Married At Midnight (21 page)

The moment was tortuous. Victoria held her breath and waited.

Nor did she have long to wait.

"Oblige you? Ah, but we have not
met,
have we? You have no idea who I am. I haven't the faintest idea who you are, and

I do believe it's best we keep it that way." His smile was cutting. "In short, my lady, I think it best if I remove myself from

your silly, schoolgirl schemes."

Victoria understood; truly she did, for already she had recognized that this man was not a carefree, frivolous young buck like so many others in the ton. He was older, for one, and his bearing was that of a man who knew what he wanted and knew it well.

Panic flared high and bright as he stepped past her. It appeared he had every intention of returning inside.

"Wait!" she cried. "I beseech you, please do not leave!"

He swung back to face her. Victoria cringed inside, for his expression was no less than forbidding.

"Young woman," he said sternly, "please do not make this more difficult than ..."

Victoria never heard the rest. A medley of voices came from behind him, near the terrace door.

She had been polite. She had
asked.
And now it seemed she must take the matter into her own hands.

Quickly, before she

lost her courage, she flung her arms around him and pressed herself against him.

Strong hands clamped down on her waist. Victoria felt him stiffen, but she didn't give him the chance to do more. She tangled her fingers in the hair that grew low on his nape, pulled his head down and levered herself upward in one fluid move. Her lips met his. Her eyes squeezed shut. The world seemed to tilt and spin. A hundred different sensations bombarded her. His mouth was soft, while his body was hard. She battled the strangest urge to clutch at him wildly, to press herself against him and feel even more of him against her ... In her heart she was appalled at such a wickedly unladylike thought, yet she could not deny

the hungry surge within her.

In some distant corner of her mind, she heard his swiftly indrawn breath; she sensed that he was as startled as she. Though his fingers bit into the soft skin of her hips, he didn't thrust her away. An odd little

quiver shot through her, for she'd never thought to find pleasure in this moment—yet pleasure there was, a world of it, intoxicating and sweet. Her lips parted, a silent invitation.. .

Behind her there was a gasp ... That would be Sophie, she thought hazily.

Aware they were no longer alone, Victoria reluctantly broke off the kiss. She levered her heels to the floor and prepared

herself for the sight of Sophie standing there, pretending to be horrified. With a breathy little sigh, she opened her eyes ...

Only to confront her father's blistering regard. "Oh, dear," she whispered. Sophie was behind Papa, her eyes huge. Their

host, Lord Remington, was there as well.

The stranger, too, had turned toward the door. Oddly enough, one lean hand remained anchored on her waist, the gesture almost protective. "Good heavens," he said irritably. "Who the devil are you?"

Papa straightened himself to his full height. "I am the marquess of Norcastle," her father said grimly. "And I'll thank you to unhand my daughter."

An hour later the three of them filed into her father's study. Though his features were stoic and tightlipped, Victoria knew he'd never been angrier. It wasn't his way to rage and shout. Indeed, she thought half-hysterically, she almost wished he would!

The dark stranger sat stiffly beside her—only now she knew his identity. He was Miles Grayson, earl of Stonehurst. Clasping her fingers in her lap, Victoria dared to steal a glance at him . . . oh, and how she wished she had not! His shoulders were as rigid as a soldier's, his profile as cold as the sea.

Yet she couldn't deny that Miles Grayson had been remarkably civil, and very decent, thus far. Nor was it Papa's way to

make a scene. Papa had quietly requested that the earl accompany him to his town house that they might discuss the matter further.

But a man could only be pushed so far . . .

The proof was in her father.

Victoria's stomach was churning. She felt very much like a child about to be punished for some misdeed.

But this was no childish prank. She'd been caught kissing a gentleman—scandalous behavior in polite society! She reminded herself that

sullying her reputation was what she had intended .. . yet somehow it had gone terribly awry . . . she'd never dreamed that

Papa would actually
see
it...

And she had the awful sensation it wasn't over yet.

