The Duke and the Lass by Jessie Clever
Chapter 4
He shouldn’t be doing this.
Not because marrying a woman he had known for less than forty-eight hours was unwise, but rather any number of highwaymen could be waiting for them along the road to Brydekirk. He could almost feel them lurking in the trees, waiting to ambush them.
He carried the pistol his coachmen normally kept up on the box with him, but it was still only two shots. By the time he reloaded, the highwaymen would have the better of the situation.
It didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered except getting Della to safety, and for her, safety could only mean marriage.
Marriage to him, an English duke.
He had had time to work it out in the hours he’d spent scouring the Scottish countryside for a blacksmith willing to see the deed done. He wasn’t sure if it were the general Scottish mistrust of an Englishman or if it were the prevalent fear of the MacKenzie that seemed to linger in these parts, but he had gone nearly to the English border before finding someone willing to see the deed done.
And it wasn’t as if he’d found any other eligible gentlemen along the way that could take his place.
It would have to be him, and it would have to be now.
Della was unusually quiet after his pronouncement. The furtive nature of their endeavor suggested as much, but even her constant small movements had ceased. She hadn’t said anything when he’d told her of his plan and merely gone along when he helped her up on the horse.
He tried not to think about her stillness as he held her against him, the horse clip-clopping its way south. Even its hoofbeats were muted in the darkness as if the animal sensed the need for stealth in their midnight journey.
Brydekirk was nearly ten miles to the south of Kettleholm, and with their slow and grinding pace, it would take them the better part of the night to reach it. It would be faster to take the road, but prudence and his selfish desire to stay alive had him skirting it, picking his way through the forest that bordered it. He’d rather it take them all night than to meet his fate at the end of a highwayman’s pistol.
He wondered if she dozed when sometimes she would grow impossibly still, but then the horse would falter on an unseen rock, and her grip on the arm he had wrapped around her would reflexively tighten.
He didn’t want to admit to the eager sensation that surged through him when she did that. He was not doing this to impress her. There was no need to impress someone as brave and strong as Della. Her ploy with the book had only demonstrated her cunning and courage, and he wouldn’t be so bold as to suggest she wouldn’t have survived the night without him.
He only didn’t wish to think about what might have happened had he not come to retrieve her.
His mind was troubled with the memory of their kiss for the better part of the day, and still, here in the quiet of the night, he couldn’t say why he had kissed her. He usually had better control of his feelings, but he was coming to find his attraction to Della didn’t heed to any rules he might set. The thought left him apprehensive.
If he could so easily abandon his own standards of propriety and respect, what else might his attraction to her cause him to do?
Steal her away in the middle of the night to marry her?
It possibly couldn’t get worse than that, and this notion gave him some peace.
The stark glow of moonlight-dappled darkness was broken by a string of soft, orange lights in the distance. They had been traveling for more than three hours by then, and he knew they must be approaching Brydekirk.
In the daylight, the hamlet had been quaint and charming, but in the darkness, it took on the slightly foreboding look of an abandoned town as its inhabitants slumbered. He slowed the horse, navigating it carefully onto the main road, peering about them into the darkness.
His coachman and valet were to meet them at the outskirts of the village to provide protection for the remainder of the ride into town. He hadn’t wanted to risk the increased possibility of exposure with a larger traveling party or else he would have had the men travel with him to Kettleholm and back.
Della straightened against him, her back going rigid as they approached the town. He tightened his arm around her but didn’t dare speak to her yet.
When they were nearly upon the village, a shadow separated itself from the muted outlines of structures. Andrew slid his hand to the pocket that concealed his pistol, but soon moonlight fell over his coachman’s face.
Andrew quickly scanned the area around them, but no other shadow materialized, and the skin along the back of his neck prickled.
The coachman, St. John, raised a hand in greeting as they approached, his other hand clutched his riding crop like a weapon.
Andrew stopped at the sight of tension radiating from his coachman.
