Have You Any Rogues? (11 page)

This time when she looked up, he knew there would never be doubt in her eyes again.

“But why didn’t you just—”

He laughed and shook his head, swirling her around in a tight circle as they navigated the other couples. “And how would you have told your family?” he posed. “Marched into supper and declared your intentions to marry me over the second course?”

“Not,” she told him, her eyes alight with mirth, “if I didn’t want to see the third course served up in the nearest asylum.” She bit her lips together to keep from laughing, but her eyes, it was always her eyes that were the path to her soul, and how—right this moment—they sparkled!

The merry sight illuminated his heart with hope.

Whatever sadness was encamped within her would heal. With laughter and love. Of this he was sure. He would see to it.

“If you must know, I was going to break our news to Aunt Damaris slowly,” Crispin offered.

“From a hunting box in Scotland?” she teased back.

“I had thought Ireland,” he replied and then laughed.

“Too bad you didn’t consider such a strategy tonight,” Henrietta pointed out, nodding in Damaris’s direction. “Hardly subtle, my lord.”

He dared a glance over at his great-aunt and got no further than the horrified tilt of her brows. And more to the point, she stood alone, Lady Portia and her mother having left. “Yes, well, I suppose I’ve made a muddle of things, haven’t I?”

At first Henrietta didn’t answer, and then ever so quietly she said, “Not to me.”

“I had to save you, Calypso,” he confessed, then smiled again at her. “How is it you are always in some fix or another?”

“I have no idea,” she teased back. “Nor do I have any notion as to how you are going to repair this muddle.”

“I do,” he said with every ounce of certainty he possessed. “Tomorrow we shall marry.”

If he hadn’t been holding her so tightly, she would have stumbled over her feet.

“You can’t—”

Crispin smiled for all to see, as if she’d just turned the most elegant set he’d ever had the pleasure to partner. “You heard me. Marry me. Tomorrow. Be at the archbishop’s office at half past three and the good man will marry us himself. Then and there.”

He felt the shivers run down her frame, rattling her down to her boots, and he felt this niggling sense of foreboding—a dark shudder which he immediately set aside and ignored.

Especially when she warned, “This will cause a terrible scandal.”

“I expect nothing less,” he agreed, more than ready to take on the family maelstrom this would surely ignite.

And with that, the musicians ended their playing and the dance concluded. There was nothing left for Crispin to do but bow over her hand, for he could see quite clearly Aunt Damaris thundering in his direction, a concerned-looking Lord Juniper hot on her heels. “Until tomorrow,” Crispin told Henrietta hastily.

Henrietta must have seen the approaching horde as well. “Until tomorrow,” she promised before she quickly disappeared into the crush of guests behind them.

“A
h, dear Crispin,” Aunt Damaris declared when he arrived at her house the next morning.

Her welcoming and dulcet tones did not fool him.

Not in the least. “I have come as you summoned, Aunt Damaris.” He folded his arms across his chest and waited in the middle of her morning room.

“It was hardly a summons,” she said, waving her handkerchief at him and nodding toward the chair closest to hers. Then she flicked a glance at Prudence and sent her poor, beleaguered companion from the room.

Crispin deliberately took a spot on the settee across from her. “What can I do for you?”

If there was a flicker of annoyance in her eyes, she hid it quickly enough. “What do you intend toward that gel, Crispin?” his aunt asked, getting directly to the point.

And they both knew she didn’t mean Lady Portia.

“I am going to marry her.”

He couldn’t have said anything that could have shocked his aunt more.

With too much grace to let her mouth fall open, her expression gradually and slowly turned to stone. Hard, unyielding granite.

“I forbid it,” she told him. More than once she’d made such a decree to various Dales—the cousins and distant relations over whom she kept an ever-vigilant watch. And every single Dale had done as she’d ordered.

And while he might be the Dale of Langdale, this was Aunt Damaris, and no one naysaid her.

Until now. Realizing the futility of any argument he might make, Crispin rose. “Then I suppose our interview is over.”

Aunt Damaris rose as well, quickly enough that it belied her advanced years. “Crispin, please. Consider what happened to Duncan Dale—he married that Seldon witch and the authorities burned him for her deviltry. And what happened to her? She married the magistrate.”

