Bride for a Night (4 page)

“If I had the ability to sway my father I would never have been forced to wed your brother and we would not be in this mess.”

Gabriel stiffened in anger as another twinge of pity threatened to undermine his resolve.

Bloody hell. Was it not hideous enough to be coerced into marrying Silas Dobson’s daughter without offering her the opportunity to play him a fool?

“Then it would seem that we must both resign ourselves to the inevitable,” he bit out, turning on his heel to head toward the door.

“So it would seem,” she whispered behind him.

Halting on the threshold, Gabriel glanced over his shoulder.

“Oh, Miss Dobson.”

“Yes?”

“I would prefer you refrain from smothering yourself in such a gaudy display of jewels.” He flicked a disdainful glance toward the massive diamonds draped around
her neck. “The Countess of Ashcombe does not need to make an exhibit of herself.”

His parting shot delivered, Gabriel continued out of the room and down the hall, wondering why the devil he didn’t feel the least satisfied.

T
ALIA WAS IN
the laundry room sorting through the linens that needed to be mended when her father’s butler appeared in the doorway.

As always, she was struck by the sight of the slender, gray-haired servant attired in an immaculate black uniform. He carried himself with a regal dignity that his employer could never hope to emulate.

The irony of the situation was not lost on Silas Dobson, who found it a source of coarse amusement to taunt his prim and proper butler. Anderson, on the other hand, was careful to keep his own opinion hidden behind his facade of frigid efficiency.

Hardly surprising. For all of her father’s faults, he was a shrewd businessman who was willing to pay his employees a generous salary that instilled far more loyalty than any amount of personal charm.

Impatiently brushing a stray curl from her forehead, Talia regarded the servant with a faint frown. It was rare for Anderson to enter what he considered the female domain.

“Yes?”

“The Earl of Ashcombe has called,” Anderson informed her in formal tones. “Shall I say you are receiving?”

The bed sheet slipped from her nerveless fingers as she surged to her feet. Lord Ashcombe? Here?

Despite the fact the man had been her fiancé for nearly a week, Talia’s mind struggled to accept that he had ac
tually come to call upon her. No doubt because she had spent the past days assuring herself that the Earl of Ashcombe had no more intention of making her his bride than his younger brother had.

In truth, she had expected every morning to awaken to the announcement in the
London Times
that Lord Ashcombe had cancelled the absurd wedding, even if it did mean further scandal for his family.

So why was he here?

Had he come in person to cancel the wedding? And if so, why would he bother? It would surely have been easier for all of them if he had sent a message to avoid this unpleasant encounter.

Acutely aware of the silence that had abruptly filled the laundry room, Talia nervously cleared her throat.

“Did you inform him that my father is not at home?”

Anderson dipped his head. “He specifically requested to speak with you, Miss Dobson.”

“I see.” With no choice, Talia tugged off the apron that covered her sprigged muslin gown. “Please show him to the parlor.”

The butler offered a stiff bow. “Very good.”

The servant was stepping through the door when she realized that she had nearly forgotten her duties as a hostess. Odd, considering that they had been drilled into her by her numerous governesses over the years.

Of course, she rarely had an opportunity to display them, had she?

Who would desire to visit Silas Dobson or his awkward daughter? So far as London was concerned they were blights on civilized society.

“Oh, Anderson.”

“Yes?”

“Could you request Mrs. Knight to prepare a tray of refreshments?”

“Certainly.”

Although the butler’s gaunt face remained impassive, there was a suggestion of approval in his faint nod before he disappeared down the short hall.

Talia paused long enough to wash her hands and straighten the sapphire ribbon that was threaded beneath the empire style bodice. Then, she reluctantly followed in the butler’s path.

Her heart was thundering and her palms sweating by the time she reached the formal parlor, but she did not allow herself to pause as she stepped into the room heavily decorated with lacquer furnishings and crimson velvet. The slightest hesitation would allow her cowardice to take hold, and she would be fleeing to her room in terror.

