When a Girl Loves an Earl (Rescued from Ruin Book 5) (14 page)

“… refrain from scolding me about Humphrey’s instruction. I should think having kept
you
alive for forty years qualifies me as sufficiently competent to manage a hound.” Lady Wallingham’s distinctive, trumpeting voice echoed off wood and glass along the gallery.

Viola stiffened against him, her lips freezing as she heard it, too. Suddenly, she yanked her mouth away. Drew a breath. And let out a long, sensual moan.

Bloody hell. He slammed his mouth back upon hers.

She moaned louder, the sound vibrating through his lips and chin.

Everlasting, bloody hell. The chit was mad. He broke the kiss. Another mistake.

“Oh, Tannenbrook,” she groaned, her voice ringing sweetly and—most of all—loudly to the twenty-foot ceiling above. “Should your hand really be touching me
there?”

That was it. He was going to throttle her.

Within moments, Lady Wallingham’s purple plume had rounded the corner of the third arch, followed by the taller figure of her son. “I say, Lord Tannenbrook,” the dowager intoned. “For a man who professes to loathe the very notion of matrimony, one supposes you would opt for trysts of the less
public
variety.”

“Oh! Lady Wallingham! And Lord Wallingham!” Viola chirped, now squirming to be released from his grip.

His muscles tightened reflexively. He had no intention of letting her go.

“How embarrassing to be discovered so unexpectedly.” Viola dug her fingertips into the nape of his neck. “So
scandalously.”

James lowered his head until his mouth brushed her ear and murmured, “You will pay for this, lass.”

Charles stepped forward into a shaft of moonlight and spoke in his customary quiet, dignified manner. “Miss Darling, rest assured my mother and I shall do our utmost to prevent this … indiscretion from leading to a scandal—”

Viola’s sharp “no!” overlapped with Lady Wallingham’s “we most certainly will not!”

Meeting James’s gaze with sympathy, Charles nodded to where Viola still dangled between his body and the wall. “Perhaps you should set the lady down, Tannenbrook.”

Reluctantly, James complied, turning them both to face Wallingham. He kept one hand upon her, however, spanning the side of her waist and the small of her back with his fingers. “I shall take her to Coldstream tomorrow morning,” he muttered, his jaw tight, his gut tighter. “We will marry in Scotland and return here to say our farewells before departing for Derbyshire.”

“A capital plan, I daresay,” opined Lady Wallingham. “And about time. Now, would you care to explain this abrupt change of sentiments to Miss Darling’s father, or shall I have the pleasure?”

“Mother,” Charles muttered. “Give the man a moment.”

“I don’t know why I should. I have given him months to see reason. Ample time
and
opportunity, in my estimation.”

Charles sighed. “Tannenbrook, are you certain about this? There are a number of gentlemen in the ballroom who will happily accept Miss Darling as their bride, scandal or no. I happen to know Lord Hugh—”

“Should I not have a say in whom I marry, Lord Wallingham?” Viola said indignantly, her back stiffening against his hand.

“Indeed you should,” replied the dowager with a sniff. “Really, Charles. True love suffers no replacements.”

“Weren’t you the one who said true love is a fanciful tale designed to comfort children and simpletons?”

“Must you always take me literally, boy? One would suppose you have no capacity for nuance.”

James scarcely heard a word of their bickering. He only heard blood pounding in his ears, the clamor of his life being forcibly altered. Restructured to suit Viola Darling and her relentless, unceasing will.

He had underestimated her. After everything she had done in an effort to persuade him, he had not imagined she would stoop to laying such a trap. Flirting, yes. Tempting, most certainly. Demanding, even. But not this.

He supposed he could take Wallingham’s suggestion. Let her go to Lord Hugh.

Never.
The answer was immediate. And it came from the blackest part of his soul. The one that had longed to crush Lord Hugh’s throat for daring to speak about Viola’s lips.
She made this choice,
the voice crowed.
Now she must pay the consequences. She is mine, and no other will ever touch her.

“Viola and I shall be wed tomorrow,” he barked, interrupting Lady Wallingham’s castigation of all sons who failed to heed the wisdom of their mothers. “I will speak with Mr. Darling this evening. Wallingham, I would appreciate the use of your library.”

“Of course,” the marquess replied.

Tentatively, Viola cleared her throat.

James continued, “Lady Wallingham, as your manipulations have at last achieved your desired result, I trust you will write my relation in America with all due haste.”

The woman sniffed. “I shall take your request under advisement.”

He lowered both his head and his voice. “No. You will comply.”

“Bah! Very well. I suppose you have met the terms of our bargain sufficiently. I shall post the letter.”

“Er, Tannenbrook,” said Viola weakly, tugging at his coat.

