The Kidnapped Bride (6 page)

“And if I refuse?”

“In that case,” he replied apologetically, “’fraid I should have to cut my losses.”

“Cut your losses!” A spark of hope leaped within her. “Do you mean that you would return me to Berkeley Square?”

“Well, yes. ’Fraid I should have to, you know. You noted yourself the absurdity of any attempt to force you to the border, and no self-respecting clergyman would marry us against your will, even if I could extort a waiver from your uncle. Most unfortunately, I don’t claim acquaintance with any disreputable men of the cloth.”

“Then, I think you must resign yourself to taking me home, sir,” Sarah replied with dignity, “for I shall not write that letter.”

“Dash it, Sarah. Thought you had a sense of pride.”

“I do!”

Darcy shook his head. “Can’t have considered the matter properly, then. Only think of the scandal if you return to your uncle’s house after a night spent here.”

“But if you say nothing about the matter and I say nothing about it, who is to know? Surely, we can still wrap things in white linen if we but put our minds to it!”

“Ah, but there’s the rub, you see,” he responded promptly. “Might be more than we could manage. You see, Beck’s got a rather long tongue, and I shouldn’t like to deny any allegations he might make about your behavior, though it would be dashed foolish to admit I took you by force. Not that people would believe that anyway if I return you to the bosom of your family with your virtue still intact.” He frowned down at his thumbnail. “It would be a rather simple matter, actually, to let the world believe you had thrown yourself at my head, and that, after teaching you a small lesson, I’d decided against proceeding with an elopement. Might be thought a devilish harsh fellow, but that would be nothing to what the world would think of you, my darling Sarah.”

“I am not your darling, nor am I your dear, nor anything else, sir,” she muttered between clenched teeth, “and I do wish you would cease littering the place with your false endearments.”

“As you like. Is that your final word on the subject?”

Sarah glared at him, but she was conscious at the same time of a heavy sinking feeling. He must know she would capitulate, for there was certainly no way she knew of by which she might counter the actions he threatened. His credibility under such circumstances as he had outlined would be far greater than hers. She was beaten, and she knew it. No longer was there any point in refusing to write her uncle, for she quite understood that marriage was the only way by which any shred of her reputation might be spared her. Nor, she realized now, had the outcome ever been in much doubt. Even had he agreed to take her back and keep mum about it, they would have been taking an enormous risk, one she was not perfectly certain even now that she would have been willing to take. She sighed deeply.

“I shall write whatever you wish, my lord.”

“Good girl. Rather thought you would.” He got to his feet. “Like to get to Town with time to accomplish the business today, so be quick, m’dear. I shall send Beck with paper and ink.” He stepped to the door, then paused and looked back. “It won’t be so had, you know, Sarah. The money is what matters, but I shall treat you decently enough, I daresay.”

She made no reply, and he went out, leaving her briefly with her own thoughts again. She finished her toast and chocolate. This was not the way she had planned courtship and marriage. Not by a long chalk! She had hoped for something more in line with the romances of her favorite heroines. Of course, she had known that she might not have a chance at such a thing, that her aunt and uncle might simply have auctioned her off to the highest bidder. Who knew what sort of brute she might have ended up with? At least, Darcy had promised not to inflict any of the more intimate marital relations upon her, she reminded herself. However, since she had rather looked forward to exploring such relations with a properly adored and adoring husband, the reminder did not serve to raise her spirits much.

Fleetingly, she indulged herself in the delicious and hitherto forbidden notion that once she was married she might participate in as many affairs of the heart as she liked. Everyone did. One married for advantage but loved wherever one found a mutual interest. It was, according to most of her friends, the accepted mode. Unfortunately, the only man she could conceive of having an affair with was Sir Nicholas.

But the very thought brought with it a shudder and a rather tremulous choke of laughter, as her ever-fertile imagination provided her with a swift vision of his probable response to any such overture from her married self. Sir Nicholas would not approve. Although she could not doubt that he had had vast experience with females, his own sternly voiced notions of propriety precluded any imagining that that experience had come from dalliance with respectably married ladies. And even if it had, she thought shrewdly, he would undoubtedly refuse to countenance such an illicit relationship for her with himself or, for that matter, with anyone else.

