Fortune Knocks Once (4 page)

“Who was it? You can tell whoever sent you that I am not that gullible.” He snorted with laughter and added, “Desperate I might be, but definitely not gullible…”

Ormonde was wearing a rumpled white shirt, ruffled at collar and wrists, hanging open to the navel showing a muscled chest with sprinkles of black hair trailing down to black skintight breeches that displayed his hard, muscled thighs to perfection.

He was wearing no stockings and was barefoot, which caused even Charlotte to blush violently and hang her head as she thought about the impropriety of that. He clutched a glass that had left a trail of spilled amber liquid on the floor as he approached her.

She found herself staring at his large, hair-flecked toes until she frantically raised her eyes only to be confronted by the naked, masculine chest inches from her face.

She looked up at his face with huge, round eyes but couldn’t get anything out to respond. Once again she was unable to speak a word.

By now a group of men, all in various stages of dishabille and obviously quite the worse for wear, stood behind Lord Ormonde in the hallway, eager to see what had pulled their host away from them. As the men filled up the entry hall and directed all manner of rude and boisterous comments to her, Charlotte shrunk against the door, her eyes wide and fearful but focused only on the object of her visit.

As she cowered against the front door, Ormonde continued to tower above her, firing questions at her. Then he gave a huge sigh and in a quieter but still impatient voice, said “Come on girl, speak slowly. You needn’t be afraid. It’s a great practical joke; I like them immensely.”

“N-n-n-n-no-no-no-not a j-j-j-joke,” she stuttered out, her face contorted with anxiety. She knew if she could just keep breathing and calm down, she might be able to control herself. Taking a deep calming breath and speaking slowly, she said, “All in the l-l-letter.”

“I’d never even heard of Treadwell’s niece until last week or was that last month? Didn’t know he had a niece,” said Ormonde. “Not that we’re bosom buddies or anything… from what I know of him, if this niece does exist, I pity her. Can’t imagine he’s much good as a guardian, drinking, gambling, rough crowd, all that,” Ormonde mumbled.

Then giving her a roguish grin, he added, “Bit of the pot calling the kettle black, eh?”

“The l-l-le-le-letter,” Charlotte insisted.

“Then I’d best read it again,” he said, raising the letter which was clutched in his left hand. In a theatrical voice as if he was delivering to thousands of rapt theater-goers, Ormonde flourished the letter.

Winking at Charlotte, he read loudly, “‘My Good Lord Ormonde,’ that would be moi, in case you were not sure,” he said sarcastically to the audience of men. Charlotte blushed, she had worked especially hard on that salutation.

“‘I am Charles Treadwell’s niece and would like to discuss with you the possibility of constituting an alliance between us. I have been blessed to have a fortune bestowed on me in my own right, and although it is not currently under my control, it would be provided into the care and authority of my husband, on the event of my marriage.’

“This is no doubt intended to make known without confusion, the type of alliance which is being suggested here,” Ormonde explained in a theatrical aside to the men now lounging against the walls of the hallway.

“‘Therefore I ask most imperatively, that you consider this offer in all earnest and render your reply with all due haste. Sincerely and respectfully, Charlotte Warwick.’”

“Gentlemen, I ask you. Could any epistle represent a more alluring or enticing inducement to the holy sacrament of matrimony than this? I have a fortune, please marry me and be quick about it! Certainly gives one pause about the young lady in question, does it not?” he murmured almost to himself.

As the men around him laughed and snorted derisively, more than one falling on the floor and not bothering to get up, Ormonde fixed his sight on Charlotte and said with a melancholy air, “No joke, eh? Would that it were not. Well then, I will need to think about this, lest I live to regret a hasty decision taken when my full faculties where not in evidence. I will give my answer tomorrow. Should I come to Treadwell’s house?”

Her eyes widened in horror and she shook her head vigorously. “N-n-n-no, no. P-p-p- p-please no”

“Bit of a secret, is it?” he said knowingly, giving a rueful smile. “Then where should I come to deliver my answer?”

“The…the..p-p-park.” She ground out, pointing to the park across the street. “Early in the mor-mor-morning.” She knew if her uncle found out about this from any of the men present, she would be made to regret her bold actions.

“It is decided then,” he said with sudden gravity. “I will come tomorrow at 10 in the morning to deliver my answer. Now you should go. It is frightfully late and your mistress will be worried.”

He hurried her out the door and Charlotte realized that Lord Ormonde believed her to be a lady’s maid. Was it any wonder that in her shabby walking dress and pelisse he didn’t realize who she was? Conflicted between thinking she should go back inside and correct his misconception and dreading facing that rowdy crowd of men again, Charlotte made her decision quickly and began running home to her uncle’s house.

“Sir,” said his scarred butler uneasily. “Should you have let the young lady walk home alone?”

