Waking Up With a Rake (23 page)

“Where will you take Olivia after the two of you marry?”

Rhys stood. “Now wait a moment. Weren’t you listening? I’m here on behalf of the Duke of Clarence, and besides, Olivia is still a maiden.”

“I heard you, and I must confess it makes me wonder a bit about you, young man.” Horatio shook an admonishing finger at him. “But after the scandal you caused this morning, my little girl needs a husband and you’re the logical choice.”

“But the Duke of Clarence—”

“Is no longer pursuing a match with her,” Horatio admitted. “Seems Parliament put its foot down. The House of Lords will not countenance a commoner princess, no matter how well dowered, no matter how badly the prince’s purse wants her.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Her mother will be crestfallen, but in truth, I’m not sorry the match fell through. Clarence would not have made my little girl happy. But I didn’t know how to tell Olivia she’s been rejected on account of something over which she had no control. Now I won’t have to. That’s why it’ll work out perfectly for you to marry her. Mrs. Symon will be inconsolable about losing the chance to have royalty in the family, but only until I tell her Olivia will still have a titled husband. Cheers.”

He clinked the rim of his tumbler to Rhys’s. When had Mr. Symon refilled them? No matter. Rhys was obliged to drink. The burn wasn’t as noticeable now, but the top of his head felt appreciably lighter.

“But mine is only a courtesy title.”

“Still counts with Mrs. Symon, and that’s what matters to me,” he said, rising again and coming around the desk to clap a hand on Rhys’s shoulder.

He refilled Rhys’s glass and they both drank. This time Rhys’s vision almost tunneled.

What
the
hell
is
this
stuff?

“So if you have no ideas about where you might live,” Horatio said, “I’ll send word for my man of business to see if there’s a suitable townhouse in London near our Mayfair address and have him purchase it.”

“I don’t want you to buy me a townhouse.”

“Let’s set matters straight right from the outset. I’m not doing this for you,” Horatio said gruffly as he refilled both their tumblers. “I’m doing it for Olivia. It’ll be her house. Not yours. Behave yourself well enough and she might let you live there.”

Horatio knocked his drink back and raised a brow at Rhys’s full glass. Rhys drained his as well. The whole world seemed to soften a bit around the edges as if he were peering through thin gauze.

“Fine.”
Fine?
He should have bitten off his tongue before he made any noises that sounded like he agreed with this nonsense. “No, I mean, not fine. No, it’s not necessary to buy a townhouse for Olivia because I won’t be marrying your daughter. I’m not the marrying kind.”

Horatio’s eyes held a faintly sympathetic light. “No man is, son, until he meets the woman who turns him into the marrying kind.”

Rhys could do far worse than Olivia. But she could do far better. Her standards were so high; she hadn’t even consented to wed a royal duke when most women would have fallen over themselves to snag one. “She may not accept me.”

“I think she will.”

Rhys was beginning to warm up to the idea. Horatio poured another helping of liquor into Rhys’s tumbler, though he neglected to refill his own. This time when he downed it, Rhys wondered why he’d ever thought the liquor strong, though he did have the sensation that his feet were about to leave the floor.

“I could ask my father to procure a special license for us. He’s a marquis, you know,” Rhys said confidingly. “He could do it like that.”

Rhys tried to snap his fingers, but they didn’t seem to want to obey his commands. Still, a special license was a good idea. That way they wouldn’t have to wait the interminable weeks for the banns to be read each Sunday. If he was going to marry Olivia in any case, why delay?

“No, I think it’s best if the pair of you head out for Gretna Green now, this very day. Honeymoon for a month in Scotland, and by then we’ll have that townhouse business settled,” Horatio said. “Besides, if you’re concerned for Olivia’s safety, you’ll want to take her away from Barrowdell as soon as possible.”

“That’s right,” Rhys said. “As shoon as poshible.” He waggled his empty glass at Mr. Symon. “What is this shtuff, by the way?”

