A Rogue to Avoid (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 2) Page 9

  Lady Cordelia attempted to keep the horror she felt from showing in her expression. “I’m afraid Lord Rockport does not have much time. We must leave at once.”

  Surprise registered on the others’ faces.

  “We have an announcement to make.” Lord Rockport inhaled, and for the first time he appeared nervous.

  The thought saddened Cordelia. There must be no easy way to tell one’s family that one’s life was in danger.

  He took her hand in his, and she squeezed it in the most comforting gesture she could muster.

  Lord Rockport inhaled. “We are eloping to Scotland.”

  The room was silent, and Cordelia’s heart must have thought she was still clinging onto that horse, for it seemed to gallop within her chest.

  She must have misheard him. They weren’t—they certainly weren’t going to marry. She’d just visited him to warn him. Not to elope with him.

  The silence seemed to thicken, and Cordelia tried to laugh. It was a joke. Naturally it was a joke.

  Lord Somerville cleared his throat. “Well, well.”

  “Congratulations,” his wife said, but her voice was at a higher-pitch than normal, and the smile she ushered seemed strained.

  “It was an eventful evening,” Lord Rockport explained.

  “Apparently,” Somerville mused. “My wife thought I proposed too early when we’d been seeing each other every day for two weeks.”

  “Lady Cordelia does not have those qualms,” Rockport continued.

  Dear Lord.

  They were really discussing this. They all truly believed she was marrying him.

  This was definitely happening. He was definitely saying those things.

  “What are you doing?” She whispered.

  The marquess blinked, and icy cold spread through her spine.

  Gracious. Did the man think the reason she’d come was to accept his earlier proposal?

  And he’d just announced their engagement. To some of the most important members of the ton. Including the man she had once planned to marry. And now she needed to announce to all of them that he was wrong, and that she wasn’t actually engaged after all.

  And then everyone would gossip about how she had had four engagements, and not just three. And everyone already knew that three betrothals was far too many.

  Cordelia opened her mouth. There probably were words she could use to release herself from this. Unfortunately she couldn’t think of any.

  She swallowed hard. She needed to say that this was a mistake. She needed to say that they were not engaged.

  The fact was—well, just wrong.

  Though perhaps—perhaps this was fine.

  She’d refused the marquess before, because she had thought him unserious.

  And because she despised him.

  She glanced at him. But perhaps this was the marriage of convenience she’d always planned for. Her chest tightened inexplicably as if it realized that the last chance that some miraculous love match would ever happen to her was destroyed.

  She tossed her hair. Love was for other people. Not daughters of dukes. She could do this.

  She had to.

  In the next moment everyone else rose. The others embraced her.

  “Congratulations, you two!” Lord Somerville said.

  “Yes,” Cordelia squeaked.

  She felt an awkward laugh rise in her, even though awkward laughs were not what she was trained to do.

  “We’re so happy to have you in the family,” Lady Somerville said. “I look forward to becoming better acquainted with you.”

  “And I you,” Cordelia stammered.

  “And when’s the wedding?” Lady Somerville beamed. “You must share everything.”

  “It’s just a marriage,” Cordelia said. “You mustn’t romanticize it.”

  “Romanticize it? It’s the best bloody thing in the world,” Lord Somerville exclaimed. He swung his wife downward, and she squealed before looping her arms around his neck.

  Lord Somerville spun his wife around the corridor, and her bronze-colored hair whipped around. The two giggled happily, and her chest tightened. It was easier to agree to a marriage of convenience when not confronted with happy marriages.

  Cordelia smiled tightly. She looked over at Lord Rockport. She thought of Oggleton heading toward the house. He needed to leave. “But we should really go.”

  “I’m so happy you’ve found happiness,” the Duke of Alfriston said solemnly.

  “Y-yes, Your Grace.”

  “Yes indeed,” Lady Alfriston said.

  Cordelia tried to smile at the woman who had stolen the duke from her. Her heartbeat quickened, and she wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or distressed that Lord Rockport was openly beaming.

  Her groom-to-be.

  Her stomach rattled, and she clutched onto the chair rail. The polished wood, gleaming even under the dull candlelight, was an ineffectual buttress.

  The duchess clapped her hands. “You must ride down with us tomorrow to Canterbury. Sir Miles invited us to visit Highgate Manor on our way to Italy. You can get a special license from the archbishop and then we can all celebrate.”

  The others grew quiet, and some of them averted their gazes.

  Lord Rockport cleared his throat. “I do not visit Highgate Manor.”

  The duchess blinked. “But I thought the estate belonged to you. It has your name. It was your father’s!”

  Lord Rockport gave a strained smile. “Nevertheless, I do not visit.”

  “My brother has a splendid estate in Scotland,” Lord Somerville said. “I imagine he will want to marry Lady Cordelia in Gretna Green. That’s closer to Yorkshire anyway.”

  The others murmured and once again issued their congratulations.

  “I’m so happy for you,” Lady Somerville beamed and pulled her husband’s arms around her, unselfconscious about her affection for him.

  “Indeed,” Cordelia croaked.

