Reckless (26 page)

A
s if things weren't bad enough, Adrian thought, facing the tribunal that sat across from him in Montague's library. Even Monty seemed to have rallied enough to be carried in, though Adrian suspected he'd come more for amusement's sake than anything else.

He'd been carrying Charlotte's bleeding, unconscious body toward the landing when he saw them running toward him: Pagett, Dodson, half a dozen footmen and, to his utter and complete horror, his father. He hadn't wanted to let go of Charlotte's limp body, cradling her tightly in the boat as Pagett ripped away the sleeve of her dress to expose what was, in fact, nothing but a graze. If his father hadn't been watching him out of cool, assessing eyes he might have started crying. Instead he just held her closely, letting her bleed all over him as they made it back to the estate.

They were waiting for her with a litter, and by this point he relinquished her. He knew when she'd regained consciousness—sometime in the boat—but she'd elected not to let anyone know. He couldn't blame her. If he could manage to fake a fainting spell he would, anything to avoid his father's icy rage.

Even now she was tucked up into bed, a hot-water bottle at her feet, his mother sitting in a chair beside her. At least she wasn't here in the library, ready to have his liver served up to the wolves.

He surveyed the grim-faced row of judges. The only one who terrified him more than his father was Lady Whitmore, who would have most definitely gutted him on the spot if she could. She was sitting as far away from the vicar as she possibly could, which didn't fool most of the people there. Monty was right—they wanted to shag each other silly, and he wondered if he could deflect attention from his own transgressions by pointing this out, then thought better of it.

“What do you have to say for yourself, Adrian?” His father was quite a remarkable old man, considering he'd spent a life of debauchery that presumably put Adrian's career in the shade. Adrian could thank his godfather for his parents' unwanted appearance. No sooner had Adrian taken off with his special license in hand, when the bishop had sent a message out to Dorset, informing his parents of their son and heir's upcoming nuptials. He should never have told
his godfather where he was going, but he'd just escaped from Etienne's paid assassins, and he wasn't thinking too clearly.

“If I'm supposed to apologize for blowing Etienne's head off then you'll have to excuse me,” he said stiffly. Never in his life had he wanted a drink more, but no one seemed to be offering.

“You didn't blow his head off with that tiny pea-shooter,” his father said with a genteel snort.

“Well, I'm sorry that I didn't have a bigger gun,” Adrian retorted.

“I'm sorry you didn't as well. I regret even more that you didn't listen when I warned you about him,” the marquess said in icy tones. “If you had kept your distance in the first place this might never have happened.”

“If you've brought me in here to say ‘I told you so' then I have more important things to do,” Adrian said, starting to rise.

His father didn't need to say a word, he simply looked at him, and Adrian sat back, restless. He hadn't seen Charlotte since the doctor had patched up her shoulder and pronounced her fit and pregnant. His mother had taken over from Lady Whitmore, and he'd been shut out, away from her, with no chance to hold her as he so desperately needed to do, to assure himself she was safe.

He needed to tell her the truth, that he was a
worthless idiot, blind and stupid and shallow, but that despite all that he loved her.

They wouldn't let him.

It was a conspiracy, he thought grimly. He was going to have to take his punishment before they'd let him go to her.

“I want to know what you intend to do about the situation.”

He deliberately chose to misunderstand. “About your cousin, sir?” He let the deliberate emphasis be his one form of fighting back. “I'll have to deal with the local magistrate, I expect.”

“I'm the local magistrate,” Montague said with a trace of his old energy. The doctor hadn't wanted to leave him, but Montague had sent him away with a querulous wave of his bony hand. “I declare you innocent of any wrongdoing. As for de Giverney, I imagine there's space in the village graveyard to dump him.”

“Presumably he's Catholic,” the vicar said. “If he's buried in Protestant ground he'll go to hell.”

“Oh, let's, then,” said Lady Whitmore. “I'll be happy to help dig.”

“I mean, what's to be done with the young woman you ruined?”

