Once Upon a Wedding Night
Page 17

“Yes, I want to hear all of it.”
Those lovely eyes of hers searched his face before answering. “There are plenty of orphans in need of homes.”
“Ah.” He rocked back on his heels.
“I know it seems horrible, but if you could just try to look at it from my perspective.”
” Seems horrible? That you would go to such lengths for money? Or was it the title that you could not part with?”
“It wasn’t the money.” Her nostrils flared and she beat a fist into her palm. “And I don’t care about the title. My family—”
“Spare me your pretty excuses,” he cut in.
She flinched. “You’ll not hear me out, then?”
He stared down at her for a long moment. She made a tempting picture with her flushed cheeks and bright, tear-filled eyes. A part of him still wanted to believe her good and innocent. He straightened his shoulders. “No.” He dared not. She’d weave a spell around him if he let her.
He recalled that last night at Oak Run, when he had almost kissed her. The only thing to stop him had been his belief that she carried Edmund’s child. The thought of following in Edmund’s wake had repelled him. But now that he knew the truth, that the marriage was unconsummated, little had changed. She was still off limits. Now more than ever. Attractive or not, even he would not risk touching such a viper.
His eyes drifted down. Curiosity prompted him to reach out and touch her swelling stomach. The padding felt firm and surprisingly real. She cried out, slapping his hand. “Don’t touch me.”
Perhaps it was her tone. Or her defiant attitude. But he deliberately ignored her. He had a right to investigate the means she took to deceive him.
Meredith, however, did not hold the same opinion.
It was as if a dam broke. She attacked him, his hands no longer her primary target. Her fists rained down on him as great sobs tore from her throat. He suspected more than his bold touch galvanized her. It was her loss, her failure… her elaborate scheme blowing up in her face.
Grim satisfaction filled him to witness the last of her composure crumble. Evidence that she was not the fine, dignified lady. She did not differ from the many women he had encountered throughout his life, all looking out for themselves and turning vicious when thwarted. No wonder Edmund had married her. They had been well suited—Edmund’s sexual preferences withstanding. Both were self-serving.
He hauled her against him to stop her from swinging another fist at his face. She tossed her head to glare at him through the tangled mess of her hair.
“Let me go,” she sobbed, green eyes wet and furious. The dangerous toes of her slippers lashed out and kicked him. One kick was particularly effective, grazing his shin.
Hissing in pain, he squeezed tighter and lifted her off the carpet. Tossing her down on the sofa, he straddled her and trapped her arms to her sides with his knees.
Leaning back, he wagged a finger at her. “Listen, you she-devil, you’re lucky I don’t call the authorities on you.”
She lifted her head off the sofa and bellowed into his face. “Do it! I expect no less from you.”
“Oh, I’m the villain, am I?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Shall I recount your sins? I think they outweigh mine.”
“You can’t even try to put yourself in my place, to see why I did it, to try and understand. You’re cut from the same cloth as your brother—selfish to the core.”
He felt her accusation as keenly as a knife to the chest. The separate life he led away from his family certainly guaranteed that he bore no resemblance to either his father or brother. Didn’t it?
Leaning his face close to hers, he whispered, “Rest assured I am nothing like my brother. I would have no problem consummating my marriage. More specifically, I would have no problem bedding you.”
If possible, her eyes grew even bigger, green saucers in her pale face. She went as still as a stone beneath him. “How do you know Edmund never consummated our marriage?”
He ignored the question, instead ran a finger along her jaw and down the column of her throat.
Her breathing hitched. He stopped his finger at the throbbing pulse on the side of her neck. “It’s an easy enough matter to verify. Perhaps that’s what you need, hmm? A man in your bed to rob you of your rebelliousness? You could use a little taming.”
Wordlessly, she shook her head from side to side, rendered speechless for a change.
“No?” he queried softly, letting his fingers continue their path down her throat. “You’ve never wondered these many years?” His fingers stopped at the deep well between her br**sts, as far as her neckline would allow him. “Never wanted to know a man?” She made a choking sound and her br**sts lifted higher, straining the seams of her bodice. “Never wanted to take a man deep in your body?” His hand came over her breast. Her nipple rose up through the fabric of her gown.
He grazed his palm back and forth across the hard little peak, increasing pressure as he did so.
“No,” she gasped even as her body arched beneath him, betraying her.
His hand froze and he studied her passion-heavy gaze. God, he wanted her. Wanted to bury himself inside her again and again until he had his fill and no longer wanted her.
“Still a liar, I see,” he said hoarsely as he removed himself from her. His hands shook as he straightened his rumpled jacket. His erection strained painfully at the front of his trousers. She did that to him. The little witch.
She lay there immobile, staring up at the ceiling like a piece of marble. “How did you know?”
Her lips barely moved.
He knew instantly what she meant. “Adam Tremble. He was quite helpful in illuminating what kind of marriage you and Edmund shared.”
She closed her eyes where she lay, and Nick could almost see the waves of humiliation wash over her. Why should she feel shame? It was through no fault of hers that Edmund had preferred men. Of this, at least, she shouldered no blame.
