Three Weeks With Lady X

  What’s more, he gave her a feeling of safety. He was big and bold, and he would frighten off Lady Rainsford or anyone else who thought to attack her. He would be a good husband.

  She could do this.

  She could sleep with him. And marry him. Surely.

  “In the scene with Lady Rainsford, you were like St. George killing the dragon,” she said, managing a weak smile.

  “Alas, the dragon is not dead.”

  “It was very honorable, though, the way you announced that we were already married.”

  “It is the desire of my heart,” Vander stated, his eyes intent on hers.

  In the last hour, he had said all the respectful, adoring things that Thorn had never said or thought. What’s more, Vander was on the same bed with her, and hadn’t tried to kiss her. He cherished and respected her.

  They would have a fine marriage.

  Above her, the bed curtains were gathered and pleated into a pretty rosette. She was done with lying. “There was a slender chance that I may have been carrying Thorn’s child,” she said, not looking to the side. “It did not come to pass.”

  Unable to resist, she turned her head. Vander’s jaw was clenched.

  “Are you disgusted with me?” she whispered.

  “I am grappling with a wish to murder my closest friend.”

  “I led him to believe that I had experience,” she said drearily. “It’s my fault.”

  “How could anyone believe that you are a loose woman? You are like a treasure that a man could spend his life unwrapping.”

  “Thorn believed me. And then when he announced that we would marry, I refused and told him that I would give him our child when it was born.” Tears pressed on her eyes and made them ache. “He believed me. Both times, he believed me.”

  Vander leaned closer. “He’s damaged, India. I don’t want to make excuses for him, but that’s the truth. Once we marry, any child you carry will be mine.” His eyes lightened and his mouth curved into a smile. “In fact, let’s make love right now.”

  He was trying to make her feel better, so India smiled at him. But tears were beginning to spill from her eyes. “Thorn desires me, but he doesn’t love me.”

  Vander sighed. “He’s my best friend, but he’s also an ass, who took advantage of you. He never should have slept with you, let alone without using a French letter.”

  Hot tears ran down India’s cheeks. “He said . . . he said he couldn’t control himself around me.” The sympathy in Vander’s eyes was like a kick in the stomach. “I suppose that’s what men always say.”

  This day had definitely been the worst of her life, other than the day she had been told of her parents’ death. “You rescued me from Lady Rainsford,” she said, a little sob breaking in her chest. “He just stood there, watching.”

  “That’s not quite true. To be fair, I thought he would strangle the woman.”

  India had forgotten the moment when Thorn’s face went black and he moved toward Lady Rainsford, fists clenched. “But you told her we were married and forced her to stop calling me names.”

  Vander pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. “Thorn may be unable to see you clearly,” he said, gently wiping away her tears, “but I can.”

  India was bent on telling him everything. “After . . . after she had said those things to me, and I—” She faltered to a halt.

  “Why did you say that Rose was your child?” Vander asked.

  “I wasn’t thinking. I got angry, and I wanted Lady Rainsford to stop ranting. But it’s probably just as well. Thorn wants to marry someone sweet and kind. He told me that Lala was perfect for him.”

  “Are you in love with him?” Vander’s warm brown eyes were nothing at all like Thorn’s wintery gray ones.

  “He made me feel beautiful, and he listened to me.” She managed to shrug. “I sound like the seduced virgin in a melodrama, don’t I?”

  Vander ran his fingers down her cheek. “I cannot tell you what Thorn is or was thinking, India. All I know is that you are unlike any other woman I’ve ever met. You’re exquisite, and brilliant, and brave. You are perfect for me.”

  “I’m not like this,” she whispered, wiping away another tear. “I don’t cry. Even when my parents left me, I didn’t cry.” The sympathy in his eyes was humiliating. “And I don’t whisper either!”

  Thorn didn’t love her. He didn’t care. He believed her lies, even when she told him—stupidly told him—an absurd falsehood that a stranger could have seen through.

  It was over, absolutely over. She simply had to make herself believe that.

  “All I can say is that I’m deeply grateful to the loathsome Lady Rainsford,” Vander said. “I had the chance to proclaim that you were my wife. And it felt good, India. It felt right. You are my future duchess. Let’s see how it sounds: Hello, Your Grace.”

  His thumb rubbed her bottom lip, and his eyes flared.

  “Hello, wife.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Thorn arrived at the church door at six o’clock the next morning. The door was locked, and the village square was hushed and silent. The only sign of life came from the bakery across the square. Since there were no benches he took a seat on a gravestone, and waited.

  He had never been one to ride to the hounds. But that was because he saw no point in chasing after animals, when the world of humans was so predatory. Now his entire body was poised for the hunt, waiting for the moment when either the vicar or India would appear. Either one.

  But no one came. After some time, the baker’s door opened, signaling that fresh bread was available. As if on cue, villagers began to appear, greeting each other as they headed across the square for a fresh loaf. A few of them glanced at him, sitting with his arms folded, but they said nothing.

  Thorn was quite certain that neither his dour expression nor his battered face was welcoming. Moreover, by now his instincts were starting to tell him that something was wrong. If he were Vander, he would take India to the church first thing in the morning.

