Not Quite Married (40 page)

A few minutes later, Brien’s “husband” strode into the salon, wearing breeches, boots, shirt, and coat . . . looking freshly shaved. Weston looked him over, took another drink of the coffee that damned officious butler had brought him instead of brandy, and had to admit that this “Durham” fellow looked fairly respectable when fully clothed. Better than he had expected. And the fellow’s speech and manners were refined enough, a reasonable counterfeit of culture. But just as he was tempted to let down his guard, he remembered his daughter in dishabille, in this blackguard’s bed, and his defenses were back at full alert.

Young people these days . . . a bit of paper with a vicar’s name on it and they believed they were married. Well, he happened to know that a real marriage was a great deal more than just a romp in the hay with a few words dusted over it. There were all manner of things to consider . . . lineages and incomes and prospects and suitability . . .

But in fairness, as he cast the fellow alongside his willful progeny, he had to admit it was a fair-looking match.
If
they were really married,
if
they stayed married, and
if
they had children—

he deemed all those possibilities remote
—then they would make beautiful children.

Straining for civility he little felt, Weston launched his investigation. “Tell me, Durham, how do you come to be in this nobleman’s house? Are you related?”

Aaron poured himself a cup from the tray Peters had provided and sat down opposite the earl to answer. “The earl is my father.”

Weston nearly choked on a mouthful of coffee.

“You find that hard to believe,” Aaron stated, still gazing at Weston directly. “I can’t say I blame you. If it will help, feel free to check the family Bible in the library and to interrogate the servants. Some of them have been here since before my birth.”

“I . . . well, I . . .” Weston stammered. The man was disarmingly direct and Weston found himself drawn to the man in spite of everything that had occurred. “I will.”

Aaron smiled. Weston was shrewd. His willingness to hear them out lent credence to his reputation for fairness, but Aaron knew that the battle was far from over.

“And where did you meet my daughter?” He searched his memory and found no recollection of Aaron Durham’s name.

Aaron rose from his chair and stood near the fireplace, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I captained the vessel that carried Brien to the colonies this last spring. My ship,
The Lady’s
Secret,
is berthed even now in London.”

“How is it you, the son of a nobleman, captain a vessel?”

“I designed my ship and she turns a tidy profit for me. I press no claims against my father’s title or wealth. All I have is what I have made in this world.”

The earl was both intrigued and deflated. He had hoped, if the man were truly of noble birth and had access to reasonable resources, the situation might be saved.

“And just what have you made?” Weston demanded.

“I own one ship and am building two more. With two fellow investors, I just purchased a mercantile concern in the colonies, I own a large parcel of land on a river near Boston, and I have recently leased a house in Boston proper.”

“In other words . . . you don’t have much,” Weston said sharply.

“It’s a fair and reasonable start, your lordship,” Aaron declared, setting his cup down with a clatter and rising. “And it’s all been earned or made with my own two hands.”

Weston jumped up to meet his glare. “Then it’s a pity you weren’t born with four!”

“Father! Aaron!” Brien stood in the doorway looking shocked and alarmed at the exchange she had just witnessed. “How could you?” She planted herself between them and shoved a rolled bit of parchment at her father. “Perhaps this will provide a basis for you to trust what we say.”

“You’re not helping matters,” she said to Aaron in a loud whisper as she joined him by the settee. “He, like me, needs time to adjust to such drastic changes. Can’t you show him a little consideration?” She slid her hand into his and her clear gray eyes were an arousing mixture of indignation and pleading that Aaron found irresistible. He relaxed.

“The bishop?” the earl said irritably. “He knows about this now—I shall never live it down.” Then he looked back at the papers as if he half-expected the wording to have changed. It hadn’t. “You’re married. Truly, legally married.” His shoulders rounded slightly. “You must admit I have ample cause to doubt you . . . not the least of which is that until this day, I have never heard the name of Aaron Durham. I come to rescue my daughter and find her ensconced in a man’s bed, claiming to be his wife . .

. when only days before I heard her with my own ears declare that the institution of marriage was little more than sanctioned slavery.”

