Wicked Becomes You (32 page)

Three million pounds. Alex’s hair was rumpled—from her fingers, as only she knew; from her kisses, from the moans she had breathed into his hair just now.

She had wondered—had raged—had asked herself again and again what could have driven a bankrupt man away from three million pounds. Had asked herself what was wrong with her.

Nothing
. That had been her answer, in the end.

Everything about you is right.

“What is it?” He searched her eyes, his own so light, such a light and clear blue, that one could almost convince oneself they were transparent, truly the windows into his brain and heart and soul. His hand was gripping her arm; she did not know when he had taken hold of her. “Gwen,
what is it
?”

She could not believe this of him. She cleared her throat. She meant to speak strongly, to indicate with her tone how absurd she found Trent’s claim.

Instead, what came out was a whisper. “Was it you?”

At the top of the room, the orchestra was sawing into some wild melody, a reel, a schottische, something that made the crowd squeal, sparking a sudden rush into the dance, crushing bystanders back toward the walls, elbows and heels jostling and knocking her like so much flotsam into Alex’s chest. She took a step back, stamping on someone’s hem, eliciting a squeal that she ignored.

He did not answer her. He was staring at her with a look she could not decipher. He was so good at impassivity when it suited him.

She squared her shoulders. “Alex.” He lifted his hand as if to touch her cheek. “Are you the reason they jilted me?”

His hand paused, a hair’s breadth from her face.

He did not need to answer. The muscle in his jaw replied for him. He was clenching his teeth to bite something back. So much for fearlessness in the face of unpleasant truths.

So much for impassivity, too. At least she had that much satisfaction.

She turned on her heel. He caught her elbow and pulled her back. “Not Pennington,” he said. “I have no idea what happened with Pennington. There was nothing in his history, nothing in his relationships that would account for it—”

“In his history?” She gaped at him. “Alex, did you—did you set
spies
on my fiancés? As if . . . as if they were your business competitors?”

His hand fell away. “I made a promise to your brother,” he said flatly. “I did what I could to honor it.”

Disbelieving laughter scraped out of her throat. “Oh yes, so I see. You spied on these men—”

“
I
did nothing,” he said tersely. “I hired private investigators. Pennington turned out to be unobjectionable.
Seemed
to be, at any rate. Trent did not. So I intervened.”

“Intervened.” She shook her head slowly. “Intervened. You mean that rather than coming to
me
, sharing with
me
this mysterious knowledge of his . . . his
objectionable nature—
objectionable in
your
view, at least—”

“Syphilis,” he said curtly. “If your view differs, you are standing in a very peculiar place.”

“I don’t care what it was!” Although, God above, that did explain his sickly appearance, and perhaps his indiscretion, too. She would spare a prayer for him tonight. “You did not come to me. You did not tell me!”

“I couldn’t—” He cursed. “I couldn’t be sure that you would . . .”

“Would believe you? Would show good sense? Would
value
myself enough to avoid sacrificing my health for a title?” She scoffed. “God above, you must think me the
stupidest
woman on the planet.”

“No.” His voice was flat now. “But could you blame me if I did?” So unapologetically he spoke. “Your choices in men do not recommend your intellect.”

Temper whipped through her. “Yes, so I see. How very stupid I must be. How else have I ended up engaged to marry
you
? A manipulative bully who sabotaged my wedding so you—so you could . . .
what
?
How did
you
stand to gain from this? Or is it so obvious? I say, Alex—have
you
been having financial difficulties?” She heard the ugliness creeping into her voice, but she had no interest in dispelling it. Dear God—only minutes ago, she had been begging him to take her. To
have
her. This man who thought her too stupid to decide for herself what and whom she wanted! “You needn’t make the greatest sacrifice,” she said. “I am glad to offer my brother’s dear friend a loan. Marriage is not required.”

He looked now as cold and disinterested as though he were disputing with a stranger. “I assure you, Gwen, I do not require your aid. Unlike some, I plan very carefully before I enter rash ventures.”

“Yes, so you do,” she agreed. “And tell me, what does your careful planning entail? Threats? Blackmail? What did you use to drive Trent off?”

“He did not wish certain news to be made public,” he said evenly. “So I did him the favor of keeping it private.”