“Whether my marriage was consummated is none of Adam Tremble’s business. Or yours.”
He stood quiet for a moment, undeniably disturbed at the pain he heard in her voice, and why it should be there. Had she loved Edmund so much she could not bear his lack of ardor for her?
Inexplicable anger lanced through him. Why would she have wasted her affections on someone who could never return her love?
“The subject of your marriage is of no real interest to me, only insofar as it establishes you are a liar set out to defraud me.”
She swung her legs to the floor and sat up. When she looked at him, the heat in her eyes was gone, weary acceptance in its place. “Do you intend to go public?”
His anger eased, deflated by the submission in her voice. “I have no wish to see you in prison.
Word will be spread that you suffered a miscarriage.”
She bowed her head and gave a single nod.
“I want you packed and gone by the end of the week. You will leave voluntarily, quietly, no fuss.”
She nodded again.
” I claim no responsibility for you. You may take your relatives and whatever staff with you. I will grant you a small settlement that should keep you fed, clothed, and sheltered. If you manage your finances, you should be able to live a comfortable, modest existence.” Nick paused for breath, adding, “Given the circumstances, I think I am being more than generous. It is more than my father ever gave my mother or me.”
She continued to nod, a ceaseless bobbing of her head, unable or unwilling to offer up a response. Strangely, that only annoyed him. Where had her fire gone?
“If you run out of funds, don’t come to me. Understood?” He grasped her chin with hard fingers and forced her to look at him. “Say you understand,” he demanded, ignoring the softness of her skin, as tender as any newborn’s beneath his fingers. “I’ll have your word that you will disappear from my life completely.”
“You have my word.” He watched her swallow. Her eyes deepened to a dark green, the color of a shaded forest glen. “I will be only too happy never to see you again.”
Satisfied, he spun on his heels, stopping at the door to look back at her for one interminable moment. She met his stare head on, fisting the fabric of her gown.
“You made a fool of me,” he admitted, hating even that small admission. She had elicited his concern and compassion, emotions he could never remember feeling toward another woman.
Emotions too damnably close to those he felt for no single soul save his mother.
He tore his eyes from her before he could examine that insight closer and left, letting the door bang shut after him.
Chapter 12
Eleanor crouched behind a large potted fern near the salon door, her hands clenched tightly in determination. From her location she had managed to hear most of Meredith’s conversation with Lord Brookshire. It had taken a little time to get rid of the physician. She correctly surmised that his belly would be his weakness—the case with most men—and abandoned him in the kitchen with a plate of Cook’s gingersnaps. She had overheard Lord Brookshire’s dreadful plans for them. Sending them on their way with a mere pittance was not to be borne.
She ducked low, crouching behind the fern when Lord Brookshire quit the salon and again, moments later, when Meredith departed. Both went in opposite directions. She upstairs. He to the library.
No doubt her niece intended to start packing. Eleanor adjusted her turban as she stepped out from behind the fern. She stared resolutely at the library doors where Lord Brookshire had closeted himself. One thing was for certain. She did not intend to spend her final years in a cottage the size of a shoe, squeezing the blood from every coin while her senile brother breathed down her neck and ranted about Papist spies. The time had come to take matters into her hands. Releasing a deep breath, she squared her shoulders. She would see about changing Lord Brookshire’s mind.
Facing Napoleon’s army could not have intimidated her any less than confronting Lord Brookshire. Yet his wrath seemed reserved for Meredith. He had no inkling of her own involvement, that the scheme had in fact been her idea—heavens be praised. At any rate, she suspected his anger was more wrapped up in male pride than true outrage over her niece’s actions.
Eleanor paused in front of the library. The clinking of glass could be heard beyond the double doors. Lord Brookshire was no doubt availing himself of the brandy, an ostensible vice of gentlemen.
What Meredith needed was a husband, Eleanor thought, not for the first time. A man worthy of her. Perhaps then she would find the happiness eluding her. Oh, her niece appeared satisfied with her life, busying herself with the care of Oak Run and its inhabitants—not necessarily out of love, Eleanor suspected, but to fill the gap in her life. She knew her niece needed more. Meredith was not like her, a woman content with her spinster-hood and averse to the presence of a meddling man in her life. The girl would never admit such a thing—perhaps she was even unaware of it herself—but Eleanor knew Meredith wanted a child. Someone who would not reject her love as Edmund had, or her father, or even, to some extent—Eleanor had to admit—
herself.
Eleanor had long been aware of her limitations. She sorely lacked any maternal instinct and had done a poor job filling the void left by Meredith’s mother. Not only had she been a poor mother substitute, she had barely been the adult, leaning on her niece rather than lending support. When she first arrived in Attingham, Meredith had been such a solemn little girl, trained well at the knee of her father in piety and stoicism. And that unhappy little girl had grown into an unhappy woman.
Taking a fortifying breath, Eleanor vowed to help her niece. Perhaps for the first time. Meredith might not realize what she needed, but she did.
Shoving open the door, she found Lord Brook-shire pouring a drink. The dark thunder of his countenance made her hands tremble. Gathering together the fleeting scraps of her courage, she cleared her throat.