The idea of flight remained a distinct possibility as her gaze landed on the tall, golden-haired man who always managed to make her heart leap with a dreadful excitement.

This morning he was attired in a pale blue jacket and silver waistcoat that was fitted to his body with flawless lines. Standing confidently near the ornately carved chimneypiece, his elegant style only emphasized the gaudy opulence of the gilded ceiling and massive Chinese vases that were arranged about the carpet.

He stiffened at her entrance, his expression unreadable as his gaze ran an unnervingly intimate inspection over her disheveled appearance.

Talia flushed, acutely aware that the lace of her gown was worn and her simple braid was better fitted for a servant than a lady of breeding. She had no notion that the steam from the laundry room had made the thin gown
mold provocatively to her feminine curves. Or that the glossy curls that had strayed from her braid only emphasized her earthy beauty that would tempt any man, particularly one jaded by the frigid perfection of most society ladies.

And she most certainly would never have considered that any man could be imagining her spread on a bed of wildflowers as he ripped away her worn dress to reveal the smooth purity of her ivory skin.

She only knew that his unflinching survey made her feel hot and flustered in a manner she did not understand.

Licking her dry lips, she offered a clumsy curtsy. “My lord, I fear I was not expecting you.”

Almost as if her words had jerked him from an unwelcome spell, Lord Ashcombe stepped from the fireplace, a sardonic expression hardening his handsome features.

“I surely do not need an appointment to call upon my fiancée?” he mocked.

Her flush deepened. “Of course not, but I was not prepared to receive visitors. If you do not mind waiting I will change…”

“But I do mind.” He cut short her babbling. “I am a very busy man, Talia.” His lips twisted in a self-derisive smile. “Besides, we both know I was not driven here by the overwhelming urge to catch a glimpse of my beautiful bride-to-be.”

She flinched, wounded by his scorn despite her determination to remain immune to his taunts.

“There is no need to be insulting,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “If you have come to cancel the wedding, then I would appreciate you completing the task so I can return to my duties.”

“What the devil?” His brows snapped together,
shocked by her words. “You believe I have come here to cancel the wedding?”

“Why else?”

Something dangerous glittered in the silver eyes. “Has your father decided to end his threat to sue my brother?”

“I…” She gave a shake of her head. “My father has not discussed his intentions with me.”

“And you have no reason to suspect that he has lost his desire to acquire an earl as his son-in-law?”

She hunched a shoulder. “No.”

The prickling threat that had filled the air eased as Gabriel gave an impatient wave of his hand.

“Then, barring a miracle, it would appear the marriage will take place as scheduled.”

She clasped her hands together as she sought to comprehend his odd mood. What was the matter with him? He seemed almost…angered by her mention of canceling the wedding.

Or perhaps he was simply angry that she had reminded him of the distasteful event.

Yes, that was much more likely.

“May I ask why you have come?”

He gave a shake of his head before reaching for the stack of papers he had left on the mantel. With a sharp motion he shoved them into Talia’s hand.

“These must be signed by your father before our wedding.”

She glanced at the official-looking parchment in bewilderment. “What are they?”

“Legal documents that ensure I am protected.”

“Protected?” She frowned, lifting her head to meet his unwavering gaze. “From me?”

“From you, and more important, from Silas Dobson.”

“What threat could we possibly pose to the Earl of Ashcombe?”

He shrugged. “They are clearly described in the documents.”

She returned her attention to the papers clutched in her fingers, a nasty sense of dread settling in the center of her heart.

Silence filled the stuffy parlor as she attempted to unravel the legal nonsense. It took only a few paragraphs to wish she had not made the effort.

Mortification made her gasp at the cold, methodical dissection of what should be a loving union.

It was not the insistence that her dowry would be under her husband’s control, or that she was offered no more than a small allowance to cover her household expenses. Or even that she was to be given nothing in the event of the dissolution of their marriage. Those she had assumed from the beginning of their devil’s bargain.

But to know that Lord Ashcombe had discussed her most private behavior with a complete stranger made her sick to her stomach.