“Blackmail,” she whispered. She put her hand to her mouth to trap a laugh, but it came out anyway—wild, a little unbalanced. “Do you know what I felt—what I thought—how I doubted myself afterward! And none of it had anything to do with me! All that time . . . and then, when it happened
again
—I was so
sure
with Pennington—”

“Gwen.” He seized her by the shoulders, and for a shocked moment she thought he would shake her. But his fingers merely pressed her upper arms, each finger asserting itself distinctly, as if he was trying to imprint the pattern in her flesh. “Gwen,” he said, leaning in, perhaps so his quieter tone would carry amidst the revelry around them, “I swear on everything I hold dear—my sisters, my nieces, Richard,
you
—that I had nothing to do with the viscount.”

She stared at him, wondering desperately if she could trust his word.

How amazing. Only minutes ago, she’d been wondering if he could love her.

How sad that she found him easier to credit on the matter of the viscount.

“I believe you,” she said slowly. She tried to pull free, but his hands tightened once more. His expression was beginning to frighten her. He looked—grim, his mouth tense, his eyes hooded. As though he was folding in on himself, shuttering, shutting himself away.

“What does this change?” he asked. He spoke so flatly and rapidly that it took a moment to work out that he was asking her a question.

He was asking if the wedding was to be canceled.

She felt a pang of loss, a flash of panic, the sort of hot, deep spark that created firestorms.
Alex
, she thought.
Smile at me. Tell me you love me.

On the heels of this thought, which her lips even opened to speak, came a lash of anger.

Again and again and again. How many times would she repeat her mistakes?
Lie to me. Tell me what I wish to hear. Sing me sweet lies.

“Will you be at the altar tomorrow?” she asked. Her voice came out so coldly. It seemed to belong to some other woman, who never cried.

“Yes,” he said. His eyes never left hers. “I do not break a promise.”

Now, no talk of love. Now the talk turned to
responsibility
. “No,” she said. “You never do break a promise, I suppose. But there is always a first time. I encourage you to consider the novelty.”

“Gwen.” He spoke slowly and emphatically. “This is God’s own truth: I will leave the altar after you do.”

“I suppose we’ll find out.” She pulled her mask back over her face and turned on her heel.

This time, he did not try to stop her from leaving.

He hoped, then, as he waited and his sisters leaned over their husbands to chat with Lady Weston and various girl children gamboled on the floor and Gerard spoke in low, officious, threatening tones to the cowed minister, that she would not appear. If she appeared now, knowing what she did, knowing the one thing that Alex had thought to keep from her (because why should she know at this late date? She had not loved Trent; she would not have married him had she known; no harm had been done; the secret was old and expired and inert and harmless, like gunpowder left to rot on the ocean floor; also, he was a bloody high-handed idiot)—if she appeared now knowing that he had kept this from her, she came to marry a man who didn’t deserve her. And he wanted her only if she knew her own worth and deemed him worthy of her all the same.

He was a twisted bastard, and if he had a shred of honor in him, he would tell her to tell him to go to hell. If he had a single instinct of self-preservation, he would do the same, because he did not think their union would flourish if she went into it in this fashion. He would love her with all the intensity in him—but he knew himself well enough to know his own faults. Impatient and judgmental and stubborn and often too quick to act: he would try never to crush her, never to overwhelm her or bend her to his will, but if she did not demand only the best from him, it would happen. It might happen. Possibly.

A good man would have found a way to pull her aside and tell her these things. To warn her.

To hell with good men. They made for very sympathetic characters when they lost, but he aimed to win.

The door opened. Elma and Henry Beecham walked in, Gwen between them. She was dressed in a simple white morning gown, the neckline shrouded by a fringed white pashmina; in her left hand was a bouquet of pink roses. She met his eyes and held them as the minister crossed to stand behind the makeshift pulpit—a podium Gerard had purloined from his club. The twins exclaimed and came to their feet, pulling up their assorted daughters; their husbands remained seated, looking a bit puzzled, as well they might, about why such ceremony was required in somebody’s goddamned library. Alex was already standing at his station. He had been standing here for some time. He had not wanted to risk Gwen’s early appearance and an empty altar to greet her.

“Cue bridal music,” Caroline cried out gaily as Elma released Gwen. Henry Beecham, silver mustache twitching in what might equally have been a smile or a grimace, squared his shoulders and led Gwen the short steps to Alex’s side.