"Now." Papa's voice rang out. "I will not ask either of you to explain yourselves, since 'tis very obvious what the two of you were about." He turned his formidable gaze to the earl. "The
ton
is filled with foolish young wastrels who dally whenever and wherever they please and care not a whit about the

consequences. Twas my belief that you, sir, were above such outlandish behavior—an honorable, respectable man whom I have held in the highest regard. Frankly, my lord, I am appalled at your behavior."

Beside her, the earl said nothing. But Victoria did not miss the way one hand clenched into a fist.

Then it was her turn to bear her father's displeasure as he turned baleful eyes toward her. His tone was stern. "As for you, Victoria, there are no words to express my disappointment."

Victoria could not bear to look at him. In all her life, she had never been so ashamed. "I-I'm sorry, Papa." Swallowing, she slowly raised her chin. "But indeed, you are right. The
ton
is filled with wastrels who dally where they may. Well, I have no wish to marry such a man—"

Her father cut her off with a sound of disgust. "And I would never allow you to marry a scoundrel, Victoria. But you should

not spend your life alone and—"

"I would rather spend my life alone than marry a man who would further his own interests by marrying the daughter of a marquess, for that is what happened to my dear friend Phoebe—her husband chose her for her fortune." She spoke with heartfelt candor. "I simply have no desire to marry—not Viscount Newton, not Robert Sherwood, not Philip Dunmire. And

that is why I-I did what I did. I thought they would each withdraw their suit when they heard what had happened. And I thought you would consider me beyond redemption and cease your efforts to see me wed."

"Hmmmph!" Her father's mouth compressed. He directed his attention to the earl. "Have you anything to say, my lord?"

Victoria interrupted before Miles could say a word.
"I
assure you, Papa, the earl had no idea what I was about!"

From the corner of her eye, she saw the earl stiffen.
"I
am quite capable of speaking for myself," he said curtly. One elegantly shod foot tapped on the carpet. "You have my sincerest apologies, my lord. My behavior with your daughter was most reprehensible. Beyond that, I fear I can offer no more."

"Now that's where you're wrong, my lord." The marquess drummed his fingers on the desktop. "Because I am not prepared

to let the matter end here."

An ominous foreboding descended over the room. Victoria's eyes darted between the two men, who beheld each other in

rigid silence. Why didn't Miles Grayson speak up and agree with her? Why didn't he tell Papa that he hadn't kissed her—

'twas
she
who kissed him! For in truth, the blame was not his at all.

"Papa," she said in desperation, "did you not hear? It was I who kissed him!"

"Either way, Victoria"—her father's tone was biting—"the earl appeared ever so willing. Or am I wrong, my lord?"

Miles Grayson's jaw might have been hewn of iron. He spoke not a word, neither agreement nor denial.

"Very well then," Papa went on. "My daughter's reputation has been compromised, and I will not permit this scandal to go further. The only question that remains is how to rectify the damage."

He fixed his gaze on his daughter. "Since your mother died, I have provided for you the best I knew how, Victoria. I am

proud to say, you have disappointed me in only one thing—your reluctance to take a husband. I have been patient. Through three Seasons I have waited for you to do what is expected of you, I have bided my time whilst you turned up your nose at

first one suitor, then another, for I could not bear to see you unhappy. But you are a woman now, Victoria. And you must

live with the consequences of your actions."

He transferred his attention to the earl. "Now then. I believe it's best if we speak privately, my lord.

Victoria, a moment alone with the earl, if you please . .."

Victoria needed no further urging. She leaped to her feet and fled.

* * *

Miles was furious—with himself, the marquess, and his troublesome daughter. He'd only accepted Lord and Lady Remington's invitation because Lord Remington had stood as godfather to him. But going to the ball had been a monumental mistake. His trips to London were rare, usually confined to business only, for he'd grown tired of society long ago

—the parties, the false gaiety, the endless gossip, the never-ending pretense of manners and goodwill. He much preferred the solitude of Lyndermere Park, his estate in Lancashire; he enjoyed far more the company of farmers and shepherds.. . and of course, Heather.