“There seems to be a problem, Your Grace,” St. John whispered. “It appears there was a bit of a to-do this evening in the village. Something to do with the harvest being what it was.”
Andrew nodded to keep the man going.
“Well, it’s like this, Your Grace. The blacksmith’s gone off the drink and is slumbering the night away in a pig trough at the other end of town.” St. John pointed over his shoulder in the direction where the blacksmith likely was. “There’s no one to perform the ceremony is what I’m trying to say.”
The poor man appeared crestfallen, a deep furrow between his concerned eyes.
Andrew scrubbed a hand over his face before slipping from the saddle. He reached up to give Della a hand, and she quietly went into his arms as he helped her down. She stepped quickly away from him as soon as her feet touched the ground, and when he tried to read her expression, she bent her head, avoiding his gaze.
He would wonder at that later. He turned back to St. John.
“Surely there must be someone else who can perform the ceremony.”
St. John pointed over his shoulder again. “Aldrich is currently in negotiations with another party, but I’m afraid it’s going to cost you a great deal more coin, Your Grace.”
There was a small sound of surprise behind him, and Andrew turned sharply to find Della covering her mouth with one hand. He tilted his head as he studied her. It was the only sound she’d made in more than three hours, and it had been one of surprise. He rubbed the back of his neck as he turned back to the coachman.
“Well, I think we’d better find him.” He gestured to the road that led through the village proper. “Shall we?”
Andrew took the horse’s reigns as St. John led the way down the main thoroughfare. He turned back to find Della still standing with her hand over her mouth.
He leaned in to whisper, “Are you all right? You weren’t hurt, were you? When we came down from the—”
“I’m fine,” she whispered, but her eyes were wide when she said it. At least, she’d dropped her hand.
He took her arm to help her navigate the road in the moonlight. Once again, she moved without resistance, as though she were merely going along with whatever he dictated. He didn’t like it, and suddenly he wondered if he were doing the right thing.
He had assumed she wouldn’t wish to be wed to one of those men her father had selected. More, he thought it disgusting that her father should auction her off like cattle in exchange for a man’s fealty. Such a notion was archaic. But things were different for women, and he knew that. Della was not afforded the same securities he was, and he began to question his own intent.
They reached the heart of the village, and Andrew could see clues as to the to-do St. John had mentioned. Empty tankards were strewn along the door of the public house, and several gentlemen slept under the windows of the inn, slumped with their backs against the rough boards as though the drink they had consumed precluded them from feeling much.
There was more of this along the way. People sleeping in odd places. Empty tankards and discarded clothing.
They’d nearly reached the other end of the village when St. John finally stopped and turned to a shop to the left of the road. The storefronts were dark except for a single light that glowed through a dusty windowpane.
“A modiste?” Andrew whispered.
St. John lifted an eyebrow. “She’s really not more than a seamstress, and I use that term without much confidence, Your Grace. But she’s willing to do the deed and keep mum about it.”
Andrew indicated for St. John to lead on, but before the coachman could rap on the door it opened, and Andrew’s valet, Aldrich, stood in the doorway, his crumpled attire suggestive of the arduous task he had undertaken in the small hours of the near morning.
“Your Grace.” He nodded. “Madame Liliberte is ready.”
Andrew raised an eyebrow at the address. “Madame?”
Aldrich slid his gaze to the right and pressed a tight smile. “Yes, Your Grace. Madame,” he said with greater force as though someone might overhear him.
Andrew cleared his throat. “Then I am only too happy Madame has made time for us.” He tried for a more genuine smile, but he was too tired, and the strain of the day was catching up to him. If he had to stroke the confidence of an apparent charlatan, he would do so if only to see Della safe and beyond the reach of her vile father.
He ducked his head to make it through the low doorway of the modiste shop, tugging Della in behind him. The shop was small, and the front part was dominated by worn settees and overstuffed vases. The air was cloying with both the scent of decaying flowers and the lingering odor of some kind of tobacco smoke.
Della pressed against his side, and he turned, pulling her tightly under his arm.
