Not Quite Married (5 page)

Brien lay propped on the pillows with her arm over her eyes.

Ella’s arrival and bustling concern had given her a much-needed jolt back to reality. And the reality she faced was dire indeed.

Her father had sold her to a greedy, conniving rakehell of a man in exchange for a grandchild to carry on the family name. He wanted an heir and she was merely the means, the vessel through which he would realize that abominable ambition.

Every muscle in her body went taut with resistance.

She would never submit to such a barbaric arrangement.

Something had to be done, something to rid her of the preening Raoul. She thought of confronting her father with what she’d heard and demanding that he break the marriage agreement.

There would be financial consequences, of course The marquis would demand damages and her father would be furious. Once the conniving Frenchman was paid off and packed off, her father would likely turn his considerable anger on her. And there would be social consequences as well . . . the disgrace of a broken engagement, coming so quickly on the heels of the betrothal announcement. There could be no public explanation, so she would be a social pariah . . . stricken from guest lists and shunned by proper society for decades to come.

Good. She slid from the bed to stand defiantly on her own two feet. She had no desire to experience another night under the quizzing glass of society. She would be quite content to live out her days as the earl of Southwold’s plain, spinsterish daughter.

A complication struck her with such force that she swayed and had to steady herself against the bed. No matter how successfully she escaped Raoul Trechaud, her father’s motive for matching her with him still remained. He wanted a grandchild, an heir of his own bloodline, and she was the only vessel qualified to produce one. What was to keep him from finding her another husband?

Surely not. She began to wring her hands. Where would he find someone willing to overlook the scandal of a broken engagement? Someone to “plow and plant” a plump social outcast and turn her into one of England’s noble brood mares? A sick feeling appeared in her stomach. Turn over any rock between Portsmouth and Edinburgh. The country was full of men to whom piles of coin would be incentive enough to abandon decency and honor and overlook a woman’s implacable loathing for matrimony.

Her blood drained, leaving her face pale and her hands icy. She had no intention of jumping out of the frying pan into the fire.

Before she spoke to her father, she had to be certain she would not only be rid of Raoul, but would be ineligible for pairing with any other fortune hunter as well.

What did it take to make a woman truly unable to marry?

Constitutional weakness? Deformity? Illness? Mental derangement? In the history of England’s nobility there were examples of women in just such sad conditions, who had been forced to marry and produce offspring for “dynastic” reasons.

She was certainly of age . . . healthy . . . of sound mind . . . of demonstrated good character. What impediment could she possibly produce that would make her utterly ineligible to marry?

She paced intently, going over and over the possibilities, refusing to dismiss any prospective solution, no matter how absurd or extreme. None of them seemed to be free of problems and potential for disaster. When the idea struck she strode faster, her eyes darting furiously over an interior landscape only she could view.

It was dangerous. It was unthinkable. But it was probably her only way out.

The door opened and Ella backed through with a linen-draped tray in her hands. Turning, she stopped dead at the sight of Brien pacing between bed and window seat.

“My lady, what are ye doing? Ye’ll catch yer death.” She quickly deposited the tray on a bedside table and hurried over to usher her mistress back into bed. “I spoke with ’is lordship a bit ago an’

said ye were ailin’ an’ unable t’ go on t’ London for yer final fittings.”

“On the contrary.” Brien resisted Ella’s pull and straightened, raising her chin. “My grievous indisposition will disappear in plenty of time for us to set out tomorrow for London, as planned.”

“It will?” Ella scowled, puzzled by Brien’s emphatic forecast of her recovery.

“It will. I need to get to London as quickly as possible.”

“Whatever for?”

“I need to get married.”

Ella’s scowl deepened. “But ye
will
be married. In yon chapel. In three weeks.”

Brien produced a fierce smile that contained equal parts of pain and determination. “I’ve decided I simply cannot wait that long.”

Five

IF YOU WALK OUT NOW, don’t bother ever coming back.”

Aaron Durham paused with his hand on the polished brass knob.

Go or stay. His father’s ultimatum had a tempting air of finality about it. Choose now, once and for all.

