The Taming of the Rake (24 page)

“Oh, Oliver…” she said, reaching for him, “you’ll do everything but say the words, won’t you? Why don’t you simply show me?”

Could he tell her that he was afraid to do that? Could he tell her that arousing her carnally was one thing; awakening her, teaching her, enjoying her, giving her pleasure. But if he truly, truly made love to her, made love with her, without the physical urgency, without the newness of it all, the teasing, even this gown, then he would be stepping beyond anything he’d ever done, anything he’d ever imagined.

He’d be giving not just his body, but himself.

“Chelsea, I—”

She put her fingers to his lips. “
Shh,
no, don’t say anything. I don’t want you to think you need to say anything.”

He took hold of her hand and kissed her fingertips. “You were right earlier today. Men do stay silly much longer than women. Some of us remain silly for a very long time.”

“Yes, but women are wise, Oliver. We can wait. Although I would very much like for you to look at me
again the way you looked at me a moment ago. And if you could possibly consider kissing me…”

He kissed her. Close-mouthed and chaste. He spent a long time kissing her.

He rid her of the silk and laces. They were fine, for some other time. But not now.

Now he touched her, yes, but reverently. Slowly rousing her, worshipping her body, every inch of it. He kissed her eyelids, her hair, the crook of her elbow, the back of her knee. He ran his hands over her, following his hands with his mouth. Savoring each moment, each touch, each heartbeat.

Passion could be quick, hot, easily roused, swiftly sated. Physical pleasure.

Now he touched her with his mind as well as his hands and mouth.

He wasn’t bringing passion to her body.

He was making love to Chelsea. With Chelsea.

And he would never be the same…

T
HOMAS
M
ILLS
-B
ECKMAN
, Earl of Brean, sat huddled close to the fireplace and a small brace of candles (and a lovely glass of not very inferior wine), reading Scripture from the prayer book that had been a gift from his own father, many years earlier.

It had been a long journey, both in time and in the mental ground he’d covered since they’d left London. He’d always known he wasn’t a brilliant man. And yet now, for the first time in a long time, he felt comfortable
with himself. He hadn’t known he’d been uncomfortable, rather as if he’d had a toothache for so long that he only realized he’d had it when the pain finally stopped.

He’d never been particularly holy. Not even marginally devout. Not until he’d nearly died and made all those rash promises. He’d seldom opened this black-bound volume in the past two years—and never before that—although he often carried it with him now, as a sort of talisman, he thought. Francis had preferred that the earl limit his reading to sermons he, Francis, had penned—and Thomas had paid to have published.

He was shaking his head in amazement over one particular passage when his sister entered the private sitting room positioned between their two bedchambers, a glass of wine in her hand.

“You can’t sleep, either, I see,” she said, rather in-elegantly plunking herself down on the facing chair. “And you’re
reading?
E-gods, man, when did you take up that boring exercise?”

Thomas looked at his sister. He’d tried to like her, he really had. Tried for nearly five whole days. But it hadn’t worked. He didn’t much like himself, what he’d been for most of his life, what he’d turned into these past two years. He’d seen himself in some sort of mental mirror and had admitted to his reflection that he probably wasn’t too bright. He most definitely wasn’t kind, he was often deliberately mean, and he had a vile temper when he was goaded or too drunk. He didn’t fight fairly—but then again, who in their right mind did?

But for all his faults, he still liked himself much better than he liked her. At least he knew who he was. She actually believed herself to be witty and even lovable.

“It’s the strangest thing, Maddie. Everything sounds so different when I read the words for myself. Francis uses bits, snippets, in his sermons, to make his points, you understand. But when you see the
whole?
” He shook his head.

“Yes? When you see the whole—the whole
what,
Thomas?”

He closed the prayer book. Admitting to gullibility wasn’t something he was eager to share with Madelyn. And when he thought about the money he’d poured into Francis’s schemes and then compounded his losses by trying to recoup them with risky schemes of his own? That was even worse than thinking about how he’d nearly given his younger sister into the man’s clutches. Madelyn had been lost years ago, but Chelsea might still be saved. No, he
would
save her. Chelsea had never much cared for her sister. That alone put her in his good books.

