A Wager for Love Page 6

  “Wish it or not, believe me, my dear, after this gets out you would fall on my neck and weep tears of gratitude to be offered marriage.”

  Seeing her stricken face as the truth of his words sank in, he went on smoothly. “Ah yes, just so … However, never fear, it will not get out, for I intend that we shall be married this very night.”

  “How very considerate to be sure,” replied Lavinia, unable to hide her bitterness.

  The Earl’s eyebrows rose. “Considerate? Acquit me of that, my dear. It is merely that my wife, like Ceasar’s, must be above reproach.”

  Lavinia could only stare at him in stunned disbelief. She could still hardly believe that this was happening to her. It was like a dreadful nightmare, only this time there would be no waking up. She glanced up, caught the Earl’s sardonic gaze on her, flinched and looked hurriedly away. For sheer arrogance she had never met his equal, and in Rome, where the nobility held themselves very much aloof from the common herd, she had experienced arrogance in plenty. She searched her mind for some suitably quelling remark and, finding none, continued to stare out of the window into the pitch black darkness of the night.

  The coach was moving now at a smooth, fast pace, so much more comfortable than her cousin’s carriage. Her tormentor lolled easily opposite her, placing his feet on the pale blue satin covers of the seat. He did not seem disposed to make idle conversation, but something pushed her to say,

  “What I cannot understand is why you should want a wife

  at all.”

  The eyebrows shot up again. “Did I say I wanted a wife? How very remiss of me to be sure. ‘Needed’ was the word I should have used, and in any case I really feel my reasons, such as they are, can be of little interest to you.”

  Her face flaming, Lavinia fell silent, as the hooded eyes rested consideringly on her. “I suggest you try to get some sleep, we have three or four hours travelling ahead of us. I should hate you to fall asleep during the ceremony.” So saying, he lay back against the seat and closed his eyes.

  Pride forbade Lavinia from asking exactly where he was taking her and where their marriage was to take place. Gritting her teeth, she watched him covertly for a few minutes. Odious creature, how could he lie there for all the world as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place. Her pretty mouth curled in something resembling a passable copy of the Earl’s own famous sneer. Of course, she was forgetting that this was not out of the ordinary for him. “Why,” she thought to herself, stoking the fires of her anger, “I dare I swear he does this every week.”

  Seeing that this train of thought was going to be unprofitable to say the least, she pondered on a way to escape from her dilemma. The coach was travelling far too fast for her to contemplate jumping out. Her eyes rested on the Earl. He was breathing easily, the long dark lashes lying like twin fans against the pale skin.

  Lifting her eyes from his recumbent figure, she looked idly round the carriage. Suddenly she stiffened. The Earl was wearing a greatcoat of black cloth, carelessly open, and from one of the pockets protruded a pistol, the silver mountings picked out in the bright moonlight entering the coach. Lavinia was all too aware of her quickened heartbeat. Surely he must hear it. But no, apparently not. That must be the same pistol he had put at Elizabeth’s head. What could it be more fitting than that it be used against him. She edged forward experimentally-there was no response from the Earl. She coughed, quite loudly. He did not move a muscle. She would set one last test. Keeping her eyes on his face, she picked up her reticule, holding it firmly in one hand, and then let it drop with a resounding bang to the floor of the carriage. Nothing happened. The delicate lashes never even quivered. Breathing out carefully, and moving forward gingerly, she stretched out a hand. She could not quite reach. Wriggling a little nearer to the edge of the seat, she tried again. This time she was successful. The metal of the pistol was cold to her touch. Her fingers tightened round it and she made to pull it from the pocket.

  With appalling speed the somnolent figure moved. Her wrist was arrested and enclosed in a merciless grip, causing her to cry out instinctively with the pain, her eyes flying to the Earl’s face in chagrin. He was watching her with lazy amusement. “A nice try, my child, but I am too old a hand at this game to be caught out like that. Tell me, what did you intend to do once you had the pistol? Shoot me?” He laughed a little unkindly. “Still, perhaps it would be safer if I removed temptation from your grasp.”