However inviting that promise of finality might seem, it was in fact an illusion. He had lived long enough to know that if he chose what his father demanded, he would suffer this hollowing pain in his chest again and again . . . would revisit this cursed choice every day for the rest of his life. His heart would not let him do otherwise. The sight of ripples on a lake, the smell of the sea riding inland on the wind of a storm . . . a toy boat gliding across a garden pond . . . any sensation evoking water and movement would be a reminder of what might have been.

His father must have read indecision in his pause by the door.

Aaron could feel the old earl approaching, stopping behind him, searching for whatever might tip the balance in favor of rank and duty. What would it take to make his son abandon his absurd notion of
working
like some gritty little tradesman? What would it take to get his son to accept the marriage that had been arranged and redirect his energies into making an heir on the chit?

“It would take more than you have, old man,” Aaron said, startling the earl with an answer to those unspoken questions.

“A moment ago it would have taken a few thousand pounds,” the old man taunted.

Aaron’s hand tightened on the doorknob. “A moment ago, all I wanted was for you to free my accounts so that I could finish my ship. Now I want to finish my ship,
and
do it as far away from you as possible.”

“Ungrateful whelp!” The disdain in the old man’s voice raked him like claws. “This is a childish fancy . . . playing with boats!”

“
Building ships.
You’ll never understand the distinction, will you?” Frustration gripped Aaron’s chest so that he had to fight to draw breath enough to speak. “Because you can’t imagine what it is like to build something . . . to see your design, your brainchild take flesh and bone . . . to shape it with your own hands and test it against wind and sea. You’ve never produced anything in your life.”

“Except a fool of a son.” The earl grabbed his shoulder and pulled, turning him partway. “You’ve had your last shilling from your mother’s legacy. You’re cut off and you’ll stay cut off. I’m the trustee; I have the legal right. Unless you agree to come back to Wiltshire right now and make plans to wed, you won’t see another penny.”

“That money is mine.” Aaron wrenched free of his father’s grip.

“My right. My future.”

“Not anymore, it isn’t.” For a moment that declaration crackled on the air between them. “If your brother Edward must take up your title, then he will take up your future as well.”

The decision was made. It would take a while for Aaron to appreciate the irony in the fact that it was his father who actually voiced his ultimate and final answer. He was quaking so with anger, that all he could do was storm out the door. Behind him his father spewed impotent fury.

“Worthless . . . ungrateful wretch! You’ll regret this!”

The night was cool and the paving stones were wet from a recent rain. Aaron paused in the middle of the square surrounded by fashionable new London town homes and looked back at the doors that had slammed shut behind him. They would not reopen.

What had just been done, would never be undone.

Battling the turbulence raging in him, he struck off on the first street leading east, toward the docks. There was only one place for him to go now, only one place he wanted to be.

When he reached the shipyards, he made his way past several dry docks to the berth where his ship was under construction. He stood looking down the long, gently curved keel. The sight of that substantial spine and those long, graceful ribs drained some of the anger and frustration from him. This was what he wanted . . . to flesh out these timber bones with strakes and decking and rigging

. . . like Ezekiel of yore, to witness the fleshing of dry bones into something living. Wanted it so badly that he ached.

Climbing the scaffolding, he slipped inside the skeletal structure and walked its length, running his hands up and down the exquisitely curved and planed ribs. In his mind’s eye he could see how she would look finished . . . her towering masts, her painted strakes, her polished railings. He could almost smell the oiled teak of the decking and the must of the new canvas sails.

His breath caught as he inhaled, seeking a trace of those half-realized scents.

He would find another way to get the money he needed. Five thousand pounds was a considerable sum, but not exactly a fortune. Perhaps if he went to the courts . . . Most of London’s magistrates belonged to his father’s damnable club. He might try borrowing. But his father raced horses and went shooting with most of London’s bankers. He could sell something—everything.

He had a bit of silver, a number of fine garments, a coach and a string of horses. But then, how could he convince others to invest in his new ship design if it appeared to have paupered him?