Brien took his hand and held it tightly in her own. “Please, Father, I know this is hard for you. But it’s not easy for me either.” She went to his side and drew him down on the settee beside her. “And you’re wrong. You have at least seen the name

‘Aaron Durham’ before.”

“Oh? Where?”

“On the document I presented to you when I told you I couldn’t marry Raoul.”

It took a moment for that news to sink in, and Weston’s jaw dropped. “No. That can’t be. I checked. I went to the church. I saw the register. . . .”

They explained to him the events that prevented their marriage from being registered, and how the proof of it sat in a half-burgled church rectory for the better part of two years.

When Weston insisted on knowing how they had met in the first place, Brien could only say that they met through a mutual acquaintance and Aaron quickly shifted attention to when they remet, on the ship bound for the colonies.

“I saw him several times at Silas and Helen’s house in Boston, while I was there,” Brien said, looking at her husband with unabashed affection. “He was charming and helpful. When that fire started at the warehouse, it was his crewmen who helped catch the men who set it. One thing led to another . . .”

“When my ship docked in London a few days back, I went to search out the truth about our vows. I”—he gave Brien a stubborn look—“couldn’t believe that we’d both been hoodwinked. When the new vicar and I located the certificate, we had to go to the bishop to see it registered. And the bishop himself offered to issue the second certificate.”

“So . . . you’re really married.” Weston looked at his daughter, reading in her glowing face her contentment with the bargain she had made. “Must have been a nasty shock to the marquis when you showed up, Durham.”

The earl related how he had refused to believe the marquis’s announcement of her engagement to Louis. The marquis’s letter described Brien’s delight in the match and begged the earl’s forgiveness for the unorthodox manner in which it took place. He had blamed it on the impetuosity of the young. But Weston, knowing Brien’s feelings about the marquis and the Trechaud family, knew something was amiss. He made plans and was just setting out from Bristol when Dyso arrived, behaving as if Brien were in imminent danger.

Brien felt burdened by her father’s grave concern. “I was in trouble. When I fled London, the marquis guessed that I planned to resist the marriage further. He followed me to the Hennipens’

to force me to marry Louis right away.” This next part was even more difficult. “He claimed I started the fire that killed Raoul . . .

that I meant for Raoul to die. And he produced a witness to swear to it. I was all alone and when Dyso left to find Aaron . . . I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid you might think it could be true.”

Weston had fidgeted uncomfortably beside her and suddenly pulled her into his arms, cutting off the flow of words. She was his child, his lovely Brien. He knew her honesty and now her truth. There was a long quiet moment as he held her against him, trying to quell the emotions that clouded his voice. Aaron sat uncomfortably by, knowing that this must be their time of reconciliation, but somehow envious of it.

“When I got to Bristol,” Weston continued, “I found the ships late, but not unreasonably so. One docked a mere three days after my arrival and my head clerk disavowed all knowledge of an urgent summons.” He released Brien from his tight embrace and stared down into her sweet face. “Probably more of the marquis’s work.” The muscles of his jaw worked as he struggled to contain his emotions. “If I could get my hands on that man, I’d see he was finished in London, I swear it. I’d see him ruined.”

“I don’t think you need worry about that,” Aaron said. “When we last saw him he was senseless and tied hand and foot, and headed to the coast for a visit with some of Squire Hennipen’s hardheaded French relations.” Weston’s frown prompted Aaron to be a bit more explicit: “He’s headed back to France. And a marquis, especially a greedy, brutal one, has a fairly short life expectancy in Paris these days.”

During the hearty breakfast that followed, Lawrence Weston watched his daughter and her rescuer-husband. Why was he always the last to know things where his daughter was concerned? He remembered the womanly glow about her when she returned from the colonies. He had marked well that the rigors of the voyage hadn’t dissipated her vitality one bit. So it was Aaron Durham that had put that womanly glow in her cheeks and that twinkle in her eyes.

He watched those eyes now as they flitted over Aaron’s face.

