The Rake's Arranged Marriage (9 page)

Just behind the chapel, she could make out two small outbuildings, probably living quarters for whomever maintained this lovely, secret place. Although it was old, it was immediately evident to Cara that great care was being taken in its upkeep. And, of course, there were the lights in the windows to announce the presence of someone living within.

They dismounted in silence and tied their horses to a post just outside the chapel's door. The dew was shining like diamonds in Lord Eliot's wild hair, and his blue eyes glinted merrily in the moonlight. He was very much a man – in his tastes as well as his physical body. But right now the look on his face reminded Cara of a small boy with a secret that he wanted to tell very badly. She couldn't help but smile.

"Well?" she asked.

"Well what, Lady Boyle?" he replied innocently.

"Are you going to explain all of this or keep me wondering?"

He chuckled warmly. He seemed to have sobered up some since their meeting in the parlor.

"This chapel was built by my forebears many, many years ago. My mother and father were married here." He stepped close now, looking down into her face. She felt her breathing quicken. Something very big was imminent, but she couldn't yet say what.

"And you?" she asked softly. "Were you and Sarah joined in this place?"

"No," Eliot replied. His eyes drifted wistfully away for a moment. "We were married in town." He cleared his throat and refocused his attention on Cara. "With Sarah, I was set on a large affair – lots of witnesses and congratulations. I've changed somewhat since then."

Cara raised an eyebrow. "Oh really?" she asked. "Mrs. Cooper said you sent invitations to half of London for our ceremony."

Eliot sighed.

"Mrs. Cooper does love her gossip, doesn't she? But she's not always the most reliable source for accurate information."

"What do you mean?"

"I did send invitations, to be sure. They were for a reception party in the afternoon. But no one was invited to our ceremony."

"But, then-?" Cara began, confused.

"Will you step inside, Lady Boyle?"

Eliot's tone was low and imploring. And his expression was softer and kinder than she had yet seen. This was the same man who had offered her the choice in the gallery, the man she innately understood would never force her to do anything she didn't want to do. The man who, for all his faults, was probably a better match for her than any other. That was what she'd come to believe in the time she'd spent alone, thinking and wandering Hedgeton for the past four days.

 She took a breath. Then, she placed her hand on the thick wooden door of the small chapel. It gave easily, and its hinges were quiet.

When Cara stepped inside, it seemed as though time suspended. The tiny space was lovelier than she ever could have dreamed. Bedecked with fresh flowers, whose aroma perfumed the air, and lit with at least a hundred bright ivory candles, the chapel was simply breathtaking. Finally, her eyes landed on a white-robed priest standing at the altar some fifteen paces away. He was smiling, and his hands were folded before him placidly as he waited.

"What is this?" Cara breathed. Her words bounced off the walls pleasantly. She turned to Lord Eliot, expecting him to be standing beside her. But instead, he was down on a knee.

"Lady Boyle," he began, reaching up to take her gloved hand gently between his strong, warm palms. "Am I very much mistaken in my assumption that a large ceremony would have been somewhat uncomfortable for you?"

"No," she whispered. "You are correct in that assumption."

"Then...would you do me the honor of marrying me here? Now?"

She was speechless for a long moment. Once again, he was offering her a choice, and her hesitations reared up suddenly. There were things about the man before her that she couldn't comprehend – and didn't condone. His drinking. His stubbornness. The fact that he was unpredictable. But did that unpredictability mean that he was
unreliable
? Once again, she remembered how he'd cared for her when she was hurt. Looking down into his earnest face, she realized that she knew a great truth: there was a spark between them – a spark of understanding...and a spark of raw desire that had initially manifested as quarrelsomeness. But she wanted Lord Quentin Eliot. She wanted
all of him
. It was clear that he was prepared to take all of her, as well.

"Yes. Yes, Lord Eliot, I will marry you. Right here. Right now."