“Absinthe. Mostly. Among my many business interests is a little distillery that makes a fortified version for me. Don’t make a habit of it or you’ll go blind,” his future father-in-law advised. Horatio put his arm around Rhys’s shoulders. “Have I told you about my tiger yet?”

Rhys looked down at the fur beneath his feet. The black and golden stripes seemed to waver like tall grass in a breeze. He shook his head and the wavering sped up as if a gale had suddenly blown in.

“It was a notorious man-eater. Killed seventeen villagers before I led the hunting party that bagged him.” Horatio puffed out his chest like a peacock doing a mating dance. “Made me mad, him dragging people off like that. Got him right between the eyes.”

Mr. Symon tapped Rhys on the forehead.

“Don’t make me mad, Warrington. You treat my little girl right. Make her happy.”

Rhys nodded. Of course he would. He’d treat Olivia like a princess. No wait, she wasn’t going to be a princess anymore. He’d have to think of something else. Something better.

Thinking hurt.

He squeezed his eyes closed because the room was starting to spin.

He’d mucked up so many things in his life—his military career, his family, and now poor Olivia was going to have to marry him.

“What if I don’t make her happy?”

The tiger fur seemed to be rushing up to meet him, but it might have been that he crumpled to the floor. The last thing he heard before he let the gathering blackness envelop him was Mr. Symon saying, “See that you do, boy. I’m still a damn good shot.”

Chapter 21

“At least I’m being sent into exile in style,” Olivia said to no one in particular as the sumptuously padded coach lurched along the frozen road. The only one who might have heard her was Rhys, but he was slumped on the opposite squab, snoring like a two-man saw.

It was bad enough that her father felt it necessary to bundle her off before breakfast, without even giving her a chance to say good-bye to her mother or sisters.

“That would defeat the purpose of an elopement,” Papa had argued. “The whole idea is to steal away without anyone’s notice.”

Not that they’d been particularly successful in that respect either. She was sure most of the guests quartered near her chamber were aware that Rhys Warrington had been caught there with her in a compromising situation. No one could have slept through Horatio Symon’s roaring. By now, the tale had surely lost nothing in the telling.

And word of their flight certainly swirled through the servants’ wing of the great house once Mr. Thatcher and Davy were ordered to hitch up the matched set of bays to the Symon’s best traveling coach.

“But I’m still a virgin,” she’d told her father, grateful now that Rhys had made sure she remained one.

It didn’t matter. Papa had come to a “gentlemen’s agreement” with Lord Rhys over copious amounts of spirits and that was that.

The worst of it all was for the first time her father refused to listen to her. He wouldn’t be swayed when she pleaded with him not to send her away with a drunken lord. Until today, she’d have said she was a little bit his favorite among all his daughters, but his face was set like stone.

It had softened for just a moment before he closed the carriage door. “Be careful, daughter, and write your mother once everything’s settled good and proper,” he said. “Lord Rhys gave me his word he’ll try to make you happy, and we already know he is particular about your protection. If anything happens to you, I…”

Her gruff father found he needed to blow his nose and did so loudly after the door clanged shut.

Barrowdell was within a hard day’s drive of the Scottish border, so word of fleeing couples who were bent on taking advantage of the liberal Scottish marriage laws came to her mother’s notice with frequency. Beatrice Symon always made a tsking noise when they did.

“It smacks of seediness and poor upbringing,” she’d say. Words like “shockingly fast,” “loose morals,” and “bun already in the oven” were burned into Olivia’s memory.

Even though she was ashamed at being hustled away to be married on the quick, part of her still might have been glad to run away with Rhys.

If only he hadn’t been rolling on the floor drunk.

He’d roused once or twice and demanded they stop so he could heave in the bushes alongside the coaching road. Each time he’d looked so pale and drawn afterward, she hadn’t the heart to berate him for his disgraceful condition.