As a matter of fact, he probably should have listed Chelsea first in his litany of woes against Francis, but then again, Thomas knew he was not a perfect man. According to what he’d gleaned from his readings tonight, he simply had to
try
to be a better man. It wasn’t all or nothing, good or evil. And, if by some chance there was some merit in Francis’s beliefs, well, then he’d hedge
his bets and at least
try
to become better. As in: better safe than sorry.

He’d sort out precisely
what
he’d try to be better at in the coming days and weeks. Probably by trial and error. Although he already felt fairly certain that once he tried keeping a mistress again that he’d cross that sort of sacrifice off his list. That, and abstaining from drinking strong spirits. And possibly loving one’s neighbor as himself—nobody in his right mind would love any of his neighbors, especially the Dowager Countess of Loughborough, who lived next door at Number 23 Portland Place, and whose pack of yipping, yapping pug dogs she let roam free to bite at ankles and piddle on lampposts.

That was the answer: pick and choose. If a man tried to do
everything
good, all the time? He may as well be dead.

“Nothing. You wouldn’t understand, Maddie. Suffice it to say that I’ve made some decisions. I’ve informed Francis that he is to be sent packing tomorrow morning, before I push on to Gretna Green.”

“Oh, you did, did you? I’m glad to know you’re at last seeing some sense. And will you now leave off those
horrible
funereal coats and cravats? I cannot tell you how you
embarrass
me with them. And how did the crow take the news? Badly, one could hope.”

Thomas sighed. “I believe Francis suffers from the sin of anger. He called down God’s wrath on my immortal soul. The fact that it has been a full three hours and lightning has not yet struck me tells me much about
Francis’s true influence with the Almighty. When I mentioned that a little while ago, when he crawled back in here to ask that I reconsider, and I refused, he raised his hand to me.”

“Oh, dear. And what did
you
do?”

“I hit him in the face with that chair over there. Several times,” Thomas said, lifting his wineglass in a salute to himself. “The way I see it, Maddie, if Francis is right and I’m going to go to hell, I may as well enjoy the journey.”

Madelyn raised her glass, watching him out of the corners of her eyes as she took a long sip of its contents. “And Blackthorn? Will you content yourself to merely taking a horsewhip to him again? You have to
know
he’s defiled her by now. The man isn’t
stupid.
”

“He’s probably had her a dozen times by now.” Thomas sighed. He’d hoped to wait until morning to tell her the rest, but she was here now. “As long as they aren’t wed, I will take her back. She’s bound to be thoroughly chastened by now, having to keep company with that uncouth bastard. I can always marry her off for a price, as we did with you.”

“
What?
You and Papa thought I wasn’t a…that is, Blackthorn
never
…he wasn’t…”

“Your first? Yes, I know. But you were getting reckless, encouraging Blackthorn that way. I won’t be in such a rush this time. I’ll wait to see if she’s going to whelp before I buy her a groom.”

Maddie got to her feet. “Wait a moment, Thomas. You
knew
I wasn’t a virgin?”

“Half of London knew,” he told her, getting to his feet. “In fact, probably the only one who didn’t was that fool Blackthorn, since he wasn’t welcome at White’s and never saw your name written down in the betting book, as I did the same morning he came to pay his addresses to you. ‘J.S. wages W.R. a monkey he’ll have a certain lock of hair from M.M.B. by fourteen June.’ I raced home to wring your neck, only to find you’d sunk to seducing bastards. What would have been next, Maddie? The footmen? A chimney sweep?”

Madelyn paled as he watched, her eyes first going wide and then narrowing to slits, as if she had finally realized that she had lost some contest she’d felt sure she’d won. “That you should
dare
say such vile things to me. I’ve always
loathed
you, Thomas. I only
pretended
to like you. But it was only pity. You’re
so
stupid.”

“Yes, I know. I have done some stupid things, as well. I may have taken the whip to the bastard that day, but only because I couldn’t take it to you—and only because I knew you weren’t worthy of anything more than he is. I realize that now. You were lucky Papa and I could buy you a baron. No matter that Francis is wrong on so many counts, he was right about you. One way or another, you and your round heels are the cause of all of this. You can travel back to London with Francis in the morning. I’ve hired a coach, and that damn rocking horse is already strapped to its roof. See if you can make his life the hell you’ve made everyone else’s. Goodbye, Maddie.”

