Anita Mills

“Y
OU MAKE SUCH
a charming bride, my dear,” her father whispered from his position in the receiving line.

Her smile was frozen into place as she accepted the good wishes and probably the sympathy of those members of the
haut ton
in attendance. To her left, her new husband beamed and wiped the perspiration from his florid face. Occasionally, he stopped nodding long enough to manage a proprietary pat against her shoulder, letting his hand drop to her waist and lower—a grim reminder to the young woman that she belonged to him from that day forward. Revulsion flooded over her every time he touched her.

“Buck up, my sweet—soon enough we shall be alone,” her corpulent lord murmured next to her ear.

Ellen Marling Brockhaven steeled herself against a public display of distaste as she determined to fix her attention on the guests at her wedding dance. Her proud papa had achieved his goal of selling his eldest daughter to the wealthy but aging Lord Brockhaven for the not inconsiderable sum of twenty thousand pounds in settlements—a figure that Marling, a greedy man with no fewer than three daughters and one son to provide for, could not resist, despite the girl’s spirited battle. Only his threat that if Ellen did not accept his lordship’s very generous offer, her seventeen-year-old sister Amy would be obliged to take her place had forced Ellen to bow to the inevitable. The courtship had been brief, despite her every effort to discourage Sir Basil—a singular impossibility, given the baron’s overweeningly high opinion of his own charm. She had once commented to her brother, Julian, that Brockhaven’s sense of self-importance matched his size.

Ellen reflected bitterly that she had never had a chance on the marriage mart. Her clutch-fisted father regarded the expense of a Season an unnecessary frivolity until it became apparent that his eldest daughter was all but on the shelf. Now her only consolation was that she would see that Amy was presented properly with more than a few undistinguished dances at the Bath assemblies. Unfortunately, she would be forced to present the girl under the aegis of Lord and Lady Brockhaven, and Amy had conceived an active dislike of the baron.

Ellen’s role as a sacrifice to her father’s greed had not been an easy one—one look at the red-faced, pudgy Lord Basil and his small, beady black eyes was enough to put any female’s stomach into revolt—and she now faced the prospect of living with such a husband with dread. To make matters worse, her unwanted lord was taking every opportunity to paw, squeeze, and fondle her.

A quiet, pleasant girl whose best claims to looks were a pair of large, expressive blue-violet eyes and thick, lustrous dark hair, Ellen could only curse whatever charm had caught Brockhaven’s attention. Though six years the elder, she lost in any comparison to Amy, a young beauty of diminutive stature, riotous dark curls, and flawless features. It was generally conceded, even by those who loved her, that Ellen’s nose was a trifle too long, her hair too straight, and her stature too tall for real beauty. And despite her quiet demeanor, she often dismayed her parents with her dubious habit of being too candid for a female. While other ladies took every opportunity to fan themselves flirtatiously, the eldest Miss Marling met a man’s gaze squarely, disconcerting him with her unwillingness to succumb to any fantastic flights of praise or extravagant compliments.

As the last of the guests filed through the reception line, Lord Brockhaven took his bride’s gloved hand and raised it to his rather full lips. “I believe, my dear, that we must lead the first set out. But,” he lowered his voice conspiratorially, “there is nothing to say that we must tarry here all night. We shall slip away as soon as may be polite, and have a more intimate party of our own upstairs.”

Visibly repressing a shudder, the new Lady Brockhaven shook her head as she followed her husband onto the dance floor. She managed to give him a tight smile and respond, “I hope, sir, that I am not such a bad hostess as that. Besides, I am quite determined to dance until dawn.”

“Ah, but I have other plans, my dear,” Sir Basil told her. “However,” he conceded, “I am not adverse to your indulging yourself for, ah, shall we say another hour.”

In desperation, Ellen threw herself into the dance with the appearance of enthusiasm while she mentally reviewed avenues of escape. When the dance was over, her heavily perspiring lord insisted on procuring a glass of champagne for her. She shocked him by throwing it down in a single gulp and reaching for another.

“Ellen,” he protested, “I should not like to see you disguised on our wedding night!”

“I doubt even an entire bottle would render me senseless, my lord,” she managed through clenched teeth.

