A Reckless Bargain Part 21

Lord Bainbridge stalked to the sideboard, sloshed the last of the very excellent, very smuggled French brandy from the decanter into his gla.s.s, and bellowed for his butler to bring him another bottle. Then, with a snort of disgust, he folded himself once more into the plush wing chair by the hearth and propped one booted foot atop the nearby table. He swirled the liquid around in the gla.s.s, watching the play of the candlelight in its amber depths.

He would forget her. He must. Or he would run mad. Run mad, and bankrupt himself on smuggled French brandy in the process. Three, five, ten bottles-what did it matter? He sighed and slouched farther into the chair's thick padding.

How had it come to this? He had finally found a woman he loved-loved and wanted to marry, no less-and he had walked away from her. Walked away and not looked back. Had he made the right decision? Or should he have brushed aside her protests and used all the seductive skills at his command to overpower the last of her resistance?

No. He knew that was not the answer; she would never have forgiven him if he had done that. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, she had barely forgiven him for the first fateful bargain.

Now Kit was in Bath, and he in London. Was she as miserable as he was? He grimaced and downed a mouthful of the fiery liquor. No doubt Lord Langley had shown up to comfort her. Would that rogue try to kiss her? Whisper in her ear that she was well rid of the reprobate marquess? Would he propose to her again? A red haze misted his vision at the thought. He banged one fist against the arm of the chair. G.o.d's teeth, he wasn't supposed to care about what happened to her!

He leaned forward and set aside his gla.s.s, then shoved both hands through his already rumpled hair. Lud, he was a mess. No waistcoat, no cravat, his s.h.i.+rt open at the throat. He fingered his stubbled chin. Ah, and unshaven, to boot. How his acquaintances at White's would laugh-the infamous Marquess of Bainbridge, rake and Corinthian sans pareil, brought low by a woman.

By love.

He vaulted out of the chair. d.a.m.nation! How much more of this was he supposed to take? He began to pace the length of the Turkey carpet. And where the h.e.l.l was Fulton with his brandy?

Then he heard the butler's voice from the hallway. He c.o.c.ked his head. His butler's raised voice. He frowned. Fulton was as stuffily proper as anyone could ask, and he never raised his voice.

Until now.

"But you cannot simply barge in there, Your Grace!" Fulton protested.

"If you do not get out of my way, you fribble, I shall not hesitate to take that bottle from your hands and smack you over the head with it. Go on, child. I can handle this upstart."

A lopsided grin slid over his face. Aunt Jo was in fine form this evening. But what was she doing here? His brow furrowed.

The study door creaked open. A familiar golden head appeared in the breach, followed by a heart-stopping pair of green eyes.

His grin faded. Was he dreaming?

"Kit?" The name came out as more of a croak.

"Nicholas?" The vision edged into the room until she stood in the middle of the carpet, her fingers laced tightly in front of her, her eyes huge. A bonnet dangled down her back. Tawny gold curls tumbled about her face.

A dream. That must be it. He must be dreaming. There could be no other explanation. "Are you real?"

The vision smiled. "Yes." She came toward him, and he caught the dizzying scent of her exotic perfume.

No vision, this. His pulse began to hammer in his chest.

"You came," he breathed. He extended a hand to her.

She gazed at him through lowered lashes. "I had to."

"Why?"

She hesitated, then reached out and took his hand. "Because I love you, Nicholas."

With a groan he pulled her to him and buried his face in her hair. G.o.d, she smelled so good. He enveloped her in a tight embrace. "I did not think you would come."

Her fingers flexed against his chest; he heard her indrawn hiss of breath. "I did not think you wanted me to."

"Want you?" Bainbridge pulled back a bit and stared down at her, incredulous, his throat raw with unspoken emotion. "Kit, how could I have ever given you the impression that I did not want you?"

She ducked her head. "In the carriage, coming home from the a.s.sembly Rooms. It seems like a lifetime ago."

He nuzzled the curls at her temple. "Ah, Kit." His heart slid up into the back of his throat and stuck there. "I never said I didn't want you."