T
HEY ROSE BEFORE
dawn, Beau having never returned to his own chamber, nibbled at the slightly stale bread and cheese they’d ignored along with the rest of the supper that had been delivered to the room, and were on the road to Gretna Green just as a watery sun was rising above the treetops.

This was it. This was the last day of their escape, their mad adventure, their—as Chelsea believed she would always think of it—journey of discovery.

This was the day they would marry.

This was the day they would confront Thomas and Madelyn and the horrible Francis Flotley.

Chelsea and Beau rode at a steady pace all morning, with their horses side by side, the roadway curving and rising, the air cooler here, the sun somehow brighter.

She was so anxious to arrive in Gretna Green. When she wasn’t wishing they’d never get there, but could simply continue on the way they had begun, just the two of them, with the rest of the world and all its problems far, far away.

Her domineering brother. His strange, selfish mother. Society, who judged people on such superficial merits,
so that Thomas Mills-Beckman was considered a gentleman and Oliver Le Beau Blackthorn as unworthy, beneath contempt.

She kept stealing looks at Beau from beneath her lashes, watching as, more and more, he turned from the perfect lover he had been last night to the tight-jawed man she had seen determined to protect his brother.

Right or wrong, he was going to protect his brother. Good or bad, he was going to protect his brother.

Beau, she thought, could give lessons to Thomas on what it meant to be a brother, what it meant to be a family. Good or bad, pleasing or a problem, family was family. You protected them, you defended them, you didn’t judge, you didn’t condemn.

Chelsea sighed silently. Which meant, if she also were to benefit from Beau’s example, she would have to try very, very hard to not judge Adelaide Claridge.

“Where will we live, Oliver?” she asked him as they reined in the horses at a small crossroads and a series of fingerposts nailed to the trunk of a tree.

He’d pulled a folded scrap of paper from his pocket and frowned as he consulted it and the fingerposts. “Where would you like to live?” he asked in the tone of a person who probably wasn’t going to pay much attention to the answer.

“Wherever you live, I imagine. It seems convenient,” she answered, at last turning to inspect the fingerposts herself, in case he’d gotten them lost again…not that she’d say such a thing to him. At least not unless he wouldn’t admit he was lost, because they should have
been seeing signposts for Gretna Green by now, as it had gone past noon. “I don’t
live
anywhere, now that I think about it,” he said, refolding the paper and slipping it back into his pocket. “I
reside.
Sometimes at Blackthorn, sometimes on the estates I oversee, sometimes in Grosvenor Square.”

“Oh.” Wasn’t that strange. “Then I suppose I should ask you where you would
like
to live.”

“Well, that I can answer easily enough. In your pocket,” he told her, grinning rather evilly. “But, first, I suppose we ought to finally do what we rode all this way to do, and get married. Are you ready to be caught up in the parson’s mousetrap, or at least with a toe stuck beneath his anvil?”

“They sound equally painful, and rather insulting to women, I would think, since I’ve heard it said that marriage is an institution created by females. But I don’t see a sign pointing toward Gretna Green. Are you lost again, Oliver?”

He turned his horse to take the road heading off to the left, one that led down yet another rolling hillside, and she urged her mare to follow. “We aren’t going directly to Gretna Green, Chelsea. As soon as we cross that bridge you can now see some distance ahead of us, we will be in Scotland, at a place called Coldstream. It has a very convenient establishment at the end of the bridge, I’m told. We can pay our bridge toll and get married at the same time.”

Chelsea squinted as she leaned forward on her horse,
to see the bridge about a mile ahead, crossing a river she supposed made up a natural borderline between England and Scotland. “But…but Puck is waiting for us in Gretna Green. Isn’t he?”

“Very nearly. He’s reconnoitering while keeping safely out of the way of your brother and sister, and we’ll join him there, but only once the deed is done. I didn’t want us reciting our vows while constantly looking over our shoulders, in case they caught up with us.”

“Once the deed is done,” Chelsea repeated. “That sounds so…cold-blooded.”

“Which is what I don’t want our wedding to be,” Beau said, sounding reasonable, or at least he probably supposed it did to his own ears.

“Do you think that if Thomas knows he’s too late, that the
deed is done,
he will simply turn around and head back to London?”

