The next morning, Remington stood on the steps of St. James’s and listened to the bells ring ten o’clock. They were late. His duchess was late.
“Just like a woman, eh?” Clark asked. “Late to her own wedding.”
Usually Remington enjoyed Clark’s cheerfulness, but right now the man’s jovial voice grated on his nerves. “She’ll be here soon.” He stared down the street, straining to hear the rumble of carriage wheels.
She couldn’t have discovered a way to escape him now. After the night of the betrothal ball, she wouldn’t even have tried. In a frenzy of passion, she had been willing to give herself to him—and he, fool that he was, hadn’t taken advantage of her. He had wanted her to know what she was doing when they made love. He had bound himself to his self-imposed schedule. He had told himself she would be glad for his restraint.
But the schedule didn’t matter when compared to his own desire. Furthermore, she might not have appreciated his honorable intentions and counted his refusal as rejection. And in the thirty hours since, his body had given him hell every minute for his honorable intentions. He’d spent the hours in semi-arousal—except for those minutes when he was fully aroused. Nothing had given him relief, not even discussing his shipping profits, and the day a woman distracted him from business was a black day indeed.
But this wasn’t just a woman. She was his duchess, and she had tasted like heaven and responded with an untutored ardor. When he finally got her under him, he wasn’t going to let her up for hours, days…
When he finally got her under him. They had the wedding to get through, then the wedding breakfast, then supper, then…my God, what had he been thinking? He couldn’t survive five minutes without wanting to swive her senseless. Now he had to wait hours?
Clark rocked back and forth on his heels, uneasy with Remington’s silence and Madeline’s tardiness. “The weather could have been worse. It could still be storming, and that, my friend, would be a disaster.”
“So it would.”
Puddles filled the streets. Clouds hid the sun. The wind was dashing down the streets and around corners with a moan—and Remington’s duchess still had not arrived.
“Rained half the night.” Clark looked up at the scuttling clouds. “I thought it would never stop. I thought we’d be here, holding a canopy over your fiancée to get her into the…what’s that?”
Remington heard it, too. The rumble of carriage wheels. Remington’s barouche took the corner at a dignified pace and pulled to a stop in front of the church steps.
“There they are,” Clark said heartily. “Your duchess is here. She’s going to wed you, after all. You lucky dog, you don’t deserve such a beauty.”
“Yes, I do.” Remington watched relentlessly as she gave her hand to the footman and descended the carriage—and deep inside him, a knot of disquiet loosened. “I most certainly do.”
She was wearing the clothes he had provided. At last, she dressed as he demanded.
The gown was white velvet, holding to her elegantly slender body with the care of a lover. Her spencer was Madonna blue silk, encasing her bosom so perfectly that his mouth grew dry with desire. She wore white leather boots and a hat that framed her sweet face in the same blue as the spencer. Of course, her bouquet was yellow roses. He had planned on white roses, for then she would have been, in his mind, the perfect bride. But his old ideal of perfection had wavered and changed, and he could see no one but his duchess. Nothing but his duchess. And whatever his duchess wanted, she should get.
She looked like an angel—and only he knew how very earthy she was. Only he knew how she tasted, warm and womanly. Only he knew the way she looked without her clothes. Bare and smooth, with high, firm breasts and pale rose nipples. The indent of her waist, the flare of her hips, the notch between her thighs…he had wanted nothing more than to see her in her wedding gown.
Now he couldn’t wait to strip that gown off her and look on the lacy chemise she wore…she had worn it, hadn’t she? He had picked it out especially for their wedding day. She wouldn’t niggle at that, would she?
It wasn’t as if he would ask Lady Gertrude. Her aunt might object at discussing Madeline’s undergarments with him. Yet he needed to know, and a light perspiration sprung up on his forehead as he considered how long it would be before he could find out.
