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She examined him. He had an insubstantial quality. Harmless and friendly. She had feared that Jem spoke the truth when he had said that a real man might be more difficult to manage than the one she had imagined for her purpose. But Adam Felkirk seemed easy enough.
‘Thank you for your kind words, Mr Felkirk. And if you wish more brandy, then do not hesitate to inform me.’
He smiled and drank again, then offered the flask to her.
She took it and considered it for a moment, before deciding that drink would not help her gain the courage to speak. ‘But that is not all.’ She tried a smile that was welcoming and friendly, since seduction seemed inappropriate for her purpose. ‘You could have fine clothes as well. And a pretty mistress. Money always in your pocket, and a chance to do just as you please, in all things, at all times.’
He grinned at her, and she was taken aback by the whiteness of his smile. ‘You truly are an angel, darling. And leading me to a heaven most suited for a man of my tastes. I had imagined something more pious.’ He pulled a face. ‘Downy clouds, flowing robes. Harps and whatnot. But heaven, as you describe it, sounds more like a fine evening in London.’
‘If that is what you wish, you may have it. Whenever you want. I can relieve you of all cares. But first, you must do one thing for me.’ She handed the flask back to him again.
He took it and drank deeply. ‘As I suspected—it was far too pleasant to be heaven. And you are not an angel, but a demon, come for my soul.’ He laughed. ‘But I fear the devil might have that already, so what can I do?’
‘Nothing so dire.’ She smiled again, and told him her plan.
It was not at all clear that the truth was reaching him. He was smiling back at her, and nodding at the appropriate times. But with each sip of brandy, his eyes lost a little of their glitter. And, as often as not, he looked out the window rather than at her.
When she reached the word marriage, his eyes focused for a moment, and he opened his mouth. But it was as though he’d forgotten what it was he meant to say. He looked absently at her, then shrugged and took another drink, and his smile returned.
The carriage pulled to a stop, and Jem hopped down to open the door, announcing that they had arrived at Gretna Green. She stared at the man across from her, ‘Do you agree to my terms, Mr Felkirk?’
‘Call me Adam, my dear.’ He was staring at her with increased intensity, and for a moment she feared that he meant a closer relationship than she intended. And then he said, ‘I am sorry, but I seem to have forgotten your name. Oh, well. No matter. Why are we stopping?’
‘We are in Gretna Green.’
‘There was something you wanted me to do, wasn’t there?’
‘Sign a licence?’ she prompted.
‘Of course! Let us do that, then. And then we shall have some more brandy.’ He seemed to think it was all jolly fun, and reached for the door handle, nearly losing his balance as Jem opened it in front of him. The servant caught his elbow and helped him down out of the coach, before reaching a hand up to help Penny.
When they were on the ground together, Adam offered his arm to her. She took it, and found herself leading him, steadying him, more than he ever could her. But he went along, docile as a lamb.
She led him to the blacksmith, and listened as Jem explained to the man what was required.
‘Well, git on wi’ it, then. I have horses ta shoe.’ He looked critically at Penny. ‘Da ya mean ta ha’ him?’
‘I do,’ she said formally, as though it mattered.
‘Yer sure? He’s a drunkard. They cause no end a trouble.’
‘I wish to marry him, all the same.’
‘And you, sir. Will ya ha’ the lady?’
‘Marriage?’ Adam grinned. ‘Oh, I say. That is a lark, isn’t it?’ He looked down at her. ‘I cannot remember quite why, but I must have intended it, or I wouldn’t be in Scotland. Very well. Let us be married.’
‘Done. Yer married. Na off with you. I ha’ work ta do.’ He turned back to his horses.
‘That is all?’ Penny asked in surprise. ‘Is there a paper to be signed? Something that will prove what we have done?’
‘If ya wanted a licence, ya coulda staid on yer own side o’ the border, lass.’
‘But I must have something to show to my brother, and the solicitors of course. Can you not provide for us, sir?’
‘I canna write, so there is verra little I ca’ do for ya, less ya need the carriage mended, or the horse shoed.’
‘I will write it myself, then. Jem, run back to the carriage and find me some paper, and a pen and ink.’
The smith was looking at her as if she were daft, and Adam laughed, patted the man on the back and whispered something in his ear, offering him a drink from the brandy flask, which the Scot refused.
Penny stared down at the paper before her. What did she need to record? A marriage had taken place. The participants. The location. The date.
There was faint hammering in the background and the hiss of hot metal as it hit the water.
Their names, of course. She spelled Felkirk as she expected it to be, hoping that she was not showing her ignorance of her new husband by the misspelling of her new surname.
She glanced down at the paper. It looked official, in a sad sort of way. Better than returning with nothing to show her brother. She signed with a bold hand and indicated a spot where Jem could sign as witness.
