Trouble at the Wedding (16 page)

Henrietta walked to the door, and Annabel returned her attention to her uncle. “We'll talk about this again,” she told him through clenched teeth. “When I'm not mad enough to spit nails. That man doesn't get a penny of money, yours or mine, understand? And you are just damned lucky I love you so much,” she choked, her throat closing up, “ 'cause if I didn't, I think I'd have to kill you, Uncle Arthur.”

Henrietta opened the door, cutting off any reply her uncle might have made, and at the sound of Bernard's voice, Annabel froze, glad he couldn't see her from this part of the sitting room.

“Mrs. Chumley,” he said, “may I speak with your daughter, please?”

“My lord, it might be better to wait,” Mama answered. “Annabel, as you might guess, is not feeling well.”

“I realize that, but I believe it is best if this matter were resolved as quickly as possible. The guests are all still assembled.”

That gave Annabel a spark of hope, trumping all the other emotions that were threatening to overwhelm her. If Bernard had inquired about the guests, perhaps he was here to see if she was ready to proceed. It might be just like Bernard to regard Scarborough's outburst as an appalling lack of good manners, best ignored and forgotten. He might be here to propose that they carry on as if nothing had happened.

She nodded to her mother, and Henrietta opened the door wide for Bernard to come in. Then, murmuring something about Dinah, she went to the girl's room and returned with her younger daughter firmly in tow. “Come along, Dinah. And you, too, Arthur. I think we could all do with some air.”

For once, Dinah didn't protest being ordered about. Giving Annabel a wide-eyed look of sympathy over her shoulder, Dinah followed their mother and uncle out the door without a word, closing the door behind her.

Silence followed in the wake of her family's departure, and as she looked into Bernard's face, searching for signs of hope, she found little there to encourage her. He was always inclined to be a bit stiff, but now he seemed more aloof than ever. His expression was unreadable, and the silence seemed unbearable. She wanted desperately to say something to fill the void. “Bernard, I—”

“In light of this morning's events,” he said, cutting off whatever she'd been about to say, “I believe we can both agree that the wedding needs to be canceled.”

Her heart sank, but she thought maybe she could still head this off at the pass, if only she could find the right words. “Does it have to be canceled? We could . . .” She hesitated, but decided she had nothing to lose. “There's really no reason we can't go ahead.”

“Go ahead?” Bernard looked at her askance. “Ignore that mortifying spectacle as if it never happened? Annabel, you struck a duke in the face.”

She grimaced, but decided it was best not to defend herself by pointing out that Scarborough had deserved it. “Everyone is still in the ballroom,” she said instead, striving to sound calm and reasonable. “They're all waiting for an announcement of some kind, and if we announced that we're just going ahead as planned, everyone would conclude there was nothing to what Scarborough said.”

Bernard stared at her, his appalled face telling her what he thought of that idea even before he spoke. “You can't possibly think I would marry you now?”

Annabel felt the first tear fall, sliding down her cheek, and with it, she felt all her hopes and dreams sliding away, too. She blinked, striving to hold back, as if stopping the tears would prevent what was coming, but his next words proved how futile that notion was.

“Your virtue has been compromised, Annabel. Given that, there is no possibility I can marry you.”

Your virtue has been compromised.

Bernard didn't know that Billy John had compromised her virtue long before the Duke of Scarborough had ever shown up. Still, she couldn't just give up. She swiped at her cheeks, wiping tears away. “Bernard, I know you're upset, but—”

“Upset?” He fairly spat the word. “Annabel,
upset
does not even begin to describe how I feel at this moment. I have been grievously insulted, by Scarborough and by you.”

“If you'd just let me explain—”

“Explain?” He folded his arms, his pale green eyes glittering with anger. “Yes, Annabel, do be kind enough to explain. What has been happening between you and Scarborough that provides him with just cause to stop our wedding?”

She opened her mouth, but no words came out. After all, what could she say?
Yes, darling, I was alone with another man, got drunk with him, and he kissed me. It all happened on the night before our wedding, but so what? Let's get married anyway.

That probably wouldn't go over very well, and yet, she couldn't lie and say nothing had happened. She didn't mind putting a little glossy varnish on the truth from time to time, but outright lying to a man to get him to marry you was a line Annabel just couldn't cross.

“I'm sorry,” she said instead. That, at least, was the truth. “Bernard, I know I've hurt you, and I'm so sorry.”

He unfolded his arms and held out his hand. “The ring, Annabel. Would you kindly give me the ring?”

You can't possibly think I would marry you now.

