A Wedding by Dawn (21 page)

“La, Lady India—it is my very great fear you will raise hell regardless.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

T
HIRTY
MINUTES
LATER
, Cantwell’s man of business stared at Nick blank-eyed from behind a pair of spectacles and a desk that looked as if it had sustained an assault by the entire French army.

“I have a contract with Lord Cantwell for payment of fifty thousand pounds,” Nick told him.

Ludlow dipped his pen and added words to a half-finished letter. “He said nothing to me about it before he left.”

“All of bloody England knows about this contract.”

“What I mean is that he left no specific instructions about satisfying the contract should it be fulfilled.” He dipped his pen once more. “I had the distinct impression that he did not believe it would be.”

“But it has been,” Nick said flatly.

Scribble, scratch, scribble.
“Fifty thousand is a very large sum for me to be making decisions about without his lordship’s express direction.”
Dip, dip, scribble.

A pit opened up in Nick’s gut. This could not be happening.

Nick planted his hands on the mess of documents littering the desk and leaned close. “I have the contract right here. Surely you do not imagine Cantwell intended for you to leave his business
obligations
unfulfilled.”

Scribble, scribble, scratch.

Plunk.

The man jammed the pen into its stand and leaned back in his chair. “How well do you suppose that contract would stand up in a court of law, Lord Taggart?”

It wouldn’t. There had never been any question about that—it was just an agreement between himself and Cantwell. Which meant if Ludlow refused to honor it, Nick couldn’t even petition a court to demand performance.

“Forgive me,” Nick said now—quietly, feeling bile rise, “but it sounds as if you are questioning my arrangements with your employer. As that cannot possibly be the case, I must insist that you draft the bank note immediately.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“It isn’t your place to interfere.”

“On the contrary, Lord Cantwell relies on me to manage his affairs. This one, I daresay, has been badly mismanaged. You have my deepest apologies.” Oh, yes. Ludlow looked nothing if not apologetic. “I’m afraid you’ll simply have to wait until he returns and discuss it with him then.”
Dip, dip, scribble.

By the time Cantwell returned from the colonies, it would be too late. Every method Nick could think of that might change Ludlow’s mind would also ensure that Nick would end up in gaol.

Nick stalked to the door, feeling as if he were suffocating. “You’ll regret this decision. And when Lord Cantwell returns, you will likely find yourself without employment.”

“I doubt that very much, Your Lordship,” he heard Ludlow say as Nick slammed the door.

Out on the street, the full meaning of it sank in like the steady rain soaking his greatcoat. There would be no money from Cantwell. He shouted directions to the driver and raced to see Holliswell, but met only false sympathy and a smug smile on Holliswell’s fat lips. There would be no more extensions, no more so-called favors.

And now, Nick’s only hope of having anything at all was to find a buyer for Taggart quickly—in a fortnight or less. He could sell the place, pay Holliswell and at least have a little left over. Otherwise, Holliswell would simply take Taggart as payment.

Now, either way, he would lose his only legitimate home.

Either way, he would be a man who could lay claim to nothing—not even his own name.

And either way, he would still have Emilie to think of—and India.

Good God. India.

The carriage rolled through the streets toward James’s house, and Nick rubbed his hands over his face. Bloody hell. He’d married India thinking at least she would be mistress of Taggart. But being Lady Taggart would mean nothing now, and instead she would be mistress of...what?

He did not even know that much.

But one thing was sure: whatever situation he found would be painfully modest. At least anything he gave Emilie would be more than she’d ever had before. But to see India as Lady Taggart, up to her elbows in wash water...that was a shame he couldn’t bear.

But there was a solution. He looked out the window, thinking of it. Hating it. But India had never wanted this marriage, anyway. Had been crushed by it—hadn’t he seen enough evidence of that since they’d left Paris? The fight had left her, and he hadn’t realized how much he would miss it until it was gone.

And it hurt like the devil to do what needed to be done—more than he would have expected it to—but it was the only way.

