Even Molly had slipped away, leaving her alone with him. It was now proper. According to her cousins, he was her husband now.

“No, my lord,” she said with a sniffle.

“No?” He dried her cheeks with a soft handkerchief anyhow. “It would please me if you would call me by my given name, Elsbeth. I am Nigel, if you recall.” He settled into a chair beside the bed. “I will not insist, though.”

Molly had propped Elsbeth up in the bed with several pillows and fixed her hair into a loose braid that neither pulled nor pinched. But even so, she was uncomfortable.

“Was it legal, my lord?” she asked, not ready to speak with him with the familiarity and intimacy that should be shared between a husband and wife. She didn’t trust him yet. And worse, she didn’t trust herself.

Edgeware frowned as he studied his nails. They were buffed and well cared for.

“I mean, my lord, there were no banns read. I cannot imagine there had been time to secure a special license.”

“Does it matter?” he asked, still not turning his attentions from those utterly clean nails.