The valet entered as she formed that last rather disappointing thought, and she looked up with a nearly guilty fear that he might somehow read her mind. He was carrying a standish, which he set down upon the dressing table, having first made room for it by removing the chocolate tray. “I have brought the materials, miss, as his lordship requested. I am to remain whilst you write your letter.”

His attitude was such that, in spite of her decision to cooperate, Sarah despised herself for lacking the courage to order him out of the room, to indulge herself in last-minute defiance. But she could do neither of these things. For the moment at least, Darcy had won. She must marry him. Consequently, she handed the valet her chocolate cup and stepped quickly but with her usual easy grace to sit in the dressing chair.

Beck made no attempt to hide a smirk of satisfaction as he placed the cup next to the chocolate pot and moved to set the tray outside the door. He jerked his head expressively in the general direction of the ground floor. “His lordship’s waiting below for it, miss, so you’d best make it snappy. He’s not wishful to be patient.”

How she would have liked to give Beck to Aunt Aurelia for training! She would make short work of his smirks and his insolence. But Sarah gritted her teeth, swallowing the angry words she wanted to say to him, knowing instinctively that it could do her no good to make an enemy of the man. Instead, she picked up the pen, spread a sheet of writing paper on the table, and dipping her pen into the ink, began to write. The point was not as sharp as she would have liked, but she would make do rather than ask Beck to sharpen it for her.

The letter ran to Darcy’s outline as nearly as she could remember it. She explained to her uncle that she had run away with the Earl of Moreland because she had feared that Lord and Lady Hartley would somehow contrive to separate them forever. Such an excellent notion, too, she thought to herself as she continued. It was a shame she had not been more obedient to their will. Reluctantly, she outlined Darcy’s wish for a waiver and a special license, added that she would not return to London until Lord Hartley consented to her marriage, then made ready to sign her name; but Beck, who had been quite rudely reading over her shoulder, stopped her and suggested that she add the threat of Gretna as well as a hint that the state of her virtue had been altered. Since he put the second part of his suggestion with crude insolence, Sarah was shocked enough to protest vehemently.

“I will write no such thing! How dare you propose that!”

“His lordship wants it in, miss,” Beck replied stubbornly.

Battle royal might have been joined between the two of them, had not Darcy chosen that moment to enter, wondering anxiously why it was taking Sarah so long to write a simple letter. Beck explained the matter with what Sarah could only view as righteous indignation beyond his station, but to her great relief, Darcy took her side of it.

“Don’t be daft, man,” he said with an oddly jollifying note in his voice. “Chit can’t write that rubbish. She’d never write anything so improper off her own bat, so don’t go making a mull of things by forcing her to say such stuff. Her uncle would be bound to suspect it had been written under duress. Here, Sarah,” he went on in a more natural tone, “I’ll tell you what to write. Let me look at what you’ve got.” He scooped up the sheet from the table and perused it rapidly. “That’s good,” he said, laying it down in front of her again. “Now, you just add this bit. Put it in your own words, but tell his lordship that, matters being what they are, you are certain he will agree you cannot marry anyone but me and that you would prefer marriage by special license to an elopement to Gretna. Use that phrase, ‘matters being what they are,’ but put the rest any way you like. We’ll let the old gentleman use his imagination. Can always hint him in the right direction if he don’t look to be getting there by himself, can’t I?” He paused, lifting an inquiring eyebrow at the valet while gesturing for Sarah to begin writing.

She didn’t like his wording much better than Beck’s, but with the two men both standing over her as they were, she simply couldn’t find the courage to protest further. Beck’s expression was even a trifle alarming. He had shrugged non-committally in response to his master’s glance, but when his gaze shifted to herself, she noted a glitter in his eyes that certainly didn’t encourage her to trust the man. Servant or no servant, he was a villainous piece of work and no mistake. He seemed to exert some sort of influence over his master, too, and she wondered how Darcy could abide having the man around him all the time. But she certainly couldn’t ask him about it now. Cheeks flushed red at the thought of how even such vague phrasing might be construed, she turned back to her task, and having written what was wanted, she added a brief apology for disappointing her aunt and uncle and signed it. She did not look up again when Darcy took the letter and patted her approvingly on the shoulder. He went out immediately, followed by Beck. Once again, the key turned in the lock.

