Authors: Jill Morrow
T
om Bourne!” Bennett boomed, striding into the room. The walking stick in his hand served as little more than an accessory now. “So good to see you again! I believe you’ve met my son, Nicholas . . . my daughter, Chloe . . . we’ll talk more during supper, but for now, Tom, let me take you to meet my bride.” He leveled first his daughter, then his son with a stare that dared them to protest. “We’ll begin the wedding ceremony as soon as possible,” he said, drawing out each word long beyond its natural length. “I find I’m more eager by the minute to once again embrace the blessed state of matrimony.”
“Yes,” Nicholas said beneath his breath as his father and the judge left the room. “Go right ahead and speed things along, you old goat. The sooner we begin, the sooner we can end.” He grimaced at the ceremonial arrangement of sofa and chairs. “Oh, dear God. Whose harebrained idea was it to set up the room like a bloody church?”
“Mine,” Chloe said brightly. “I thought it might make Mother happy.”
Her brother’s gaze followed her as she reached beneath the hem of her dress for her flask. “You need to stop drinking, Chloe,” he said. “It’s getting too hard to tell if your actions are the result of alcohol or stupidity.”
“Oh, Nicky, can’t you simply get along for a change?” She tilted her head back to take a quick swig. “Don’t worry. I’ll ask Mother about it when she comes through today.”
Nicholas turned away abruptly, seating himself in the first chair to the right of the aisle. “Mr. de la Noye, I suppose it’s useless to ask if you’ve changed your mind. Will you let the current will stand due to my father’s lunacy or must we drag through this ludicrous charade before reaching the same conclusion anyway?”
Adrian approached the sofa, reaching for his pocket watch along the way. “I will continue to stand by my client’s sanity.”
Nicholas’s hand landed on his forearm, stopping him flat. Surprised, Adrian looked down to meet his gaze.
“The groom may be your client,” Nicholas said, “but I won’t be surprised if you choose to sit on the bride’s side of the aisle.” The coldness of his fingers underlined the chill in his voice.
Adrian took a long moment to check the time on his watch before pushing the offending hand away. “Thank you for the suggestion,” he said.
“What is it with you, Mr. de la Noye?” Nicholas asked softly. “Are you really so impervious as to think you’ll escape this fiasco unharmed?”
Adrian considered. “No, Mr. Chapman. Not impervious at all. Just willing to take my chances.”
Bennett’s voice carried into the parlor from the foyer. “Catharine! You look ravishing, my dear. Judge Bourne, my intended, Miss Catharine Walsh.”
“Uh-oh.” Chloe steadied herself with a shaky hand on the back of her brother’s chair. “We should have stopped him. It’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the ceremony.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Nicholas reached up and pulled her into the seat to his right.
“I’m just repeating what people say.” Chloe landed with a plop. “It’s supposed to be a bad omen . . . although I think
every
wedding is a bad omen, whether or not the bride and groom have seen each other beforehand. Good grief, though. Even a blind person would have to admit that Pop looks better than ever. And I’m sure that Catharine—perhaps I should begin calling her ‘Mother’—is ridiculously radiant.”
“You’re babbling, Chloe,” Nicholas said. “Of course it’s a bad omen. This whole marriage is doomed. Has anyone bothered to explain the guest list to Judge Bourne? Does he know yet that this wedding will be attended by its deceased matchmaker?”
“We’ll leave that little detail to you, Mr. Chapman,” Adrian said as he sat down on the sofa.
“Oh, don’t make it quite this easy, Mr. de la Noye. You’ll take away the sport of it.”
Adrian smiled politely. “Please accept my apologies,” he said, glancing toward the parlor door.
He shouldn’t have. Catharine Walsh stood in the doorway, an ethereal vision in an ivory drop-waist dress that fell in a jagged hemline below her knees. Her hair framed her face in wild tendrils, setting off the intricate seed-pearl headdress she wore and making
her eyes look even darker than usual. She held a bouquet of red and yellow roses with both hands. Bennett Chapman appeared by her side, finely dressed in a well-cut dinner jacket, one hand resting against his fiancée’s hip in a proprietary fashion that made Adrian’s jaw clench.
Nobody else in the room could possibly sense the conflict behind the regal lift of her chin. No one would guess that she felt as anxious and vulnerable as a lioness outnumbered by her hunters. But Adrian knew. Her desperation raced through his own veins, calling to him so loudly that he wondered why no one else could hear it.
