Nothing But Scandal (15 page)

“If you jump, I
will
marry Charity. And I will touch her any way I bloody well please. She’s pretty, and young. She will likely be far easier to train. How many missed meals, how many beatings will it take, do you think, before she welcomes me into her bed?”

This did what all his other threats, beatings, and even starvation had not accomplished.

She had no choice. Harold would
not
get his hands on her little sister. Elizabeth’s own folly had landed her in this position. Even if it hadn’t, she could never knowingly allow her sister to bear this fate.

Her head throbbed and her body ached from the blow, but she pressed her lips together to stifle the pain.

If only she could get to Alex, Charity, too, would be safe, provided for under the umbrella of his protection.

The tears spilled over and her throat felt tight, but she managed a slight nod. Let him think what he would.

“You’re doing the right thing, Elizabeth,” Harold told her, and she hated the smugness in his voice. “It took you a while, but I knew you’d see reason eventually. In fact, that’s the reason for our outing this morning.”

Guarded, Elizabeth turned to look at him.

“I’ve arranged a special license to be married.” He sounded proud of the fact.

“Special license?” she croaked.

“Yes. The vicar will be waiting for us at the church.”

She struggled to breathe. “You mean to do this thing today?” A special license eliminated the requirement for banns.

“No time like the present. A bit more speed, I think,” he called to the front, and the servant urged the horses into a trot. He gave her an arrogant grin. “You’ve given your assent.”

Elizabeth flicked a glance at the flask. Was there any hope left? Harold showed no sign that the wine he’d consumed had any unusual effect.

A new idea occurred to her.

She couldn’t count on Harold passing out from the potion. But
she
could. She was already lightheaded with hunger. Surely she could feign a passable fainting spell.

Bormley drew the vehicle into the little churchyard and stopped. Harold eased his frame from the carriage and…Elizabeth blinked. Had he swayed when his feet hit the ground?

It didn’t matter. She had a plan—albeit a temporary one. She climbed down and followed him, in seeming obedience, into the dim church.

The vicar couldn’t proceed with the wedding if the bride was unconscious, could he?

Investigating Elizabeth’s disappearance took far longer than Alex had hoped. He resisted the urge—barely—to ride madly about the countryside searching for her. To search without a plan was a fool’s errand. She could be hidden anywhere.

Instead he hired the best investigators, paid them extra for speed, then hounded them incessantly.

After two days of hearing nothing, Alex was desperate to tear his mind from worry and guilt. He met Lord Wilbourne at White’s for a night of cards and drinking, with considerable emphasis on the drinking.

“You’re playing abominably, Beaufort,” Wilbourne told him, only an hour into the play.

Alex shrugged and tossed back another brandy. Where the
hell
had that bastard taken Elizabeth?

Wilbourne dealt them a new hand, which he quickly won. Alex continued drinking.

Three hands later, all won by Wilbourne, and Alex had finally reached a state where he couldn’t focus enough to worry.

Wilbourne set down the cards. “It goes against my conscience to bet against a man who is clearly more focused on killing himself with drink than on playing the game.”

“Right,” Alex managed.

“I believe the proprietor is wringing his hands even now, worried he may not have stocked enough of your favorite brandy. Something on your mind, Beaufort?”

Vaguely, Alex registered the note of concern in his friend’s voice. “Can’t find her,” he muttered.

Robert Wilbourne studied his drunken friend. “Her?”

“Elizabeth.”

Now,
that
was interesting. Robert had never seen the duke drink himself into a stupor before—let alone over a woman. And not just any woman. He’d heard the rumors.

Alex tiredly raked a hand through his hair, then let his head fall back against the chair.

Robert glanced around. They were in a relatively quiet corner of the gentlemen’s club—a good thing, because whatever was bothering his friend, Alex wasn’t in any state to be overheard.

“She’s the one, isn’t she? The one whose father sold her out?”

Alex stared at him for a moment, as though trying to remember. “Yes,” he finally said. “But I didn’t—”

“Of course not.”

“But later…” Alex groaned and finished off another brandy.

With the slightest hand gesture, Robert signaled the waiter not to bring anymore. It was going to be hard enough getting his friend home in his current state.

“God, she’s something. She’s…different. I think I…I
need
her,” Alex said, his words clear but slow in coming. His head dropped into his hands. “Christ. This is all my fault.”

“How is it your fault?”

Slowly he shook his head, still in his hands, from side to side. “I did it. All of it. She doesn’t know. I
ruined
her. And now she’s gone.”

The duke was rambling—Robert couldn’t follow his alcohol-soaked confessions. What he did understand, though, was that Elizabeth Medford was more than just another of Alex’s illicit, meaningless affairs. “Where’d she go?”

“Don’t know.” Alex rubbed his temples. “Can’t think. Kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped?” Robert echoed.