“Do you?”

Chelsea shook her head. “No. Do you?”

“Truthfully? No, I don’t. What I do know is that he can’t be allowed to intervene before our vows are said. Once we’re married, he can’t drag you to the nearest blacksmith and insist you wed the reverend.”

“You wouldn’t let Thomas do that if you—” Her hands began to tremble so much that her mare, sensing her fear, began to dance as if ready to take the bit in its mouth and go for a run.

Beau leaned over and took hold of the mare’s bridle, moving closer to Chelsea. “Look at me, Chelsea. Whether you are wife or widow, Thomas will no
longer be in charge of your life, and Puck, your brother-in-law and therefore your guardian in my absence, will be there to make that clear to the Scottish authorities. I don’t believe your brother would be so harebrained as to attempt to shoot me down, especially in Scotland, where the laws rather frown on such things, murdering brothers and fathers being very bad for business for the blacksmith parsons, I’d imagine. I truly don’t think your brother will turn violent, not if I get to say my piece, but I had to prepare as best I could to protect you, no matter what happens later today. Do you understand?”

“No, I don’t. If we’re to be married without having to go to Gretna Green, why would we go there? Why can’t we simply
do the deed
and immediately turn back to Blackthorn?”

“We have to face your brother sooner or later,” he told her reasonably. “I’d just as soon get it done now, rather than at some place and time of his choosing. Besides, I’d rather face him and not someone he might hire.”

“You actually think he might
hire
someone to harm you? That hadn’t occurred to me. You’ve thought this all out, haven’t you? You and Puck. And yet you waited this long to tell me?”

He smiled at her as the horses took their first steps onto the bridge. “Are you angry?”

She goggled at him. “Angry? I’m
incensed!
”

“Well, then, there’s your answer. I believe I’m beginning to learn how to think as a husband.”

“Well, don’t flatter yourself, Oliver. It would appear
husbands think no more clearly than those who are not. You said Puck is waiting for us
near
Gretna Green. You intend to leave me wherever that is, with him, and confront Thomas alone, don’t you?”

“At gunpoint if he has to, yes,” Beau told her as they stopped in front of the toll house. “Now, are you ready to be married?”

She set her chin. “I don’t think so, no.”

“Chelsea…”

She looked at him, saw the concern in his eyes and relented. “Yes, I’m ready to be married to you. But if you somehow manage to make me a widow before the day is out, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Y
OU COULD STOP
scowling at any time, Chelsea,” Beau said out of the corner of his mouth as they sat side by side on a bench in the toll house. “I think the man is beginning to believe I’ve coerced you in some way.”

“You didn’t trust me. You had me thinking one thing while you were planning another. This is not a good way to begin a marriage, Oliver.”

“Please feel free to berate me. Later,” he said, putting on a smile while trying to avoid Mr. Ramsey McHugh’s concerned glances.

“I would say that I think you can count on that, yes. For now, could you please ask Mr. McHugh if he has a copy of the marriage ceremony? I believe I would like to take a look at the vows.”

She was tipping up her chin again. Beau hadn’t known her for very long, but certainly long enough to
know that her tipped-up chin didn’t bode well for him. “I would imagine they’re typical of marriage vows anywhere. Said over an anvil, granted, but just as binding as if they were recited in St. George’s.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. But I want to see if there is any mention of always being truthful to your spouse. Because unless it’s a vow, then I may well spend the rest of my life wondering if you’re only telling me things I wish to hear, and hiding those you know will have me looking at you like this—” she turned to glare at him “—and saying,
Oh, Oliver!
”

He laughed softly, shot a quick glance at McHugh and then whispered in her ear. “But I like the way you say
Oh, Oliver.
Especially the way you said it last night.
Ohhhhh, Oll-e-varrr.
”

She pressed her lips together tightly but couldn’t hold back a smile. Or her soft giggle. “I do not sound anything like that.”

“Yes, you do. Although sometimes you just purr.”

“
Shh.
He’ll hear you.”

“Good. At least then maybe he’ll stop thinking I’ve kidnapped you and am forcing this marriage, or whatever it is he’s thinking. Excuse me a moment.”

He got to his feet and walked over to where the rather fantastically mustachioed Ramsey McHugh was speaking to a couple who’d just moments earlier entered the building.