  Whilst she looked on in wretched dismay, he opened the window and threw the pistol out. “Now come over here.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” One mobile eyebrow quirked, “Because I say so, my child. Now are you going to come, or must I come and get you?” he asked with silky menace.

  She got to her feet, nearly falling as the coach lurched a little, only the Earl’s grip on her wrist preventing her from losing her balance.

  “Ah yes, that was most wise of you, my dear.”

  Wordlessly she subsided in the seat next to him, stroking her bruised wrist. Once again he composed himself for sleep. For half an hour Lavinia sat rigidly staring out into the darkness, all too conscious of the man next to her, as every jolt and sway of the coach brought him into close contact with her. She could almost believe he was doing it out of sheer devilment, and was not asleep at all. If so… She tossed her head. She would not give him the satisfaction of betraying her fear. Eventually, however, despite her resolve, her eyelids started to droop as the swaying motion lulled her into sleep. Her eyes closed and her breathing deepened as her body relaxed.

  The man at her side, smiling a little ruefully, contemplated her from beneath lowered lids. Her head started to fall, a sudden bend in the road threw her against him and her head fell onto his shoulder. The saturnine features tightened for a second, a strange unfathomable expression crossing his face fleetingly. He scrutinised his now defenceless bride-to-be. Not strictly a beauty, but with a certain something despite that. Spirited, certainly. His mouth thinned a little. Too spirited, she would soon learn that he would brook no crossing of his will. The Earl admitted to himself that he knew little of gently reared, virtuous young ladies. He smiled in the manner so familiar to his acquaintances. One woman was much like another. With this thought he closed his eyes.

  The coach flew on through the night, and Lavinia slept dreamlessly against the Earl’s shoulder. The coach slowed and turned into a drive, flashing through the gates and on up the carriage way.

  The lodgekeeper, disturbed from his slumbers to open the gates, watched for a second before returning to the warmth of his bed, grumbling to his spouse. “The new Earl, a resty devil. You never know when he’s going to turn up, and a woman with him this time too. His grandfather would turn in his grave if he knew.”

  His wife answered drowsily. “It will be the new Countess. The housekeeper was telling me that they are to be married from the hall.”

  Before the carriage jolted to a standstill, the Earl gently pushed the still slumbering Lavinia upright, an expression of fleeting amusement softening the harsh features, so that when she did awake it was to find the Earl already stepping from the carriage. Despite her weariness and fear, Lavinia could not repress a small start of delight as she had her first glimpse of the house. It was old, Tudor, she guessed, and although it was dark. she could make out the E shape of it, the walls clothed in a creeping vine,. framing the mullioned windows.

  “Oh how lovely.” she murmured.

  “So you approve your new home if not your husband,” remarked the Earl drily, but before she could reply, the door swung open to reveal a large hall illuminated by what seemed to be dozens of enormous chandeliers. Saltaire followed her eyes with amusement. “A fancy of my grandfather’s. He saw these in Italy and brought them back with him.” He shrugged his shoulders. “A trifle ornate for my taste, but at least they light the place well.”

  “Yes indeed.” murmured Lavinia. “I have seen many like them in the palaces in Venice, They make them there on a small islan
d.”

  If the Earl was indulging in this small-talk out of politeness for his bride-to-be’s natural diffidence, he did not betray it, merely smiling coolly.

  A small, plump woman bustled forward, bobbing a curtsey. “My Lord, Miss Davenham.” Lavinia stiffened at the woman’s use of her name, but the tight grip of Saltaire’s fingers on the flesh of her upper arm warned her not to betray her surprise.

  “Is everything ready. Mrs. Robbins?”

  “Yes, My Lord. The vicar has been here this hour past.” She turned to Lavinia, her face wreathecl in smiles, “We were all so pleased when we heard you wanted to be married in the family chapel, Miss. It will be so romantic,just the two of you.” She heaved a sigh. “All the Earls have been married from here.”