“Wetherby. Bastard.” Alex looked up, eyes red-rimmed, but his voice gaining strength. “I’ve got…least a dozen…Runners looking for her now. I’m going after her.” He put out an unsteady hand. “As soon as the bloody room stops spinning.”

Unless Robert was much mistaken, Alex’s ramblings meant one thing: the Duke of Beaufort, London’s most dissolute rake, had fallen in love. Hard.

“Beaufort,” Robert said gently, “I’m going to call your carriage. I’m going to help you into it. When you get home, sleep it off. Then go find your woman.”

After nearly a week of empty reports from the men Alex had hired to look into Wetherby’s affairs, one man at last returned with a report of a textiles factory and a small residential property to the north, owned by one Harold Wetherby.

Filled with renewed purpose, Alex secured specific directions and set off immediately. He could travel faster riding alone than in a carriage, so he did. It was a fair distance, but after riding through the afternoon and night, he was in the vicinity of the residence.

It wasn’t much. A two-story home in rural England. He checked the investigator’s description one last time, then approached cautiously. His heart pounded. He wanted nothing more than to rush up and see for himself that Elizabeth was all right, but common sense told him such an approach might actually provoke Harold further.

No one heralded his arrival in the small yard. There was a stable, but he heard no animal sounds, save for those coming from a few chickens pecking in the yard.

His feeling of anticipation gave way to one of uncertainty. Something was amiss here. Did he have the wrong place? He doubted it, having always been astute with directions. Besides, there was nothing else around.

The house was quiet. Too quiet. His knock went unanswered. No servants about.

A brief search of the house confirmed it empty, though its occupants had not been gone long. The remains of one person’s breakfast still sat on a table, and the scent of a woman—Elizabeth, he was certain—lingered upstairs.

A sense of impending doom struck him as he went back outside and confirmed the stables were also empty.

Alex retraced his route. A little investigative work of his own revealed new tracks, a conveyance of some sort, leading down the road in the opposite direction from whence he’d come.

He nudged his mount back onto the road, kicking him into a gallop. The stallion tossed his head in protest. He nudged the animal again. “I know you’re tired, but we’ve no time.”

The horse gave one more flick of his head but picked up his pace. Alex patted him as a knot grew in his gut.

Had he taken too long to find her? Where was Elizabeth? God help Wetherby if she’d been harmed in any way.

It had been many moons since Alex Bainbridge, Duke of Beaufort, had darkened the doors of a church, but as he kept his eyes on the tracks he followed, his mind turned to prayer. More than anything, he prayed Elizabeth had not suffered for his foolishness. His conscience was already sorely tried by its burden of guilt. He could bear no more.

The tracks led him to a village, and then to a chapel.

His unease turned to near-panic as he saw where the tracks ended. He flung himself from his mount and ran to the chapel without even thinking to secure the weary beast.

His push sent the lightweight wooden door banging into the adjacent wall. As his eyes adjusted from the bright sun, Alex made out three figures standing near the altar. One wore black, and the other two stood before him in the time-honored formation of a wedding ceremony. The bride’s blaze of auburn hair was unmistakable. Rage filled him.

“You cannot proceed!” His voice echoed, bouncing off the stone walls. He quickly closed the remaining distance between himself and the three at the altar.

Elizabeth, the vicar, and a portly man with receding brown hair turned to gape at him. Wetherby. Alex recognized him from their encounter at the Derringworth stables months ago.

“I believe this is my church, and I will proceed as I see fit,” the vicar replied. His furrowed brows belied his mild tone.

“If you value your position in the least, you will desist,” Alex told him in the most authoritative tone he knew.

“I think,” Wetherby slurred, “I need to sit down.” As he spoke the words, his hand landed clumsily on the altar in an attempt to steady himself.

Alex turned to the woman he’d just rushed pell-mell across the countryside to find. “Elizabeth, what is going on here?”

But her attention was turned to Wetherby, whose face had gone slack. His hand slipped from the altar, and he crumpled heavily to the floor.

Something was odd here. Alex longed to simply gather her in his arms, but first he needed an answer.

“Elizabeth,” he urged, “tell me you never meant to marry that cur.”

For a moment her eyes stayed fixed on Wetherby’s crumpled form.

Then, lifting her chin, she met his gaze with something of triumph in her own. “Never.”

She was paler, thinner than he remembered, but his fiery temptress remained unbroken.

Alex smiled for the first time in days. “Let us go, then, before he recovers.”

“Oh, I don’t believe that will be for a while.”

The vicar cleared his throat. “Excuse me, sir, but who are you? And what precisely is going on here?”

Elizabeth answered for him. “He’s Alex Bainbridge, Duke of Beaufort. And as for Mr. Wetherby, I believe he’s had a taste of his own medicine and found it…overwhelming.”

