The Wild One (17 page)

Juliet gazed about in wonder. So this was
London. The great city whose government ruled — and had ruined —
her distant homeland. It was from here that the Townshend, Stamp,
and Intolerable Acts had come, inciting and fanning the seeds of
rebellion that had torn Boston apart. Hard to believe that she,
little Juliet Paige from Maine, was actually here in this immense,
sprawling city from whence came the laws that had culminated in
bloodshed three thousand miles away...

Belatedly, she realized that Gareth was
pointing out landmarks, naming each street. They were on Piccadilly
... turning right onto St. James Street ... right along Pall Mall,
passing St. James's Square, and there, off over his shoulder, he
was drawing her attention to a park, where the quacking of ducks on
a glittering canal broke the early-morning stillness.

"Let's hope Cokeham's cousin is an early
riser," muttered Perry, yawning as he brought his mount up
alongside Crusader. "God knows I'm not."

Indeed, his eyes were heavy with lack of
sleep, and just ahead, Hugh's head kept drooping, only to snap up
again as the baronet jerked himself awake.

"What time
is
it?" Gareth asked.

"Not quite four." Perry stifled another yawn
with one elegant hand. "Tell me, Miss Paige, what do you think of
our illustrious London?"

"It certainly rises early," she noted,
looking about, "as does your English sun." The sky was fiery beyond
the rows of buildings, the sunlight just starting to glow pink and
gold on their grimy windows, but even at this early hour the place
breathed life. A lamplighter was up on his ladder, yawning as he
trimmed and ordered a streetlight and, upon noting their fine
horses and expensive clothes, nodding deferentially to the Den of
Debauchery members as they passed. And there, a woman was standing
just outside her open door, flicking water from her mop, a pair of
wooden pattens protecting her shoes from the wet pavement she had
just cleaned. A watchman ambled past, lamp, watch, and rattle in
hand, whistling as he turned down a side street. They rode up the
Strand, Fleet Street, and toward the imposing dome of St. Paul's, a
sight so beautiful in the early pink and gold light that Juliet
twisted around to stare up at it in awe long after they'd passed
it. Cheapside, now, and the heart of London; the Royal Exchange,
Leadenhall Street, and East India House, all of which Gareth and
Perry took turns pointing out to a wide-eyed and wondrous Juliet.
She saw prostitutes lying drunk in gutters and doorways, rag-tag
gangs of child pickpockets, a few fancy carriages on their way home
from somewhere. Down side streets as narrow as a needle she saw
glimpses of the silvery River Thames, where the masts of great
sea-going ships caught the first light of dawn. Milkmaids,
fishmongers, and bakers began crying their wares. The sky grew
brighter. The smells of the great city were many and varied, and
over that of fish and slops and horse dung hung the pungent scent
of coal smoke.

They turned away from the river, heading
northeast up Whitechapel until Cokeham, leading the way, turned
left onto Brick Lane. The beery scent of a brewery hung heavily in
the air here, and Juliet could see that this area was not as
affluent as some of those through which they had come. As she
wondered about the long skylights built into the roofs of the
humble dwellings here, Lord Gareth explained that Spitalfields was
a velvet and silk weaving center, and the design and placement of
the skylights made best use of the daylight that managed to get
through the coal smoke, thus aiding the weavers at their looms.

Juliet shuddered.
Charlotte and I could
have ended up here,
she thought, greatly humbled.
If Lord
Gareth hadn't come along to rescue us, if we'd continued on our way
to London uninterrupted, we might well have found ourselves in one
of these sad little houses after my money ran out. Thank you, dear
God, for sending Lord Gareth to us. I don't know if I'm doing the
right thing by marrying him, but, oh, please let me at least be
grateful to him for saving us from such a fate as this...

And then Cokeham pulled up his horse before
a neat brick house and a stone church with a tall, graceful spire.
Juliet felt her forced gratitude fading as stark reality took over
— and the first wave of dread clawed at the shore of her
resolve.

She was getting married. Here. Now.

To a man who was as far from her ideal as
London was from Boston.

"Here we are," Cokeham announced,
cheerfully. "Let's go, you two!"