He could not read the expression in her rich brown eyes. Or perhaps he was misreading it, for to his mind, she stared at him as belligerently as any opponent in the
salle d’armes.
He took her hand, and her fingers tapped across his, a decisive little Morse code whose meaning he would give an arm to decipher. Her plump mouth was a flat, determined line.

The minister began to speak.

Her look seemed more and more clearly like a challenge.

“Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife,” the minister began. Terribly nasal drone, there. Like a hive of bees.

Her brow lifted as the minister fell silent. Alex had the faintest inkling of suspicion. “I do,” he said slowly.

The minister nodded and turned to Gwen. “Do you take this man . . .”

She nodded along as the question was being asked of her. When the churchman concluded, she glanced away to survey the whole room before returning her gaze to Alex.

“What a novel question,” she said.

The minister gave a visible start. “I beg your pardon?”

He was not mistaken. He knew what was coming. She was going to give him a taste of the panic she had experienced. A queer mix of feelings stirred in him—amusement and pride and love warring with regret and the inevitable disbelief. With an effort, he produced a droll tone. “She never has made it this far before,” he told the minister.

“No, never,” she said thoughtfully. Alex tried for a smile in reply, a silent message to her:
You see how well I understand you?

But a moment’s doubt sabotaged his attempt at lightness. She looked to be biting the inside of her cheek. That he did not understand. Did she need the pain to control a smile, or to steel her will? But no act of will was required. Did she not realize that? He would give her as much time as she needed to decide, here. He would even sweat for her, if she would enjoy it.

“Well, miss?” the minister prompted.

“Speak, Gwen,” Elma said irritably. “This game is not amusing.”

Gwen took a breath. “No,” she said. “It is not amusing. None of it. I do
not
take this man to be my husband.”

Well. Alex exhaled.

That was a bit more than indecision.

How comical to have hoped, even briefly, that she would settle for merely twitting him.

Not a coward, she looked him squarely in the eye. “I cannot marry you,” she said.

He had not expected this. His disbelief was too large to manage, or marshal into words.

The stunned silence could not last, though. “
What?
” Elma cried.

Gwen looked toward the gathered company. “I do beg your pardon,” she said, then paused to clear her throat. Her voice only trembled a little as she pushed onward. “I know this is a disappointment to everybody.” She looked down to the bouquet, fumbling as she tried to remove the strap from her wrist. The gesture, after a moment, became a frantic sort of clawing.

As if in a dream, Alex watched himself reach out and slide the ribbon off her hand.
Freed
, he thought.
Remember this moment, Gwen. From here on out, you’re fair game for the chase.

She gave him a look of astonishment as he took the flowers. He no doubt looked equally astonished. He could not believe she’d done this. She was braver even than he’d imagined.

The thought clamped down on his next breath. In fact, he had
counted
on her being less brave than this. Lovemaking was not without possible consequences, and—so he realized, all at once—he had assumed, God forgive him, that her fear of those consequences would hold her to him as much as the love that she did, she
must
feel for him.

But if she was so unafraid, what might she not do? She might well walk out of this room and never look back to him, no matter what had passed between them.

He looked down at the bouquet. His mind felt strangely sluggish. “Lovely roses.”
Oh, brilliant remark.
“Gloire de Dijon, I think?” A thousand times he’d won the advantage in tricky negotiations by thinking on his feet, and now a remark on
flowers
was the best he could manage?

Her chest rose and fell on a deep breath. “Sir,” she said. “I do hope you will survive this, the tarnish of your first jilting.”

Smart girl. She would not be distracted by talk of roses.

“But you will understand,” she continued, “at least I think you will, when I tell you that there can be no more sham marriages for me.”

Sham marriages?
His brain latched onto that phrase and demanded that it anger him. His senses were attuned to other, more important details. Her blanched face. Her shoulders, which kilted at an unnaturally straight angle.

His wits began to reassemble. She was jilting him by the skin of her teeth, here. It was costing her some great and terrible effort.

There was hope in that fact. More than hope. She would never come to him out of fear. She would only come to him in honesty. He almost wanted to take her hand and give her the encouragement she needed. To say,
It’s all right; keep going. Give me hell. You’re almost done.

A thorn stabbed his palm: his hand was crushing the bouquet. He did not look down. “Bravo,” he murmured to her. Her courage deserved his admiration. “Well done, Gwen. Fearless.”