“That was three hundred years ago, Aunt Damaris. Besides, Lady Michaels has never shown the least inclination toward the black arts.”

Save beguiling his heart and soul.

“Lady Michaels! Bah! You can call that Seldon whatever you like, but she is still one of
them
. However can she be a proper bride for you in comparison to Lady Portia? She’s been married and widowed twice now. You would wish
that
on us?”

“That” meaning his assured demise. That his title would go to the next in line. Dilbert Dale.

That did stop him for a moment—the vision of Dilbert, his silly wife and their seven rambunctious children trampling through the graceful halls of Langdale was more than horrifying. But his pause lasted only for a moment.

For he saw an entirely different future. One filled with passion. With children with Henrietta’s bright eyes. Of a house once again filled with laughter.

With love.

For how long had it been since the hallowed halls of Langdale had rung with merriment? Too long.

“She holds my heart,” he told his aunt. “She has for years. And I won’t let her go this time.”

There it was. The truth of the matter and, as far as he was concerned, the end of this discussion.

His honest, earnest words startled his aunt, and absently she sat back down, her hand catching hold of the armrest as she settled into her familiar throne.

“And that is your decision?” Aunt Damaris asked quietly, her gaze fixed on the fireplace mantel, where a row of miniatures of the most prominent Dales was displayed.

“Yes, Aunt Damaris.”

“When is this to be done?”

“Today,” he told her.

“Today?” she gasped.

He nodded, then patted his jacket. “I am meeting Lady Michaels at the archbishop’s office at half past three. Already got the Special License, and His Grace will marry us on the spot.”

“So quickly?” she managed, more to herself than to him.

“Yes,” he told her firmly. “I don’t expect your blessing—”

“And you won’t have it,” she shot back. Then she heaved a sigh. “But I won’t lose you either.”

She reached over and picked up the bell, ringing it for Croston. When her butler appeared at the door, she told him, “Take Lord Dale to the cellar and allow him to choose whichever bottle of my father’s wines he prefers.” Then she glanced up at Crispin. “My wedding gift. But don’t consider it a sign that I agree to any part of this madness, and don’t you ever dare bring that woman to call on me.”

Crispin nodded. “Thank you, Aunt Damaris.”

She waved him off and bid Croston to send in Prudence.

C
rispin followed the butler to the cellar door, a hallowed portal among the Dales for it led down to where Aunt Damaris stored her father’s extensive and legendary collection of wines.

It was an unexpected gesture of concession from his aunt, and though he hardly had time to creep about the cellar and find the bottle he’d longed to open for years, Crispin wasn’t about to turn down his aunt’s offer and risk raising her ire further.

Croston opened the door for him and was about to lead the way down the steps when Prudence came rushing along. “Oh, my! Croston, herself is demanding you return upstairs immediately.”

The butler glanced over his shoulder at her and then at Crispin, his expression never changing. Such was the life of anyone employed by Damaris Dale—being ordered in one direction and then yanked in another.

“I can find my way, Croston,” Crispin assured him, taking the candle from the man and making his way down the steps.

“You can now,” Prudence said as she closed the door behind him and locked it.

“Miss Dale!” Croston gasped.

“Orders, Croston. He is to be left in there until he comes to his senses.”

Croston regarded the door warily, but he didn’t make a move toward it, despite the pounding from his lordship within.

It was Damaris Dale who paid his salary, and if the old girl thought her nephew was in peril, then this was for the best.

H
en paced outside the archbishop’s office while Poppy stood patiently at hand.

“You aren’t doing yourself any favors, my lady, by waiting,” her maid told her.
Again
. “If you are seen—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Henrietta told her. And Poppy was right. It was rather unseemly for her to be loitering about in front of the deanery when she truly had no reason to be there.

At least none that she could share.

“Mayhap he isn’t coming,” Poppy offered, looking over her shoulder rather than saying the words to Hen’s face. Saying exactly what they were both thinking.