Madame Liliberte emerged from the back of the shop. It was hard to make out her features in the dim light, but she exuded an air of tarnished quality, and he pulled Della more tightly against him.
“Madame Liliberte, I thank you for your time and attention to this matter. Your sacrifice is greatly appreciated.”
Her smile was riddled with black marks he thought were either rotten teeth, likely caused by tobacco, the evidence of which lingered in the air, or missing teeth entirely.
“No sacrifice is too great for an English duke.” She extended a hand, palm up.
He eyed the vulgar gesture. “After the ceremony is completed.”
She shook her head. “Half now, Englishman. Half later.” She curled her fingers as if to beckon the coin.
He extracted a single coin from his pocket and dropped it into the open palm.
Her fingers snapped shut around it, and she pulled her fisted hand against her mouth, her eyebrows winging up with excitement.
She dropped her hand to say. “This way, my lord.”
He didn’t correct her and only moved to follow.
But Della didn’t move. His arm caught around her immobile body, and he turned, peering down at her in the weak light.
“Della? Are you sure you’re well?”
She shook her head, her teeth digging into her lower lip.
He turned fully, placing his hands on her shoulders as he had done earlier that day.
So much had changed since that morning. What he had believed would be a temporary respite from his familial obligations had turned into a quagmire that would only serve to increase his responsibilities.
And likely make him the target of an infuriated, detestable Scottish earl.
“Della, you must tell me what it is.” He looked behind him where the modiste had disappeared. “The madame will perform the ceremony, and you’ll be safe from—”
But Della was already shaking her head.
“No,” she whispered, and she closed her eyes, shaking her head with greater force. “No, Andrew, I can’t do it.” Her eyes flew open. “I can’t marry you.”
* * *
It had never been harderto speak in her life.
But once the words were out, she felt the tension that had been crawling along her shoulders ease, and her stomach settled with a thud.
That was when her heart broke.
When Andrew had first confessed his plan, her initial reaction was so unlike herself she’d fallen into an utter state of inaction. Never in her life had she felt such calm wash over her. Never before had she felt such rightness.
She wanted to marry Andrew. More than anything, she wanted to marry him.
That was exactly why she couldn’t.
“I’m so sorry. You’ve gone through so much trouble.” She slid a foot back, which was ridiculous.
Where was she going to go? She had no one else to care for her. She couldn’t go back to her grandparents. She supposed they might take her in, but her grandmother wouldn’t hesitate to manipulate Della’s guilt like a torture screw, tightening it at whim. Della knew she couldn’t survive that. There had to be another way.
She couldn’t let Andrew sacrifice himself for her.
He shook his head. “Della, I don’t understand. This is the only way to get you out from under the control of your father.”
She slid a glance to the gentlemen standing in the shadows by the door. She thought they were likely Andrew’s servants, judging from their neat, plain clothing and ardent dedication to the duke.
Andrew followed her gaze and taking her by the shoulders steered her to the side of the room in a suggestion of privacy.
“Della, what is it?”
She would remember this the most about him. The care that so easily came to his eyes when he looked at her. It was so very nice to meet someone’s gaze without having to look down, and it was even more wonderful to see such attention in it. For the first time in her life, she felt as though someone honestly cared.
That’s what made this so much harder.
She swallowed. “Andrew, I can’t let you marry me.”
He nodded. “Can’t let me?” He shook his head. “You’re right. I’m terribly sorry.” When he shook his head this time, he closed his eyes, his lips tightening. “Della, I realized I should have asked for permission. It wasn’t right for me to assume you would wish to marry me. I only thought—”
“Permission?” The word was the last she would think of. “You want permission to marry me.”
His eyes flashed open, and even in the dim light, she saw the earnestness there. “Of course I would seek your permission. I wouldn’t force you into a situation that would unerringly change your life without seeking your consent.”