* * *

A
FTER
L
ADY
R
AMSEY
left, India found Emilie and taught her to play pick-up-sticks. And then she ordered a fresh pot of tea, and they sat against the pillows on the bed and drank, and India told Emilie that ladies of leisure mostly talked of gowns and fashion. And even though India had not thought much about either for years, she made a game out of playacting dramatic statements in nasal French like
I daresay I shan’t live unless I find a bolt of lace in the exact shade of peacock-green
and
That horrid brown silk won’t do—it simply won’t do!

And they giggled and laughed, and India imagined that this might be what it was like to have a sister. She got the idea to begin teaching Emilie some words of English, so she started with the things around them: teacup, saucer, coverlet, pillow, shoes.

India looked at her feet next to Emilie’s, two pairs of toes pointing in the air, and felt less alone than she had in a very long time.

The slam of a carriage door drifted up from the street, and moments later came the faint sounds of someone being admitted below.

“Mon frère,”
Emilie said hopefully.
“Il est revenu.”

“Yes—I believe so.” It sounded as if Nicholas had indeed returned, and India wondered with what news. Had he secured the money? And if he hadn’t...

A wild imagining planted itself in her mind: that there would be no money. That he would finally see how wrong he’d been. That the money was not the important thing, and he’d already received the real object of value—her—and that their marriage meant nobody could take that from him.
I have nothing to offer you but myself,
he might tell her. And perhaps he wouldn’t care about shame anymore—only about her, and Emilie, and the three of them would live together somewhere cozy and happy and safe.

Moments later, the butler appeared in the open doorway. “Your ladyship is needed in the library,” he said.

She left Emilie with the reassurance of a quick return, and went downstairs to find Nicholas sitting on the corner of the desk with his hands clasped lightly between his legs, staring at the carpet.

He looked up at her through hollow eyes. “Your father’s man of business refuses to honor the agreement in your father’s absence,” he told her. “I’ve spoken with Holliswell—he’s not willing to wait, even for correspondence from your father. My only option is to sell Taggart immediately if I can. Otherwise...”

Otherwise Mr. Holliswell would take ownership of Taggart.

No money. It was a fact—there would truly be no money. Her heart raced, and all the things she’d thought of mere minutes ago took wing on fresh hope.

Just then, the butler appeared again. “Bishop Wentworth, Your Lordship.”

A distinguished man of the church entered the room.

“I appreciate your coming on such short notice,” Nicholas said to him. “This is Lady India...” He made the introductions.

“I read your note explaining the situation and that you wish to proceed with an annulment,” the bishop said.

“An annulment,” India echoed. Nicholas wanted to annul the marriage? There was an initial moment of shock, and then...

“If ever a marriage deserved to be treated as null and void, it is ours,” Nicholas told the bishop. “The agreement I made with her father—of which I’m sure you are aware—had no legal footing. Lady India has voiced her objections clearly and consistently.”

And now
—now—
he was prepared to honor those objections? She stared at him, hearing the words while pain began to pool inside her, filling her, rising mercilessly as he continued to speak.

“The marriage ceremony itself was of questionable validity,” Nicholas went on, “ashamed as it makes me to say it—”

Ashamed?
Now
he was ashamed?

“—and of course, the marriage remains unconsummated.”

Unconsummated!

She couldn’t stand it a moment longer. “What the devil are you about?” The words ripped out of her. It hurt—oh, God, it
hurt
—and she should be relieved—she should be
rejoicing—
but an awful outrage gripped her instead. “It wasn’t enough to force me into marriage? Now you think to cast me aside?”

Nicholas looked at her sharply. The bishop’s brows dived.

“I concede to your well-reasoned arguments that I had no business attempting to marry you in the first place, and that the marriage we have now is a sham,” he said.

Of course. Of course he did. There was no money now—no
reason
to keep her. He didn’t want her anymore. Not without the money.

“Now that you won’t be receiving your reward from my father, the marriage is a sham. You were perfectly happy to pretend this marriage was legitimate when it served your purposes, but now that it does not—”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“—you’ll do what? Send me into the street with my trunk and a pat on the head? After everything you’ve done?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake—”

“After I gave you my
virtue?
”

“Lord Taggart,” the bishop interrupted, frowning, “with all due respect, this is not what I expected to hear.”

“I’m sure Lady India is only having a momentary lapse of reason,” Nicholas said through clenched teeth. “We have discussed the possibility of a separation endlessly.”