He’d saved her from such rashness before. Would it really be so difficult to save her again? He started to rise, desperate to assure Cassie Walsh that there was no need to sacrifice herself in a marriage she didn’t want.
Jim stopped him with an iron grip around his wrist. “Sit down,” he whispered, eyes straight ahead. “It’s her wedding, and you’re not the groom . . . at least, not this time.”
Adrian froze.
Jim readjusted his spectacles with a small, smug smile. “Again, Mr. de la Noye: I’m not as green as you think.”
February 1898
I
suspect we’ve cooked our own goose.” Cassie frowned out the window of the brougham as it slowed before the bride’s home. “Really, Adrian, nobody will want anything to do with us now that we’ve managed to miss the wedding ceremony. Perhaps it would be best to turn around right now and miss the luncheon as well.”
Adrian attempted to look remorseful, but it was an impossible task. Even though she sat demurely clothed beside him, every inch of Cassie revived memories of pleasure. Her gloved hands rested neatly in her lap as the carriage rolled to a stop, but that did not block the recollection of her fingertips sliding down his body as he gathered her close beneath the sheets. Her wild curls had been tamed into a modest chignon, but he didn’t even need to close his eyes to see her thick hair cascading across the pillow as he poised
himself above her. And how could he forget that her lips, although pursed at the moment, offered so much more than words alone?
He moved close enough to inhale the bewitching fragrance of her skin. “That’s a tempting thought,” he whispered into her perfect ear. “It would please me beyond measure to miss the luncheon. More than anything, Cassie, I want to go back to the cottage and take you to bed. But my friends would swarm the place in concern, and no good could come of that.”
She planted a kiss on his cheek, not even pulling away when the coachman opened the carriage door. “We’ll have to attend to your druthers later, then, Adrian Delano,” she murmured, and he wasn’t sure whether it was her words or her touch that caused the delicious waves that rippled through him.
“Look,” she said, nodding toward the house as the coachman handed her down from the carriage. “Peter Phillips is perched on the windowsill, just waiting for us to arrive.” Sure enough, Peter burst through the front door of the comfortable home, a glass of champagne punch in one hand, forehead creased in a vexed frown.
Adrian alighted beside her. “It isn’t ‘us’ he cares about, my dear. He couldn’t care less about me. It’s Kate Weld he wants.”
“Oh. Of course.”
He caught the slight quaver in her voice. “Whatever were you thinking when you started this, Cassie?” he asked gently. “No, don’t answer. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
She had no time to reply, but the trusting squeeze of her fingers as she slipped her hand through the crook of his arm spoke loudly enough to straighten his spine.
Peter met them halfway up the walk, his florid face more flushed than usual above his stiff white collar.
“Kate! Where have you been?” Fumes of champagne punch mingled with the bay rum of his cologne as he pried Cassie’s hand from Adrian’s arm and eased it into his own. She steadied him mid-sway. Undeterred, he led her toward the house, maneuvering the path as if it were the rolling deck of a ship.
“I’m so sorry we’re late.” Cassie planted herself in the walkway. “Was the wedding quite lovely?”
“I don’t know,” Peter said, and the words were rimmed with fretful accusation. “I spent most of it wondering where you were. You said I’d see you today, Kate, so I could only imagine the worst.” He stroked her fingers in a slow, even rhythm. Adrian gritted his teeth.
Peter moved closer to Cassie, his tone so intimate that a soft blush tinged her cheeks. “I couldn’t stand the thought that something might have happened to you,” he said, bending toward her to brush his lips against hers. She dipped her head.
Adrian quirked an eyebrow in Cassie’s direction. She telegraphed her permission from beneath fringed eyelashes.
He cleared his throat. “No worries about me, Peter?”
“None whatsoever.” Peter frowned at the interruption. “I’m sorry, old man, but you’re nowhere near as enchanting as your cousin.”
“You mean my wife,” Adrian said.
Cassie withdrew her hand from Peter’s and drifted back to Adrian’s side, her face the color of chalk. Peter stared from her to Adrian, his mouth agape. It took a long moment for comprehension to dawn.
“You married her?” The words rolled through his mouth as if foreign to his tongue.
“Yes.” Adrian slipped an arm around Cassie’s waist. “Last night.
There’s a most obliging justice of the peace just on the outskirts of town.”
“Married?” Peter repeated, and Adrian felt Cassie cringe in anticipation of the expected torrent of anger.