She didn’t know how to respond to that. “It isn’t my permission that I would like to give, Andrew. It’s rather…” She searched for the right words, but no matter how she said this, it would sound pitiful. So, she simply said it. “Andrew, I don’t wish to be a burden on anyone else. I’ve been a burden my whole life, and it’s wearing and terrible and just awful, and I don’t want to be it any longer.” She squared her shoulders and met his gaze directly.
He didn’t blink. His gaze remained locked on hers.
“You don’t wish to be a burden.” His lips parted softly when he finished speaking, and it was almost as if he were shocked by her words.
That should hardly have been the case. She was certain it was quite obvious to all. Hadn’t he been the one to point out her worn clothing, the very evidence of such a burden?
“I’m the only child of a Scottish lord and a girl, no less. I’ve been a burden since I was born. I’m tired of it, and I will not allow you to be my next victim.”
He laughed.
It was only a snort of a sound, and he stopped it as soon as he’d begun, but it was still a laugh.
Her eyes went wide. “Your Grace, this is not a laughing matter. I—”
He let go of her long enough to hold up both hands. “You’re right, Della. You’re absolutely right. I should not have laughed.” He settled his hands once more on her shoulders and squeezed as if to reassure her. “Be that as it may, your choice of words was rather dramatic. I don’t think it’s as bad as you claim.”
She wished very much she hadn’t thrown away her tin of shortbread.
“It is very much as I say, only you cannot fathom it because you are not a woman. You’re a bloody English duke, for heaven’s sake.”
She did not know from whence such outrage came, and it had Andrew stepping back, his eyebrows going up.
“I apologize,” she said, casting her gaze to the floor, suddenly unable to look at him. “I’m not sure why I said that. You are an English duke, but that’s likely not your fault.” She raised her chin. “But you still can’t understand what it’s like to be a woman in this world. It’s deuced difficult.”
He shook his head. “Della, I can only understand too well how difficult it is. Have you forgotten I have four sisters?”
Those sisters he had alluded to the night before. She had forgotten about them in the course of events.
She twisted her hands together. “Sisters are rather different than wives.”
“But that’s just it,” he went on. “I’ve married off my sisters, and I had planned to acquire a wife this season. If you married me now, it would save me a great deal of trouble.” His smile was kind and humorous, and she knew he was attempting to make her feel better about the situation.
It didn’t work.
“Acquire a wife? You make it sound like you’re purchasing a parcel.”
His smile dimmed. “Unfortunately, as your father demonstrated, the two are not all that different.”
He was right in that regard.
She eyed him, his words niggling something deep within her. “You were going to find a wife this season? When you returned to London, you mean?”
He gave a sharp nod. “Precisely. It’s past time I wed and saw to producing an heir for the title. It would be an honor to be married to you, Della.”
Well, he really didn’t need to go that far, and it wasn’t as if she believed him anyway. He was only being kind.
But regardless of how she felt, she was of good breeding. Her father might be a wastrel, but he was of the peerage, and her mother was the daughter of an earl. That made her a lady no matter the rest.
“Is what you speak the truth?”
“Yes, Della. It is the truth.” His tone gave no suggestion he grew short with her as her grandmother always seemed to whenever they conversed.
Della tucked this away and held out her hand. “Then I agree to the marriage. I promise to be an excellent duchess.”
He stared at her hand. “Are we to shake on it like gentlemen?”
She studied her hand now, hanging so oddly between them. “Isn’t that how agreements like this are made?”
“I think these types of agreements are usually sealed with a kiss.”
Her eyes shot up to his face at that. She hadn’t forgotten what it was like to be kissed by him, and she wouldn’t mind experiencing it again.
But they were interrupted by a raspy call from the back of the shop.
“I haven’t all the time in the world, my lord. Some of us are not privileged enough to while away our daylight hours in bed.”
Della wrinkled her nose in the direction of the shout. “She doesn’t even try to affect a French accent,” she muttered.
Andrew laughed softly beside her. “I suppose it’s enough that she doesn’t drop her h’s.”
Della turned back to him. “Are you certain this is legal? The marriage will be binding?”