Now that he was sleeping soundly again and his skin had regained a healthy color, she thought a good berating was exactly what he deserved for ruining what by rights ought to have been an exciting adventure. An eloping couple should have spent this coach trip laughing together and enjoying the splendid Lake District sights. Maybe even indulging in a little naughtiness in the rocking conveyance, which would shortly be state-and church-sanctioned naughtiness after the words were said over them in Gretna Green.

Instead, though their flight was encouraged, forced even, by her dear father, Rhys’s drunkenness made the escapade feel tawdry.

He hadn’t even
asked
her to marry him.

Her chest constricted. Was he drunk because he couldn’t bear the thought of marrying her while sober?

The coach dipped in a pothole, and Rhys was startled awake. He groaned like a wounded bear, but he opened his eyes and made a manful attempt at sitting upright. He managed it on the second try.

“Decided to join me, did you?” Olivia said in a clipped tone.

He stared out the window of the coach through bleary eyes. The Blencathra and Caldbeck Fells rose in the distance, a blue blur capped with snowy peaks towering over the lower hills. “Where are we?”

“More than halfway from Penrith to Scotland,” she said. “I saved you a bit of my luncheon. We have cold chicken and liver pate—”

“Ugh. Don’t mention food.”

“So sorry, milord. I neglected to pack any liquor, since we embarked on this journey with such short notice,” she said snippily, “but in your case, I doubt even the ‘hair of the dog’ would help.”

He leaned forward and cradled his head in both hands. “If ever again I touch absinthe, or any derivative thereof, I beg you to shoot me. But in the meantime, will you please stop shouting?”

“I’m not shouting,” she said, making a conscious effort not to do so.

“It sounds like you are from in here.” He tapped his temple and grimaced. Then he reached over and lowered the curtains, throwing the interior of the coach into semi-darkness. “That’s better.”

They rode in silence for a few minutes.

“Do you even know where we’re going?” Olivia finally said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Of course I do.” Rhys raised his head and looked at her. “You just said we’re halfway to Scotland, didn’t you?”

Then he muttered something about how women never think men listen when clearly they do and a few other less decipherable sentiments along with an expletive or two about absinthe. She thought he also may have cast aspersions on the legitimacy of Horatio Symon’s birth, but as his words were fairly garbled, she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt on that score.

She was none too pleased with her father either.

“Do you remember why we’re going to Scotland?” Olivia asked.

“Horatio said we need to get you away from Barrowdell to keep you safe.”

Horatio?
Not even her mother called her father Horatio. “When I last saw you with my father, you were not on such pleasant terms.”

“After a few jiggers of that devil’s brew he calls absinthe, I’d have called him the pope if he’d asked me. What rotten stuff.” He rubbed his temples.

Her father used his fortified liquor to gauge a man’s mettle. He always claimed anyone who was still upright after three shots of the hellacious liquid was probably worth his time.

“How many drinks did you have?” she asked.

“Four, no, five, I think. Maybe a dozen,” he said. “And on an empty stomach to boot.”

Her father was, no doubt, impressed. Olivia was considerably less so.

“At any rate,” Rhys went on without any noticeable slurs in his words now that he was more fully awake, “Horatio and I agreed that this was the proper course.”

“This?” What was so hard about the word elopement? Why couldn’t the man say it?

“Yes, this. Whoever threatened you at Barrowdell surely won’t follow us to Gretna Green. Besides,” he pressed a fist to his chest to stifle a belch, “the royal duke isn’t interested in marrying you now, so there’s no reason for anyone to try to hurt you.”

“What?”

“Oh, I ought not to say it that way. How did your father put it? Something about the Parliament wouldn’t let His Royal Highness’s purse marry you because you’re a commoner. No, that doesn’t sound right either, but there it is,” he said. “But if you want to put a fine point on it, I’m a commoner too, and I have no purse to speak of, so what do I care?”