The Marquess Method by Kathleen Ayers

13

Awedding was meant to be a happy occasion. A smiling bride. Gracious family, thrilled to be united. Friends offering well wishes and congratulations. A carriage bedecked with ribbons and flowers to carry the couple as they waved to well-wishers.

At the very least, a wedding should not possess the atmosphere of a funeral.

Ambrose’s wedding to Theodosia Barrington was very much the latter.

Averell and his duchess, a small, delicate woman who seemed far too intelligent to have married the duke, watched Ambrose warily, as if Ambrose were about to make off with the silver as well as Theodosia. Even the duke’s son, Lord Welles, a plump child held in his mother’s arms, let out a wail when he caught sight of Ambrose.

If Theodosia ever deigned to appear, she might well do the same.

The Dowager Duchess of Averell, looking like an enraged fairy queen in her pewter silk, tiny diamonds dangling from her ears, greeted Ambrose as politely as could be expected under the circumstances. Her acceptance of Ambrose had dimmed significantly since the evening at Lady Molsin’s when he’d absconded, no matter how briefly, into a parlor with her daughter, then promptly disappeared.

Lady Richardson, thankfully, was not in attendance today. Theodosia’s cousin, despite her outward show of support, didn’t care for Ambrose. In Lady Richardson’s defense, she hadn’t liked him before he’d compromised Theodosia.

The Barringtons’ ward, Miss Olivia Nelson, allowed him to take her limp hand in greeting, a delicate sniff her ladylike dismissal. Miss Nelson was the granddaughter of the Earl of Daring. Her status as the ward of the dowager duchess puzzled Ambrose. Daring was still very much alive. One would think he’d wish his granddaughter to live with him.

Ambrose supposed he’d learn why she didn’t eventually.

Only Phaedra, Theo’s audacious younger sister, seemed at all happy to see Ambrose. Plying him with questions on swords and dueling pistols the moment he arrived, Phaedra ignored the pointed look the duke sent her to cease. Either Phaedra was truly interested in weaponry, an odd habit for a young lady, or several members of Theodosia’s family were planning on murdering him. Or possibly the duke’s butler.

Ambrose shot a glance at the stoic Pith, hovering just outside the drawing room.

He’d worried over the last few days that Leo Murphy would somehow appear, rather dramatically, just as the vicar started the ceremony. But as the morning dragged on, the idea became more unlikely, even though Ambrose was sure the duke had written to Murphy of their sister’s impending marriage. Perhaps Murphy was even now on his way back to London and simply wouldn’t get here in time. More likely, he didn’t remember beggaring the Marquess of Haven or even Ambrose and his threats. The Collingwood family was a mere footnote in Murphy’s life. Not worth recalling.

Insulted or relieved? Ambrose wasn’t sure how he should feel.

‘My father would never have signed away my sister’s dowry for a game of dice and a whore.’

‘And yet, he did.’

Once, he’d relished the thought of relaying the news to Murphy that he’d married Theodosia. Taken her and her dowry. Repayment for what Elysium had taken from the Marquess of Haven. How does it feel, Ambrose would sneer to Murphy, to know she’s been taken advantage of as my father was?

Ambrose’s heart, the organ least consulted in any of his machinations, squeezed tightly for an instant. Except, he hadn’t been able to make himself ruin Theodosia. The night in Blythe’s study had been an accident.

Somehow, Ambrose didn’t think Theodosia would agree. Especially not if her brother remembered the threats Ambrose had hurled at him. She would recall how he’d taken the miniature instead of giving it back and assume he’d done so to keep her in the study. Remember how he’d nearly kissed her. Theodosia would assume the worst. And she would be right.

Christ.

Theodosia mattered to him. His mistake had been in thinking he could pretend she did not.

A sound rustled through the group of Barringtons, drawing Ambrose out of his thoughts.

Theodosia was making her way down the massive double staircase of the duke’s home clothed in a spectacular gown of ice-blue silk. Brilliants and pearls peeked through the dark coils of her hair.

Ambrose frowned as he looked up at her. Theodosia’s complexion, usually a delightful peach color, because much like her sister she rarely used a parasol, was dreadfully pale. Almost sickly. Most alarmingly, there were no spectacles sitting atop her pert little nose.

Theodosia, at the sight of Ambrose, or at least the blurry outline of him, immediately tilted her chin at a mutinous angle, a clear signal she’d defiantly and intentionally decided not to wear her spectacles.

He should never have declared he found them appealing.

Ambrose spent the next few minutes in terror, holding his breath until Theodosia safely reached his side. He’d had visions of her tripping down the stairs because she couldn’t see and breaking her beautiful neck. As she neared him, his eyes lingered over the slope of her shoulder, a fascinating expanse of skin he couldn’t wait to touch again.

She took his arm, refusing to look directly at him. “Lead me to my doom, my lord.”

Gorgeous, hostile little thing.