For here it was nearly four and there was no sign of Crispin. He’d been here earlier. That much she knew. For the fellow at the desk had grudgingly admitted that his lordship had come first thing in the morning, obtained a Special License and spoken directly to the archbishop.

So there it was. Exactly as he’d promised. He would arrive. No matter what.

Hen looked up and down the street once again despite her flagging confidence.

“It is starting to rain,” Poppy pointed out, tugging her own pelisse tighter around her neck. “Your hat will be ruined.”

By reflex, Hen’s hand went to the fetching new bonnet she’d just gotten this week. It was ever so lovely and would, as Poppy said, be ruined with the least bit of rain, but for once Henrietta Seldon couldn’t care less.

“ ’Tis barely a sprinkle,” she replied, knowing she would stay put in a downpour if she must. Still, she wrapped her own cloak closer, pressed her lips together and blinked at the sheen of tears forming in her eyes, the ache inside her chest like the loss of Crispin’s child all over again. Her heart breaking in two.

Not to mention the ruin of a brand-new hat.

Worse, it wasn’t like she could run to Henry or Christopher and cry foul. That Crispin Dale had left her at the altar.

She knew exactly what they’d say—after they got over their dumbfounded shock—
good riddance
.

And what would Aunt Zillah tell her?
You expected one of them to keep their word? Bah! I thought you had more sense, gel.

And just when she was about to skulk off and lick her wounded pride—or at the very least save a most expensive hat—a carriage came rollicking around the corner at a breakneck speed.

Her heart skipped, and she threw a triumphant glance in Poppy’s direction.

Being the practical sort, Poppy made a loud sniff that said in so many words,
We’ll see
.

The carriage came to a quick halt in front of Hen, and immediately the door swung open.

But it wasn’t Crispin stepping out.

“Gusty,” she exclaimed as Lord Juniper stepped down. “Where is—” she stopped as she looked over his shoulder and realized there was no one else in the carriage.

“So sorry, Hen. Came as soon as I could muster,” he told her, doffing his hat and bowing. Then, as if remembering the task at hand, he patted his coat until he found what he was looking for and pulled out a folded note.

She took it reluctantly, for a note, dear heavens—that couldn’t bode well.

But she held out hope, for Crispin had promised. Vowed. Sworn nothing would keep them apart.

“So sorry, Hen,” Gusty told her, stepping nearer Poppy so Hen would have some privacy.

Dear Lady Michaels,

I have been remiss in offering you my protection when it wasn’t mine to give. I am already promised to another, and by the time you have read this, she shall be, as intended, my wife. I therefore give you leave to find another and wish you well in your endeavors.

Crispin, Lord Dale

Hen read the note twice, then crumpled it up and threw it into the gutter. “This is a lie.” Then she turned to Gusty. “Take me to him.”

Her old friend shook his head. “Can’t, Hen. Got that from him myself. ’Tis too late.”

She shook her head, and this time the motion rattled free the tears that had been threatening to fall for the last desperate half hour.

And there was Gusty. Warm and familiar. Folding her into his arms and patting her gently as if he feared she would shatter into a thousand pieces.

Which she thought she might.

“I’ll never marry again,” she told him between sobs.

“Now that would be a demmed waste, if you don’t mind me saying,” Gusty told her.

“I’m a horrid wife. I send men to their graves.”

And to other women,
but that part she wouldn’t say aloud.

She glanced away, loathe to admit even this. “I am ruined, Gusty. They all cut me last night. Even the lowest of the
cits
.” She sniffed. “All save you and . . .” Well, she couldn’t say
his
name. “They scorned
me
. I know ’tis all my own fault, but I never thought—” She swiped at her nose, conscious of Gusty’s well-fashioned jacket. “Oh, dear. Whatever must you think of me? I might as well move to the country and die alone surrounded by cats just like my ancient Aunt Netty did.” She glanced up at him to see what he thought and found him smiling at her.

“Now, now, a bit of time in the country might be the right idea. Especially with a respectable husband at your side.”

“Bah!” Henrietta stepped away from him, suddenly aware that she was—once again—making a public spectacle of herself. “No one will have me. That was evident last night. Not even Lady Knolles will deign to invite me again.”