“What is it?” he snapped.

“I—I don’t feel well at all.” She slumped against him, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.

The deep, thrumming fury he felt toward her receded long enough for alarm to take him in its grip. Without another thought, he bent and hoisted her in his arms. She weighed nothing. He looked at her face for the first time since declaring he would marry her. She was grayish white, her lips pale, her eyes glazed with pain.

“Your head?” he murmured, cradling her close.

She nodded and closed her eyes, clasping his neck with her arms. “I fear I might vomit upon you.”

He sighed. “It would not be your worst sin of the evening.” He looked to Charles. “I will take her upstairs to her chamber. Fetch her maid. And her cousin, Penelope.”

“No,” Viola whispered, her head tucked against his neck. “Georgina. Mrs. Cumberland. Please.”

James nodded to Charles. “Inform her father I shall meet him in the library in twenty minutes.”

“Twenty?” snorted Lady Wallingham. “You disappoint me greatly, Tannenbrook. I always regarded you as the burly, robust sort. Stamina is a virtue, you know.”

Charles coughed and cupped the dowager’s elbow. “Mother, we should return to the ballroom. Your guests will wonder where you’ve gone.”

James did not wait to hear the old woman’s retort. He carried Viola out to the moonlit gallery, up the grand staircase, and, following her directions to her bedchamber, laid her gently upon her blue-canopied bed. Her arms fell from his neck, limp and listless. Her eyes drifted shut. The only light in the room was the soft glow of the moon through the window. It painted her exquisite features silvery blue.

With his thumb, he stroked one of her silky brows. “Do you have laudanum?”

“No,” she murmured. “It worsens the nausea and doesn’t relieve the pain very much. Sometimes tea helps. But, mostly, I must sleep.” Her words were slightly slurred, as though she’d had too much wine.

He swallowed hard against the lump in his chest. Tomorrow, she would become his wife. His responsibility. His to care for and protect. His to touch and kiss and stroke and pleasure.

Mine,
that dark voice from earlier repeated, filling his veins with euphoric heat at the thought, quickening his breath.
She is mine.

He’d resisted for so long, he hadn’t prepared for the onslaught. For her to neatly dispense with his self-imposed barriers, tearing apart the only thing standing between her and his need for her. Perhaps he was a fool. Or a primitive brute.

It really should bother him more, exposing the savagery of how he felt about her. The possessiveness. The ferocious triumph.

But it didn’t. Not half as much as the thought of some other man taking what belonged to him.

“I am sorry, James,” she slurred softly before sliding into slumber.

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, breathing in her peony scent. Then, he breathed out words he should not feel, let alone say. But she was asleep, so she would never know. “I am not, lass. In truth, I am not sorry at all.”

*~*~*

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“True to form, my strategies have proven a resounding success. And do you know why, Charles? Because I am right. I am always right.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her son, Charles, during a debate about the perils of resisting the inevitable.

Thunder concussed the air around the coach. Blackening clouds loomed and flashed white. Not a drop of rain had yet fallen, but as Viola stared out the window of Lady Wallingham’s opulent carriage, a shiver shook her flesh. Perhaps it was the wind, howling its fury in true Northumberland fashion.

She glanced to her left where another thunderous presence resided. After her actions the previous evening, James had spoken no more than ten words to her. She did not blame him, of course. Forcing a man of honor into a marriage he had steadfastly opposed was the lowest thing she had ever done.

Sighing, she turned back to watch lightning sizzle and arc along the eastern horizon. The storm had roiled onshore unexpectedly after a clear, humid night. Viola suspected her headache had been caused in part by the anticipated shift in weather, as that was a pattern she had noticed over the years. Fortunately, the pain was little more than a memory this morning.

Despite his obvious—and justifiable—fury with her, James had been all that was gentle and protective, carrying her to her bed, stroking her brow with the softest touch. That capacity for kindness was one of the reasons she loved him so.

Georgina also had been kind, placing a cool, damp cloth on her forehead and helping her undress so she could sleep more comfortably. But then, Viola had come to expect such kindness from her future stepmother. Over the past two weeks, she had sought out the other woman’s counsel on a number of occasions. Twice to inquire about strategies for handling men, and seven times to improve her admittedly inferior embroidery techniques. On the latter subject, Georgina had proven an invaluable resource. In fact, once Viola abandoned her pride and confessed how mightily she had struggled to conquer the deficiency, Georgina had responded with warmth and graciousness, sharing her knowledge without a hint of resentment for Viola’s prior peevishness.