But while he could look nowhere but at his duchess, she looked everywhere except at him. A blush tinted her cheeks, and she looked uneasy, as if he would accuse her of something—immodesty, perhaps, or lasciviousness. He would speak to her. He would explain that a man like him did not think less of a woman for enjoying what he taught her.
But as he started toward her, his coachman heaved himself out of his seat and planted himself in Remington’s path. Reluctantly, Remington halted. “Yes, John?”
John pulled his forelock, and in a loud voice, said, “Sir, I beg yer pardon that we’re late. We ’ad a bit o’ a problem at Old Bond Street. Some fool fired a shot and spooked the ’orses.”
Remington halted in his tracks, his mind racing. “Fired a shot?”
Clark joined them, and echoed, “Fired a shot?”
In a quieter tone, John added, “I don’t know, sirs, but I would ’ave sworn the shot was fired right at the ’orses.”
Fury roared through Remington, an old fury, directed at the duke of Magnus, and all the more dangerous for being long thwarted. “Damn it!” Remington cut a glance toward Lady Gertrude and Madeline. Lady Gertrude was fussing with Madeline’s gown. Madeline was pulling her bonnet forward, as if she could hide behind its concealing brim.
“The ladies appear to be all right,” Clark observed.
“Aye, sir,” John said. “Lady Gertrude screamed a bit, but ’Er Grace is plucky t’ the backbone!”
“That’s a blessing.” Clark shook his head. “But if I were superstitious, I would call this a bad omen.”
“Omen? Hell, this wasn’t an omen. This was deliberate.” Remington clipped his words.
Clark goggled at him. “What do you mean?”
“Second time in less than a week that my carriage has been attacked,” Remington informed him.
Taken aback, Clark asked, “Do you suppose?…That is, is this associated with the incidents you related to me?”
“Without a doubt,” Remington answered. “There may be others who want me dead, but few who can marshal such lethal forces.” He asked John, “Did you see the man with the gun?”
“Nay, sir, nary a soul, but I couldn’t look fer a time. Poor Roderick—he’s the left gray, sir—the bullet cut a notch in his ear. He kicked up a fuss, o’ course, and the ladies was jostled around before I got the team under control.” Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, John wiped sweat from his heavy brow. His complexion was gray, and his hands were shaking. “I don’t like t’ brag on meself, sir, but a lesser coachman wouldn’t ’ave pulled it out.”
One of the footmen had crept close, and he cradled his own arm as if it were hurt. “Aye, sir, Mr. Knight, sir, ’e’s right. Went flying off, I did, and I thought the carriage was going t’ topple, but John Coachman fought the grays t’ a standstill. Best bit o’ driving I’ve ever seen!”
Remington had hired every one of his servants with an eye to their skills, their loyalty, and their fighting ability. Now he’d been proved right in his choices on two separate occasions in the last week. He would have reflected with satisfaction on his shrewd choices, but he could not. Not in good faith.
Looking down at his hands, he saw they were clenching and unclenching. He had provided his duchess shelter, food, and now clothing. With this ceremony, she would be utterly dependent on him—and he had put her in danger. Yes, he was the target of these attacks, but she could be hurt, could even be killed.
He, who had planned every step of his revenge with such care, hadn’t thought of that.
Or perhaps it was simply that, before he’d met her, he hadn’t cared.
“ ’As someone got a grievance against ’Er Grace?” John asked.
“Unlikely,” Clark answered. “Most brides don’t go to the church in the groom’s carriage, so I suspect that Remington was the target.”
The men uneasily looked around at the surrounding buildings.
“Yes, I know,” Remington said. “It’s not a pleasant idea, to know you’re working for someone with people who shoot at him. Nevertheless, I must ask that you remain to take us home. On our return, we’ll not be going elsewhere.”
John was an older man, well-trained, and he nodded solemnly. The footman couldn’t manage such discretion and fought a grin.
