Yankee Earl (34 page)

      
She was simply the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. God, how he desired her! And he was honor bound not to touch her. He had given his word. Now, standing before the altar in this old church, he wanted desperately to recant; but knew he could not.

      
Her wide hazel-green eyes were dark with unhappiness. She held her head high, her face grim as she walked toward him. She could be facing the gallows. And perhaps, to the wild, free Rachel Fairchild who loved riding astride and working in the dirt with her tenant farmers, this was a fate worse than hanging. But he would leave her free to return to her old life, unencumbered by a husband she did not want. Was that not enough? he thought pettishly. What else could he do except hold to their devil's bargain?

      
He willed her to meet his eyes as she drew near, but she did not. Thick sable lashes lowered, shielding her inner emotions from his probing stare. When Harleigh gave her over to him, she stepped forward like a sleepwalker. Jason took her hand, shocked by its coldness. She was numb with shock. He should have remained angry with her. But he could not.

      
A wave of protective tenderness swept over him as he enveloped her slender hand in his and they knelt before the priest. At last she met his gaze. His fiercely independent, boldly unconventional countess was terrified by all this pomp and circumstance.

      
They went through the exchange of vows, making all the appropriate responses in the appropriate places, but neither registered a word that was said. At the appropriate time, he placed the ring on her finger, a large square-cut pink diamond surrounded by tiny rubies in a heavy gold setting. The ring had been in the Beaumont family for a dozen generations. Every Marchioness of Cargrave had worn it. Now it rested on Rachel's long, slender hand.

      
When the priest gave the benediction and pronounced them man and wife, Jason helped her rise as her sisters fussed with the heavy lace train. Before they knew it, the bridal couple was surrounded with beaming well-wishers as they walked slowly up the aisle and made their way out into the bright sunlight.

      
The marriage of any peer drew a crowd of London's “great unwashed,” but since Jason Beaumont was the infamous Yankee earl and Cargrave's heir, interest was especially high. A phalanx of footmen held the throng at bay as Falconridge guided his new bride down the steps of the church. Cargrave's most handsome carriage, pulled by a set of matching grays, awaited to whisk them to the wedding breakfast at the marquess' city house.

      
Jason assisted his bride into the carriage as Harry oversaw the arrangement of Rachel's train, scolding a footman who dared to let one corner of the lace touch the ground before it was carefully folded on a velvet cushion. Once the bridal couple was seated side by side, the driver cracked his whip, starting the horses off at a smart clip.

      
Once they were alone, Jason and Rachel became acutely aware of each other. On several occasions when they had been this close together, they had nearly given in to the fierce desire that always hummed between them. Both thought of that now. Neither said a word. At length, desperate to take his mind off the alluring scent of roses and the feminine bounty that was Rachel, Jason broke the silence, blurting out the first thing that came to mind.

      
“Does the ring fit? When I inquired of your sister as to size so the jeweler could adjust it, she said she had no idea because you'd never worn a ring in your life.”

      
“Tis a perfect fit,” she replied, glancing down at the heavy diamond winking brilliantly in the bright sunlight.

      
“You have never favored jewelry. What a rarity in a female. My mother and sister collect baubles with utter glee.”

      
"It feels as if it weighs two stone at the least. Of course, I shall return it to the marquess after…you are gone," she added awkwardly. Not wishing to dwell upon that, she said, "I have worn some of the Harleigh jewels when occasion demanded."

      
“Such as emeralds and tiger's eyes? I remember how the tiger's eyes set off your unusual coloring.” He remembered altogether too much of that first night when he'd learned about his grandfather's machinations. He noted that she looked away as if she, too, was recalling how they had plotted to avoid this day back then.

      
Change the subject,
he urged himself. “Do you suppose my grandfather chose St. George's as a sop to his vanity?”

      
Rachel looked up into his face then. His expression revealed nothing but the cocky grin back in place. She felt on safe ground now, smiling back. “Although I do not doubt that George Beaumont believes the patron saint of England is named after him and not the other way about, 'twas my father who selected the church. Generations of Fairchilds have wed there.”

      
“He did seem pleased when we passed him after the ceremony.”

      
“More like relieved to have me safely wed. I'm certain he harbored a suspicion that I would bolt at the altar and leap astride a carriage horse to make my escape,” she replied, trying to keep the tone light.

      
He frowned for an instant, then said, “When I watched you walking down the aisle, I had that fear myself.”

      
“Well, it would certainly have solved your problems. And you looked no happier than did I, all grimflashy with fists clenched as if I were an opposing pugilist,” she said crossly.

      
Jason forced himself to laugh. “Tis an apt comparison, considering how we have sparred ever since we first met.” He would never allow her to know how accursedly difficult it would be the next two nights to have her sleeping in the room beside his and not enter it.

      
“Rather more like wrestling in the mud than merely sparring, if memory serves me,” she replied.

      
“Ah, yes, I do seem to recall your lovely body covered with mud…and water,” he said in a husky voice, unable to stop himself.

      
Rachel's heartbeat suddenly speeded up and her mouth went bone dry. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue before she was able to speak. Then some bold imp made her reply, “I should not talk of water were I you, m'lord earl, after your sojourn in the pool with Paris and Adonis.”

      
“And with you. You were an infinitely more agreeable companion. Smaller fangs.” His tone matched the dark fires leaping in his eyes as they gazed intently at her mouth.

