Just a Marriage of Convenience with the Duke by Hazel Linwood
Chapter 19
The carriage bounced along the cobblestone streets in a part of London that Bridget had never seen before. She had never heard of this Gretna Green that the earl had spoken of, but she knew that Scotland was several days’ journey from the city. Try as she might to look out and discern where she was, the darkness was too thick for her to see well. If not for the occasional streetlamp, she would not have even known they were still in the city.
She had already wondered at the possibility of throwing open the door and jumping from the carriage, but the driver was keeping far too swift a pace for that to work. Surely, she would plunge to her death at these speeds, whether from striking her head or being run over by the carriage itself.
Instead, she would have to bide her time and plot against the earl for her very safety.
Not a living soul knows where I am, Bridget thought sadly, the resignation to her fate beginning to creep in with every passing minute. And though they know I despise this match, Lord Haskins has threatened to reveal where he found me. If he does, no one would believe that I did not go willingly with the first man who agreed to marry me after being caught with Patrick in the garden as I was.
“Patrick…” Bridget muttered to herself slowly.
After her sadness at envisioning his heartbreak had crested, Bridget then turned her thoughts to her father and her sister. What would they think when she did not come home this evening? Would her father be angry, unwilling to receive her in his house ever again? Would Harriet cry herself to sleep with worry, or would she, too, be put out with Bridget about the shame her trip north had brought on them?
“We will be stopping at an inn for only a few hours, just long enough for the horses to rest and the sun to come up,” Lord Haskins said coldly, interrupting her thoughts. “There will be no attempt made to flee, do you understand?”
Bridget nodded silently, but Lord Haskins grasped her wrist and brought it up near her face angrily.
“You will speak to me when I ask a question,” he roared. “I said, do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Yes what?” he demanded, his grip tightening on her wrist.
Bridget was still, her humiliation causing her words to falter. Finally, she spat out, “Yes, my lord.”
The earl grinned triumphantly before flinging her arm from his grasp. Bridget immediately held her wrist, rubbing it as though she could erase the discomfort and the feel of his hand on her. A single tear slid down her cheek, but she brushed it away quickly, unwilling to let this vile man see how unhappy she was.
At the inn, a new problem arose—their lodgings.
“I will not share a room with you, my lord,” Bridget stated firmly, refusing to enter the building after Haskins knocked to awaken the innkeeper. “No matter what scheme you have hatched or how you have tarnished my reputation beyond repair, we are not yet married. I will not be joining you.”
“You’ll do as I say, or I’ll—”
“What?” Bridget interrupted fiercely, turning her eyes on him coldly. “Ruin my family? I think you’ve already done that well enough. We have nothing else to lose thanks to your boorish, classless behavior.”
Lord Haskins winced for only a second, and Bridget knew she had discovered his weakness. He was afraid, nay terrified, of being seen as anything lower than an earl and a part of the ton.
There must be some way to work that fear to my advantage, Bridget thought as she stared Lord Haskins down.
“You will remember that you are speaking to your husband, your lawful lord and master,” the earl hissed, but Bridget only stood even straighter, squaring her shoulders, and lifting her chin proudly.
“Not yet, you’re not. But you would do well to remember that you have kidnapped me against my will, and the only thing preventing me from screaming right now is my fervent desire to avoid causing a scene,” Bridget replied, the haughtiness she projected toward him masking her trembling.
The earl was fuming, she could tell, but he turned on his heel silently and went in through the low door that had been opened behind him. Bridget had no choice but to follow, unaware of her surroundings and unable to run from him in her slippers and gown.
Due to the late hour of night, the downstairs room was empty save for a few mugs that had not yet been cleared from their tables. The fireplace was cold but for a few embers that glowed a faint orange, the large stew pot hanging over them undoubtedly empty.
“Good evening,” Lord Haskins began when the innkeeper came out from a door on the opposite side of the room. “My… sister and I are traveling, and we need rooms.”
“Rooms, eh? For you and yer sister, is it?” the innkeeper asked, looking Bridget up and down.
For her part, Bridget did her best to look suspiciously unhappy, hoping that the innkeeper might be a kindly sort who would come to her aid. Instead, he only shrugged and turned back to the long bar that ran the length of one wall. He plucked out a large iron key hanging from a heavy ring and handed it to Lord Haskins.