“You believe I would be unfaithful?” she rasped, raising her head to stab him with an offended glare.

He shrugged with an arrogance that made her long to slap his handsome face.

“I believe your morals are questionable at best and I will not be cuckolded in my own home.”

She clenched her hands. Unfeeling bastard.

“And am I allowed to insist upon a similar pledge of fidelity?”

His smile was without humor. “Of course not.”

“Surely that would only be fair?”

Without warning he strolled forward, his hand cupping her chin in a touch that scalded her sensitive skin.

“I do not intend to be fair, my dear,” he murmured, the silver gaze studying her pale face with an alarming intensity. “I am in the position to dictate the rules of our marriage, not you.”

“And your rules include the right to parade about town with your mistresses while I am expected to remain at home and play the role of the dutiful wife?”

She shivered as the heat of his body easily penetrated her thin gown. Dear heavens, she had so often dreamed of this man holding her in his arms as they danced across a ballroom, but harmless fantasies did not prepare a poor maiden for the reality of his overpowering presence.

“What do you think?” he growled.

She lowered her lashes, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing how painful she found the thought of him with another woman.

“I think you will do whatever possible to humiliate me.”

He lowered his head until she felt the brush of his warm breath on her cheek.

“Would you prefer that I remain at home with you, pretending to be a devoted husband?”

She hastily pulled from his touch, as horrified as she was baffled by the quivering sensations that fluttered through her at the brush of his hard body against her.

“I would never ask the impossible,” she muttered, “but it would be a pleasant change…”

“Pleasant change?” he prompted, as her too-revealing words stumbled to a halt.

She wrapped her arms around her waist, as if they could protect her.

“A pleasant change not to be the source of amusement when I enter a ballroom,” she forced herself to continue.

He studied her broodingly. “Is that why you insist on becoming my bride?” he demanded. “Do you believe your position as the Countess of Ashcombe will offer you approval among society?”

She made a smothered sound of frustration. “I have told you, I have no desire to marry anyone, let alone a gentleman who holds me in such obvious contempt.”

A muscle in his jaw knotted. “Do you blame me?”

Guilt pierced her at his reminder that he was as much a victim to this hideous fate as she.

Perhaps even more so.

What had he done beyond attempting to protect his family? Now he was trapped with a woman whom he would never, ever have chosen as his bride.

“No,” she breathed. “No, I do not hold you to blame.”

He appeared caught off guard by her soft agreement, then his face tightened with annoyance.

“You will see that your father receives the papers?”

“Not until I finish reading the terms of my imprisonment,” she muttered with a grimace.

He frowned. “What did you say?”

“I think I should at least comprehend what is expected of me as a wife,” she said with a shrug. “Otherwise I am likely to be even more of a disappointment.”

The silver eyes narrowed. “You will not be a disappointment, my dear.”

“No?” A humorless smile curved her lips. “How can you be so certain?”

“Quite simply because I will not allow it.”

With his arrogant threat delivered, Lord Ashcombe performed a graceful bow and turned to leave Talia standing alone in the parlor, the hateful papers still clutched in her hand.

L
ORD
A
SHCOMBE’S
townhouse was as oppressively elegant as Talia had feared.

Built along grand lines in the midst of Grosvenor Square, it was constructed of pale stone and had seven bays with brick archways that led into an alcove hiding the double oak doors. Banks of imposing windows overlooked the street, and alighting from her carriage, Talia had the unnerving sensation that there were dozens of hidden eyes trained upon her.

Her unease was not lessened as she was led through a white tiled foyer and up a sweeping marble staircase to the back of the house where the gothic chapel was located. She might not have been raised as an aristocrat, but she had spent enough hours in the library to recognize the stunning masterpieces that lined the paneled walls of the long gallery and the impressive Italianate ceiling in the formal salon that was painted with miniature scenes from Greek mythology. Certainly she had no difficulty in recognizing the priceless Venetian chandelier that hung just outside the chapel.