      
He is going to kiss me!
Rachel was powerless to look away even though she feared her very soul must be bared to him.

      
Jason leaned closer, his lips drawn like a magnet to hers as he took a silky tendril of hair trailing over her shoulder and wound it about his finger.

      
Just then the carriage came to an abrupt stop, breaking the spell and throwing them both back against the seat cushions. “Sorry, m'lord, m'lady,” the driver said, turning toward them in red-faced embarrassment. That ale wagon near run me down.” His eyes narrowed on a heavy dray laden with barrels that had pulled in front of them from a side alley.

      
As the flustered driver attempted to calm his skittering grays, Jason and Rachel struggled to compose themselves. Silently Jason watched as she smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her gown.
How the hell had that happened?
they both asked themselves.

      
The carriage started up again as the marquess and viscount in the second vehicle pulled close behind them. The two old men exchanged conspiratorially gleeful looks. Since both carriages were open, they had avidly watched the interlude between bride and groom. Cargrave rubbed his hands together. “I would wager they'll produce an heir before the year's out.”

      
Harleigh smiled, his pop eyes wide with pleasure. “I would not care to bet against you on that one, my friend.”

      
Fox, who was riding with them, listened and said nothing, feeling guilty over what was to transpire in two days.

      
The scent of roses teased Jason's nostrils as he pictured again the way her tongue had darted out to moisten those lush lips. What man alive could have resisted kissing her? He vowed to be very careful. And honest. “If our plan is to set you free of me, Countess, we had best beware the next few days.”

      
Rachel had been fussing with the yards of train now tangled at her feet. She sat back and turned to look him in the eye. She could not dissemble, damn the Yankee clodpole. He knew that she understood his meaning. "Twas you who started playing games again, m'lord. Not I." She was proud of her level tone of voice.

      
Jason shrugged in good-natured concession. “We do strike sparks from each other, Countess.” His eyes studied hers, trying to gauge her reaction.

      
Rachel willed herself to return the insouciant gesture with a smile. “Nay, nay, m'lord, 'tis you who are the fiery one; but if you will recall, I know well how to use water to douse your…spark.”

      
He shook his head. “Alas, we're back to water again. My downfall.” Suddenly he began frantically lifting the folds of her voluminous train, attempting to peer underneath.

      
She slapped his hand. “Woodcock, what, pray tell, are you doing?”

      
He looked at her with feigned suspicion. “Where have you hidden those damned dogs?”

      
They grinned at each other, not for the first time realizing how much they enjoyed such verbal sparring. But it was the first time they were both willing to let it show. Jason was sure it was a mistake, but one he seemed powerless to stop. Rachel considered it a good omen for the night ahead.

      
Best not overplay her hand yet. She nodded, then leaned back primly against the squabs and said, “We shall be saved from our own tempestuous natures by our audience, m'lord earl. Might I remind you that your grandfather and father-in-law are watching every move we make?” She smiled mischievously. “Of course, we could come to blows right now. That would teach the meddlesome old buggers.”

      
Jason threw back his head and roared.

* * * *

      
The wedding festivities at Cargrave's city house went on interminably to Drum's mind. He was eager to resume the search for Forrestal. When one of his runners from Bow Street arrived just as they were being seated for the wedding breakfast, he was relieved to make his excuses with regret, then depart on the chase. Some of the guests murmured about the mysterious errand, while others noted the satisfied nod of the old marquess' head when the dandy conferred with him and the earl. Something was afoot, but speculations about the matter were quickly eclipsed by those regarding the new bride and groom.

      
What a splendid, striking couple they made. Whoever would have imagined that the hoydenish Rachel Fairchild would be such a regal countess? The bold Yankee earl must be responsible for the miraculous change in her volatile nature. He had indeed tamed a shrew. Several gentlemen were said to remark that they wished they knew the secret American men possessed.

      
“A toast, ladies and gentlemen,” the marquess said, bringing the happy chatter in the room to a sudden halt as he stood up with a glass of champagne raised. To my grandson, who has chosen most wisely, and to the magnificent new Countess of Falconridge.”

      
To shouts of “Hear, hear!” and “Congratulations!” Jason and Rachel nodded, smiling as was expected of them. Everyone urged him to propose his own toast. Slowly he stood, then took Rachel's hand and pulled her up beside him.

      
“To you, Countess,” he said gravely; then to break the solemnity of the moment, he added, “And this time I hope you will drink the wine, and not dispose of it as you did when our betrothal was announced.” He linked the arm holding his glass around her arm holding her glass, then raised his to his lips. Rachel paused for a moment, as if considering. The guests held their collective breath. When there was complete silence, she drank. Everyone burst out with applause and relieved chuckles.

      
“Now you are my countess indeed,” he murmured softly to her.

      
No, she would only be his countess if tonight went as she planned, but Rachel schooled her face to reveal nothing of that.

      
They stared at each other over the rims of their glasses, arms still linked, each contemplating the night that lay ahead. And how they would get through it.

Chapter Eighteen

      
Because the city house was filled with servants bustling about and guests demanding attention, the bridal couple were able to go their separate ways during the interminable afternoon. Rachel closeted herself with her sisters, who insisted she take a revitalizing nap before the ball that evening. She was grateful to shed, even briefly, the cumbersome wedding gown and all that it symbolized, though she could not relax sufficiently to catch even a moment's sleep.