  Happiness was not the emotion she was feeling.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “The coach is prepared,” the butler announced in the requisite imposing manner essential to a man of his position.

  Cordelia could have hugged him.

  No more conversing with contented couples.

  “Very well.” Cordelia smoothed her dress in a practiced motion and turned to the others. “Goodbye everyone!”

  “We’ll follow you out,” Lady Somerville said.

  “No need,” Cordelia chirped. “We’re in a hurry.”

  The statement seemed to induce mirth in the others, and they just waved goodbye.

  Lord Rockport offered her his arm, and they strode through the corridor.

  Oggleton would likely have left her father’s library by now. Her throat tightened, and she quickened her pace. Her dampened dress may have been brushing against the furniture, and more mud may have clung to the hardwood floor.

  She didn’t care.

  The butler handed the marquess a basket with the solemnity of an altar boy to a priest.

  “It has everything?” Lord Rockport asked.

  Pain seemed to flicker over the butler’s face, but he nodded stoically. “Everything.”

  “Good chap,” Lord Rockport said.

  The butler opened the door to the outside, and they exited the manor house. Her feet crunched against the gravel, the noise magnified by the stillness of the night. Only the driver was present, and his skeptical gaze was worthy of the butler’s.

  Lord Rockport spoke to the sleepy-eyed driver about the various routes to Gretna Green, and Cordelia clambered into the carriage.

  Oggleton would be on the way to the estate, and Cordelia’s heart hammered against her ribs with a vigor more suited to farm workers than well-birthed aristocrats.

  Finally, Lord Rockport followed her inside and settled on the seat opposite her. “Let us begin the rest of our life together.”

  “Yes,” she squeaked.

  The coach soon barreled over the road, and
Cordelia leaned against the seat, the soft texture doing nothing to halt the rapid beating of her heart.

  They weren’t married. They shouldn’t even be speaking together, not without the presence of a chaperone. And even then their time together should be confined to the time it would take to consume a good cup of tea. Two cups if the man were truly interested, though Cordelia had found that most men found her so intimidating that they were relieved to leave her.

  “I brought you things.” Lord Rockport rustled next to him, and Cordelia realized he was opening a basket. “Would you care for some chocolate? Wine? Bread?”

  “I’m fine.” She paused. “Thank you, though.”

  Why couldn’t he be like all the other peers? More plain than handsome, and with a habit of droning on about dull topics, rather than the kind that made her heart race? A marriage to the former sort of peer would be easy, with rules she could understand.

  He might be attractive in a manner most commonly found in depictions of Hercules, but he had also engaged in a public correspondence with Matchmaking for Wallflowers in which he emphasized his distaste for matrimony. Not only that, he had taken it on as a personal mission to destroy her.

  A pillow toppled from her seat, and she lurched after it. But instead of the silky tasseled monstrosity she expected, she met with his hand. Even in the cold spring night, his hand was warm, and his heat seemed to spill through her. She regretted not wearing her gloves. Any protection, even lace and satin, would be useful.

  “Are you reaching for my hand, darling?”

  “N-no,” she stammered.

  His fingers continued to grasp hers, and she seemed to forget the exact procedure of breathing. She reminded herself of the need to inhale and exhale, even though she’d seemed to have lost the ability to perform either task.

  Something muffled sounded, and she stiffened.

  Surely even he would not deign to laugh at her.

  “You wound me,” he said, his tone tinged with excessive amounts of humor. “Perhaps you’re looking for this.”

  He flung the pillow at her, and it landed in her lap.

  She stroked the sumptuous fabric and ornate tassels. “The pillow is less trouble than you.”

  He chuckled and leaned toward her, and she clutched her fingers more tightly around the baroque pillow.

  “Unfortunately you’re marrying me.” His tone was deep, deliciously masculine. His large, muscular presence did not seem hampered in the dark.

  She’d never been alone in such close quarters with a man before. “How long until we reach Scotland?”

  He laughed. “Several days my dear.”

  “Oh.”

  “It would be faster in a stagecoach, but I suspect you’ll find this more comfortable.”

  The coach jostled over the roads, and Cordelia lurched with each swerve. She refrained from expressing astonishment that other forms of transport could be less comfortable than this. Such a statement would likely induce additional laughter, and Cordelia found the experience of being laughed at unenjoyable.

  She turned her head to the window. Not that there was actually a view. Velvet curtains adorned a thin rod, and slivers of light from the lantern outside streamed inside.

  Lord Rockport searched through his basket, and then with a boyishly triumphant smile held it up in the air. “I got you a ring.”

  Something dark was in his hand, and her chest tightened. She’d imagined this moment before. She’d imagined the man’s respectable experience and the envy of onlookers.

  Not a man with rumpled hair giving her a casual wink in the dim light.

  She stiffened. “Are you sure?”

  “People will expect you to have a ring. It was my mother’s.”

  He placed the ring in her palm. She closed her fingers over it, ignoring the strange sizzle of heat that fired through her at his touch. Lord Rockport’s gesture was sweet, and her heartbeat quickened. It was too easy to imagine that this could be something more. The stone prickled her skin, and she slid the ring over her finger.