“According to the marriage laws in Scotland, anyone over the legal age can be married by anyone else.” He shrugged. “I had hoped the blacksmith would do it as he is the most senior craftsmen in the village, but we are not in a position to be selective.”
“I suppose we aren’t,” she muttered and nodded toward the back of the shop. “Shall we…my lord?” She exaggerated the incorrect address Madame Liliberte had used earlier.
He gave her his arm and led her to the back of the shop.
The quarters were cramped with a tatty chair and a cot, the bedclothes a swirled mess atop it. A lantern had been lit and rested on a chipped bureau to the side, and its shuttered light cast shadows over the modiste’s face.
The woman held a piece of paper in her hand. “Are you of marriageable age?”
It was a moment before Della realized Madame Liliberte spoke to her.
Della gave a quick nod. “Yes, I am.”
The modiste turned to Andrew. “And you, my lord? Are you of marriageable age?”
“Yes, I am.” He spoke with such clarity Della felt a flutter in her stomach at the suggested strength.
She sneaked a glance at her soon-to-be husband, doubt and fear and nerves swamping her. She couldn’t be doing this. She couldn’t be marrying this man, and yet somehow, she was.
He had said he needed a wife, and she had made him swear to the truth of it. She couldn’t be such a burden if she helped to fulfill his own obligations. She turned her attention back to the modiste, resolved to be the best damn duchess she could.
“And do you wish to be wed?”
This was directed to her.
Della nodded. “Yes, I wish to be wed.”
Back to Andrew.
“And you, my lord?”
“I do,” he said.
“Then you’re married.”
The woman set the piece of paper on the bureau top and scribbled with a pen, the nub slightly broken so black ink sprayed in untidy splotches.
Della blinked. “That’s it?”
The modiste lifted her lip in a near snarl. “If you wanted something fancier, you should have kept your legs together, darling.”
Della did not so much as flinch at the woman’s nastiness. Instead, she said, “I suppose the same could be said for yourself.”
The modiste’s eyes flashed with sudden anger, and Andrew reached between them, snatching the paper from the woman’s hands. Della caught sight of some of the writing on it as it passed by her face and realized it was a testament to the events of that night.
Seeing it in splotchy ink had her suddenly realizing she’d done it. She had married the Duke of Ravenwood.
He took her elbow now, tossing a coin to the modiste.
“Thank you for your time, Madame Liliberte.”
She snatched the coin and tucked in into the torn and loose folds of her bodice.
She gave a funny salute. “Always, my lord.”
Her smile was not more than a baring of teeth, and Della’s stomach heaved at the sight of the rotten stumps.
Andrew pulled her away, and when they made it outside, she sucked in a gulp of fresh air.
They stopped in the street like a traveling theatre troop that found themselves lost in the middle of the night.
Andrew let go of her hand, and she felt suddenly adrift there in the middle of the road in Brydekirk. Her heart rabbited in her chest, and her stomach growled with nerves. She pressed a hand to it, willing it to calm.
“Della.”
She turned her attention to Andrew to find him extending a hand to her. Reflexively she reached for him, and he slipped a gold ring on the third finger of her left hand.
“It will have to do for now,” he said. “I don’t wish for anyone to question our marriage until we can safely return to English soil.”
It was a signet ring. She could hardly make out the details of it in the fading moonlight, but she made a mental note to study it in the daylight.
Before she could respond, he had taken her elbow, marching her in the direction they had come from when they’d first entered the village.
His servants followed several paces behind them, one of them, the one with the riding crop, holding the reins of Andrew’s horse, and she thought he was likely a coachman.
“Are we to continue on tonight?” She was so very tired, the kind of tired that made her bones ache, but she would not complain should Andrew wish to go on.
He shook his head, and she glanced at him only to find his face stern, all hard angles and firm lips.
Was he already regretting what he’d done? She had tried to warn him. Nervousness gripped her throat, but then Andrew slowed, his face softening before he looked at her.
“No, we’re going to the inn.” He licked his lips as though he were the one who was nervous. “We must consummate our marriage.”