Her new husband returned to her side from the forge, where he had been watching the smithy. He held a hand out to her. ‘Now here, angel, is the trick if you want to be legal. Not married without a ring, are you?’ He was holding something small and dark between the fingers of his hand. ‘Give over.’ He reached for her.
‘I think your signature is all that is needed. And that of the smith, of course.’ She smiled hopefully at the smith. ‘You will be compensated, sir, for the trouble.’
At the mention of compensation, he took the pen and made his mark at the bottom of the paper.
‘Here, here, sir.’ Her husband took another drink, in the man’s honour. ‘And to my wife.’ He drank again. ‘Your Grace.’
She shook her head. ‘Now, you are mistaking me for someone else, Adam. Perhaps it would be best to leave off the brandy for a time.’
‘You said I could have all I wanted. And so I shall.’ But there was no anger as he said it. ‘Your hand, madam.’ He took her left hand and slipped something on to the ring finger, then reached for the pen.
She glanced down. The smith had twisted a horseshoe nail into a crude semblance of a ring, and her hand was heavily weighted with it. Further proof that she had truly been to Scotland, since the X of the smith held no real meaning.
Adam signed with a flourish, beside her own name. ‘We need to seal it as well. Makes it look more official.’ He snatched the candle from the table and dripped a clot of the grease at the bottom of the paper, and pulled out his watch fob, which held a heavy gold seal. ‘There. As good as anything in Parliament.’ He grinned down at the paper and tipped the flask up for another drink.
She stared at the elegant signature above the wax. ‘Adam Felkirk, Duke of Bellston.’
‘At your service, madam.’ He bowed deeply, and the weight of his own head overbalanced him. Then he pitched forward, striking his head on the corner of the table, to fall unconscious at her feet.
Chapter Three
Adam regained consciousness, slowly. It was a mercy, judging by the way he felt when he moved his head. He remembered whisky. A lot of whisky. Followed by brandy, which was even more foolish. And his brain and body remembered it as well, and were punishing him for the consumption. His head throbbed, his mouth was dry as cotton, and his eyes felt full of sand.
He moved slightly. He could feel bruises on his body. He reached up and probed the knot forming on his temple. From a fall.
And there had been another fall. In the coach yard.
Damn it. He was alive.
He closed his eyes again. If he’d have thought it through, he’d have recognised his mistake. Carriages were slowing down when they reached the inn yard. The one he’d stepped in front of had been able to stop in time to avoid hitting him.
‘Waking up, I see.’
Adam raised his head and squinted into the unfamiliar room at the man sitting beside the bed. ‘Who the devil are you?’
The man was at least twenty years his senior, but unbent by age, and powerfully built. He was dressed as a servant, but showed no subservience, for he did not answer the question. ‘How much do you remember of yesterday, your Grace?’
‘I remember falling down in front of an inn.’
‘I see.’ The man said nothing more.
‘Would you care to enlighten me? Or am I to play yes and no, until I can suss out the details?’
‘The carriage you stepped in front of belonged to my mistress.’
‘I apologise,’ he said, not feeling the least bit sorry. ‘I hope she was not unduly upset.’
‘On the contrary. She considered it a most fortunate circumstance. And I assure you, you were conscious enough to agree to what she suggested, even if you do not remember it. We did not learn your identity until you’d signed the licence.’
‘Licence?’
‘You travelled north with us, your Grace. To Scotland.’
‘Why the devil would I do that?’ Adam lowered his voice, for the volume of his own words made the pounding in his skull more violent.
‘You went to Gretna, to a blacksmith.’
He shook his head, and realised immediately that it had been a mistake to try such drastic movement. He remained perfectly still and attempted another answer. ‘It sounds almost as if you are describing an elopement. Did I stand in witness for someone?’
The servant held the paper before him, and he could see his shaky signature at the bottom, sealed with his fob and a dab of what appeared to be candle wax. Adam lunged for it, and the servant stepped out of the way.
His guts heaved at the sudden movement, leaving him panting and sweating as he waited for the rocking world to subside.
‘Who?’ he croaked.
‘Is your wife?’ completed the servant.
‘Yes.’
‘Penelope Winthorpe. She is a printer’s daughter, from London.’
‘Annulment.’
‘Before you suggest it to her, let me apprise you of the facts. She is worth thirty thousand a year and has much more in her bank. If I surmise correctly, you were attempting to throw yourself under the horses when we met you. If the problem that led you to such a rash act was monetary, it was solved this morning.’
He fell back into the pillows and struggled to remember any of the last day. There was nothing there. Apparently, he had fallen face down in the street and found himself an heiress to marry.