And he saw the color that flooded her cheeks when Aaron returned her gaze. The captain was strong and, from the scar on his face, no stranger to conflict. But his unusual eyes glowed adoringly when they turned on Brien, casting a gentler light over his angular features.

They were in love. The thought caused an ache in the middle of Weston’s chest. What more could he have wanted for his daughter than that?

IN THE END, the earl agreed to stay on another day. All that Aaron had told him was confirmed that very afternoon as he pored over books and documents in the library. The earl found himself liking the man’s boldness and honesty, admitting rather proudly that he couldn’t have imagined, much less conjured, a man whose stature, quickness of mind, and temperament would have mated so well with those of his offspring. Before dinner that evening, the earl was more than resigned to the match; he was pleased by it.

Only one thing disturbed him. Each time he delved into the man’s future or inquired about his prospects, Brien carefully, even slyly, steered them away from it. Weston watched her, troubled by her possible motives, even while admiring her skill.

“And what of this trading company of yours, Durham, what is it called?” Weston tried once more to broach the subject as they sat down to dinner.

Aaron threw a guarded glance at Brien before answering. “The Harrison Company, thus far. Most of the property is a recent acquisition and I’ve had little time to plan for its future. But I’m sure it will need a strong, understanding hand on the helm.”

Brien looked at him in surprise. She had no idea he had assets other than his ship. What trading company? Then the name

“Harrison” lodged in her mind. “Harrison” was the name of the company that bought—

“You?” She sputtered. “You’re Harrison? You bought Weston Trading?”

Aaron faced her with a coolness that fascinated Weston. He hoped the man could deal with the full fury of his daughter’s wounded pride. He would hate to lose this son-in-law just as he was getting used to the idea of having one.

Aaron leaned forward and spoke in quietly determined tones. “I told you I would hate to see so promising a venture fall into the wrong hands. It was an excellent investment, with a real future in the colonies.” Aaron leaned forward with a dazzling grin. “Now don’t be prickly about this, Brien. I won’t deny I had some personal interest in the holdings because of you, but I would never have risked my partners’ money in any venture, based solely on sentiment.”

“Your partners’ money?” Brien’s irritation was rising.

“I used some of the money I raised in New York to buy your holdings. My mother’s name was Harrison before she married and I felt it only proper that her name should be used.” He smiled with bone-melting charm into Brien’s narrowing eyes. “She had a good head for business, you see, and invested wisely. Unusual for a woman.”

Weston looked on, amazed by the man’s courage in the face of his stubborn and independent-minded daughter’s stinging pride.

“I thought if . . . if Brien Weston Durham wanted a hand in running the business, she could have it,” he said. “But the business is in Boston. And, of course, I don’t know how much time she would have anyway . . . what with working on the house and all.”

“House?” She was gripping the edge of the table. Her eyes were white-hot.

“The one that sits half-begun on my land just outside of Boston.

You remember the meadow and lane near the stream? It sits there, awaiting your word on its completion. I felt certain that, with your experience here, you would do a better job at it than I would.” He watched her struggle inwardly with her pleasure at his revelation and her decision that they would stay in England.

“But, of course, that house would be in
Boston
.”

Then he played the final card in his desperate hand. “I took a house . . . until the new one is finished. I even engaged a housekeeper. She’s quite capable, but—I swear—she has the tongue of a fishwife when crossed. Knowing how you love a challenge, I thought I would leave it to you to deal with Ella.”

“You— You’re her mysterious Mr. George?” She looked as if she might stab him with her fork. “Oh, that’s low, Aaron Durham. You employed Ella as your housekeeper and you think you can use it to lure me to Boston. You think I’m so in love with you that I’ll follow you halfway around the world to your precious colonies . . . and build ships and trading companies . . .

and have babies and have adventures . . . and stare into western sunsets with you until I’m old and gray. . . .”

Aaron smiled. “I can’t say what you’ll choose to do. I can only say that’s how much I love you.”

Brien’s eyes started to prickle with tears and she produced a handkerchief and dabbed frantically at her eyes.