“You may wish to trace your design with a pencil first,” she had advised in their first lesson. “It is surprisingly helpful to know where you are going before you begin.” In their second lesson, she had demonstrated the importance of taking one’s time. “Follow my motions as you complete your loop. You see? A bit of patience in the moment will save you endless toil later.” Her instruction had brought them closer, revealing much about why Papa loved her. Georgina gave without asking anything in return. Viola hadn’t known many women like her, and she often wondered if this was what it would have been like to have a mother.

Only that morning, before Viola had climbed into Lady Wallingham’s carriage for their journey to Scotland, Georgina had hugged her tightly, whispering, “Are you certain you do not wish us to come along?”

Viola had squeezed those square shoulders in return and given her and Papa a watery smile. “Thank you, dearest Georgina. But I suspect the weather will make the ride less than pleasant. We will return swiftly. And I shall be Lady Tannenbrook.” She’d tried to sound cheerful, but her voice had strangled on the last few words.

Georgina had discreetly pressed a handkerchief into her hand. “He is a good man, Viola. Trust him to care for you.”

Now, as thunder boomed outside the carriage, and deadly silence reigned within, Viola braced a hand on the brown, tufted leather of the seat and scooted closer to the window, giving him what little distance she could in the small space.

“Don’t bother,” he rumbled, increasing his number of words to twelve.

She blinked, startled to hear his deep voice after two hours. “Bother to what?”

A dark-green glower turned on her from his great height. Even seated, the man was a giant. “Escape.”

“I—I do not wish to escape. I was merely—”

“We are nearly to Coldstream. This trap you’ve sprung is as permanent for you as it is for me. You’d best swallow down the truth now, for I’ll not have you balking and making a scene.”

She frowned, thoroughly confused. “Me? I have no intention—”

Suddenly, his face was inches from hers. “If you run, lass, I will catch you. Do you ken?”

Lightning cracked deafeningly close. The carriage jerked as the horses spooked. Outside, she could hear the wind and the shouts of the coachman. Her head swiveled to see a new copse of trees writhing in protest.

“Viola.”

“Hmm?” Through the window, she scanned the eerily dark, rolling landscape, her nerves churning.

“I would advise removing your hand.”

Her head jerked around. She had gripped his thick leg firmly a few inches above his knee. “Oh! I am sorry,” she said, giving his rock-hard thigh a little pat of apology.

He deposited her hand back in her own lap. “Not yet,” he rasped. “Soon, though.”

She wasn’t certain what he meant, and he did not appear amenable to explaining, so she sniffed and turned again to watch as they rounded a bend in the road. Within minutes, the River Tweed came into view, its waters restless and murky beneath ominous skies.

“The tollhouse is on the north end of the bridge.”

Her stomach rolled. “We …” She swallowed. “We are there, then. Here, I mean.”

“Aye.”

The carriage started over the bridge, its low, tan stone walls rolling past her window at a rather alarming pace. It seemed only a blink before they were pulling up outside a cottage made of the same sand-colored stone, tucked merrily on the Scottish side of the Tweed where the bridge ended and the road veered left toward the village of Coldstream.

The carriage rocked to a halt. Her heart pounded strangely.

James’s massive arm reached across her and pushed open her door. The wind whipped at it, pulling it wide with a clack. “We should go inside now.”

She nodded, the motion jerky.

Outside, Lady Wallingham’s footman squinted at her, holding his old-fashioned hat on his head with one hand and offering her the other. “Miss?” he inquired.

She accepted his help climbing down from the carriage. Before she could catch her breath, however, James was there, rounding the back of the coach and snatching her hand from the footman’s grasp.

“Come,” he growled, tugging her forward. Perhaps it was the weather, but his mood had gone from surly to positively foul.

“Tannenbrook,” she protested, feeling like she was being pulled by Humphrey again.

His hand pressed the small of her back, pushing her faster toward the door of the toll house. He yanked the door open and ushered her inside. Several windows permitted the meager daylight to brighten the dark wood interior. Otherwise, the small room on the left side of the cottage was lit only with a single lamp. That light rested beside a cross placed upon the mantel of a large stone fireplace. At the rear of the room, a white-whiskered gentleman in a blue coat and blindingly white waistcoat rose from his desk and approached them with a smile. “Ah, I see we have a fine young pair wi’ marriage on their minds. Ye’ve come tae the right place.”

After looking long at James’s dark-green coat and finely crafted boots, he introduced himself as Mr. MacAfee, a tailor and “parson” based in Coldstream who performed weddings for “a wee, middlin’ fee. No’ worth mentionin’.”

“How much?” James demanded.

Again, that assessing glance at James’s garments. “Three guineas.”

Viola’s eyes flared at the price. The place was aptly named a toll house, though according to Lady Wallingham, it had not served in that capacity for some years. But James did not protest, merely withdrawing the coins from a small leather pouch and dropping them in the whiskered man’s palm with a tinkling clink.