With anyone else Adrian might have taken issue with the term
ruined.
Ruined her for any other man, perhaps, which was just what he wanted. “In case the others haven't told you, I've been trying to get
her to agree to marry me. You know that I have the special license, and Pagett there could perform the ceremony. But she won't agree.”

“And who could blame her?” Lady Whitmore said. “With the idiotic way you asked her. Would you believe, Lord Haverstoke, that he told Charlotte that he was willing to marry her, and that he had no intention of keeping his marriage vows?”

“I said no such thing,” Adrian protested. “I simply told her that once the…er…passion faded from our union she would be free to find other amusement, as would I. It's what everyone in society does.”

“Your mother would take exception to that. In fact, I believe you just slandered her.” His father rose to his still-impressive height.

But Adrian stood his ground. “You could hardly convince me that your marriage is in any way indicative of what usually goes on. Your devotion to each other is so extreme that it's almost bad ton.”

There was a dangerous glint in the marquess's hard blue eyes, so like his son's. “Tread carefully, boy.”

“You could hardly expect me to duplicate your good fortune in marriage.”

“And why not? While it's true that no woman could ever equal your mother, I trust you have the good taste to come close. And as appalling a reprobate as you are, you're merely a child when compared to my reputation.”

“Then I would think you'd appreciate how I got in this situation.” Adrian fired back, unwisely.

“No, I do not. I never seduced an innocent of good family.”

“Except for my mother.”

The marquess's eyes narrowed, but Pagett hastily interceded. “I think we need to look at the situation calmly,” he said in his measured voice. “I believe we're all agreed that our most pressing concern is Miss Spenser.”

“She's my
only
concern,” Lady Whitmore snapped. “I suppose you think she's a strumpet who should go into a home for fallen women.”

The vicar looked at her with cool dislike, but there was fire simmering beneath it. “Hardly a strumpet, Lady Whitmore. Even you don't deserve that term.” Before she had a chance to fire back, he continued. “I believe the best outcome would be for her to marry Lord Rohan, which is why I agreed to perform the ceremony. The church in the village stands at the ready. But I also believe that Miss Spenser's wishes should come first, and being shackled to a man of Lord Rohan's reprehensible character might be too unpleasant for her to contemplate.”

“I beg your pardon!” Adrian protested.

“Adrian's not reprehensible,” Monty said in his faint voice. “The rest of you have hardly lived more stellar lives. I do believe Charlotte will be the making of him.”

So, in fact, did he, Adrian thought, wondering how far he'd get if he simply walked out. He
needed
to see her.

“She doesn't have to waste her life on him,” Lady Whitmore said. “She and I can live very happily together. I've grown quite weary of society, and a life in the country will suit both of us very well.”

“I would prefer her to join our family in Dorset,” his father said. “I agree—she doesn't need to marry Adrian. We can find a way to work around it.”

“She is welcome to stay here for as long as I live,” Montague said. “After that it's up to my brother.”

“She will always have a home here,” Simon Pagett said.

Everyone turned to look at him in surprise, Lady Whitmore with slowly kindling wrath.

“Good for you,” Monty said faintly. “I knew I could count on you after I'm gone.”

“Your brother?” Lady Whitmore demanded, incensed.

“Half brother,” Montague clarified. “And heir. I wish he wouldn't insist on remaining a damned parson, but there's nothing I can do about him choosing a ‘respectable' life. You'll marry her, won't you, Simon?”

The two brothers' eyes met, a look of silent understanding moving between them. And then Simon smiled ruefully. “You know me too well, brother. Of course I will.”

Lady Whitmore was on her feet, pale and shaking. For a woman so adept at hiding her feelings she looked quite devastated. At least everyone's attention was off him, Adrian thought, wondering if he could slip out.

“You're not going to marry Charlotte!” she cried.

The vicar looked back at her, and they might have been the only two in the room. “Of course I'm not. That is, I'll perform the ceremony for her, but she's not the woman I'm going to marry.”

Lady Whitmore failed to look mollified. “Then who?” she demanded.

“You, darling,” Montague said airily. “He's madly, stupidly in love with you. Now sit down and be quiet.”