Thousands of miles and millions of dollars away from Mississippi, she thought, but she was still the girl in the tin-roof shack who wasn't good enough to marry.

She slid the sapphire and diamond engagement ring off her finger and held the ring out to him. Through a blur of bitter tears, she watched him take it, turn away, and walk out without another word. With him went all her family's chances and her reputation, too. Everything ruined because of a sleepless night, a little moonshine, and a disreputable rakehell.

All Annabel's anger and pain came rushing back, and she just couldn't restrain it anymore. She was humiliated, disgraced, and mad as a hornet, and given all that, what else could a girl do but cry her eyes out?

She sank down onto a chair and sobbed until her nose clogged up, her throat was dry, and her lungs hurt. She cried until she didn't have another tear left. And then, when it was over and the tears were dry, she thought about what the heck she was going to do next.

But, really, why did she have to be the one to do anything? She might have been a fool last night, but the Duke of Scarborough was to blame for what had happened today. It was his responsibility to make things right. He broke her life, and she was damned well going to make him fix it.

On the other hand, she could just shoot him dead like a dog.

Right now, the second option appealed to her far more than the first. Unfortunately, shooting him wouldn't accomplish anything except make her feel better for about five minutes. After that, she'd be hanged.

No, her first option was her only choice. He had to repair the damage he'd done. The only question was how.

She thought about that long and hard, and after about an hour of considering and rejecting various possibilities, she began to see a way. But she couldn't do it alone.

Annabel washed her face, powdered her nose, and left the suite to go in search of Uncle Arthur. She was still mad as hell with him for interfering the way he had, but for her idea to work, she knew she needed her uncle's help.

She also knew she had to implement her plan right away. If she didn't, if she sat around much longer brooding about what had happened, she was liable to find one of George's pistols and go in search of Scarborough. And once she had a gun in her hand and that man in her sights, she just might decide shooting him was worth swinging in the wind.

B
y sunset, Christian was awake and sober, but he felt like death. His mouth was dry as dust, his stomach was still a bit queasy, and it seemed as if a herd of African water buffalo was thundering through his skull.

Sylvia, thankfully, was nowhere to be found, but she'd left him a note confirming that Rumsford had called off the wedding. Though his sister was absent, his valet was in the suite, and McIntyre took one look at him and fetched a Beecham's Powder and a pot of strong tea with plenty of honey and lemon. After consuming those, as well as having a bathe and a shave, Christian felt considerably better. By the time he'd put himself on the outside of a porterhouse beefsteak and a plate of chips, he began to think life might be worth living after all.

While his body recovered from the abuse suffered through alcoholic excess, his mind also began to function again, thank heaven. By eight o'clock that evening, he knew there was only one thing to be done, and by nine, he was knocking on the door of Annabel's stateroom suite, wearing a fresh evening suit and looking, he hoped, penitent.

The door was opened by Annabel's mother, who was understandably not happy to see him. “Mrs. Chumley,” he greeted with a bow. “May I have a moment with Annabel?”

“Is there any reason why I should allow that?” she countered, but before he could answer, Annabel's voice floated out to him in the corridor.

“It's all right, Mama. Have His Grace come in. I'm just about done reading this over.”

Henrietta opened the door wide, allowing him to enter, and as he did so, he took that opportunity to murmur a request for privacy. Henrietta's brows lifted a fraction, but then she shrugged. “Why not?” she murmured back. “At this point, the niceties don't matter much, do they?”

“No,” he answered. “I'm afraid they don't.”

“I'll be back in fifteen minutes.” Glancing over her shoulder, she added, “Annabel, I'm going out for a few minutes.”

“What?” Her daughter, who was standing by a round table in the center of the sitting room, glanced up from the documents spread out before her. “Going out? Where?”

“I just remembered I've got to talk to Arthur. I'll be right back. You two have business to discuss anyway.”

She slipped out, ignoring her daughter's sound of protest, and closed the door behind her, leaving them alone.

Christian advanced into the room, halting on the other side of the table. Since there was no time to lose, he wasted none on preliminaries.

“First of all, let me say I owe you my most sincere apologies. My conduct was reprehensible.”

“Which part?” she asked in a tart voice. “The part where you agreed to take money for talking me out of marrying Bernard? Or—”

“You know about that?”

“Uncle Arthur told me. Needless to say, he's not feeling inclined to pay you that money now, so is that what you're apologizing for? Hoping he'll give it to you anyway? Or maybe it's breaking up my wedding that you're sorry about? Or maybe it's because you called it a farce and a lie, and hurt my reputation? Or maybe it was the fact that you hauled off and kissed me last night? Which of those reprehensible things is the one you're apologizing for?”