Relieved that they had gone at last, Sarah went back to the window seat, and less than an hour had passed before she heard noises from the drive. Looking out, she saw the shabby coach draw up before the front entrance. Beck was driving. Soon Darcy appeared, hurried down the steps, and jumped up into the coach, slamming the door shut as Beck whipped up the horses.

They were gone two full days, during which time Sarah made the acquaintance of both Matty and her husband, Tom. Matty appeared a short time after Darcy’s departure bearing Sarah’s luncheon on a tray. It was the only time she saw Matty during Darcy’s absence and she was just as glad, for the woman reeked of spirits. Her gray hair was tangled, her dress was dirty, and her skin looked unhealthy. She looked a perfect slattern, Sarah thought.

She saw more of Tom, for it was he who brought her other meals, saying that Matty had declined to tramp up two flights of stairs every time Sarah had the urge to eat. Sarah kindly suggested that she would be happy to come downstairs to take her meals properly in the dining parlor, but the offer was declined, Tom explaining briefly that Beck, supposedly relaying his lordship’s orders, had threatened to murder them both if they led Sarah out of her bedchamber for any reason whatever. As though she would attempt to escape again, she thought bitterly. Not that she wouldn’t have tried, had there been any point to it. But it would be pointless now. The sooner she was married, the better.

Tom also took care of her other needs, too, emptying the slops jar and bringing her, when she requested them, several books from which to choose. Since they included
Pilgrim’s Progress
and a copy of the
Canterbury Tales
, she was well enough pleased, although they weren’t by any means among her favorites. She would have much preferred a tale by Fanny Burney or Mrs. Radcliffe or that author who wrote so wittily about such ordinary people. Sarah and Miss Penistone had greatly enjoyed both
Sense and Sensibility
and
Pride and Prejudice
before Penny had had to leave, and Sarah herself had obtained and chuckled her way through
Mansfield Park
.

Rumor, emanating from the Prince Regent himself, had it that the author was a young gentlewoman, Miss Jane Austen. Supposedly, Prinny had had that titbit from his librarian, the Reverend J. S. Clarke, who had it from his physician, Mr. Haden, who had it from the young woman’s very own brother, Henry Austen. Mr. Austen had told Mr. Haden that his sister intended to dedicate her latest work, a novel called
Emma
, to his Royal Highness. Rumor also had it that Miss Austen was not best pleased to know that her closely guarded secret had leaked out, but the Prince, having enjoyed her earlier works quite as much as Sarah had, had kindly sent his permission for the dedication, though Miss Austen had never actually solicited the favor. Sarah, as well as most of her friends, had subscribed for a copy of
Emma
, and it was no doubt sitting now in the chest under her shawls, exactly where she had left it.

It was rather annoying to think that she had scarcely had a chance to read more than the first chapter or so, since she imagined that she had quite a lot in common with the independent and fascinatingly self-willed heroine, Miss Emma Woodhouse. Of course, Sarah had not been saddled with a hypochondriac for a father, but she rather thought that she and her dearest Penny were quite a lot like Miss Woodhouse and her Miss Taylor. Certainly, Emma’s father would have preferred Penny to Miss Taylor, for Penny showed no inclination toward the state of matrimony, a state vocally and most amusingly deplored by the irascible Mr. Woodhouse. On the other hand, Miss Taylor seemed likely to remain near her erstwhile charge, while Penny had dashed off two weeks to the day after her dismissal to a sister’s house in faraway Cornwall. But it was no use to think of that, Sarah told herself firmly. And, however entertaining it would be to be able to finish what had begun as a completely delightful tale, she must make do with what she had. Deciding to renew her acquaintance with Christian, she tried staunchly to convince herself that his adventures were amusing and not simply dry and moralistic. When Tom brought her a light supper, she asked if Erebus might not come up to keep her company.