“Nonetheless, my dear, you must remember now to conduct yourself with the circumspection of behavior required by your elevated station. As my baroness, I shall expect you to set the style for all that is proper.”

She tried to blot out the punctilious coxcomb at her side by closing her eyes momentarily and then opening them to roam over the crowd. Sipping her second glass of champagne defiantly, she had to own that she knew almost no one there and could turn to none for help. Her father had preferred the less expensive life of a country squire and ridiculed those who wasted their substance on a London establishment. And on those few occasions when it was necessary to lease a town house, he had not been inclined to entertain even a small circle of acquaintances. There was no doubt about it: had she not chanced to stand up with Brockhaven at one of those insipid Bath assemblies, she would never have had the misfortune of meeting the baron at all. It was with an imminent sense of defeat that she raised her glass again.

“Your pardon,” an immaculately clad buck of the first order apologized as he bumped into Ellen and spilled the rest of her champagne on her silver-spangled silk dress.

“Devilish sorry, of course, but this place is a damnable squeeze.”

Brockhaven bristled indignantly before the fellow turned around to face him. “You clumsy oaf, look what you have done! You have ruined three hundred pounds in that dress.” And then he paled visibly, his eyes seeming to start from his head as he stared at the offender. “Trent! Egad!” His plump fingers crept involuntarily up to pull at his cravat while he moved back a step. “Beg your pardon, my lord. I am sure she did not see you.”

A gleam of amusement lit the otherwise cold eyes as they took in the baron’s discomfiture, but there was nothing but boredom in the voice that responded, “The fault was mine, Brockhaven, and you find me happy to pay for the gown, though I own I had not expected it to be worn above once.”

Ellen’s eyes widened as she stared at the exceedingly handsome, obviously arrogant man before her. Even from her limited experience, she knew she faced a true buck of the
ton.
His well-proportioned body loomed above her dumpy husband’s by three-quarters of a foot; his face was sculpted like one of Lord Elgin’s famous marbles with high cheekbones, straight nose, and very cold blue eyes; and his hair was cropped in the current mode a la Brutus, but its disarray seemed less the result of the careful contrivance of a Byron and more from its own natural curl. His clothing, while extremely plain in contrast to Brockhaven’s rather flashy style, was absolutely correct and perfectly tailored. His eyes flicked over Ellen without the least hint of interest before he bowed politely and turned back to his friends.

“Basil,” Ellen rounded on her husband indignantly, “why did you feel it incumbent to apologize when ’twas he who jostled me?” But the baron was still too visibly shaken to answer. “Basil, who
is
he?”

“Trent,” he finally muttered succinctly. He slowly let out his breath in relief as the gentleman in question moved away from them. “Strange that he should be here, for I’ve no recollection of inviting him,” he mused aloud, adding, “and you can be sure that this is not the sort of entertainment he favors.”

“You look pale as death.”

“Aye.” Brockhaven’s black eyes turned back to her and he noted, “ ’Tis never healthy to raise one’s voice to the Marquess of Trent, Ellen. I shudder to name those who have.”

“A duelist?” She raised a skeptical eyebrow and took another look at the retreating figure. “Really, my lord, but he does not look so very dangerous to me—cold, perhaps, but not dangerous.”

“Much a green girl like you would know of the likes of him,” Sir Basil scoffed. “I can assure you that he has never frequented the Bath assemblies, my dear, and is rarely seen at Almack’s, though I cannot for the life of me imagine how he could be admitted at all,” he disgressed. “No. He favors the muslin company, and the latest
on-dits
among the
ton
are about which mistress he means to mount next.”

“What a pity for his wife.”

“Ain’t got one,” Brockhaven snorted derisively, “for there’s not a female alive as can bring him up to scratch. Havey-cavey bunch, the Deveraux. His father set the
ton
on its heels when he made off with Lady Caroline. Shocking thing it was,” he remembered, then collected himself to add repressively, “but I would not speak of such things, my dear.”

“Why not? If I am to live in London, I will hear the gossip anyway.”

Before Brockhaven could answer, an exquisite in a watered-silk waist coat bowed over her hand to request the next waltz. Sir Basil stepped forward possessively, prompting her to dazzle her would-be partner with a smile and reply, “I should be pleased, sir.”