She gazed up at him through a haze of unshed tears. "I am so sorry. I have made such a muddle of this."

"Shhhh." He moved his lips across her forehead. "You don't need to explain. You are here, and that is all that matters."

Kit pulled back and shook her head. "But it does. It does matter. You taught me that."

He responded with a raised eyebrow.

She flushed; her freckles stood out like dusted cinnamon against her skin. "Weeks ago you asked me what I wanted. Now I know."

He brushed his thumb over the quivering softness of her lower lip. "Tell me."

He felt her s.h.i.+ver, felt his body spring to life in response.

She hesitated a moment, then leaned up and pressed a tiny kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I want you, Nicholas. I want to share picnics in the shade with you, and stories. And strawberries." A teasing smile pulled at her lips. "Lots of strawberries."

The marquess chuckled. "Minx. You forget that I am a rake."

Amus.e.m.e.nt glinted in her eyes. "A very dangerous and irrepressible rake, so I have been told," she replied.

"Then perhaps it is time I proved to you just how dangerous I am." Tightening his arms around her, he leaned down and claimed her mouth with his.

She pressed herself against him; his blood sang through his veins as her every curve melded with the planes of his body. His mind grew hazy, and all he could think about was how close she was to him and how her skin felt beneath her fingertips, beneath his lips. One hand traced the arc of her spine and came to rest on the upper swell of her hip. A moan escaped her.

He gazed down at her with heavy-lidded eyes. "I warn you, madam, I do not want you as a mistress. You must consent to be my wife. That is the bargain."

She smiled and brushed a heavy lock of hair away from his forehead. "And what do I get in return?"

He leaned down and traced his lips along the line of her jaw. "A lifetime of being cherished and adored. Children. Waking from sleep with the memory of my hands on your body . . ."

She sighed and pulled away as far as his arms would allow. "Behave yourself, sir, or I shall not consent to your terms."

He chuckled. "Yes, you will."

"You know me too well."

"Not nearly well enough. But I look forward to the exploration. Marry me, Kit."

An insouciant smile danced over her lips. "My answer is yes, my lord. Yes, I will marry you."

"Excellent. Now, where were we?" His hand slid down to cup the rounded swell of her breast.

Her mouth rounded in shock. "Nicholas, what are you doing? The dowager is just outside!"

"I know," he replied with a wicked grin. "But she will wait."

Epilogue.

Stow-on-the-Wold, Glouchesters.h.i.+re September, 1813

The wedding party exited the small church to a chorus of cheers and loud huzzahs as the a.s.sembled crowd showered them with grain and flower petals. Everyone in the village had turned out for the event, despite the cool, insistent breeze that ruffled the hems of skirts and threatened to tug hats from heads. No one seemed to mind the inclement weather, for the bride's radiant smile more than made up for the lack of suns.h.i.+ne.

The Dowager d.u.c.h.ess of Wexcombe gave up fretting over the plumes in her turban; they were a lost cause on such a bl.u.s.tery day. She pulled her velvet cloak more closely against her thin frame, guarding against any more incursions by that dratted wind. Hmph. Kit and Nicholas deserved a sunny day for their nuptials, especially after all they had been through. Well, beggars could not be choosers. She sighed. They were married at last, and blissfully happy. That was all that mattered.

Next to her, her grandson, the Duke of Wexcombe, pulled his curly brimmed beaver more firmly onto his brow, then brushed an errant petal from the sleeve of his forest green superfine.

" 'Pon rep, Wexcombe, this is a wedding, not a funeral," the dowager declared with asperity. "You're as grumpy as a tiger with a toothache."

"Forgive me, Grandmama, if I do not share your enthusiasm," the duke replied in arid tones. "I realize you are partial to the chit, but this marriage is hardly cause for celebration."

"You are not happy for your cousin?"

Wexcombe tugged at the cuff of one sleeve. "I would have preferred to see Bainbridge make a more suitable match."

She arched a knowing eyebrow at him. "Like Lady Elizabeth?"