“Topmost stairs, only two rooms up there. Key fits ‘em both,” the man said before turning to go back to his bed. “Breakfast’ll be at nine, don’t be late or ya won’t get none.”
The earl closed his fist around the key and turned to Bridget, pushing her until she walked ahead of him to the stairs. With every step, her legs felt heavier and heavier, knowing that nothing good awaited her.
Bridget counted the doors they passed as they made their way up, trying to memorize how many rooms there were. Perhaps her room would have a window that she could climb down from, or at the very least signal to someone to help her.
“This should be your room, then,” Lord Haskins said without even a hint of emotion as he opened the door. “Go on.”
Bridget peered in, now regretting that they had no candle or lamp. The dark room was lit only by a tiny sliver of light where the sky outside the high, small window was somewhat less blackened than the walls within.
“How am I to see?” Bridget asked, exasperated.
“There is nothing to see,” the earl argued. “Use your hands to find the bed. It is not as though you have any clothes to change into, and therefore, no need of any light to see by. Now go, for you do not wish for me to shove you.”
Bridget dropped her head and went into the room, swallowed by the blackness at once when Lord Haskins closed the door behind her. The dull metal clanking of the key turning the lock echoed in her head. There would be no escaping, at least not from here.
As the earl had instructed, Bridget had to feel her way around the room. There could have been a pack of hungry wolves waiting to devour her for all she could see, and for a moment, that thought made her laugh madly. A pack of wolves would be a better end for me, she thought ruefully.
Once she had felt her way along all four walls, guided by her hands in front of her and beside her and her feet shuffling along the floor, Bridget located the only furniture in the room. There seemed to be a small table and stool, which she supposed would be a washstand in a well-appointed but modest inn. There was a low, narrow fireplace, complete with tools that she nearly toppled over.
This might come in handy should I need to defend myself, she thought, hefting the iron poker, and keeping it with her.
At last, Bridget found the bed. Part of her was grateful for the darkness as it did not permit her to see the condition of the linens, but the other part of her thoughts was consumed with wanting to sleep… and perhaps never to awaken.
Bridget crawled into the bed carefully, surprised to find that the scent from the folded bundle beneath her head was actually a very pleasant, clean smell. It was the smell of inexpensive, coarse, homemade soap, the sort that reminded her of her students at the school. It was the clean smell of a family doing its best with what it had, of sacrificing some of their meager funds to ensure that the children and their clothes were clean.
She did her best to contain her tears lest she give Lord Haskins the satisfaction of hearing her great howling sobs through the wall. Instead, she wept as quietly as she could, letting the tears flow and consume all of the hurt she’d endured. She cried for her own situation, to be sure, but also that of her family. She cried for Patrick, for the love that was almost within her grasp before it was so cruelly ripped away. She even cried for her students and for their teacher, Christina, for the opportunities that had been torn out of their eager hands should they no longer have a school.
And all of this unthinkable pain had been wrought by one man—Haskins.
Bridget did not yet know how to accomplish the feat, but she would find a way out of this. If she could not run from him as they traveled, surely once they reached Scotland, she could simply refuse to marry him. There was no way a vicar or priest would permit the sham to continue if she flatly said no. And what could the earl do? The worst would be to abandon her there, leaving her to fend for herself as she sought to return to London.
But even that would be better than the evil yoke of marriage to such a horrible man.
Bridget did not think sleep would come, so she was disoriented when she was roused from her slumber by the sound of a noise at her door. Her senses were instantly alert, and she held her breath as she waited for something to happen.
Finally, the key turned in the lock as slowly as it could, as though the person wielding the key were trying to keep anyone from knowing what they were doing. The yellow flicker of candlelight was nearly blinding after so many hours spent in darkness as the intruder opened the door.
* * *
Camille clung to Agatha as they stood at the far end of the ballroom, most of the guests having already departed for home. The unthinkable had happened—and they had missed all of it.