He'd very nearly departed London for Lyndermere Park that very morning. He hated the noise and grime of London—and he missed Heather. His mouth twisted. God, but he should have listened to his instinct.

Then this would never have happened . . .

The marquess's voice cut into his thoughts like the prick of a needle. "I have a proposition for you, my lord. Would you care

to hear it?"

Miles's smile was a travesty. "Not really," he drawled.

"Nonetheless," the marquess stated with icy precision, "you will."

Miles shrugged.

"Now. What I propose is very simple. I want you to marry my daughter."

Miles's smile was wiped clean, his reply heated and instantaneous. "You're mad."

"I assure you, my lord, I am not."

Miles forced a calm he was far from feeling. "What!" he said scathingly. "I heard you say quite distinctly, my lord, that your daughter is in her third Season. I cannot help but wonder what's wrong with the chit that she's been unable to find a man

willing to marry her."

The marquess only barely managed to restrain his temper. "I would be careful were I you, my lord. When you insult my daughter, you insult me as well, and that is not wise. And surely you have eyes. Victoria is a

beauty, as comely as any. She

has had numerous suitors, more than I can recall. And I've had in my hand this past fortnight three offers for her hand."

"Then let one of them marry her!"

Leather creaked as the marquess leaned back in his chair. "Ah, but they did not dishonor her, sir.
You
did."

Miles very nearly retorted that the chit had no one to blame but herself. But just as he opened his mouth, a voice tolled

through his mind.
Papa, did you
not hear? It was I who kissed him!

The girl had been remarkably forward—and incredibly fetching. And that kiss . . . An unguarded taste of innocence, sweeter than ripe summer berries, a hint of heaven . . .

At first he'd been too startled to move. And then—God above but he couldn't lie—he hadn't wanted to.

Desire struck the

very instant their lips met—strange, for he was not a man to yearn for a woman so quickly—and so intensely. He'd wanted to snatch her against him. Plumb the depths of her mouth with his tongue while his hands explored the lithe ripeness of her body ... But something had stopped him. Perhaps the innocence he'd sensed in her . . .

No, he thought soberly. He hadn't expected to like it so much. He hadn't expected to want her sweet, stolen kiss to go on.

And on ...

He could have stopped it. He could have ended it at any given moment. . .

His lips tightened. "I accept my part in this. But do you really expect me to
marry
her?"

"I will make myself very clear, Lord Stonehurst. If you don't, you will live to regret it."

Miles clenched his jaw so hard his teeth hurt. "A threat, my lord?"

The marquess shrugged. "Call it whatever you like." Shaggy brows drew together over his nose. "I understand you have a daughter."

Miles had been about to tell him to go straight to hell. But at the mention of Heather, he froze. "My ward," he said curtly. "Heather Duval. She's been with me since she was a very young child. Her parents were killed in a carriage accident." His

tone was level, as level as his gaze. But his heart had leaped high in his chest. The marquess couldn't

possibly know . . .

The marquess frowned. "Ah, now it comes to me!" he explained. "You were once betrothed to the former Lady Margaret Sutherland, were you not?"

"What of it?" His voice was clipped and abrupt. Miles couldn't help it.

"But you broke off the engagement only days before the wedding, as I recall."

"Marriage between Margaret and I would have been a mistake." Miles felt compelled to defend himself.

"Ah, but Margaret's mother was most distressed. I remember her telling me that Margaret had gone to Lancashire to visit

you. Did she and your ward not get on well, my lord?"

Miles's tone was tight. "That, my lord, is none of your affair."

The marquess paid no heed. He tipped his head to the side. "Who did you say the little girl's parents were, my lord?"

"I didn't," Miles said from between his teeth.

"Hmmm. Odd, but I suddenly find myself most curious, my lord. Most curious, indeed."