Married to the daughter of a tradesman. How could he have been so foolish? His father would be horrified to see the family brought to such.
Of course, his father had been dead for many years. His opinions in the matter were hardly to be considered. And considering that the result of his own careful planning was a sunk ship, near bankruptcy, and attempted suicide, a hasty marriage to some rich chit was not so great a disaster.
And if the girl were lovely and personable?
He relaxed. She must be, if he had been so quick to marry her. He must have been quite taken with her, although he did not remember the fact. There had to be a reason that he had offered for her, other than just the money, hadn’t there?
It was best to speak with her, before deciding on a course of action. He gestured to the servant. ‘I need a shave. And have someone draw water for a bath. Then I will see this mistress of yours, and we will discuss what is to become of her.’
An hour later, Penelope hesitated at the door to the duke’s bedroom, afraid to enter and trying in vain to convince herself that she had any right to be as close to him as she was.
The illogic of her former actions rang in her ears. What had she been thinking? She must have been transported with rage to have come up with such a foolhardy plan. Now that she was calm enough to think with a clear head, she must gather her courage and try to undo the mess she’d made. Until the interview was over, the man was her husband. Why should she not visit him in his rooms?
But the rest of her brain screamed that this man was not her husband. This was the Duke of Bellston, peer of the realm and leading figure in Parliament, whose eloquent speeches she had been reading in The Times scant weeks ago. She had heartily applauded his opinions and looked each day for news about him, since he seemed, above all others, to offer wise and reasoned governance. As she’d scanned the papers for any mention of him, her brother had remarked it was most like a woman to romanticise a public figure.
But she had argued that she admired Bellston for his ideas. The man was a political genius, one of the great minds of the age, which her brother might have noticed, had he not been too mutton-headed to concern himself with current affairs. There was nothing at all romantic about it, for it was not the man itself she admired, but the positions he represented.
And it was not as if the papers had included a caricature of the duke that she was swooning over. She had no idea how he might look in person. So she had made his appearance up in her head out of whole cloth. By his words, she had assumed him to be an elder statesmen, with grey hair, piercing eyes and a fearsome intellect. Tall and lean, since he did not appear from his speeches to be given to excesses, in diet or spirit.
If she were to meet him, which of course she never would, she would wish only to engage him in discourse, and question him on his views, perhaps offering a few of her own. But it would never happen, for what would such a great man want with her and her opinions?
She would never in a million years have imagined him as a handsome young noble, or expected to find him stone drunk and face down in the street where he had very nearly met his end under her horse. And never in a hundred million years would she expect to find herself standing in front of his bedchamber.
She raised her hand to knock, but before she could make contact with the wood, she heard his voice from within. ‘Enter, if you are going to, or return to your rooms. But please stop lurking in the hallway.’
She swallowed annoyance along with her fear, opened the door, and stepped into the room.
Adam Felkirk was sitting beside the bed, and made no effort to rise as she came closer. His seat might as well have been a throne as a common wooden chair, for he held his position with the confidence of a man who could buy and sell the inn and the people in it, and not think twice about the bills. He stared at her, unsmiling, and even though he looked up into her eyes it felt as though he were looking down upon her.
The man in front of her was obviously a peer. How could she have missed the fact yesterday?
Quite easily, she reminded herself. A day earlier he could manage none of the hauteur he was displaying now. Unlike some men, the excess of liquor made him amiable. Drunkenness had relaxed his resolute posture and softened his features.
Not that the softness had made them any more appealing. Somehow she had not noticed what a handsome man she had chosen, sober and clean, shaved and in fresh linen. She felt the irresistible pull the moment she looked at him. He was superb. High cheekbones and pale skin no longer flushed with whisky. Straight nose, thick dark hair. And eyes of the deepest blue, so clear that to look into them refreshed the soul. And knowing the mind that lay behind them, she grew quite weak. There was a hint of sensuality in the mouth, and she was carnally aware of the quirk of the lips when he looked at her, and the smile behind them.
And now he was waiting for her to speak. ‘Your Grace …’ she faltered.
‘It is a day too late to be so formal, madam.’ His voice, now that it was not slurred, held a tone of command that she could not resist.
She dropped a curtsy.
He sneered. ‘Leave off with that, immediately. If it is meant to curry favour, it is not succeeding. Your servant explained some of what happened, while he was shaving me. It seems this marriage was all your idea, and none of mine?’
‘I am sorry. I had no idea who you were.’
He examined her closely, as though she were a bug on a pin. ‘You expect me to believe that you were unaware of my title when you waylaid me to Scotland?’
‘Completely. I swear. You were injured in the street before my carriage. I was concerned for your safety.’
‘And so you married me. Such a drastic rescue was not necessary.’