  Unless they were still in bed. Unless . . . His jaw clenched again. If India and Vander were truly together, and India was happy, he would leave. He would probably leave England altogether.

  It could be that his father had made a mistake. They had traveled to some other town, which is why he’d been unable to find mention of them at the inns.

  As he considered what to do next, two women trotted toward the church across the square. Just as they came by him, one said, “If the groom is handing out shillings, I want to be there. Walk a little faster, woman!” They disappeared down the street to the right of the church.

  His mind went blank. It seemed he was too late. He walked after the women and discovered that there was a small chapel attached to the parish house. Three or four chattering villagers were walking away from the door, looking with satisfaction at the coins they held in their hands.

  He stopped the same woman who had rushed past him a moment ago. “Have I missed the wedding?”

  “Yes, sir, you have,” she said cheerfully. “Friends of yours? What a shame. And I’m sure they would have liked to have you with them, as my husband had to act as one of the witnesses.” She jerked her head toward the chapel. “Go right in, sir. They’re signing the book in the back, but they’ll be out in a moment.”

  Thorn followed her gaze. Opposite the chapel was his own damned carriage.

  He was too late.

  He was too late, and it was his own damned fault. Why hadn’t he realized that he’d never felt lust like that before—which meant it wasn’t just lust? He wanted her, all of her, from the tips of India’s toes to all that gorgeous hair.

  Now he would never wake up next to her, roll over, take her sleepy mouth. He would never hold their first child, born in wedlock or not.

  The thought nearly drove him to his knees, there in an unfamiliar village where it was starting to drizzle. He had never felt despair like this before—not when he was a mudlark, not when he learned his mothe
r had died without ever returning for him . . . never.

  One foot followed another to the door of the chapel. He would see her once more, and after that he would leave the country. Vander would understand. Vander would know precisely what Thorn had lost.

  As he reached the door, a flock of people emerged: the vicar, the sexton, a parishioner, another parishioner . . .

  The bride.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Lala had never been so happy in her life. In fact, she was fairly sure that she’d never had any idea what joy was, because anything she’d experienced to this point had been a pale, sickly imitation.

  She tucked her hand into John Hatfield’s and looked up to see him smiling at her. She couldn’t help but sigh: who would have thought that such an intelligent man would ever want her, Lala? And yet he had told her that he didn’t believe she was stupid at all, but that something was wrong with her vision that prevented her from seeing print correctly.

  “It’s like being blind,” he had told her the evening before. “How could that be considered your fault?”

  Around him, Lala felt intelligent. She was hungry to learn everything she could about babies, and illnesses, and the work of a doctor. She couldn’t wait to meet his cook, and learn how to run her own household.

  “Are you quite certain that you won’t mind the fact that Starberry Court will never be your home?” John asked now, his eyes on hers.

  She laughed. Her mother and father would likely disown her, but she didn’t care. She had her husband and his lovely house. She would go on rounds with him, and feel useful for the first time in her life. No: she would be useful.

  She would feel loved. And she would be loved.

  He bent his head and kissed her. “I never imagined that a woman would give up a duke’s son for me.”

  Lala’s smile only grew wider. She would have paid a fortune to avoid marriage to Mr. Dautry. Yet intuition told her that it would be better if she didn’t clarify that for her new husband. Let him think that earls and dukes had regularly thrown themselves at her feet, and she had rejected them all. For him.

  They walked from the chapel together, husband and wife.

  She froze in the open doorway.

  He was there, looking like an angel of death. There was a moment of silence as she and John stood at the top of the steps, Mr. Dautry at the bottom, arms crossed.

  Mr. Dautry’s face was drawn and she couldn’t read his expression. Lala found herself instinctively trembling. His face was battered, as if he’d already been in a fight.

  John said, “If you think to sue me for alienation of affection, you’ll find that I own very little in the world. I have nothing of value other than Laetitia, and I will not give her up.” The words rang out in the morning air.

  Dautry was staring up at them, his jaw clenched. He looked like a devil, standing there with his hair tumbling around his ears and no cravat to be seen. At the same time, he looked as if he’d taken a tremendous blow.

  She had never imagined that he loved her so much. Lala moved a bit closer to her new husband, clinging to his arm.

  “We are fast married,” John continued. “Laetitia is now Mrs. Hatfield.” He sounded completely calm, even though he was confronting one of the richest men in all England, one whose fiancée he had stolen. Well, she hadn’t quite been his fiancée, but very nearly.

  Mr. Dautry shook himself, like a dog coming out of the rain. “In that case, allow me to be the first to congratulate you.” His voice was oddly hoarse, but the words were clear enough.

  They walked down the steps. Her husband gently released her arm and the men shook hands, somewhat to her surprise.

  “I suppose you used the special license?” Dautry asked.

  “I shall, of course, reimburse you,” John said, nodding.

  “Consider it my wedding present.”

  “That is remarkably gracious of you.” John bowed again.

  “Did you inform Lady Rainsford of your intentions?” Mr. Dautry asked.

  “Lady Rainsford and I do not always see eye to eye,” John replied.