  “But not at the dead of night. surely?” Lavinia asked drily, her sense of the ridiculous coming to her rescue.

  The grip on her arm tightened again. “We have already kept the vicar waiting long enough. You have no need to embellish yourself, my love, you look enchanting enough.”

  Steadfastly, Lavinia refused to meet his eyes, knowing if she did he would see the fear they held. Mrs. Robbins, seemingly completely unaware of the undercurrent of hostility between them, held out her hands for Lavinia’s cloak, saying admiringly, “Such a lovely gown, if I may be so bold as to say so, Miss.”

  Smiling a little sardonically, Saltaire led her forward, out of the hall and down a narrow stone flagged passage. “This is the old part of the house,” he murmured softly. “Rumour has it that one of my ancestors found this passage extremely useful; it used to run for a couple of miles beyond the house, but it fell into disuse and had to be blocked up when my grandfather was first married. At one time the chapel was used regularly by the household and the family.”

  Lavinia shivered a little as the damp cold of the stone penetrated her thin soles, and she knew from the amused glance her companion gave her, that he was aware of her unease. Suddenly the passage opened out into a small but extremely beautiful chapel, and in any other circumstances she would have thought a wedding held here would indeed be blessed.

  The ceremony was simple and brief. The ring the Earl produced was heavy and old fashioned and slightly on the large side. Eyes heavy with tears, she felt the weight of it on her finger. It was no heavier than the weight upon her heart at this travesty of the marriage she had one day hoped might be hers. There was silence in the chapel. She glanced upward to find three pairs of eyes fixed on her face. The vicar, a small, smiling person, eyed her kindly. “You may kiss the bride, My Lord.”

  Lavinia shrank instinctively and just had time to see the flash of mockery in the satanic face before it blotted out the light. The Earl’s mouth brushed hers lightly in the merest breath and then he lifted his head, but not before whispering languidly in her ear. “Such dread, my dear. Anyone would think you have never been kissed before.”

  She trembled violently, refusing to meet his gaze, but he was not to be thwarted.

  “Well?” he prompted.

  She glanced round wildly, but they were completely alone. The vicar was busying himself about the altar, and had his back to them. The housekeeper and the butler, who had witnessed the ceremony, had tactfully melted away.

  Slowly and deliberately she rubbed at her mouth with her handkerchief, saying coldly, “I have received kisses a plenty, Sir, but none as unwelcome as yours.”

  His eyes darkened and she felt the hiss of his breath as he stepped forward gripping her arms painfully. “You will regret those words, Madam wife, no-one speaks to me like that.”

  Frightened, but determined not to show it, Lavinia met his eyes.

  “Excuse me, My Lord …” The vicar was hovering anxiously. Saltaire gave Lavinia a savage glare and then turned aside to attend to the clergyman. When at last he faced her again, he had himself well in hand.

  “Ours is a marriage of convenience, Madam, so disabuse yourself of any foolish ideas you might be harbouring. But, and I shall only say this once, I warn you all the Saltaires are renowned for their tempers, push me too far and you will regret it.”

  Rigid with fury, Lavinia stood her ground. “Convenient for whom, My Lord, certainly not for me, and believe me I harbour no ideas. I am no young Miss to fall into a green sickness and languish over a romantic rake. I scarcely supposed you to have fallen madly in love with me the moment you set eyes on me,” she added for good measure. “And of one thing you may be sure, your distaste of my person in no way exceeds mine of yours.”

  Saltaire was busily engaged in removing one strand of russet hair from his coat, a task which had Lavinia’s eyes fixed on him as a certain dreadful suspicion formed in her mind. She had no doubt that that hair was her own. How it had got there and, worse still, why it should remain seemingly lovingly curled around Saltaire’s shoulder, she could not begin to understand.

  At last when he did respond to her comment, he seemed more disposed to be amused than annoyed, “Did I say your person gave me a distaste. I think not. Indeed …” He eyed her consideringly in a fashion that brought the blood surging to her face. “… I am sure it is quite delightful.”