The others were already dismounting, joking
with one another, making the sort of loud comments that equated
marriage to prison, marriage to death, marriage to being devoured
by lions or suffocated by petticoats. The sort of comments that
men
always made, Juliet thought, distractedly.

Lord Gareth leaned close to her ear.
"Nervous, Miss Paige?" he teased.

She willed her pounding heart to be calm,
fought the feeling of foreboding that was squeezing her chest,
wished she had a weapon with which to brain Chilcot, who was
hopping around on one foot, miming shackles and giggling like the
idiot he was. "In truth, my lord, yes. But I'm sure we'll both be
happier after the deed is done."

"You sound as though the idea does not
appeal to you."

She watched Cokeham open the iron gate and
swagger up to the vicarage, banging the knocker sharply and turning
to laugh at Chilcot's foolishness. "I'm sorry. It's just that
..."

That you're nothing like Charles, and he's
the sort of man I should be marrying, not you.

"That what, Miss Paige? Do you find me
wanting in some way, shape, or form?"

"No, Lord Gareth. It's nothing. Just bridal
jitters, that is all."

And then the door was swinging wide, and
Cokeham was hurriedly beckoning them all in.

Chapter 13

Carrying a candle and still in his
nightshirt and cap, the Reverend Harold Paine swept into the room
in a high dudgeon. A special license? An immediate marriage? Could
this not wait until a decent hour? Could they not wait for the
banns to be posted? He went on sputtering until Gareth calmly
reached into his pocket and pulled out some money. The vicar
stared, then went still. His eyes grew round, his lips parted in a
perfect
O
, and he hurriedly sent the poor, yawning
housekeeper off to bring his guests tea, bread, and butter.

"Sit down, sit down!" he cried, suddenly all
smiles.

Gareth seated Juliet, then took a chair
beside her. By the light of a candle, and with the Den of
Debauchery members hovering over their shoulders, he began counting
out money. It took a third of what he had to convince the clergyman
to perform the ceremony — and another quarter of what was left to
bring the man back on course when he balked upon learning that the
bridegroom's brother was none other than the mighty Duke of
Blackheath — who, Paine protested nervously, was sure to oppose
this "hasty and clandestine union to a 'colonial nobody'." But
Gareth, not so unlike his older brother, was in total command of
the situation.

"Then I suppose I must go elsewhere, my dear
fellow," he said with cheerful nonchalance. "There are plenty of
vicars in and around London who will marry us if you will not."

Paine hesitated, torn between greed and fear
of the notoriously dangerous Duke of Blackheath. Gareth shrugged
and began to take the money back. His bluff worked. Moments later a
messenger was despatched. By the time the sun was high and the
traffic heavy in the street outside, the servant had returned with
a special license from the archbishop.

Immediately, they all filed into the
church.

It was cold and still inside. The scent of
old, musty tapestries, of damp stone and candles long since burned,
filled the huge nave. The vastness of the chamber echoed their
every footstep, their every cough, their every nervous whisper. As
the others moved down the flagstoned aisle toward the chancel,
Gareth paused to take off his surtout, gently placing it around
Juliet's shoulders. Hugging the baby to her, she flashed him a
smile of gratitude and looked away, but not before he saw the
anguish in her eyes, the tightness around her mouth and the tiny
lines that pleated her forehead. He raised his eyebrows,
surprised.

"Such a woeful face!" he teased, adjusting
the overcoat. "Cheer up, lest they all think you do not want
me!"

"It's not that, Lord Gareth."

"Then what is it?"

"It doesn't matter. Come, let's just get on
with it."

Let's just get on with it.
Her air of
resigned defeat alarmed and hurt him. What was wrong? Did she find
him wanting? Was she angry with him, thinking he was marrying her
only to get back at Lucien? Or was she —
please God, no
—
comparing him to Charles and finding him lacking?

After all, that's what everyone else had
always done.

As he offered his elbow, she stayed him with
gentle pressure on his arm. "But then again, maybe the reverend's
right, Lord Gareth," she said slowly, for his ears alone. "I'm just
a colonial nobody, and you can do much better than me."