“As you wish, Theodosia,” he answered solemnly.

Ambrose forced himself to focus on Theodosia’s magnificent bosom and not the fact that his bride would eventually despise him one day, for his intent if not his actions.

As the vicar began to intone the words uniting him to Theodosia, the soft fragrance of lemons tinged with the aroma of paint met his nostrils. There was a tiny spot of blue right beneath her ear as if she’d been dabbing at a canvas in her studio before coming down. The freckles trailing up to her collarbone beckoned Ambrose to draw his tongue over them. He meant to nibble at each one.

Theodosia bit out her vows, making every word sound as if it was a piece of glass wedged in her mouth, antagonistic to the very end. He could hardly blame her, despite how their conversation in her studio had ended. Frustration had led him to lash out at her, his ego wounded that she still chose to voice her affection for Blythe. She had been surprised by his confession of wanting her nearly from the second he saw her—something that had little to do with Elysium and his relationship with Leo Murphy.

At the vicar’s command, Ambrose brushed his lips against hers in a chaste kiss, sealing their vows. There was no clapping from the Barringtons or congratulations, only a collective sigh of resignation. His new wife didn’t so much as glance in his direction as they made their way to the dining room, where an assortment of delicious aromas assaulted his nose. Ambrose had an immense appetite for many things. Food. Security.

Theodosia.

As he helped Theodosia to her seat, Ambrose had an epiphany, one so disturbing it threatened to ruin his enjoyment of the meal they were about to partake of. Perhaps he’d only buried it away inside him until now.

If the choice had come down to vengeance and money on one hand and Theodosia on the other, Ambrose wouldn’t even deliberate.

He suspected he would have chosen Theodosia.

* * *

“I was terrifiedyou’d fall to your death on the stairs, Theodosia. Or worse, mistake the vicar for me and fondle him.”

Theo regarded Haven over her shoulder as she settled in her chair. Not even their wedding day could remain free of his annoying comments. “There is not even a minor possibility of me ever mistaking you for someone else again, my lord. And I have never,” she lowered her voice, “fondled you.”

A light, humming sound came from him. “I would disagree.”

Truth be told, Theo greatly preferred teasing Haven to the seductive gentleman who’d kissed her senseless in her studio. The day was already troubling enough with the wedding and the awkwardness of the meal they were about to share, she didn’t need to consider the more physical aspect of their relationship over her meal.

Haven settled next to Theo, the thick waves of his hair falling in a shaggy mess around the rough planes of his face. He was in desperate need of a proper haircut, not one that looked to have been done with sheep shears. Not that she knew what sheep shears looked like. Or had even seen them in use. Phaedra probably did. It seemed like something her sister would know about.

Ill-cut hair, once broken nose aside, Haven’s appeal was still apparent. He cut quite a figure in his wedding finery, the coat tailored perfectly to his lean, muscular proportions. Theo turned her attention back to her plate to avoid looking at his thighs and length of leg.

Big hands sliding across her stomach, possessively cupping her between her thighs.

She squeezed her legs together. It did little good to remind herself that hers was a marriage of convenience. That Haven was forced to wed her because she’d been compromised, and he was honorable.

Somewhat honorable.

He hadn’t courted her. Not that Theo would have allowed him to, but that wasn’t the point. Nor had there been a romantic proposal with flowers and Haven on bended knee before her. His sights had been set on another girl and her dowry.

The thought steadied her. Helped her put things in perspective. The last thing she wanted to do was become starry-eyed over her marriage. Or Haven. Yes, he’d admitted to desiring her—

Another throb between her thighs.

—but the fact remained, Theo was now married to a man she barely knew and was about to leave the protection of her family for the first time in her life. Whatever lustful feelings he’d inspired in her previously—and there were a great many—paled when compared to her mounting panic. Ridiculous, to be sure. Now would be an excellent time to display some bravery.

The dining room grew silent except for the sound of cutlery and the movement of the servants. No one seemed inclined to engage in conversation.

“Must you,” she finally whispered at Haven who was waving over a footman to refill his plate for the second time, “enjoy your food so?”

“Yes. I must.” The mossy eyes flitted to her. “I appreciate a delicious meal, which this is. You’ve no reason to be cross, Theodosia. It isn’t my fault you can’t see what you’re eating.”

Theo gripped her fork. Surely no one in her family would make the slightest objection if she stabbed Haven. She’d probably receive applause.

She took in her brother at the end of the table. Tony was watching Haven with bored dislike, his fingers drumming at the edge of his plate. The remainder of her family regarded Haven in mute horror as her husband demolished another mound of food on his plate.

Theo shot a discreet glance at Pith, the stone-faced butler who had been a fixture for the entirety of Theo’s life. Desperately attempting to hide his utter revulsion at Haven, Pith kept glancing at Tony from the corner of his eye, silently pleading, Theo imagined, for the duke to issue a command to have Haven tossed from the Averell residence. For all Pith cared, Granby and Haven could both disappear, and they’d all be better for it.