Anger and loss swelled in him, blocking out all further thought for the moment. He whirled and headed for the nearest tavern.

The Aces & Arms lay just outside the entrance to the shipyards and catered to a seafaring crowd; commercial seamen and navy tars mingled with workers from the lower rungs of the shipwrights’ crafts. It was a bright, noisy place filled with a haze of tobacco and fermented sweat and the smell of potent, bitter ale.

He entered, sat down at a small table near the bar, and ordered whiskey and ale . . . and plenty of it. Somewhere in the middle of his second drink, a body slammed into his table, knocking over the pitcher of ale he intended to consume, and causing him to spill whiskey down the front of his shirt and waistcoat.

“Dammit!” He was on his feet in a flash, itching to pound somebody, anybody.

“Ye drunken fool—of all times fer ye to get shite-faced!” A knotty old seaman rolled across the table, hit the floor, and whirled to face his attacker with raised fists. Aaron found himself smack between a crusty old salt and a hard-eyed gent in a frock coat and flashy red satin waistcoat. A roar and a fist came out of nowhere and Aaron reacted instinctively, dodging and reversing to plant a fist square in an anger-bloated face.

The fight was over as quickly as it had begun and the trade resumed as if nothing of consequence had occurred.

Aaron looked down to find the nattily dressed gent sprawled senseless in the sawdust on the rough stone floor. The gent had swung on the old man, but connected with him instead and met his match.

“Now look what ye done—” The old man turned on him with a snarl, but stopped dead. He narrowed one eye, recalculating and correcting course as he looked Aaron over. “Well, now. Ain’t you smart. Laid out ol’ Jake Stokley straight enough.”

Aaron rolled his shoulders in annoyance, straddled his chair, and sat down again to resume his drinking.

“Yer an’ officer, ain’t ye?” The old man gave a yellowed grin.

“Navy, mebee.” When Aaron didn’t answer, he continued. “Ye been aboard ships. That much I can tell.”

“I stood a few watches behind a wheel,” Aaron finally answered, mostly because general civility was a damned hard habit to break.

He scowled, determined that his breeding and privileged upbringing would not interfere further with the rip-roaring bender he was embarking upon. “Shove off.”

“The way I see it, ye owes me . . . seein’s ’ow ye coldcocked my partner an’ rendered ’im useless.”

“Owe you? Your losses are none of my concern, old man.”

Aaron looked up with a glint of warning in his eye. “Unless you’d prefer to join your ‘partner’ on the floor.”

The old fellow glanced at the dandified Jake Stokley, who was even now being dragged toward the rear door of the Aces & Arms and the alley beyond. Not the slightest bit intimidated, the old salt began to look him over and then stopped to look him square in the face and stare into his mouth.

“Got most o’ yer teeth, ’ave ye?”

“What the devil? Get away from me before I lose what’s left of my temper!” Yet, as he poured and drank, the buzzing sea-gnat refused to leave.

“Ye got a wife?”

Aaron blinked, surprised by the old man’s nerve, then turned aside with a snort of irritation and poured himself another whiskey.

The old man regarded both him and his response for a moment.

“A single man, eh? Then how’d ye like to make a fair bit o’

scratch? One night’s work. Ye’d make enough silver to keep ye in whiskey for years.”

“Go away. Leave me be.”

Instead, the old man leaned closer and whispered. “A thousand quid. Mebee more.”

A thousand pounds.
Sure. And then he’d be invited to tea with the queen. But he found himself staring at the old man. The old salt’s gaze was steady and his chin was firm with resolve. Every muscle in Aaron’s body began to tighten with attention. He had to be out of his mind—his gaze fell to the amber liquid hovering near his lips—or drunk. He lowered the glass without sipping.

“One night’s work, eh?” He searched the old man’s face, intrigued by the determined gleam in those age-faded eyes. “Got to be something illegal to net you that kind of blunt. Who are you going to rob?”

The old man leaned still closer, a grin spreading over his wily face. “No thievin’, old son. Not for old Billy Rye. That’s me.

Billy Rye.” He jerked a thumb at his chest. “Nothin’ dangerous neither.”