  “And you are of course an expert,” she flung at him.

  “Well, let us say a connoisseur,” he amended. “And now, it you will follow me, I believe Mrs. Robbins has prepared a room for you.”

  The housekeeper had indeed, and if she thought it strange that the new bride should spend the night alone in the bridal chamber, she was far too well trained to say so.

  chapter Five

  Whilst Lavinia was facing her first morning as the Countess of Saltaire, three people were surveying with differing degrees of surprise, or horror, dependent upon their natures, missives they had received from the Earl.

  The first of the trio. Viscount Ordley, was sipping distastefully at a small glass of beer with very little appearance of relish, surveying his countenance in the mirror with a good deal ofsatisfaction. Indeed, he considered he had every right to feel exceedingly well pleased with life, little knowing the blow fate had in store for him. Firstly, and perhaps least importantly, for the Viscount, although nice in his dress, was definitely not one ofyour Macaronis, his new velvet coat delivered that very morning (and as yet unpaid for) had been a very happy choice. Secondly, had he not also every hope of winning his bet against his cousin, and collecting seventy thousand guineas into the bargain; and lastly and most important of all, he would have the satisfaction of, for the first and perhaps the only time in his life, besting his cousin, whom he hated most intensely.

  A discreet knock on the door produced a flunkey bearing a silver salver on which reposed the note. He opened it and read it, stunned incredulity darkening his face, as he scanned the lines. “God in Heaven, I don’t believe it. ” His fist crashing onto the table sent the remains of the beer slopping onto the carpet. His valet, just about to place upon his Master’s head his wig, backed off slowly. Well did he know his master’s tempers and he was in no mind to receive a missile at his head.

  In furious disbelief Ordley read the note once more.

  “My dear cousin, I beg leave to inform you that I have this very evening taken to wife Miss Lavinia Davenham. Indeed by the time you receive my note, the girl will be mine and the wager won.”

  His face purple with rage, Ordley screwed the note into a ball and hurled it into the fireplace with a curse, chewing his bottom lip angrily. It was scarcely twenty-four hours since he had received from his cousin a draft in settlement of young Arnedale’s debts, and now this.

  The second member of the trio opened his letter in a well furnished room in his house at Albermarle Street. The bright morning sunlight streamed in through the windows of the well-proportioned morning room, picking out its rich furnishings, but Lord Ware was oblivious to the beauties of the morning. Thoughtfully he perused his letter, a small smile playing round his mouth, and then placing it down on the table he rang for his butler. “My brother, Charles, where is he?”

  The butler,
who was inured to the wild pranks of his Master’s younger brother, coughed depreciatingly, “Ahem, he isn’t in the house, My Lord. Indeed I have not seen him all morning.”

  Lord Ware tapped his fingers absently on the table for a moment. “Well I wish to see him the moment he returns, and if he is not back within two hours you must send a running footman for him.”

  Dismissing the man, he leaned against the fireplace, one hand under his chin. “So, Gilles, you accomplished it then,” he murmured to himself. “Unfortunate for the poor bride though.”

  For no good reason at all Lord Ware recalled the girl he had seen leaving the house in Grosvenor Square so hurriedly, pondering on what he had previously overlooked, the draft lying carelessly on the Earl’s desk. He sighed a little. At one time he had thought that marriage to the right woman would be the making of his friend, but now … He shook his head. He doubted that any woman had it in her power to sway him from his chosen path, which appeared to be the swiftest possible one to ruin. He sighed again, his breakfast quite forgotten.

  The last member of the trio was at his breakfast when Lady Elizabeth’s butler announced a caller. Richard, Lord Arnedale, had not as yet made so many acquaintances in London that a caller was an occasion of small or no import. Taking a hasty swallow of his coffee, he gestured to the man, but the Honourable Charles Ffoilliot, Lord Ware’s amiable younger brother, was already bounding up the stairs two at a time, the note he had picked up from the tray in the hall in his hand.