Miles's eyes glinted. "You bastard," he accused baldly. "I'll tolerate no one prying into her past."

"And there'll be no need if you marry my daughter." The elder man's tone was as smooth as oil. He didn't take his eyes

from Grayson's face. "Well, my lord? Do we have a bargain?"

Miles was up and on his feet in a surge of restless anger. Damn him. He couldn't possibly know . .. Yet he couldn't take the chance the marquess might find out the truth. Oh, it wouldn't hurt him. But Heather's life would never be the same—and he wanted only the best for her. She would
have
only the best.

"Let it be done," he muttered.

"Excellent!" proclaimed the marquess. "Now, I think the wedding should take place posthaste ..." He rose and opened a massive oak door and called for his daughter.

Victoria walked slowly into the study, feeling for all the world as if she were entering a dungeon of darkest doom. The earl stood near the window, arms crossed over his chest; he made no acknowledgement of her presence. As for her father, Papa's expression told the tale only too well—he was pleased with the outcome of his discussion with the earl. His words bore out her suspicion.

"The earl has some news for you, my dear."

Miles Grayson turned and gave her a stiff bow. "It seems we are to marry, my lady. I trust you'll understand that I am less

than overjoyed."

Victoria's face drained of all color. "Marry," she echoed, her tone half-strangled. "No, it cannot be. You

—you cannot want this."

"No." His mouth twisted. "But your father is a persuasive man."

Stricken, Victoria looked at her father. "Papa. Papa,
please
do not make me do this."

She didn't acknowledge the spasm of pain that passed over his face. The marquess shook his head. "I warned you, Victoria.

I warned you but you would not heed me. And so I have no choice."

A horrible knot of dread coiled in her belly. He was right. She'd been caught. Caught in a trap of her own design.

Nor had Papa lied. He'd said if she did not choose a husband this very night, then he would. And as she soon discovered,

Papa was determined to see the deed well and truly done . . .

This very night.

A vicar was summoned to the town house. He took his place in front of the massive marble fireplace, his Bible in hand.

Smiling and sleepy-eyed, he glanced between the two men. "Shall we proceed, my lords?"

Papa gave a curt nod. Stoic and silent, the earl stepped before the vicar. His posture was wooden.

He spared no glance for his bride-to-be, standing in the shadows at the back of the room.

Victoria stifled the urge shrink away into the darkness of the night. But then Papa was there, offering his arm. Her steps heavy, Victoria crossed the carpet, feeling as if she were being led to an early grave. As she took her place beside the earl, a feeling

of sick dread tightened her middle. Her mind screamed silently. How could this have happened? She was about to marry this man—Miles Grayson, earl of Stonehurst. Sweet heaven, she was to
marry
him, a man she'd not set eyes on before this very night...

She stole a glance at him, only to regret it. His" profile was as rigid as his spine, his expression grim and angry. There was

scant comfort in knowing he wanted this marriage no more than she ...

She hadn't wanted to marry, most certainly not this night. And she would never have wanted it like this, in this sterile, lonely room at midnight... Despair pierced her breast. If it had to be, she'd have wanted it differently ... Four prancing steeds would have delivered her to the steps of the church. She'd have walked down the aisle in a long, flowing gown of satin and lace. Friends and acquaintances would have filled every pew. Sophie would have been there, beaming at her shyly, and Phoebe, too ...

The ceremony passed in a haze. She roused only when her hand was laid within the earl of Stone-hurst's.

She nearly snatched

it back—his skin was like fire.

Then all at once it was time for the vows. The earl spoke his in clipped, staccato tones.

She whispered hers.

In the corner, the clock began to toll the hour of midnight.

Victoria watched numbly as the earl pulled a gold, crested ring from his smallest finger and slid it onto hers. The ring was

heavy ... as heavy as her heart.

At the very last stroke, the vicar raised his head and cleared his throat. "I now pronounce you man and wife," he intoned.

"My lord, you may kiss the bride."