“Those are mushrooms.” Haven pointed discreetly with the knife in his hand. “And that is poached chicken.”

Phaedra giggled on the other side of Theo, amused at Haven’s teasing.

Haven winked at Phaedra before returning to his food.

Theo gave her sister a murderous look, toying with the small pile of mushrooms on her plate. She didn’t care for mushrooms on principle, finding them slimy and unappetizing. That she’d accepted them to be put on her plate told Theo how distressed she was. “I can see my food perfectly well, my lord. I’m not blind.”

“You aren’t wearing your spectacles. I’m trying to be helpful.”

Another snort from Phaedra. Theo kicked her under the table.

“Well, you aren’t.” Theo’s show of bravery faltered as she pushed the mushroom around her plate. She longed for her father in that moment, wishing for his advice on how best to handle a marriage which had been forced upon her. One in which there was no affection between husband and wife, only a mild bit of attraction.

Oh, very well. There’s a great deal of attraction.

But Papa was the only one who might understand. He hadn’t loved his first wife, Tony’s mother.

Yes, and remember how that turned out.

Papa’s first marriage had ended in disaster, which had resulted in estrangement from both his sons. As a result of that experience, her father had decreed that none of his daughters, or Olivia, would ever marry against her will. They were not to be traded for titles and status, of which the Barringtons had plenty without having to wed more.

Theo tried to swallow a sip of tea, but the cup shook in her hand, and she hastily pressed her napkin to her lips. Apparently, Papa hadn’t made a provision for ruination. Or stupidity, as Tony had reminded her not so long ago.

Directly after this agonizing breakfast, Theo would change into her traveling clothes and be escorted out of the Averell mansion and into one of her brother’s coaches, which he was generously lending to Haven, for the journey to Greenbriar, Haven’s country estate. The contents of her studio, her paints and pencils, sketchbooks and the like, had been sent ahead yesterday, along with Theo’s wardrobe and her maid, Betts.

Thank God I’ll have Betts with me.

The journey, according to Haven, would take the remainder of the day. They wouldn’t arrive at Greenbriar until well into the evening. But as Theo watched the sun rise ever higher in the sky while her husband managed another plate of food, she found it impossible they would reach Greenbriar today. They would be leaving London far later than originally anticipated because her new husband refused to stop eating. Which meant a wedding night at an inn somewhere.

Her fork wobbled in her hand.

She would be alone with Haven. Not even the company of Betts to calm her nerves.

Mama shot her a concerned look over her own barely touched plate.

Theo gave her a weak smile. “I’m not very hungry,” she explained, trying not to burst into tears which would only add to her disgrace. She had meant to meet her fate with all the defiance and courage she possessed, as befitted the daughter of the Duke of Averell. But she was failing miserably.

Her fork finally slipped from her fingers and clattered against her plate.

Fingers, warm and strong, skimmed up the length of her thigh before taking her hand. Haven’s gentle touch warmed her even though he was the cause of her distress. He laced their fingers together beneath the table, dispelling some of the chill from her hands. He didn’t look up from his plate.

“At the top of your plate, there is a bit of pickled beet. Try a bite.” His voice was soft. Cajoling. “I can’t guarantee I won’t eat everything in the basket I’m sure your overbearing butler will send with us. You could faint from starvation, and I’m in no mood to carry you out of the carriage. You look heavy.”

“I’ve never fainted in my life,” she snapped back as her fingers tightened over his, appreciating his attempt to calm her fears. He was good at that, she’d noticed. Anticipating her moods. Comforting her. It seemed completely at odds with what she knew of him, which admittedly wasn’t very much. “We won’t make it to Greenbriar tonight.”

“No.” He released her fingers, but his hand stayed, the palm flattening against her thigh. “I didn’t think we would.”

“You’ve done it on purpose,” she said under her breath while smiling at her brother who was watching Haven as if he meant to leap across the table and strangle him.

“Done what?”

“Relished your meal for far longer than you should have, delaying our departure on purpose.”

Haven turned to her, a patient, indulgent look on his face. “I was hungry.” Placing his napkin on the table he said, “I didn’t realize you were so eager to be alone with me. Not that I’m ungrateful, mind you.”

Wretch.

“Perish the thought, my lord. I am only eager to get on with my imprisonment.”

His hand trailed along the side of her leg before disappearing. “You won’t get a lighter sentence no matter how well you behave.”

Crushed gravel beneath my slippers.That’s what Haven sounds like. The slight innuendo in his words was difficult to miss. Theo’s heart beat just a little faster.

“I’m not amused,” she returned.

He stood and leaned over Theo’s shoulder, meaning to help her out of her chair. “Nor are you well-behaved.” His raspy whisper trailed seductively against her ear. “As it happens, Lady Haven, neither am I.”