To Marry a Marquess (35 page)

William lifted his finger to his forehead and pulled the trigger. "He shot the villain right between the eyes."

"William," Victoria admonished. "It was not that way at all."

But it was too late. Phoebe was out cold, lying on George's lap. Despite the predicament, the duke seemed to be enjoying his hold on Phoebe. He lifted his gaze to the boy. "Go on, William."

With Drake's help, the story of Wendover's demise continued with the added note of Lord Nightham's murder at the inn.

William plopped himself on the Aubusson rug.  "The next thing that happened was the wedding."

"Wedding?" everyone asked in unison. Phoebe woke up.

"Yes, the wedding!" William ran to the sofa and threw his arms around Victoria and Drake. "We were married!"

The newlyweds left Phoebe's townhouse two hours later with Victoria's trunks in tow. When the carriage door closed, Drake drew in a deep breath. He was finally alone with his new bride.

However, before the vehicle moved on its way, Drake turned in surprise when he heard William's voice, bellowing like a foghorn at the bottom steps of the townhouse. "Wait, me pirate!"

Drake gazed out the window in disgust. The boy's feet were slapping hard against the walk.

"Wait!" William shouted, waving his hands.

Without hesitation, Drake grabbed the attention of the driver. "Move, Henry! Now! Double your wages this week if you lose him!" The horses moved faster.

Victoria's dark lashes swept off her cheeks in surprise. "But Jonathan, could we not—"

"No, we certainly cannot!" In one swift jerk he pulled his wife onto his lap.

"But what about William?" She laughed and turned her ear toward the curtained window. "What is he yelling about?"

"Who cares?"

She frowned.

Drake blew out a tired sigh. "Very well. I believe he said something about a wedding gift."

"A gift?"

He lifted her chin with his finger. "Forget about the gift. I love you."

"Oh, Jonathan. I love you, too."

He slipped a hand to her hip and could hear the thumping of her heart as his mouth swooped down to capture hers.

And then she screamed.

He yelped in shock as his new wife flew off his lap and ended up in the corner of the carriage. It happened so suddenly, Drake thought it was a dream. But he watched in horror as his wife crumpled into a tight little ball of shivering fear.

Despite the horrid fact that the exact moment he touched her, she had blasted his eardrums straight to hell, it took him five wretched seconds to deduce the exact cause of her scream was not because of him.

"Confound it all," he snapped. "I cannot believe this."

Victoria's arms flew wildly in the air as she scooted further into the corner. "Remove it at once! Jonathan! Pleeeease!"

"It's only Whitie." Drake stated in stupefied amazement as he grabbed the mouse off his wife's quivering legs and dangled the little beast by its tail.

"Are you laughing at me?" she asked. "Because, if you are, so help me ..."

She left the threat unsaid, and Drake grimaced, swallowing his chuckle as thoughts of that little pirate invaded his mind. He stared at the shivering creature hanging mercilessly in the air, its pink feet running nowhere fast.

"Do you understand, sweetheart?"

Victoria's brows slammed into a large V. "No, I do not!"

Drake smiled, watching a pair of dainty ankles tilt his way.
"This,"
he wiggled the mouse, "is William's wedding gift. He must have put the beast inside the carriage before we were packed.  I’m assuming it’s Whitie, but it could be one of his offspring.  Don’t know how long a mouse lives."

"Oh," was all she said when Drake plopped the poor little creature inside one of her hat boxes, replacing the lid.

"Come here, sweetheart." Drake grinned and gently eased her on his lap. Her hold on his heart tightened. Precision and order in his life had flown out the window the minute he had laid eyes on this woman. But who cared about order in his life? Not him. Not anymore.

"And Whitie or whoever it is will not chew through that box?" she asked, clutching him tightly.

"Trust me, sweetheart."

"Oh, Jonathan, I do trust you. Always." She put
a soft
hand to his cheek.

When his wife's shaking hands circled his neck, he groaned. Yes, indeed, he would have to thank that little pirate many times over for the little wedding gift. And to think he only had to ask for a few of those furry gifts whenever his wife was angry with him. He would have her in his arms in no time. Yes, marriage would be wonderful.

"Jonathan?"

"Hmmm?" He glanced over her shoulder and took a quick peek at his pocket watch. Time was of the essence here. He snapped the watch closed and placed it on the seat. If everything went as planned, he would be at his townhouse in seven and a half minutes. Up the stairs. In his chambers—

"Jonathan, I said I loved you."

"I love you, too. For all time. Now trust me and don't worry. Not even about Captain Whitie or whoever. He's safe and secure. There is no way out." He watched a smile play across her lips and kissed her with all the passion he had held in for months.

He had no notion that only two feet away, a small white mouse peered through a freshly bitten hole in one red-striped hat box, and was chewing as fast as its little teeth could to rejoin the party.