“What will happen now?” Camille asked, fretting over the whispers that Bridget had left the ball very abruptly with Lord Haskins. The Marquess of Dodge sidled over, handing each of the ladies a glass of sherry.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” Edward said before raising his glass with them. “Everyone knows Lord Haskins is a classless codfish, too hateful and stupid to think of anyone but himself… or of the consequences of his actions. He’s so intent on proving his worth that he fails to have any.”
“Oh wonderful,” Agatha replied sarcastically. “And now our dear Bridget is ensnared in his web and will be brought down into the gutter with him.”
“I shouldn’t think so. The ton has a very short memory,” Edward speculated. “Besides, everyone knows that Lady Bridget wished to marry Lockhart, and that Haskins performed some treachery to steal her away. They won’t hold that against her.”
Agatha scoffed derisively and rolled her eyes, leaving Edward to look puzzled.
“What’s the matter with you?” he teased, pretending to be stern.
“The ton will never forgive nor forget a lady who does not behave precisely as they tell her to,” Camille explained gently, mourning her friend already.
Lady Bridget is ruined now, and as such she will never be received anywhere. She cannot call on anyone again, nor will she be invited to any events.”
“Surely you’re making a big deal of nothing,” Edward argued, looking at their stricken faces in confusion.
“Do you really think so?” Agatha asked, though her query was accusing, not curious. “So, you know nothing of what happens to a young lady who breaks even the tiniest, most mundane of rules?”
“Educate me,” Edward challenged, leaning against a pillar, and crossing his arms in front of himself, his amused smile only serving to irritate the ladies present.
“Well, to begin, if a lady wears the incorrect sort of gloves at the wrong hour of the day, then she is of very poor breeding,” Agatha said, pinning Edward back with her glare. “And if she shows too much of her decolletage she is a lightskirt but shows not enough then she must not think herself very pretty.”
“That’s utter nonsense. How is one to know the amount that is too much and the amount that is not revealing enough?” Edward asked, still laughing.
“She cannot. For you see, the judgment of her character is completely left up to the person viewing her… and speaking ill of her.”
“Do not forget that we must begin the search for trapping a husband at the advanced age of but seventeen, though we can possibly sneak by with being twenty or even one-and-twenty and still unmarried, so long as there is proper cause,” Camille added innocently.
“Proper cause? What in the heavens is that?” Edward demanded, appearing alarmed.
“Oh, if her father is ill or deceased and her brother is now inherited, she might remain at home and unmarried for a few years to help him with his social engagements,” Agatha explained, trying to sound patient. “If her father has died without an heir, the daughter might postpone marriage under the pretense of grieving and supporting her mother, but not for long. Mind you, that girl had best marry as quickly as possible lest her father’s heir put her out of the house.”
“All right, you two were putting me on for a moment, but now I know you are not being serious. No man on Earth would inherit from an uncle of an old cousin, and then fail to provide for the relation’s daughters. I simply refuse to believe it,” Edward stated, shaking his head.
“Shall we bore you with the names of girls we know personally who have befallen a similar fate?” Agatha began. “Your own dear friend’s love, Lady Bridget, was in such a position herself as her father has no sons and his heir cares not a whit for them, do you not recall?”
“Yes, now that you bring it up, I do seem to recall Patrick mentioning she had very few options,” Edward said before looking away as though lost in thought.
“So, I do hope you agree with us now,” Camille said politely. “Lady Bridget is in an awful predicament. She either marries Lord Haskins in a few weeks’ time and holds onto some semblance of a reputation—despite the misery the rest of her life will hold—or she manages to avoid this fate somehow and ends up alone and tortured.”
“I can assure you of this, she would never be alone. Lockhart is completely taken with her,” Edward confessed. “If she manages to avoid an ill-fated marriage to Haskins, he will no doubt be waiting to snap up her hand and marry her.”
“That is to his great credit, but also speaks to his questionable sanity,” Agatha teased acidly. “He would be throwing away any hope of a future in London, to be sure. His children very well may bear the stain of their parents’ romantic notions even… and I say that as Lady Bridget’s friend who loves her very much.”
“That much may be true, but there is no truer gentleman than Lockhart. He would not let something so silly—and apparently, so tenuous—as a reputation prevent him from being with the woman he loves,” Edward argued. “He was greatly impressed with Lady Bridget, and nothing will change that.”