“I am not a jacket, to be worn when it pleases you and then tossed aside when you decide it no longer suits.”

“I was under the impression that my
jacket
wished to be liberated to choose its own wearer,” he ground out.

The bishop cleared his throat. “With all due respect, Lord Taggart, I’m afraid this...ah...
fashion dispute
is hardly a proper situation for annulment. I’m needed back at the church, so may I suggest, if the jacket fits—” he looked at India “—wear it.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“W
HAT
IN
G
OD
’
S
name did you think you were doing?” Nicholas demanded irately the moment the bishop was gone.

“I might ask the same,” India shot back, somehow able to speak past the terrible ache in her chest. “You will certainly never get your money from my father if this marriage is annulled.”

“You do realize,” he said darkly, “that we will never put this marriage asunder now.”

Yes. That was precisely what she realized. “If that is what it takes to prevent you from using me at your convenience and then tossing me aside without a penny, then that is the price I shall pay.”

“Without a
penny?
Are you saying you objected because you thought you would receive no
money?
”

That wasn’t it at all, but it was better than letting him know the truth and risk exposing feelings she didn’t fully understand. Let him believe it was money she wanted—for once, let him believe
he
was not enough.

She nodded.

He stared at her. “You can’t be serious.”

“Believe it.”

“I would have given you something if you had but asked!”

“When would I have asked? In the mere two hours you’ve spent busily arranging the annulment of the marriage that a week ago you wanted so desperately that you enlisted your friends to
trick
me? With this marriage set aside, you would not feel beholden to offer me anything at all for the trouble you’ve caused me.”

But she didn’t want him
beholden.
Ninny that she was, she wanted him to have taken her virtue because he wanted her for his own. To have married her because he wanted her for his wife.

The shame that had attacked her in Paris squeezed her now. She still wanted him, even though he did not want her.

“I can hardly feel beholden now, can I?” he said angrily. “You had your chance for freedom, and now you have chained us both for life.”

“How fascinating that you now abhor the very plan you conceived,” she told him. She thought of Emilie waiting upstairs, trusting them both, fearful for her own future. “I only hope you don’t plan to cast Emilie aside, too, if she fails to live up to your expectations.”

Nicholas stalked to the desk and opened a lockbox. He reached for a pen, and after a few angry scratches he thrust a paper in her direction. “Five hundred pounds. You may pack your things and return to your aunt in Paris.”

India stared at the note in her hands. Five hundred— “You cannot afford this.”

“What I cannot afford, Lady India, is
you.
”

His words dug into her heart like cruel fingers. “You will have to do much better than this to be rid of me,” she made herself scoff. Only a few weeks ago she would have taken this money and fled gleefully back to the Mediterranean. Now all she could think of was what it meant that he was willing to pay such a huge sum to be rid of her, and that he would have nothing left for Emilie if she took it. She tossed the bank draft onto the desk. “You stole my living out from under me when you took me from Malta—”

“A living you yourself had stolen!”

“—and we shan’t be even until you provide me a living to replace it.”

“Even.”

“What good is Paris to me? When you found me, I had a ship and a crew, with the Mediterranean waves beneath my feet, billowing sails to take me where I pleased, and a hundred possibilities waiting in my future.” And she’d never known a man’s touch, never known how it might feel to be wanted. Protected. Well, he wasn’t trying to protect her now. “I had the means to make my own living without having to be mistress to
anyone.
How do you propose to replace
that,
Mr. Warre?”

“If I could afford it, I would buy you a ship of your own and happily watch you sail away to the West Indies or wherever the hell you bloody please.” The lips that had once kissed her senseless were thin and tight now.

She should want to sail to the West Indies. But she didn’t. She wanted to close the distance between them and feel his arms come around her. But that distance seemed as far as the West Indies themselves.

“Then you won’t mind putting that in writing.” She forced a smile. “For the day when you
do
have the funds.”

“Ah, yes. A promise for that happy day when I regain my fortune and all is well again. Whyever not?” He slapped a scrap of paper onto the desk and snatched the pen from its stand. He dipped it and scratched words across the paper. Handed it back to her with a crooked, self-shaming smile. “There you are. My promise, in writing, to buy you a sailing ship the moment I’m able.”