"I'm not even going to honor that remark
with an answer," he said with false brightness.
Bloody hell.
Is
it Charles?
"And furthermore, I think it's time we
dispense with the 'Lord Gareth' and 'Miss Paige' bit, don't you?
After all, we shall soon be married."

"Marriage is not a union in which to enter
lightly —"

"I can assure you, my sweet, we are not
entering it lightly. You need a husband. Charlotte needs a father.
And I —" he grinned and dramatically clapped a hand to his chest
before executing a little bow — "am in a position to help you both.
One cannot get any more serious than that, eh?"

"This isn't funny, Lord Gareth."

"It's not so very terrible, either."

"I don't think this is quite what Charles
had in mind when he bade me to come to England —"

"Look Juliet, Charles is
dead
.
Whatever he had in mind no longer matters. You and I are alive, and
we must seek the best solution to your — and Charlotte's —
predicament." He lifted her chin with his finger and smiled down
into her troubled eyes. "Now, let's see some joy on that pretty
face of yours. I don't want my friends to think you're miserable
about marrying me."

Juliet swallowed. A few locks of tawny hair
had escaped his queue and now framed his face. He looked divinely
handsome, his chin set off by the flawless knot of lace at his
throat, and that slow, teasing smile of his warmer than an August
sun. Oh, no, Juliet thought, she could never be miserable about
marrying him. It wasn't that at all.

It wasn't that they barely knew, let alone
loved each other. It wasn't that she had no idea what sort of a
husband or father he would make, or that she didn't even know where
they'd sleep tonight, or that he had carelessly frittered away so
much money — money that could have been spent on food and shelter
and other necessities that were far more important than a bribe for
a marriage license.

She looked desperately toward the altar
where the others already waited, looked even more desperately
toward the door, while inside of her everything began screaming in
protest, the warning voices —
this is wrong, wrong, wrong!
—
growing louder and louder until she wanted to clap her hands to her
ears to block them all out.

God help her, it was because of —

"Ready now, Juliet?"

She closed her eyes as a deep shudder went
through her. Dampness broke out all down her spine, and a sudden,
sick feeling lodged in the pit of her stomach. "Yes, Lord Ga —"

"Ah!" He raised his forefinger and both
brows.

Her shoulders slumped. "I mean, Gareth."

"That's better.
Now
you're ready, I
think." Again that light, teasing grin that brought out his dimple
and made his lazy blue eyes sparkle like the sea. "Shall we?"

He walked her up the aisle between the pews,
his stride easy, confident, and assured. Their shoes echoed over
tombstones laid flat in the floor, and flagstones worn smooth by
the passage of years of feet. Charlotte clung tightly to Juliet,
staring about her with wide, curious eyes.

Juliet's heart beat louder. Faster. She felt
sick.

"If you'll both just stand up here, please,"
Paine instructed, directing them to a spot just before the altar.
"Bride to the left of the groom, please. Who shall give her
away?"

"No one," Juliet said.

Paine frowned. "Right, then. Whom do you
want as witnesses?"

Gareth crooked a finger at his best friend,
standing nearby and watching with cool gray eyes. "Perry? And you,
too, Cokeham. After all, coming here was your idea."

Cokeham grinned and, puffing his chest out
with importance, swaggered forward.

Paine wasted no time. He turned and lit
several candles. They flared to life, solemn points of flickering
light that did little to penetrate the church's heavy gloom.
Someone coughed. Charlotte let out a complaining whimper, and
Juliet, nervously hugging the baby to her, shuddered beneath the
warmth of her bridegroom's expensive, silk-lined surtout.

She stole a nervous glance at him, standing
there with his weight and hand on one hip, the hand rumpling up one
tail of his frock as he traded a joke or two with Perry and laughed
with as much abandon as if he were at a county fair instead of his
own wedding. He was perfectly at ease, shamelessly handsome. Any
other woman would have been happy to be standing in her place.

"Be a good fellow, Perry old man, and be my
looking glass!" he quipped, as he tried to arrange the frills of
his cravat around the sapphire brooch pinned in its center. "Do I
look as well as I should?"