Lady Whitmore sat, too stunned to say anything more.

There was a faint smile at the corner of Haverstoke's mouth, one that vanished when he turned back to look at his son. “We still haven't decided what—”

Adrian rose, finally having had enough. “I'm afraid, sir, that it's not your decision. It's Charlotte's. I think you've kept me from her long enough.” And he strode out of the room, without a backward glance. Though he could have sworn he heard his father's approving chuckle as he went.

He took the steps two at a time in his haste to
get to her. Charlotte was lying in bed, her red hair a coppery halo around her pale face and he felt the unfamiliar panic fill him. She looked so unlike her usual fierce self.

His mother looked up from her needlework and gave him a warm smile. “Did they ring a peal over you, dearest boy?”

“Of course.” He moved to her side and kissed her cheek. He adored his mother, but he needed her out of the room. “Do you mind if I speak to Charlotte alone?”

“Don't leave!” Charlotte protested, but Elinor, Marchioness of Haverstoke, had already risen.

“I'm sorry, my dear, but I believe he's about to abase himself, and you shouldn't miss the chance to let him.” She drifted out of the room on the scent of lilacs, and Adrian turned back to Charlotte.

 

He did look chastened, Charlotte thought, staring up at him. Which everyone probably told him he deserved, but she was more charitable. He'd saved her life. He'd tried to do the right thing. And when she'd been trapped in that hellish church she'd told herself she should have said yes to him, taken anything she could get of his love.

Now she knew she had no choice but to say no.

“I'm sorry I yelled at you,” he was saying. “Back at the chapel. I was afraid he was going to kill you.”

“I understand,” she said politely. “And I should thank you for saving my life.”

“If it hadn't been for me you wouldn't have been in danger in the first place.” He moved closer.

Her arm ached, her head hurt, and she wanted to cry. But first she needed to let him go. “I think you've been blamed too much for one day,” she said. “You shouldn't be blamed for…er…compromising me. I never said no to you.”

“Until today. When I asked you to marry me.”

She could do this, she told herself, putting a calm smile on her face. “In fact, you didn't ask me to marry you. You told me we would get married.”

“I know,” he said ruefully. “I botched it completely. Do you want me down on one knee? I'll do it.”

She shook her head. “No. I won't marry you, Adrian. You don't need a wife you don't love. You're only twenty-eight, you have more than enough time to contract a respectable marriage and have heirs. This probably won't be your first by-blow.” She put a protective hand against her stomach.

“
Don't
call it that,” he snapped. “In fact, it would be,” he added more calmly. “If the child were going to be illegitimate. But it's not going to be. Remember, I came here with a wedding license before I knew you were pregnant. I already knew I wanted to marry you.”

She stared at him. “Why?”

“We would deal extremely well together. You're
just being stubborn—you know you love me, you've admitted it. Why wouldn't you want to marry the man you love?”

“Because I deserve better. I deserve a good man who loves me.”

He reached out and brushed his long fingers against her cheek, and they came away wet with tears, when she hadn't known she was crying.

“I'm not a good man,” he said. “But I do love you. And I can do better.” And without another word he climbed up onto the bed with her, pulling her into his arms.

And finally, finally she believed him.

 

By the time Adrian carried his new bride to the tiny church in the village it was already bedecked with flowers. Lina had worked on the preparations, a whirlwind of energy keeping her as far away from Simon Pagett as possible. They hadn't spoken a word since Monty's unexpected announcement, which was fine with her. She was never going to get married again, certainly not to a prosy old preacher who'd lied about his identity.

She was half tempted to put on her most outrageous ball dress with the shocking décolletage while she acted as Charlotte's attendant, but something stopped her. The ceremony was short, sweet, with Lady Haverstoke weeping happily and even the marquess looking pleased with the situation. She had
suggested they wait a day or two, but Adrian had insisted he wasn't leaving Charlotte's side, and Simon had announced that he couldn't countenance cohabitation, and it suddenly seemed all for the best to just do it before Charlotte could change her mind.