She slipped it from his hand, folded it carefully. “In the meantime, I shall have no choice but to stay with you and share in whatever living you
can
afford.”

He stared at her, and for a moment she thought he might say that he wanted her to stay. She held her breath, watching a muscle work in his jaw, trying to interpret what she saw in his eye, almost hoping—

“On the contrary,” Nicholas said. “By the end of the week, I expect you to have packed your things and arranged passage back to your aunt in Paris.”

* * *

I
NDIA
TOLD
HERSELF
she didn’t much care what Nicholas expected. She wasn’t going anywhere—not now. For once, let
him
suffer the consequences of what he’d done.

She tried to ignore the feeling that she was doing most of the suffering.

Eventually Father would return, and Nicholas would likely get his money—even if he no longer had Taggart. He would also no longer owe a debt, so he would keep the entire sum. He would be able to afford to give her a nice living of her own.

By then, she would certainly be finished with all this silly pining after him. All these absurd fantasies about the three of them. By then, she’d likely be as anxious to see the last of him as he was to see the last of her.

And when he did give her a living, she would be prepared to make the most of it. Which was why, now, she was nervously creasing a scrap of paper as her chair stopped in front of a small town house...number fifty-three.

This was useless. If Mr. Wiggins were a magician, he would have worked a spell years ago.

She almost pulled the bell to leave, but then the carriage door swung open. The footman stood waiting. And she was so tired of being stupid that she reached for his hand and climbed the short steps.

An older woman answered the door almost immediately. India cursed the shakiness in her own voice. “Is Mr. Wiggins at home?”

The woman frowned. “Who is calling, please?”

“I have no card. Please tell him it is Lady India, Lord Cantwell’s daughter.”

Immediately the woman curtsied and opened the door wider. “Do come in, my lady. Through here—you may wait in the parlor. I’m afraid Mr. Wiggins is just preparing for an appointment, but I shall let him know you are here, and I’m certain he will see you if only for a few minutes.”

The woman left, and suddenly India felt as if a huge burden had lifted off her. In a moment she would see Mr. Wiggins, and he would help her.

Everything would be different now. She was older, more determined. And there may not be much time—any day, Nicholas might force her to leave—but she could make use of the time she did have. Kind, gentle Mr. Wiggins, with his whiskered jowls and his spectacles and his patience, would know exactly what to do.

“Lady India?”

She’d been studying her fingers, and now her head snapped up at the male voice. The
young
male voice. “Yes?”

“My housekeeper said you wished to see me.”

Good heavens, no. India stood up. “Do forgive me. I asked to see Mr. Wiggins.” This man was everything dear Mr. Wiggins was not—athletic figure, waistcoat in the latest mode, dancing eyes. “He was my tutor when I was a girl.”

The young man smiled a little. “My father. I’m afraid he passed away winter before last.”

“No.” India’s heart sank. “How dreadful. Please forgive my ignorance.”

“Not at all, Lady India. Might I inquire the reason for your visit?”

Still shocked by the news, she reached for an answer. “Merely to visit an old acquaintance who meant a great deal to me.” She could not tell this man the truth. “He was the most patient tutor I ever had.”

“And you had many?” The young Mr. Wiggins smiled. “Forgive me. That was terribly rude. Your compliment means a great deal. I only hope my own pupils will say the same of me one day.”

“You’re a tutor?” Of course he was. He had followed in his father’s footsteps.

“Yes.” He cocked his head a little. “Do you have children in need of one?”

Yes. She had Emilie. But she couldn’t hire a tutor for Emilie without talking with Nicholas, and now young Mr. Wiggins was frowning inquisitively at her delayed response, and...

“No, I...”
I’m the one who can’t read.
She tugged nervously at her sleeve. “Actually, I confess that I...I’d hoped to hire your father myself.”

* * *

S
HE
DIDN
’
T
LEAVE
.

Nick gave her a day. Then another. Her trunks arrived from Paris, along with a nasty letter from Lady Pennington blasting him for his treachery, marrying India in the manner that he had.

He’d been so certain India would leap at the annulment. When she hadn’t...

For a moment he’d thought it was because of him.