“When we’re back at Berkley Square, go to the tavern on my largesse. In fact, go to several taverns. Express your dissatisfaction with my employ. See if you can hear any gossip about me. Someone is trying to make trouble.” Remington knew very well who it was, but he needed to know what further peril he could expect. “Disgruntled servants are a fertile ground for gossip, and perhaps someone will seek you out.”
John nodded, but the footman had been chosen for his fighting ability, not his brains, and he said, “But sir, we’re not disgruntled. We’re very gruntled.”
John cuffed him and led him away. “Come on. I’ll explain it t’ ye.”
Clark touched Remington’s sleeve. “Lady Gertrude thinks it odd that you’ve not come to welcome your bride.”
A chill swept down Remington’s spine. Was his duchess in peril now, standing on the church steps? He started toward her. “Come on,” he tossed back to Clark. “Escort Lady Gertrude.” Who was also in peril.
His duchess looked alarmed as Remington approached, but he didn’t care. He wanted her off the street.
In a breathless voice, she said, “Mr. Knight, I have something I need to tell you.”
Catching her by the hand, he said, “Tell me after the ceremony.”
“But sir, you’ll be angry when you hear it.”
Leading her through the heavy open doors, he turned on her. “I’m already angry.”
“I’m sorry for that, sir.” She clutched her bouquet in both of her trembling hands. “Could you tell me the reason?”
It was pure politeness that made her ask; she didn’t sound as if she cared at all, and in the relative safety of the narthex, he relaxed. “I trust you weren’t hurt on the way here.”
“What? No, I thank you, I’m well, although Lady Gertrude said riding in your carriages is most eventful.” Eleanor glanced down at the bouquet she held, out the open doors toward the clouds, as if seeking an answer. Then, craning her neck, she looked down the street as if expecting to see someone riding to her rescue. “I truly do need to tell you something.”
Pulling her further away from the doors, he said, “I know you’re embarrassed to look me in the eyes.”
Her gaze snapped up.
At the sight of that sweet, anxious face, his resolve strengthened. He needed to carry out his plan. He needed to keep her safe.
Regardless of the danger, the circumstances, or the environs, the need to mark her as his drove him ever more fiercely. He needed to put his ring on her finger so every man would know she was claimed. So that she knew she was claimed. He wanted every breath she took, every movement she made, to remind her of him. Of his possession.
He had never been as unsure of a woman as he was of her, and it wasn’t that she had aristocratic connections or that he’d won her in a card game. The woman herself was elusive, fey. She seemed always about to slip away from him, as if no claim he could make would keep her in his world.
In a quiet voice, pitched to reach only her ears, he said, “Don’t you dare imagine that I think less of you because you showed me the sweetest passion I’ve ever been privileged to witness.” He was so close to owning her. To having her.
She made an incoherent sound of objection and glanced frantically at Lady Gertrude and Clark.
“They can’t hear us. They deliberately aren’t listening.” That much was true. They’d moved away to give Remington and his duchess privacy. “I promise I’m going to show you the same madness of passion…although not so sweet. But don’t fear me. I’ve never hurt a woman, and you…you’re special. You’re going to be my wife.” Tenderly, he brushed his finger across her lips. “I promise I’ll make you happy. Do you believe me?”
To his surprise, his speech didn’t seem to lessen her fears. If anything, she looked less embarrassed and more wretched. She glanced longingly at the door as if expecting to see someone come through. “Yes, I believe you. It’s just that…Mr. Knight, I pray you listen—”
He placed his gloved hand across her lips. “Tell me after the ceremony.”
She stared at him, but she didn’t seem to see him. She seemed to be looking inside herself, seeking escape.
“No one’s going to save you,” he said softly. “It’s far too late for that.”
Her eyes grew determined, her chin lifted, and with a firm nod, she said, “I know. I’m going to have to do as I’ve resolved.”
“What is that?”
“To wed you.”
Triumph roared through him. Her declaration was what he’d been waiting for. There would be no last-minute balking at the altar. She would speak her vows, and nothing could go wrong now.