That was rather a damning list, he supposed, but he felt compelled to defend himself on at least one of the charges.

“Well, as to the rest, I'm a rake of the first water, I daresay, but about the kiss, I feel compelled to point out that you did kiss me back.”

“I did not kiss you back, you varmint!”

He didn't know what on earth a varmint was, but he suspected calling him one was not a compliment. “Forgive me,” he said and tried to look regretful about the kiss, but he must have failed, for her scowl only deepened. “It's clear we have a cultural misunderstanding. In Britain—and it's important for you to know this if you still want a British husband—when a man kisses a woman and she keeps allowing him to kiss her, when she flings her arms around his neck and pulls him closer, we regard that as kissing back. Perhaps it's different in America.”

She was staring at him in horror, a rosy tint washing into her cheeks. “I did not do any of that!”

“Yes, you did.” He studied her face, noting the uneasiness creep into her expression, and he couldn't help taking a bit of pure manly satisfaction in reminding her about that. “Don't remember things quite that way, do you? Hmm, it must have been the alcohol. Or perhaps my kiss was so dizzying, it went to your head like alcohol and affected your memory?”

“Don't flatter yourself. And this is turning into a pretty poor apology, if you ask me.”

He set all teasing aside. “You're right, of course. The truth is, I was quite drunk, and—”

“So drunkenness is your excuse?”

“No. It is . . . an explanation, if you like, but it is not an excuse. There is no excuse.”

“You're right about that,” she said through clenched teeth.

“It was never my intent to hurt you or damage your reputation. If that had been my intent, I could have easily arranged for someone to see us together that morning we met in second class. On the contrary, I took great pains to avoid that particular problem, as you recall. And though I did agree to make an attempt to dissuade you from marrying Rumsford in exchange for money, I did not object at your wedding because of that. Believe it or not, I wasn't thinking about the money.”

She made a sound of obvious skepticism. “I find that hard to believe.”

“I know.” He sighed, knowing even if he had an explanation, she probably wouldn't believe that either. “The point is, the damage is done, and there's only one thing that can be done now.” He took a deep breath and said what needed to be said. “We should become engaged.”

Chapter Ten

A
nnabel's eyes widened in shock. Her lips parted as if she intended to reply, but no words came out, and she closed her mouth again. She looked away, and when she returned her gaze to his, a frown etched deep between her brows. Christian decided he'd better explain his reasoning before she told him to go to hell.

“The fact that I objected at the wedding implies something between us, and the only way to deal with that now is to acknowledge it as true. By becoming engaged, your reputation would be saved. We'll claim a whirlwind romance aboard ship, that sort of thing. Many will call you mercenary, playing a duke against an earl to see who came out on top, but trust me, once you're engaged to me, they won't hold it against you. In fact, they'll probably consider it quite a well-played coup on your part, and they'll admire you for it.”

“Wait!” She held up one hand to halt his flow of words. “You want to marry me?”

“God, no.” The moment the words were out of his mouth, he grimaced, cursing his idiotic lack of tact. “Sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded.”

“Yes, you did. You don't want to marry me, either.” She gave a little laugh, shaking her head as if at the irony. “That's pretty much the story of my life.”

He sighed. “Hell, all I seem able to do today is either offend you or apologize for offending you. Annabel, the fact that I have no desire to remarry has nothing at all to do with you. What I am proposing is not that we marry, merely that we become engaged. It will put paid to the gossip, and after a long enough engagement—about a year, I should say—”

“A year? Be tied to you for a year in a phony engagement?”

“It has to be long enough to be convincing. After a year, you break it off.”

“And look like I've jilted my second fiancé after humiliating my first?”

“A woman is always justified in breaking an engagement, but nonetheless, I shall give you ample cause, something public enough and bad enough that nothing could possibly reflect upon you. God knows,” he added, raking a hand through his hair, “that's the least I can do. And with my reputation, no one would be surprised. Of course, your conduct shall have to be impeccable—Caesar's wife, and that sort of thing—so it would probably be best if you steered clear of society. Unless we go out together, of course.”

“I see.” She looked at him thoughtfully, as if she were thinking it over. He deemed that a hopeful sign. “And what about your conduct?” she asked after a moment.

“Mine?” The question took him back a bit, for he knew she wouldn't like the answer. “Well, my conduct is irrelevant,” he said with reluctance, “since my reputation isn't at issue. I suppose it ought to be,” he added hastily as her frown deepened. “But it isn't. Not very fair, I grant you. But in circumstances such as these, the same level of propriety isn't expected of a man.”