The man’s eyes gleamed then narrowed on Viola. “Now, then, many a bride’s special day has been brightened wi’ the addition of a few bonnie flowers, and fer a wee bit more—”

James encircled Viola’s waist with his arm, using his height to loom over the much shorter man. “We wish to be married, Mr. MacAfee. Nothing else.”

MacAfee swallowed nervously as his eyes bounced between James’s intimidating height and Viola’s face. “Aye. Well, then. Let us be aboot our business.”

Their “business” was completed in a matter of minutes. First, MacAfee recorded their names and home parishes in his register. Then, he called two women into the room from the other end of the cottage—his wife and daughter, as it happened—to act as witnesses. Lastly, he waved them over to the fireplace where the gold cross rested upon the wood mantel next to the lit lamp. Viola noted the gold paint had begun to peel and crack, exposing the wood beneath.

And that was where James spoke his vows to her, promising to have her and hold her for better and worse, in sickness and health, until death. Then, he declared her his wife.

“Now, then fer the wee bonnie lass. Miss Violet Denton, repeat after me, if ye please.”

“Viola Darling,” she murmured absently, unable to tear her gaze away from James. His eyes shone with a strange, fierce light.

“Oh, yes, indeed. Right ye are, Miss Denton.”

“Darling,” James snapped.

“Now, dinna be tae hard on yer bonnie lass, m’lord. It’s no’ unusual fer a bride tae be a wee bit nervous.”

James lowered his voice to a menacing rumble. “Her last name is Darling, not Denton.”

Finally, MacAfee appeared to understand, leading her in speaking the vows in his funny Scottish brogue. And she repeated the words that bound her to James Kilbrenner, promising to be his forever, declaring him to be her husband before three perfect strangers.

It was the plainest of ceremonies, performed by an avaricious tailor before a gold-painted cross in a dim cottage on the banks of the Tweed. Her papa was not present to give her away. Neither Penelope nor Charlotte attended as her maids. Aunt Marian and Uncle Edward did not sit in her parish church’s pew, witnessing the blessing of the Reverend Mr. Insley as she promised her life to the man she adored. She was not even in England, for the love of heaven.

You have brought this upon yourself,
she thought, fighting the sting of tears by pressing her lips together and wandering to the window to stare out at the storm as James signed the tailor’s register.
You cannot now cry foul because your nuptials more closely resemble a transaction at one of Charlotte’s pawn shops than a wedding.

A single, fat drop smeared its way down the glass. It was soon joined by dozens more. She glanced up toward the clouds, which looked to be releasing their deluge all at once, and all upon this one small spot on the border of Scotland.

Absently, she twisted her mother’s simple gold ring with its one lone sapphire around and around on her finger. The cool band was the only outward sign that anything had changed. She still wore the same silver pelisse and pink gown she’d worn when she’d been Miss Darling. Yet, now, she was Viola Kilbrenner, Countess of Tannenbrook. Just like that.

A great shadow loomed behind her, blocking the reflection of the lamplight in the glass. “We must go, Viola.” His rumble sent sweet, heated shivers along her neck and scalp.

“Back to Grimsgate?”

“No. The roads will be a stew before we’re halfway there. That’s if the horses don’t bolt.”

“Coldstream, then. Is there an inn?”

“Aye, but MacAfee says it is full. The village is hosting a fair or some such.”

She turned to face him. He was so close, she found herself speaking to his cravat. “Then, where shall we go?”

His jaw flexed while his eyes gazed out at the rain, now blowing in swirling sheets. “A village about ten miles north. I know of an inn there.”

“What if they, too, haven’t any room?”

“We will find shelter there, you may be certain.”

“How do you know?”

Without looking at her, he heaved a sigh and ran a hand through his hair. “Because it is where I was born.”

*~*~*

The coach rocked on another gust of wind. She did not envy the coachman and footman their task of driving in the storm, but she was thankful to be safe and dry.

And married. Mustn’t forget that.

She cast a sidelong glance at her husband—he of the granite jaw and precipitous brow.

Husband. How extraordinary.

Despite the inglorious circumstances of their wedding, Viola was beginning to feel the satisfaction—the warm, glistening, secretive pleasure—of concluding her Tannenbrook Hunt victoriously. At long last, the big, surly brute was hers.

Of course, there appeared to be much she did not know about her new husband.

Her teeth worried at her lip, and she twisted her mother’s ring about her finger.

For example, she’d never asked where James had spent his childhood. That was largely because she could scarcely elicit a response to questions such as “how do you find Northumberland?” and “why do you never dance?” Discovering answers which required more than a single sentence, or which invited further inquiry, had been akin to unknotting a disastrous tangle from her embroidery. In short, it required patience she did not possess.