The remark visibly confused her. She took a step back from him. A tremor moved her mouth. “Was this always a joke to you, then?” she whispered. “Did you never mean any of it?”

“
No
.” He stepped forward, heedless of the company, to slide his palm around the back of her neck. “I meant every word.” Distantly he heard Gerard’s protest, his sisters’ sharp rebuttal, Henry Beecham’s harrumph. None of it mattered. Into Gwen’s ear, he said, “You’ve just jilted me, darling. Wait at least five minutes before you goad me into proposing marriage again.”

She recoiled so fast that it was a wonder her head did not strike the wall behind her. “You’re mad,” she said, wide-eyed.

“In love,” he said.

“I highly doubt it.”

He took a sharp breath. “Yes, I see that you do.” Enough, now, with flippancy: he felt the last thing from flippant. “I will have to prove it to you, then.”

“No.” She shook her head once. “Do not bother. I am sure you love me as much as you love Heverley End. But I told you, Alex, I am
done
with these shams.”

Heverley End? What in God’s name did that pathetic little estate have to do with anything? “And well you should be done with them,” he said, the first strop of temper roughening his voice. “But if you count me in with the other two shams you have courted, then you’re lying to yourself. I am not another Pennington. I need nothing from you but
you
. And I am not going to walk away.”

Gwen’s lips parted. She stared at him, her expression arrested; almost, it seemed, she started to speak. Every fiber in him tightened in anticipation.

And then another voice—Gerard’s voice—thundered, “What the hell is going on here?”

She cast a glance over Alex’s shoulder at the blustering ass, then snatched up her skirts. Her brown eyes flashed toward Alex; her chin lifted. “You do not need to walk away,” she said. “
I
will.” And turning on her heel, she bolted for the door.

Dumb surprise dulled his reflexes. After such bravery, she would flee like a coward?

A second too late, he lunged for her elbow—he would be
damned
if she would leave like this. But Elma and Caroline rose up in front of him, Caro catching hold of his hand, Elma’s face flushed and furious. “What did you do!” Elma cried. “What did you—
oh
!” She whirled and ran after Gwen.

The door thumped shut as Caroline hung like a dead weight on his elbow. “Not now,” she was saying into his ear. “Alex,
not now
. Heaven knows what ails her but she’s in no state to hear you! Give her a minute—an hour, perhaps—”

An hour?
He took a step backward. An hour to do
what
? What in God’s name ailed her?

The question echoed in his brain and finally pulled him to a halt. He did not fully understand what had happened here. He’d had no opportunity to find out. How the hell could he fix it, then?

He turned on his brother, who was standing with arms crossed and brow furrowed, so comfortably and self-righteously aggrieved. “Can you never keep your mouth shut? Christ—five minutes, Gerard! Would that be so much to ask?”

“I quite agree,” Belinda snapped.

Gerard went purple, choking on his own words as he waved wordlessly toward Alex for the benefit of the glaring company. “Can . . . can . . . can he not even manage to get
married
without driving off the goddamned bride? Do you know how hard I worked to get that license—not to mention this goddamned minister—”

“Sir,” the minister gasped. “Your language is blasphemous!”

“Blasphemy, is it? What of him? What do you call what
he—
”

“Could you
both
desist from fighting for once?” This from Caroline, who set hands to hips and looked sternly between them. Alex’s niece, Madeleine, clambered to her feet as well, mimicking her mother’s pose with a fiercely jutting five-year-old lip.

This miniature imitation caught Gerard’s attention and neatly deflated him. He muttered some expletive in tones too soft to corrupt young minds. Then, at normal volume, he added with disgust, “Thoroughly typical.”

Alex looked at him. What a pathetically poor judgment of the situation. Typical would be brilliant. Typical would be much easier. It would mean a cool head and calm confidence.
I will fix this
:
that was his typical resolve, the tried-and-tested approach. But he had no idea who had created this particular mess.

He turned away to stare at nothing. His role in the Trent debacle could not fully explain this. His handling of that episode had done him no credit, but it certainly did not, in any way, give Gwen cause to doubt his love—or to think him in any way similar to the two
shams
that had greeted her at more formal altars.

The door thudded again, this time on the exit of Henry Beecham.

The minister snatched up his Bible and, with a hunted look, ducked out after Beecham.