“Really? How convenient.” Before he could reply, she went on, “Thank you for your gallant effort to save the day,” and the sweet, drawling sarcasm in her voice told him his hope of an easy solution was rather out the window. “I appreciate it so very much, Your Grace. But I think I'll pass.”

“You're saying no?” He supposed he shouldn't be surprised. No doubt she felt a bit let down by the idea, for he knew he hadn't made any effort to put a romantic gloss on it. Nonetheless, she couldn't really refuse. “But we have to become engaged. It's the only way to avert a scandal.”

“It's not the only way. It's the simplest way, and the easiest way for you because it doesn't affect your life at all.”

She caught his slightly guilty shift from one foot to the other, and she pounced on it at once. “How lucky for you,” she said, “that you can behave like a cad and get away with it, facing no consequences for what you've done. Other than having to be seen with me once in a while during this supposed engagement, your situation enables you to do whatever you want, while I will have to pretty much stay home, and still be chaperoned when I do go out, with no ability to make friends, have any fun, or meet any other men who might actually want to marry me!”

“That fact that it's convenient for me,” he said with dignity, “doesn't make it any less sound an idea.”

“First of all, there's no way I'll let the world think I go around humiliating and jilting men. Second, I am not going to waste a year of my life sitting around twiddling my thumbs because of you! And third, I'd have to spend that whole year pretending I want to marry you, and I'm just not a good enough actress to pull that off, since I happen to hate your guts.”

“You're angry, I daresay, but—”

“Angry? Angry doesn't even start to describe how I feel about you. The only reason I haven't shot you dead already is because I'd be hanged for it. And now,” she added, her rising voice making the sincerity of her words quite clear, “after you've ruined my life, the best thing you can think of to repair the damage is a pretend engagement? Any true gentleman would have offered me marriage for real!”

That was probably true, but any guilt he might have felt was eclipsed by a jolt of pure panic.

“Don't worry, sugar,” she said, correctly interpreting his feelings. “Even if you offered me a genuine proposal of marriage, I'd turn you down. Duke or not, I wouldn't have you on a silver platter!”

Her words should have brought a sense of relief, but they didn't. Instead, they stung, and he felt a bit nettled by his own reaction. “Well, I'm glad we've got that straight,” he muttered, jerking at his tie and doing his best to conceal his illogical sense of hurt pride. “Since we're agreed that a true engagement culminating in marriage is out of the question, a pretend engagement is the only option.”

“No, it's not. While you've been lyin' around sleeping off your drunkenness, I've been coming up with a plan to save my own reputation, thank you very much.”

A woman couldn't save her own reputation, so he ignored that bit of nonsense. “It's hardly fair to criticize me for drinking too much last night, since you were quite pickled yourself,” he said instead, “a state you were well on your way to being in before I even arrived. And when you passed out—”

“I did not pass out.”

“You weren't unconscious for more than a few seconds, but the fact remains that your knees kept caving every time I tried to stand you on your feet. I carried you back to your suite, snuck you back into your room, and put you in bed, managing not to be seen by anyone in the process, thereby safeguarding you and your reputation.”

“And you think that makes you some kind of hero?”

“I don't know. Does it? Where would your reputation be if some Knickerbocker dragon ladies had found you lying in the Turkish baths this morning, passed out with a bottle in your hand?”

“You ruined my wedding!”

“To a man who's an ass!”

She folded her arms, eyes narrowing. “Some might say the man who showed up at a wedding, drunk as a skunk, and stopped the bride from marrying another man without caring two pins for her is the one who's an ass!”

“Well, it isn't as if you were in love with him, Annabel! You wanted to be a countess. And he wasn't in love with you, either, a fact proven by his conduct. Your money was what he was after. Hell, even the fact that you are jaw-dropping gorgeous, with a body like a goddess, doesn't seem to have been important to him, since he went to a prostitute the night before the ship sailed!”

“What?” Annabel's arms fell to her sides, and her eyes widened with astonishment. As he looked into their dark brown depths, he saw the shimmer of hurt, and he wanted to cut his tongue out. He hadn't meant to tell her. He'd hurt her enough already, and even though she hadn't been in love with Rummy, the last thing she'd needed to be told about today was her former fiancé's preference for the company of prostitutes. Still, nothing for it. The cat was out of the bag.

“I don't believe you,” she whispered.

“It's true. I saw him at a gaming club that night. Your uncle was there, too, although he doesn't know Rummy's reason for being there was to see a courtesan.”

“Maybe he wasn't there for that. Maybe he was there to play cards.”