“I hesitate to interrupt, but my betrothed and I are in a bit of a rush. Will you be much longer?”

The man answered in a thick Scottish burr, which
made Beau suspect that the man was trying much too hard to be Scottish. “It will just be a little longer, laddie. Mr. and Mrs. McTavish are here now, so we’re just waiting on my mother and my aunt Susan. Her little one, Mary, is sick with a nasty head. Sniffling and sneezing to send the birds from their branches. She’ll be that sorry to miss this one. A real ladyship? We don’t get many of those.”

Beau looked to Mr. and Mrs. McTavish, who both smiled at him. Mrs. McTavish shyly waggled her fingers at him and blushed.

“Am I being obtuse? Why would we be waiting for your mother? And aunt, I think you said?” Beau was beginning to think Coldstream had been a mistake.

“For the wedding, sir. We don’t get so many as what we used to, what with it being Gretna Green, Gretna Green, all over, as if it’s the only town in Scotland worth eloping to, you understand. You’re the first in a fortnight, and nobody wants to miss it.” He leaned closer to Beau. “Truthfully, sir, there’s not much else to do here in Coldstream.”

“Oliver? Is something wrong?”

Beau walked back over to the bench and sat down. “It appears we’re to have an audience,” he told her, caught between exasperation and amusement. “Do you mind?”

Chelsea looked toward the small but now growing knot of people. “She’s waving at me,” she said even as she lifted her own hand and rather tentatively waved back, a small, nervous smile on her face. “Do you think I should go talk to them?”

“And say what in heaven’s name?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps I should thank them for coming?”

Beau pinched at the bridge of his nose. “Yes, all right. Why don’t you go do that. Go play at hostess. I’ll just sit here and yet again reflect on my sins.”

“You could start with the one where you decided not to tell me what you planned for today,” Chelsea suggested sweetly and then stood up and walked over to the group of—could they be considered
wedding guests?

But thirty minutes later it was done. Beau wore a sprig of white heather in his lapel, given to him by Mr. McTavish, Chelsea clutched a small bouquet of some yellow flowers, McHugh rolled his Rs all over the vows, Mrs. McTavish not all that quietly snuffled into her handkerchief, Beau twisted at his signet ring until he could dislodge it from his finger and place it on Chelsea’s finger—it promptly fell off—they signed the wedding register as Oliver Le Beau and Lady Chelsea Blackthorn, Chelsea had kissed all the women goodbye, and McHugh’s mother insisted upon crumbling up what appeared to be a small and probably stale wheat cake and tossing the crumbs at them for luck as they exited the toll house.

In her hand, along with the small bouquet, Chelsea held a folded bit of paper carrying the addresses of her wedding guests, as she planned to send them all “something to thank them” once they returned to England. Oh, and she would tell everyone that Coldstream was
a much better choice than Gretna Green, if they were of a mind to elope, that is.

Beau felt certain his headache would fade at some point but probably not for some time.

Not that he wasn’t delighted to be married to this unique and wonderful woman. Because he was. Delighted, that is. But there was something about having been a carefree bachelor one day and suddenly married the next that might take a little getting used to. He’d been free. Not necessarily wild, but free. Now he’d been…domesticated. Almost overnight.

Still, the more he thought about it as they turned their horses toward Gretna Green, he knew he also felt complete now, even more so than last night…as if a part of him he hadn’t known had been missing had finally been tucked into place. More people should do this—marry. The world would be a better place.

Now if he could only find a way to be rid of the wheat cake crumbs that had managed to insinuate themselves under his shirt…but then again, he knew he would soon be confronting the earl of Brean, and that a few cake crumbs were really the smallest of his problems.

C
HELSEA SAT
at the small table of the wayside inn, her chin in her hand, and looked at her husband.
Husband.
The word rather rolled off the tongue. Not as well as Mr. McHugh’s Rs, but very nicely in any case.

“I’m very happy,” she told Beau as he chewed on a bite of boiled potato. “And I’ve decided that you were right. I’m so glad we didn’t simply attempt to beat
Thomas to Gretna Green and then just rush through some ramshackle ceremony. And now that the
deed is done,
there’s really very little Thomas can do.”