  “You astonish me,” Mr. Dautry replied.

  John smiled at that. “We had a candid exchange on the subject of my wife’s intelligence, after which Laetitia and I bade her mother goodbye.”

  Lala slipped her hand back into the crook of her husband’s arm and beamed at Dautry. “I fully expect to be disowned, and she will not pay us a visit for a long time, or indeed, possibly ever.”

  “A consummation devoutly to be wished,” Mr. Dautry stated.

  Lala had no idea what he meant, but John gave him a lopsided grin and said, “I hope that if Lady Rainsford decides to visit, I will choose to be, instead of Hamlet’s not to be.”

  Lala leaned her head against John’s arm as they watched Dautry stride back down the street.

  “I think he means to be a patron to you,” Lala said. “Perhaps I shall ask him to sponsor a small hospital in the village. He has the money for it, by all accounts.”

  John looked down at her, a thrilling frown on his face. “I won’t have you spending time with that man, Laetitia. He obviously adores you, since he drove all the way here in an attempt to stop your wedding. God knows what would have happened if he’d arrived an hour earlier.”

  Lala shivered. When they first walked out the door, Mr. Dautry had looked ready to murder John. But once he understood it was too late, he’d shown himself to be a gentleman.

  “He will marry,” she said, beginning to walk, because she couldn’t wait to travel back to their own house. “Once Starberry Court has a mistress, I’ll speak to him about a village hospital in West Drayton.”

  “I don’t like the fact that the lord of the manor once loved my wife, even if he does marry someone else. I don’t want you ever to be alone with him,” John ordered.

  The look in his eyes made Lala feel warm all over. “Kiss me,” she breathed, stopping in her tracks.

  John glanced down the deserted street, then he pulled her into his arms. He dropped a sweet buss on her lips, but when they opened beneath his, it all changed.

  Mrs. John Hatfield stood in that empty street for twenty minutes, while her husband gave her a kiss so deep and passionate that they both forgot where they were—at least until the heavens opened and they had to dash through a downpour to the carriage, laughing all the way.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  India woke early in the morning, still exhausted. She wished she were excited about marrying Vander and becoming a duchess someday. She truly did. She had allowed him into her bedchamber the previous evening, thinking that perhaps she would find herself seduced.

  It had made sense at the time: if she found herself enticed by the handsome lord with adoration in his eyes, it stood to reason that she would stop thinking about Thorn.

  But in the end they hadn’t even kissed.

  She would never be Vander’s wife. She just didn’t feel that way about him.

  Thorn, though . . .

  He would likely be at breakfast. Her heart started beating quickly at the thought. Presumably, he no longer wished to marry Lala after Lady Rainsford’s behavior.

  Not that it meant he would turn to her; likely he wouldn’t.

  She would wish him well in the future, in a dignified, yet friendly, manner. The only thing she had left was her self-respect, and even that was in shreds and tatters.

  Still, she felt better after a bath, not to mention dressing in a close-fitting gown with a violet overlay and a low bosom. It felt as if she were going to war—in which case she might as well dress with her own version of armor.

  But in the breakfast room, no one was to be seen besides the butler. “His Grace and Lord Brody have not yet risen,” Fleming announced, escorting her to a seat.

  “And Mr. Dautry?” India asked, trying to give her voice a carefree lilt.

  “Mr. Dautry is not at home.”

  She hadn’t expected that. She paused while unfolding her napkin and looked
up. “Not home? Where is he?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say, my lady.” Then he added, “He departed in the Duke of Villiers’s carriage last night.”

  “Why didn’t he take his own carriage?”

  The lines next to the butler’s mouth deepened. “It was in use.”

  India frowned. Fleming was Thorn’s butler, of course, but in a certain way, he would always be hers too. After all, she had hired him. “For heaven’s sake, Fleming, surely I might know who was using Mr. Dautry’s carriage?”

  The butler closed the door to the breakfast room and lowered his voice. “It was Dr. Hatfield and Miss Rainsford, my lady. At Mr. Dautry’s request, I sent a man two days ago to acquire a blank special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

  Not even by a flicker in his eye did he reveal that the license had been meant for India and his master, even though he had to know the truth. Years of experience had taught India that butlers always knew a household’s secrets.

  “Shortly after the confrontation with Lady Rainsford outside the house,” Fleming continued, “Dr. Hatfield requested a meeting with the lady, and I’m afraid that there was a further exchange of words in the library.”

  “Lady Rainsford had a very distressing afternoon,” India observed, not bothering to feign dismay.

  “Yes, my lady. Unfortunately, she made a number of vehement—one might even say vituperative—remarks before retiring to her chamber. The door to the library was open, and it was impossible not to hear the exchange,” he added.

  India waved her hand impatiently. It would have required superhuman restraint not to listen. “Was Miss Rainsford in the library as well?”

  “No, she was not. But the Duke of Villiers was. After Lady Rainsford departed, His Grace offered Mr. Dautry’s special license to Dr. Hatfield, and the doctor accepted it.”

  India gasped. “He did? Did he inform Mr. Dautry that he was doing so?”