"No, Elizabeth proved far too high strung for-" The duke twitched as though he'd been stung. His eyes widened. "Wait a moment. How did you . . ."

The dowager twitched at the front edge of her cloak. "You need not look so surprised, my boy. I know very well that you and Caroline were scheming to throw that vain, simpering nincomp.o.o.p at Bainbridge's head. I overheard the two of you plotting together months ago."

Storm clouds gathered on the duke's brow. "Do you mean to tell me that this was your idea?" he asked, clearly outraged. "That you actually arranged it?"

The dowager allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. "Oh, pish. You give me far too much credit, Wexcombe; I merely brought the two of them together. Well, I suppose I had to set them straight after your interference, but-"

The duke's lips compressed in a thin line. "And what part did Mrs. Mallory play in this?"

"She knew nothing about it," the dowager replied serenely. "Although I almost let it slip after that dratted physician dosed me with laudanum. Thankfully, she never pressed me for an explanation."

A stunned expression crossed Wexcombe's narrow face. "Elizabeth. That was the reason you took her to task. You wanted to chase her off."

"Well, I could not very well sit by and allow her to ruin things. Another day or so and she would have tricked Bainbridge into compromising her. That was your plan, I believe."

He flushed. "You had no right to meddle, Grandmama."

"Poppyc.o.c.k. I was not about to allow you to maneuver Bainbridge into a cold-blooded marriage simply to put an end to his rakeh.e.l.l ways and save you any further embarra.s.sment. Lud, Wexcombe, any more of this high-handed behavior and you will need to have your ducal coronet stretched to fit over your enlarged head."

The duke pinched the bridge of his nose. "But why Mrs. Mallory? Could you not have set your sights on someone more suitable?"

"Suitable?" guffawed the dowager. "I always thought you were pig-headed, Wexcombe, but I never thought you were blind. Why, I knew from the moment I met Kit that that she and Nicholas were perfect for each other."

"I fail to see-"

"Exactly." She waved an impatient hand. "I wanted to see Bainbridge settled, but with a woman he loved. Look at them, Wexcombe. Do you not agree that they were meant for each other?"

The two of them turned to watch the bride and groom climb into the carriage; the couple had eyes only for each other. Bainbridge raised Kit's hand to his lips, then turned it over and pressed a kiss to the exposed skin of her wrist. The young lady flushed with pleasure.

"Now," prodded the dowager, "you must at least admit that you were mistaken in your initial impression of Kit's character."

The duke rolled his eyes. "Oh, very well."

"And that you were wrong to treat her with such contempt."

His mouth tightened. "I did what I thought necessary."

The dowager bristled. "Telling Bainbridge that c.o.c.k-and-bull story of Kit being after my money, then turning around and telling tales out of school to the poor girl-the very idea. You should be ashamed of yourself."

"The chit came from a questionable background, and Bainbridge seemed unreasonably fascinated. I had every right to be alarmed. For that matter, I still have reason to believe he made the wrong choice."

"Oh, stop being such a pompous a.s.s, boy. Bainbridge deserves a measure of contentment, and Kit makes him happy. She is a lovely girl. Pluck to the backbone. She will keep him on his toes."

The carriage began to rumble away, accompanied by the cheers of the a.s.sembled villagers. The dowager stood in the churchyard and waved until the equipage disappeared from view.

"Now that this is over," sighed the duke, "I trust you will retire gracefully."

"I have been thinking about that," the dowager replied, tapping a gloved finger against her cheek. "I rather like the role of matchmaker. Perhaps I should turn my attention to your youngest brother, Nigel, or even Lady Elizabeth, although I might be hard pressed to find someone willing to marry a shrew. And since I will be at the dower house for a good portion of the year, I will have ample opportunity to arrange fine matches for Emma and Nathaniel when they come of age. This sounds rather promising, would you not agree?"

"Good G.o.d!" bl.u.s.tered the duke, horrified.

The dowager chuckled. Sometimes everything did turn out for the best.

end