Ormonde shook himself from a moment of deep contemplation and replied as he staggered back up the stairs, “Gil, she got here alone, I expect she can get home the same way. I am certainly in no condition to accompany her.”

~~~

Charlotte stared lifelessly out the tiny window, drained and exhausted. A whirlwind had seized her, spun her around, upside down and inside out during the last few days - depleting her…all her reserves…her vigor…her fortitude…everything she depended on.

It had all happened so fast. When she arrived at the park the morning after her scandalous visit to Lord Ormonde’s house, he had been there waiting, barely able to stand, looking tired and completely done in, smelling of alcohol, but looming over her ominously and yet also somehow heartbreakingly vulnerable in his disheveled and weary state.

The first thing she did before he could say a word was to explain that she was Treadwell’s niece, not a maid. Despite her desperate apprehension at her outrageous behavior, she had gotten out the information and then watched for his reaction. She had waited for signs of disgust or revulsion.

He had given her a measured, hard look with those dark, almost black eyes, a slight frown marking his face and wrinkling his brow. Slowly his eyes traveled from her face down to her feet and back again. She scanned his face desperately for some clue to his feelings but could discern nothing.

Then he had shrugged his shoulders and said, “Are you ready to leave right now?” When she nodded her head, he had asked, “You have nothing you want to pack from your uncle’s house?” When she shook her head, without another word he had hailed a hackney cab and they were on their way.

With no more planning than that, everything had been accomplished. First, they had visited her uncle’s solicitor to inform him of their plans and instruct him that on receiving notification the marriage had been accomplished he was to thereby sever her uncle’s access to all funds associated to her inheritance.

With a promise of future rewards and influence it had been easy to switch the man’s allegiance from a tightfisted and troublesome commoner to a soon-to-be-wealthy member of the aristocracy. Lord Ormonde stopped at his home, packed a few belongings, picked up the scar-faced butler and several other workmen, and they had set off in a hired carriage to maintain anonymity throughout their journey.

They traveled straight through for two days and nights, stopping only to change horses, switch drivers, relieve themselves and get food and drink. They both slept as much as was possible, which was barely at all and exchanged nary a word throughout the exhausting journey. Ormonde had refilled his ale mug at every stop.

Then they had arrived in Gretna Green and were immediately married in less time than it takes to shoe a horse, which is what the blacksmith who married them was doing when they arrived at his stables. After that, his lordship bundled her into the carriage again and they drove a few miles away to another village to spend the night at this relatively remote inn.

He would be coming into the room any minute now she thought apprehensively. He was settling the horses, arranging with the innkeeper for a quick supper and baths for them and then he would join her in the shabby, dirty parlor room where she paced in front of the window, wringing her handkerchief.

She was bone-weary tired. More tired than she had ever been in her life, yet she couldn’t even sit down. Tonight he would expect Charlotte to serve the duties a wife served in the marriage bed. She couldn’t suppress the foreboding that she had made a rash and foolish mistake.

I can’t do this. Will it hurt? Oh, what have I done? What made me think this was a good idea?

Her pulse was racing and she felt lightheaded.

Maybe after I eat I’ll feel better.
It has been forever since I have eaten… a lifetime ago.

She only hoped she wouldn’t faint. She had no idea what he expected of her but was more than sure that she would not be up to the task. If only she had a sister or female cousin or any loving female relative who could have prepared her for this night, she wouldn’t be so afraid.

Oh, she knew what happened and how - what went where and all. She had seen animals in the act of coitus, she had read plenty of forbidden books from her uncle’s library and even eavesdropped on the bawdy talk of his friends. But somehow she knew that this second-hand knowledge was not likely to do her much good when they both took off all their clothes and lay down in the bed with the dingy, smelly sheets in the next room.

The door to the room opened, startling Charlotte and causing a tiny squeek to escape her lips. He walked into the room and she quickly tried to calm her nerves. She hurried over to the other side of the room as far from him as she could get, hoping this would help.

“By your nervous demeanor I take it you do not intend this to be a marriage of convenience. I assumed not since your uncle would be able to have it annulled if we didn’t consummate it. You realize that don’t you?” Ormonde said as he marched across the room stopping directly in front of her, looming large and so uncomfortably close she could smell the scent of horses, ale and woody fires clinging to him.

She stared at his long, serious face. His black eyes bored into hers. His eyebrows were drawn over his eyes, his lips were thinned and unsmiling, every muscle of his face revealing the same exhaustion that she felt.

She considered the bleak future from which he had rescued her and the care he had shown her since they set out on this wild journey. He was her hero and deserved her consideration.

She yearned to throw herself into his arms, to feel the warmth of his body enveloped around her, to experience for herself the thrill of the intimacy men offer so freely and easily to women. But the expression on his face offered no clue to his feelings at that moment and no welcoming overtures to her.

What does he think of me? He is so handsome… he’s my husband now. But is he disgusted by me? Is he ashamed that he has been reduced to marrying someone so unsuitable as me?