This time Victoria's scream slammed clear down to Drake's toes. He jerked back, biting back an oath.

"Depend upon it! I am going strangle that cousin of yours!"

To Drake's horror, the mouse scampered off Victoria's skirt and moved beneath the seat, dragging Drake's beloved timepiece behind him like some prized medal won in battle.

"Devil take it! Look at that!"

Victoria giggled. "It looks as if your time is gone forever, my lord."

Pausing, he shifted his gaze back to her. "Well, what the devil are we going to do about that hideous beast?"

"Confound it all," she said. "Forget about it."

His jaw dropped. "What did you say?"

She smiled. "Forget about the time, Jonathan. Trust me." With a saucy smile, she snaked her hands around his neck and brought her lips to his ear. "We can make our own time now."

After those endearing words, she kissed him, ending all discussion about the mouse that had by now found a hole in the floorboard, and was dropping a certain gold pocket watch onto the cobblestone streets below.

The ceremonious clank turned Victoria's head. But to Jonathan Gorick Kingston, the Marquess of Drakefield, he heard nothing but the whispers of silk and lace.

He had lost all track of time, all track of order, all track of anything and everything but love.

ONCE UPON A DIAMOND

Excerpt, Copyright © Teresa McCarthy, 2012

All rights reserved

Chapter One

England

T
he blasted diamond was nothing but trouble. Tristan Charles Fullerton
combed a hand through his jet-black hair as he stood in the middle of the grand foyer of Lancewood Hall, a half day’s ride from London. Rain pelted the door beside him as thunder rumbled through the darkened sky. He peeled off his wet cloak, his jaw tightening. The weather was horrid, but it was nothing compared to the storm swirling in his soul.

A frown marred his brow as he raised a hand to the missive tucked inside his jacket. Indeed, the clandestine orders from the Foreign Office could spawn more trouble than the notion of the Prince Regent and Napoleon sharing a mistress.

He squinted at the swaying silhouette approaching from the dimly lit hallway. His lips twitched as the hammering rain mingled with the sound of the butler’s shoes clacking unevenly against the marble floor. “Perkins?” 

“Evening, my lord.”

Tristan lifted a black brow at the pungent smell of spirits drifting his way. “Good evening. Delightful weather we’re having, is it not?”

“Delightful?” Perkins frowned, his leathery face crinkling with displeasure. The older man stood beside Tristan, shaking the rainwater off his master’s black cloak. A row of silver buttons winked against the light from the chandelier above them. “Would think that Little Corsican himself is knocking at the door.” 

Tristan grinned and slapped the water off his breeches. Devil take it. Perkins was a stubborn old crow. He had told the man to let the younger servants answer the evening calls.

“Why, if I had a chance at him,” Perkins gave the wet cloak another shake, accidentally sending a silver button clanking to the floor, “He would be mincemeat, my lord.” 

For a second, the old butler stopped his tirade against Napoleon, stooped down to pick up the lost button, and slowly unfolded his body. “Pure mincemeat.” 

Tristan pressed his lips together to suppress a chuckle. “My dear Perkins, I do believe Boney’s somewhere else at the moment. A little place called St. Helena.”

The butler raised a white brow as if digesting that thought. “Indeed. I would have saved England time and money if they sent him to me. Young people today don’t know a thing about war, you know.” With a proud jerk of his head, Perkins turned and began swerving back down the hall, announcing he would have the valet take care of the button in no time.

Tristan shook his head as he strode toward the stairs. It was fortunate his business in Town had been a success. The family coffers had been swiftly dwindling due to his father’s quest, and that had put a strain on everyone, including the servants.

In need of a drink, Tristan started toward the library, favoring his right leg as he climbed the stairs. Hell and spitfire, if it hadn’t been for that American chit years ago, his foot wouldn’t be throbbing like a fat man’s gout.

Ambling past the thick oak doors, he raised his gaze to the eerie glow of the solitary candle shimmering on top of the marble mantelpiece above the hearth. A deep sigh rumbled in the air, and he froze. His gaze shifted to his younger brother seated in the leather chair. “Edward?” 

Holding his breath, Tristan took a hesitating step forward. The young man’s broad shoulders were slumped over their father’s desk, his head resting near the ink well.

With a groan, the twenty-two-year-old slowly raised his head, brushing a limp hand through his sandy brown hair, breaking the awkward silence. “Trist, thank heaven you’re here.”

The strain in Edward’s voice sent a prickle of alarm down Tristan’s spine. “What’s wrong?” 

Frowning, Edward flagged a paper in the air. “He’s dead, Tristan. It’s all right here.”

“Who’s dead?” 

Edward dropped his head into his hands. The paper fell beside him as he mumbled, “Father. Father’s dead.” 

“Father?” Tristan’s voice exploded in shock as he stalked across the room, his Hessian boots brushing across the Aubusson rug. “The devil he is.”