  She held her hand up, and the corners of the ring glinted in the dim light of the lantern. The diamond was fit for a marchioness, yet it also signified everything she would never have with the marquess, nor with any other man.

  She was eloping.

  Accidentally.

  She’d only intended to warn him, but that didn’t change their situation now. An engagement ring was on her finger.

  Lord Rockport had announced to his well-placed relatives that they were engaged, and she had no desire to increase her number of failed engagements.

  Perhaps he’d known she wouldn’t be able to deny the engagement before her former fiancé. Perhaps he’d planned this with the same strategical dauntlessness she’d encouraged in Matchmaking for Wallflowers.

  Lord, how had he taken on such debt that her father was sending a henchman to murder him? What exactly had she gotten herself into?

  She sighed. “We should just establish some rules.”

  “Rules?” A current of amusement coursed through his voice.

  She lifted up her chin. “Naturally. We are embarking on a marriage of convenience.”

  “Indeed?” He finally asked, his voice far stiller, and the sound of the wheels and trotting horses nearly overpowered it.

  “Yes,” she said, wondering why something in her chest hurt when she said it. “That’s why you proposed, wasn’t it?”

  “Aye, lassie,” he said finally. “Practicality. That’s me.”

  “Being chased by one of my father’s henchmen to repay a loan is rather an obvious indication of your lack of financial acumen.”

  “My financial situation is no concern of yours.” He crossed his legs away from her.

  “First of all,” she said. “I will hold you to what you told me at the ball.”

  “You want Highgate Manor?” He said faintly.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s yours. I’ll send you on a coach there after we marry at Gretna Green.”

  “You would not accompany me?”

  “I don’t visit there, lassie.”

  “Too far south in England?” She ventured.

  “Something like that,” he growled. “You can continue to speak your perfect English there, unhampered by the weight of a Scottish accent. You will never see me again.”

  Suspicion surged through her. If the place was nice, surely he would visit? She tightened her fists, and the diamond pressed against her palm. “I hope you are not sending me to some decrepit manor house. I do have standards.”

  “You need not worry,” he said.

  “I hope you are being truthful.”

  “You do not mind that you will have a loveless marriage?” He asked, his voice cool and controlled.

  “No.” The word seemed to hover over them.

  “Very well, lassie,” Lord Rockport said finally. “As you desire.”

  “And also . . . ” She cleared her throat, and warmth crept over her cheeks. “This is not exactly delicate, but…”

  “Are you talking about consummating marriage?” His pitch lowered, his voice as rich as sin. Amusement exuded through his voice as if he were perusing caricatures from one of the gossip papers.

  “Because I agree, that’s not delicate in the least.”

  She swallowed hard.

  “But never fear, I’ve no desire for that.” He scanned her body slowly. “Virginal women are not my type.”

  Warmth soared from her cheeks to every cell of her body.

  The man might be flirtatious. Heat might dash through her body at his every touch, and his voice might ratchet her breathing up, but she must never ever forget that the man despised her.

  Any illusion that he might be simply careless, unaware of the cruelty of his words, dissipated.

  Of course he was aware. He was cultured, suave, and from everyone’s gossip, prone to lather on compliments on every woman except her.

  “I thought to make it quite proper we might have to . .
. ”

  “This is not the middle ages, lassie. No one’s going to be listening to you moan and gasp, and I’m not going to be holding up a bloody sheet for anyone to admire at the force of my pummeling of your maidenhood.”

  “That sounds dreadful!”

  He laughed. “I can find women besides my own wife to bed me.”

  “I am aware of the existence of brothels.”

  He gave her a languid grin. “You have little understanding of the eagerness of women to join me in bed. And I’m not referring to courtesans, despite my ability—until recently—to lavish gifts and coin on them.”

  “How wonderful for you,” she said icily.

  “I won’t expect fidelity from you. In fact, it would be convenient if you had a son, as long as you can manage to limit your affairs to men whose children would be believable as my children.”

  She coughed. “You seem determined to link me to scandal.”

  “Nice women don’t show up in the middle of the night,” he said lightly.

  So this would be their marriage.

  She closed her eyes and tried to think of Kent. Perhaps she could find contentment in a marriage to him. She tried to think of hot summer days and chalky cliffs within reach. She tried to think of sunbeams rippling over an azure ocean, and of snowy-white seagulls fluttering their wings over the foamy surface, cawing in delight. She tried to think of climbing granite rocks, and staring at the wide expanse of sky, unmarred by London’s smog and of the ivory buildings that jutted into the sky, their elaborate cornices and occasional gargoyles marring the view.

  Something crunched under the coach, and the wheels wobbled. The horses neighed, and for a few moments they sped forward.

  Then the coach swerved, and one side jerked downward. Her body slammed against the window.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Gerard toppled onto the floor. The torch extinguished, and darkness consumed them.

  That had not just happened.

  Except the seat was decidedly slanted, the carriage was still, and the horses were neighing and stomping their hooves with agitation. And his shoulder ached like some oaf had decided to make him his punching bag.

  Bloody hell.

  Worry spread through him. “Lady Cordelia! How are you?”