Instead, Peter threw back his head and laughed, each peal closer than the last to a donkey’s bray. “You
married
her?”
Adrian said nothing, merely pulled Cassie closer.
“I’m sorry, old man,” Peter said, wiping tears from his eyes. “It’s just that . . . forgive me—I know she’s your cousin, however distant. And she’s beautiful, no doubt. But, Adrian, did Europe teach you nothing? She made it perfectly clear to me that she was willing. Did she even bother to tell you about our little . . . rendezvous . . . at the pond yesterday? It’s quite natural to succumb to women like that, but one needn’t ever marry them.”
Adrian’s fingers clenched into a hard ball. Suddenly Peter lay on the ground at his feet, hand pressed to his eye as blood spurted from his nose. Adrian stared at his own fist, momentarily surprised.
“Come.” Cassie yanked on his arm as Peter struggled to rise.
Adrian faced him squarely, both fists raised to strike again.
“Leave him be!” Cassie cried, hustling him down the walk before the other man could regain his balance.
“I’d just as soon knock his teeth down his throat,” Adrian said, but Cassie broke into a run, dragging him along with her. Her fingers gripped his arm like a vise; he had no choice but to keep up.
“It isn’t worth it,” he heard her say. “He’s drunk.”
He had no idea where she thought she was going. She didn’t know Newport at all, but it didn’t seem to matter. She hauled him down unfamiliar streets, darting past houses as if trying to escape something far more dangerous than Peter Phillips could ever be.
Their breath hung frosty on the air as they raced toward the ocean. Only their footsteps in the snow marked that they had ever come this way at all.
The snow accumulation lessened as they neared the water. The rocks by the sea were merely wet, their colors muted by the heavy gray clouds billowing low in the sky. A sharp dampness in the air pricked Adrian’s nose, promising snow again by nightfall.
His heart rammed hard against his chest. “Cassie!” he called over the wind from the sea. “Stop!”
She did as he commanded, her breathing punctuated by ragged jolts and jags. “I’m sorry, Adrian,” she gasped. “I’m so, so sorry.”
He caught her in his arms, rocking her close. “Sorry for what?”
“Peter . . .”
“He’s an oaf. I don’t care what he says. You had a lapse of judgment where he’s concerned, but it’s over.”
But her tears flowed fast, almost more quickly than he could wipe them away.
“He saw through me the whole time.” Her words spiraled upward. “Peter, of all people! That stupid, conceited . . . even he could tell that I’m nothing better than a common—”
“Stop.” Adrian shook her. “Cassie, you punctured his pride. He lashed back in the only way he knew how.”
Her shoulders shook even harder as she sobbed against the front of his coat. “Oh, Adrian, what I’ve done to you. And you don’t deserve it. You’ve always been so good to me. You—”
“And what have you done to me?” He cut her off, more concerned with her growing despair than with the words themselves.
She collapsed against him, finally spent. He rested his cheek against her hair and waited. Finally, she drew in a long, shaky
breath. “Peter will talk,” she said. “He’ll make you a total laughingstock.”
“Peter’s a clod. Anyone who listens to him deserves to be misled.”
“But he doesn’t even know my station yet. He doesn’t know I’m nothing more than a cook’s daughter. If that was his reaction even without knowing, can you imagine what your parents will say?”
Adrian didn’t need to imagine what his parents would say. He already felt the quiver of his father’s rage, cringed at the expected wrench of his mother’s heartbroken sobs. It just didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was the woman in his arms, the beautiful, intriguing puzzle he now called wife. The rest would take care of itself.
He raised her chin until her eyes met his. “Listen to me, Cassie Delano, because I only intend to say this one last time. I don’t care about your family lineage. I don’t care what my parents think about it either. And I certainly don’t care about anything Peter Phillips has to say. I have willingly pledged my life to you. I love you . . . madly, ridiculously. There’s a part of me that can’t exist without you. With you by my side, I can take on the world. Do you understand?”
She didn’t answer. He thought he saw a flicker of sadness cross her face, but it might have been a trick of the clouded sun.
“Cassie,” he said softly, “let’s go back to the cottage. We’ll leave for Poughkeepsie in the morning. Either my parents will understand or they won’t, but it won’t make a difference. We’ll be just fine no matter what.”
She didn’t say a word, only clung tightly to his hand as he led them both away from the rocks toward home.