“Duke?” the vicar squeaked. His glance darted between Elizabeth and her overweight, would-be husband. Her captor. Who showed no sign of awakening from his fainting spell.

The vicar’s brows knit together as he nudged Harold with his toe. “Young lady, has this man been poisoned?”

Her cheeks pinkened. “Only a sleeping draught.”

Alex felt his chest swell. He was so damn proud of that woman. Still. “You cut the timing a bit close, don’t you think?” he whispered to her.

A shiver passed through her.

“This situation is highly unusual,” the vicar declared as though taking an official position on the matter.

“Indeed,” Alex said dryly.

Harold groaned, drawing the attention of the other three. He passed a hand over his forehead, then slowly pushed himself to his feet. His gaze landed on Elizabeth and he scowled. “The wine,” he muttered. “You little bi—” he bit off the last part of the slur.

Elizabeth took a step back. Alex moved in front of her, his ire rising once more as he observed how nervous she became around a conscious Wetherby.

“You may proceed,” Harold informed the vicar. “I want this thing done.”

“Like hell,” Alex said.

“Gentlemen—” the vicar began.

“We’ve matters to settle.” Alex’s words, and his raised hand, stopped the vicar midspeech.

Harold sidled over, still swaying. “Elizabeth’s family appreciates me taking her off their hands.”

Alex clenched his jaw, unable to believe the man’s gall.

“You see,” Harold said, “in marrying
me,
she’ll regain some of the respectability she lost in consorting with
you
.”

Alex’s fist connected with the fleshy jowl of his nemesis. Harold staggered—though from the blow or the lingering effects of whatever potion Elizabeth had slipped him, Alex couldn’t tell.

“Now, now!” cried the vicar, though he backed several steps away from the angry men. “This is a house of God.”

Both men ignored him.

Alex watched as Harold struggled for balance and clutched his jaw.

“Get out,” Alex bit out, not trusting himself to further speech.

But the swine lumbered back and thrust out his chest. He grabbed Elizabeth’s arm. “She’s mine now.”

“As I told you, the lady does not wish to marry you.”

“She’s ruined. What other option does she have?” he blustered.

“One far superior. She’s marrying me.”

Suddenly the small church went silent. Elizabeth, Harold, and the vicar all stared at him, the latter two with their mouths hanging open.

“Is this true?” the vicar finally asked Harold.

“I know nothing of it,” he answered, but his normally ruddy face had lost most of its color.

“Young lady?”

It took all Alex’s patience not to answer for her.
Yes. Just say yes,
he silently begged her.

He’d not been planning a proposal when he entered the church that morning. It had just slipped out. But now that it had, he knew, deep in his core, it was meant to be. If only Elizabeth would agree. They could work out the details later.

Dust motes danced in the light that filtered through the church’s narrow windows, and still Elizabeth was silent.

The vicar turned back to Harold. “At any rate, I can’t perform the ceremony under such circumstances. I fear I must recuse myself.”

“We had an agreement,” Harold hissed.

“He’s a peer of the realm,” the vicar hissed back.

Alex ignored them. “Elizabeth?”

“My lord,” she whispered. “I know you didn’t mean it. It was a mistake. And you, being a gentleman…but you don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do.”

“But Society will—”

“Society be damned.” He placed a finger over her lips to hush her. When she stilled, he grasped her hands and knelt.

He’d done more to hurt this woman than she even realized, but he loved her. And starting this moment, he intended to make it all up to her.

“Elizabeth, I meant it. Forget everything else. Will you marry me?”

She bit her bottom lip and looked at him hard, as though taking his measure. She cocked her head, and he could see the mistrust in her eyes give way to hope, and then the corners of her mouth turned up in the first true smile he’d seen from her that morning. She took a deep breath and gave him the answer he so longed to hear.

“Yes, I’ll marry you.”

Harold punched his fist into the altar, then recoiled as the marble proved too solid to shatter before his frustration. Rubbing his knuckles, he staggered from the church.

The vicar withdrew more quietly, leaving Elizabeth alone with Alex.

She sank slowly to the steps before the altar, reeling with emotion. The events of the morning would have had any lesser woman reaching for her smelling salts. In fact, she’d been only seconds away from pretending to faint, thereby stopping the sham of a wedding, when Harold had done so instead.

And of course there was Alex. He’d looked so magnificent, storming into the church. How had he known where to find her?

It didn’t matter. He
had
found her. Her heart swelled. He cared.

His proposal had given her a moment of pause, though. After all, he was a cad. He’d seduced her, and the whole of London knew, or at least suspected, it. And there was that thing Cutter had said, about her being a part of some deal between Alex and her father.

But she loved him.

Cad or no, she would marry Alex Bainbridge. Besides, his proposal rendered most of those prior faults irrelevant.

She longed to trace the hard line of his jaw, to step into his arms and melt into the strength of his embrace.