Rushed to the Altar (47 page)

“Oh, ye of little faith,” he scoffed. “It makes a change for you not to understand. I’ve been existing in confusion ever since I first met you. However, that is about to be remedied. But first, I have a special license and two witnesses back at Half Moon Street, so we shall make a lie the truth.”

“I thought it had to be a Catholic ceremony to fulfill the terms of your uncle’s will.”

“Oh, we shall have that afterwards, for the benefit of the family. For now I am interested only in making this union legal; it seems the only way I can be sure of keeping hold of you.” He glanced sideways at her, and his expression was wiped clear of all amusement. “I can only ask your pardon for my harshness, for words that I have regretted every minute since I spoke them, but why, Clarissa? Why couldn’t you trust me?”

She looked down at her lap, feeling for the words. “I don’t know . . . it wasn’t so much that I thought I couldn’t, but there was so much at stake I couldn’t see how I could rely on anyone but myself. I’m accustomed to helping myself. Francis is my responsibility, and I knew how important it was for you to
fulfill the terms of the viscount’s will, and I know how honorable you are, and I was afraid that if you knew I wasn’t a whore, you’d feel you would be cheating again if you went through with a marriage to someone who didn’t qualify.” She gave a tiny laugh. “My mother was the daughter of an earl, and my father was a wealthy squire, Master of Hounds, Justice of the Peace. I was a virgin. How could I possibly fit the viscount’s criteria?”

“You couldn’t. I’ve known that from our first night together. Did you really imagine you could hide your virginity from me, you absurd creature?” He shook his head in reproach.

“You knew?” She stared at him. “Always. You’ve known always?”

“Always from that night.”

“Oh.” She plaited her fingers in her lap. “I’m not very experienced in these matters.”

“That would appear to be the case,” he responded drily. “But I do think you might have given me a little more credit all around.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “And I ask your pardon. But if you’d told me what you suspected, it might have helped a little too.”

He smiled. “I think we both need pardon, and I give mine freely.”

“And I mine.”

He drew rein abruptly, turning on the bench to take her in his arms, his mouth finding hers. He kissed her
cut and swollen mouth gently, in benediction and in promise, as he murmured, “I love you, Clarissa. I will always love you.”

“And I you, Jasper. For all time.”

It was hard to believe the long nightmare was over, but it was. Francis was safe now. He’d take their father’s place and fill the squire’s shoes admirably. And she . . . ah, well . . . she could see nothing but roses in her future.

Epilogue
 

Viscount Bradley was dozing before the fire one evening three months later when the sound of laughter and merriment, most unusual in this drearily massive mausoleum, reached him from the antechamber to his bedchamber. He opened his eyes and directed a jaundiced glare at the group of gaily dressed revelers who came into the room.

His three nephews accompanied a beautiful young woman. All three were in court dress, the young woman in a ball gown of ivory damask embroidered with seed pearls, her hair powdered and arranged in a most elaborate coiffure, adorned with two ostrich plumes. The Blackwater diamonds sparked blue fire in the candlelight.

“Well, well,” the viscount muttered. “So he finally made an honest woman of you, my lady. You’ve made your curtsy to good Queen Charlotte. You are to be congratulated.”

“Thank you, sir.” Clarissa curtsied as she had done to the queen a few hours past, expertly handling her
long train, dipping her head so that the ostrich feathers seemed to dip and curtsy in imitation.

The viscount chuckled, and for once his amusement lacked malice. “Nicely done, my dear. Nicely done. No one would ever believe you had once been a whore.” As he said this his gaze flicked to his oldest nephew.

Jasper smiled and took out his snuffbox. “As you say, sir.” He took a leisurely pinch before dropping the emerald-encrusted gold box back into the deep pocket of his emerald-green coat. A massive emerald winked on his finger, its twin nestled in the froth of Mechlin lace at his throat.

“Who presented the girl?” the viscount demanded.

“Our cousin, sir. Lady Hester Graham. It is only right and proper that my wife should be presented under the auspices of the family, wouldn’t you agree?” Jasper’s smile was smooth, his tone suave, and it was clear to the old man that his nephew was enjoying this little interview. The viscount had insisted that the family that had labeled him their black sheep and cast him beyond the family pale embrace an erstwhile whore as the wife of the family’s head. Presenting her at court was the ultimate sign of acceptance.

Jasper had fulfilled the terms of the will to the nth degree.

Or had he? The viscount looked at his nephew’s lovely bride again. He would never know, but he would always suspect.