She danced almost incessantly, feigning a gaiety that she did not feel, until her hour was gone. Basil Brockhaven stood along the wall watching her when at last the Earl of Rossington led her off the floor, then he moved forward purposefully to take her arm.

“Come, Ellen, it grows late and I would retire.”

“Ah, pray let me go up first, my lord, that my maid may assist me,” she ventured hastily. “You may come up in half an hour.”

“I’m afraid I’ve already dismissed the girl, my dear, but you will find me quite adequate to your needs. I am not without experience, after all.”

Panic seized her as his fingers pressed into her arm. “Champagne, sir,” she tried desperately. “I believe I should like another glass first.”

“Ah, my lovely, but there is already a bottle in our bedchamber.”

Unable to cast about for a further delay, Ellen reluctantly allowed herself to be led up the staircase. Basil Brockhaven opened the door to a chamber that would have been impressive under other circumstances. Branches of candles lit up the room, casting a warm glow on the polished mahogany furniture and the satin-striped wallpaper. An elegantly draped four-poster bed was positioned at the far corner to allow the rest of the chamber to be used as a combination sitting and reading room. An alcove off to the left served as a dressing room and contained a
poudre
table laden with various pots of pomades, powders, and scents, testimony to the artifices Brockhaven employed in his quest for youth. Ellen’s glance traveled around the room, taking in any detail that might provide an avenue of escape. The doors to the right of a large wardrobe appeared to open only into closets, while double French windows gave the only access to the outside—and they were some fifteen feet above the ground.

“Do not look so glum, my dear.” Brockhaven smiled as he poured two glasses of champagne and advanced toward her. “After all, ’tis your wedding night, and by the morrow, you shall truly be Lady Brockhaven.”

“Sir Basil,” she tried desperately, “I cannot go through with this.” She reached for her glass and drained it before he could even begin to sip. “As I have tried to tell you these last weeks, sir, we should not suit.”

“Nonsense, my dear. ’Tis but maidenly reserve, I assure you.” He set his goblet down and possessively drew her into his arms, his blunt fingers working the fabric of her gown against her flesh, his wet lips smacking kisses from her throat to her mouth.

Nausea rose in her as he began kissing her in earnest. She let her glass fall and shatter, the shards flying upward. Sir Basil stepped back momentarily.

“I am terribly sorry, my lord,” she murmured, “but you startled me. Perhaps if I had another glass …” her voice trailed off dubiously. “You see, I, uh, well, I never, um …”

“If you think another glass will help, you may have mine.”

“Uh, no. What I meant to say, Basil, is that perhaps if I were alone to undress …”

“All right,” he capitulated gracelessly. “I will get you another glass, and while I am gone, you may remove your gown and petticoat.”

She waited until he was safely out of. the room before taking the only opportunity available. Throwing open the window, she stepped gingerly to the sill and peered below to where the faint illumination of the ballroom showed a thick shrubbery. Hoping it would break her fall, she closed her eyes and jumped.

“What the devil …”

Strong arms grabbed her and wrestled her to the ground while a masculine voice murmured softly, “What have we here—a housebreaker?” He pinned her to the ground for a second before discovering, “Dammit, you are a female!” He stood up unsteadily and pulled her after him. “Ought to march you back in and find out what’s going on here.”

“No! Oh, please do not,” she hissed desperately. “And pray keep your voice down. I am running away.”

He tried to focus on her in the darkness. “One of the housemaids, eh? Well, he’ll not bother you now that he has a young wife.”

Realizing her captor was quite disguised with drink, she decided to brazen through an improbable explanation. “You do not understand. I
have
to get to my aunt’s in Yorkshire, sir, and Lord Brockhaven will not let me leave. I am not a housemaid!”

“Yorkshire! Egad, ’tis the length of England, girl.”

“But if you would but release me and direct me to the nearest posting house, I would not trouble you further.” She could sense his hesitation and pressed her chance. “ ’Tis nothing to you, after all, whether I stay or go.”

“Very true, and I’ve little enough liking for the fat robin myself. All right,” he made up his mind abruptly, “I’ll take you to a posting house.”