“No, Annabel, he wasn't. He bragged to me about his reason for being there.” Christian drew a deep breath, knowing there was no way to backtrack now. “I saw him go upstairs, and there are no gaming tables upstairs at that particular club. Only prostitutes.”

She didn't say anything for several seconds. And then her chin came up, her shoulders squared, and she looked him in the eye. “Even if what you say is true, it doesn't justify what you did.”

“No, it doesn't. But because of what I did, your reputation is compromised, and I can't allow that to stand. If we become engaged, honor is satisfied.”

“And I've already said no.”

“But what else can we do?”

She moved to face him across the table and gestured to the documents she'd been perusing when he came in. “I've come up with a plan, one that doesn't involve us getting engaged.” She picked up a sheet of paper. “This is a letter of resignation from Mr. Bentley, one of my trustees. And this,” she added, laying that sheet aside to pick up another, “is a contract drawn up by Uncle Arthur, naming you as Mr. Bentley's replacement.”

He frowned, not seeing the point. “What does that accomplish?”

“Both of these documents are dated
yesterday
. You stood up this morning and objected to my wedding, not because there's any hanky-panky between us, but because you have objections to the marriage settlement, and as the new trustee, you couldn't allow the marriage to go through without some renegotiation.”

“Clever,” he had to admit. “Rumsford broke the engagement, I take it, not you?” She didn't confirm that guess, but the tight press of her lips gave him his answer. “Still, I don't know your family. Why would Mr. Ransom and Mr. Chumley appoint me?”

“You're a duke,” she answered promptly. “Arthur met you in New York, and when Mr. Bentley resigned, he and George appointed you to the job because we want to live in England, and they want social connections there for business purposes. You objected because after reading the document aboard ship, you found the marriage settlement unacceptable and not in my best interests, but you didn't know if you ought to object at such a late date. You finally decided you had to speak up, after having a long battle with your conscience, or something like that.” She met his eyes. “Most people probably don't think you have a conscience, but from what I've seen, you're a good enough liar to make them change their minds.”

Another painful jab, and one he no doubt deserved. “Believe it or not, I was acting in good conscience when I stopped the wedding.”

“I don't give a damn what your reasons were.” She pulled the pen from the inkstand and handed it to him. “Sign it, please.”

He studied her hard face for a moment, and he figured now was not a good time to assure her she'd dodged a bullet this morning. Instead, he took the pen from her hand. “All right, I'll be a trustee. Since you won't agree to an engagement, this is the only thing to do, I suppose. Where do I sign?”

He signed in every place she indicated, glad that the situation was resolved by putting his name to a few documents. “There,” he said, handing the sheets back. “All done.”

“Not quite.” She pulled the papers out of his fingers. “You know, you really should read things before you sign 'em. Uncle Arthur taught me that a long time ago.”

He watched with growing apprehension as she held up the contract he'd just signed. “This makes you a trustee, but there are conditions attached.”

“What conditions?”

“You didn't really think you'd get off the hook just by signing a piece of paper, did you? After what you did?” She slapped the contract down and leaned forward, flattening her palms on the table between them. “By taking on the job as trustee, you have also become one of my legal guardians, and part of your job shall be to facilitate my launch into London society.”

Christian stared at her, appalled. “You can't be serious.”

“Oh, I'm serious, sugar. I am as serious as a daddy with a pregnant daughter and a shotgun. I didn't come this far only to tuck my tail and go back to New York in disgrace.”

“It still baffles my mind why you'd want to hobnob with our lot, but there's no accounting for taste, I suppose. Still, how am I supposed to make this cherished dream of social success come true?”

“You are going to help your sister to bring me out. Yes,” she added, “I've already talked to Lady Sylvia, and she's agreed to introduce me to her friends, make sure I receive invitations, that sort of thing. But to convince everyone that what you did was not a romantic gesture, we need your cooperation.”

“I'm to play the role of dutiful guardian? Now that's something no one will believe.”

“They have to. If there's the slightest reason to think you have a romantic claim on me, my reputation is still tarnished, and everyone will expect you to marry me. Since you and I both agree that's a horrible idea, you have to help make this story sound convincing.”

“Surely you're not still thinking to catch an English husband?”

“My concern right now is my reputation, which you are responsible for blackening! You have to make sure people accept our version of why you did what you did. While I enjoy my season, make friends, and meet respectable young men, you are going to play the role of protective guardian and trustee, whose primary job is to keep the fortune hunters, rakes, and scoundrels away.”

He glanced over her delicious figure. “To quote your own words, that's a bit like the fox guarding the henhouse.”