***

The priest, one Father Matthew, turned out to be younger than Cara initially thought. He greeted them in low, soft tones and bade them kneel before the altar for the ceremony. The chapel was silent and serene, completely devoid of the prying eyes and whispering gossips that would no doubt have populated a normal wedding. She had never even dared hope that her union with Lord Eliot would be this way: private and solemn. But now that it was happening, she felt keenly aware of the tender consideration with which her fiancé had planned this. No wonder she hadn't seen him in four days – he'd been busy.

They spoke the words after the young priest, each in turn, repeating the vows that would bind them henceforth. Then they stood and faced each other. Father Matthew bid them take each other by the hand as man and wife. They did so and looked into each other's eyes. Lord Eliot's cheeks were still a bit flushed from the drink, and his hair was mussed and damp from their ride through the moors. But never had Cara beheld a countenance as pleasing as that of her husband's.

"You may kiss your bride, sir," Father Matthew said softly.

 A swelling sense of desire – and mingled pride – overtook Cara as Lord Eliot inclined his head, bringing his lips close to hers. She was half-afraid this was all a dream, but his warmth seemed real enough...

And then his lips were pressing gently to hers. This kiss was different than the one they'd shared in the gallery. There was an unmistakable carefulness in this, a tenderness. It made Cara's heart melt with desire for the man to whom she had just pledged her life.

When it was over, Lord Eliot turned to the priest.

"Thank you, Father Matthew,"

"'Twas my pleasure, sir. Now, if you please, I'll change in my quarters and take the air."

"Do ride Lodestar, if you wish."

"Truly, my Lord?"

"Of course! She's not tired yet. I know you miss being able to keep a horse out here. Please."

"Thank you, Lord Eliot," Father Matthew said. He was already moving toward a small door at the rear of the chapel. "Oh, and the rectory has been laid out, as per your request." The young priest blushed at this, Cara noted. "Many good wishes to you and to your new Lady."

And then he was gone.

"Who is he?" she couldn't help but wonder aloud, looking after him.

"A young, devout man who wishes for nothing but solitude and security."

"Surely there's more to it than that."

"There is. He's the son of a certain Duke, who entered the priesthood against his father's wishes. When he finished his training, he had no help and no prospects. I heard of his predicament and offered him the position here."

"That was good of you," she murmured, looking deeply into her husband's eyes.

"My motivations were not
entirely
charitable, I must admit. I'd let the chapel fall into terrible disrepair, much to my own shame. Setting young Father Matthew up here was a way to correct the fault."

"Still. It was a kindness." Her heart was swelling with emotion – and sudden, sharp desire. She knew Father Matthew had left them alone to a purpose.

"I'd like to see this rectory, husband."

***

The room had been laid with obvious care. There was wine and fruit set on a small, simple table in the corner. The glow of the lamps was soft and inviting. There was a warm, merry blaze in the small fireplace and extra wood stacked nearby. The bed's frame was rough-hewn, but its mattress soft and downy, and the linens clean and fresh. It was compact and cozy – just the sort of space in which Cara felt most at ease.

But as soon as the door closed behind her, it seemed that the walls were pressing in on her. Her memories began to creep up.
Unwelcome
. She knew that tonight would be nothing like the dreadful evening of her marriage to Lord Boyle. But still...anxiety clutched at her from the inside, ruining all the sweetness and that she had felt just moments ago. This was exactly what had happened in the hall outside the gallery. Irrational, she knew. But she couldn't help it. When Lord Eliot put his hand on her arm, she was cold and full of trepidation.

"What is it, my Lady?" he said softly. There was no judgment in his voice, only concern.

"I..." she began, but her throat was suddenly very dry.

"Here, sit down."

Eliot led her to the bed and got her seated. Then he knelt before her and unfastened the ribbon that held her cape on. When she shrugged it off, Cara felt somewhat better. She was warm and shaky.

"You're trembling," he breathed. "Stay there."

Quick as a wink, he was across the small room. He poured her a draught of wine and brought it back. Gratefully, she took the cup from him and swallowed a mouthful of the tart liquid. She could feel it working on her almost instantly.   

"Thank you," she murmured.

Eliot arose and repositioned himself beside her on the bed. Not touching her, just sitting close.

"My Lady," he said. "I first saw this manner of yours in the hall, outside the gallery. Just after we'd..."