But of course, it had been exactly as he’d thought.
Worse
than he’d thought. Certainly, India wanted exactly what she’d always wanted: a ship. The freedom of the high seas. A life of waterfront taverns and men’s clothes and swilling grog atop the waves.

And she thought she would wring that life from him.

She had to know he would never be able to make good on that promise. That it hadn’t been serious—how could it? Men who scraped by in cottages could not afford to buy ships.

The thought of losing Taggart ripped through him like a dull knife hacking at his insides. He’d already begun making inquiries, trying to find a buyer for Taggart. He would have to sell the house along with everything in it. All he would take were his clothes, a few personal items, and some of the lesser quality furnishings for a home he and Emilie would share. A cottage, most likely. Modest, small, inexpensive to maintain.

He and Emilie. Alone.
Not
he, Emilie and India.

He would not be the man who had to house an earl’s daughter in a smoky, mouse-infested cottage because he hadn’t been man enough to hold on to his fortune. Bad enough that if all had gone as planned, he would have housed her with her own father’s money.

No. Better to be the man whose wife lived her own life because she hadn’t wanted the marriage in the first place. Somehow he would find the means to send her on her way.

But thank God India hadn’t accepted that bank draft he’d offered in the heat of anger. He didn’t know how he would have covered it—more debt would have been the only way. He hardly had anything left of the money Cantwell had fronted him for his journey to find India. This morning, he’d used part of it to outfit Emilie.

He passed the drawing room now, after returning from an early afternoon meeting that proved productive, and stopped short. Spun on his heel. Went to the doorway.

“
What
are you doing?”

India pushed a needle through a piece of fabric and drew the thread through, glancing up with a smile that went straight to his gut. “Emilie is sleeping—you’d think she never slept a wink in all her life, with how easily she drifts off for a nap—and I discovered a
fascinating
pattern for a pillow cushion in that drawer over there.” She nodded toward a chest at the side of the room. “And would you believe it, the fabric and thread, as well. I only hope I am doing it justice.” She held out her work for him to see, as if he had any interest whatsoever in a bloody pillow cushion. But— Good God. He’d never seen such poor stitching in his life. She wasn’t doing it justice at all.

“I meant,” he said tightly, “what are you still doing
here?
I told you to be gone by the end of the week.”

Her brow furrowed the smallest bit, as though she had no idea what he meant, and he suppressed an urge to yank her off the sofa and march her to her rooms, where he had no doubt he would find no trunks packed—but where he
would
find a bed, on which he would be mightily tempted to lay her back, strip away her clothes and remind her exactly what had happened between them in Paris.

She hadn’t been thinking of any ship or living then. And now he wanted her again so badly it physically hurt.

“You could not really have expected me to leave by today,” she said evenly. “Plans must be made.”

“And I expected you to be making them.”

“And I shall. I most certainly shall. Just as soon as you provide my living.”

He leaned close. “Hear me well, India.... There will be no living. You need to leave
tomorrow.
There can be no further delays.” Because having her here was killing him.

Watching the way she indulged Emilie, seeing India’s bright smile once again—so different now from the frightening numbness in the days after the wedding—as she chattered away to draw Emilie out...

Lying awake at night, on fire with the knowledge that India lay just across the hall, alone in her bed, and all he had to do was go there and the flames would ignite between them again, and for better or worse she’d be unlikely to turn him away...

And that she was truly
his,
and there wasn’t a bloody thing anyone could do to put that asunder.

“Oh, but there
is
a living, Nicholas,” she said now, poking the needle through the fabric, then checking beneath it. “With you.”

He couldn’t stand it. All this was doing was prolonging the agony. He jerked the fabric from her hands, and now—finally—had her full attention. “Do you have
any idea
of the gravity of my situation?” he demanded harshly. “What kind of life Emilie and I shall have after Taggart is gone? Heaven knows the kind of cottage I shall be able to afford—and that’s if I can find someone to buy Taggart. If not—” He couldn’t stand to think of what would happen then. “Either way, there will be no soirées, no balls...there likely won’t be any damned
meat
on the table. God knows there won’t even be any ladies’ maids.” He gestured at her angrily. “You would have to coif your own bloody hair.”