"Just after we'd kissed, I know."

"I feel now as I did then, although I was so startled by it at first that I didn't know how to react. That's partly why I stayed away for the ensuing days."

"I'm sorry," she said helplessly. She was unable to turn to her husband, unable to meet his eyes. Her emotions were a swirling, confused jumble. But she understood more than ever that she was safe with this man. She knew she had to speak the truth that she'd kept hidden for so long. It was great wall standing in her way, and she had to knock it down once and for all. With her eyes were focused straight ahead, she began.

"I do not wish to be this way. Hard and strange. I desire you more than I have ever desired a man before. But there is something...oh, God, how to begin?"

"It's alright," he whispered slowly. "It's alright, Cara."

Something about hearing her given name on his lips for the first time made Cara able to go on. She turned to Eliot now, looking into his eyes.

"When I married Lord Boyle, it was not my will, but my father's."

He nodded slightly in understanding.

"I accepted it as my duty. I had even convinced myself that it was for the best. Lord Boyle's name and situation would bring us added security. And I knew I had to marry someone at some point. Why not that wealthy old man? He seemed congenial enough, although I felt nothing for him in my heart."

She paused to swallow. Very carefully, Lord Eliot reached out and took her hand reassuringly.

"Our wedding day came. The ceremony took place. And, afterwards, there was a great reception at Boyle Estate. My husband, he...got very drunk. People laughed and pointed and gossiped, but I ignored it all and excused myself early. Late in the night, Lord Boyle presented himself in our bedroom. He was aggressive. Quite mad, really. He confessed to me that he'd squandered the entirety of his fortune and all that remained was Boyle manor. He was a gambler, you see – a fact which he'd somehow been able to keep from public knowledge. He told me that his only reason for marrying me was my dowry."

Lord Eliot's eyes were widening now. But she pressed on.

"That fact alone I could have borne. Many men – and women, for that matter – have wedded for money. But it was what happened after that hurt me. Hurt me in a way that I have still not recovered from. I told Lord Boyle that I was glad of his honesty. And then, I entreated him to let me have the night alone to consider all he'd said. As I told you, he was quite drunk. Unfit for any...
consummation
to occur. But he wouldn't be pacified. When I resisted him, he slapped me. He tore my clothes, trying to get at me, to
take
me."

Her eyes had drifted and become unfocused as she relived the terrible night. So, she didn't see that his brow had become creased with anger. She didn't see the effect the tale was having on him. She was simply letting it spill forth.

"I saw an opportunity to protect myself," she went on. "Lord Boyle's balance was not sure. I caught him off guard and pushed him. I didn't mean for him to fall so hard! When he hit the ground, he began to clutch as his chest. His face turned purple... I knew that he was having an attack of some sort. But for a long moment, I did nothing. I was too frightened, too shocked. I truly hadn't meant to hurt him so badly. By the time I regained my composure and ran into the hall to find someone, it was too late."

Cara's last words seemed to hang in the air of the small rectory. Having said it all, she felt as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. A sob escaped her quite without warning, and then she was crying in earnest, the tears streaming down her face.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" she cried.

"You've nothing be sorry for!" Lord Eliot said. His tone was gentle, but firm. There was real empathy in it. She buried her face in his shoulder, wanting to be close to him...because he knew her now. He knew even her worst secret. And still he was sitting with her, pressing her hand, emanating warmth and understanding.

His hand was on her head now, his fingers winding through her hair. He held her close and let her cry.

As her sobs began to die down, Cara became aware of the beating of Eliot's heart. Her ear was now against his breast. The regular thump-thump was strong and reassuring. She put her palm against the firm, flat expanse of his chest and felt how solid and warm he was. His arms around her felt so good. His neck and chin had a light dusting of stubble... She pressed her lips to his neck, tasting the sweet saltiness of his skin in a kiss. She kissed him again. And again. Soon, she'd worked her way up to his mouth. When their lips met this time, she felt nothing but a sweet, singing urgency from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. There was no pain in her any more. There was nothing but love...and
desire
.