Читать книгу The Accidental Princess - Michelle Willingham - Страница 11

‘What do you want?’

Michael’s response was a slow smile, letting her imagine all the things he might do to a stolen bride, if they were alone.

Hannah’s expression appeared shocked. ‘I would never do such a thing. This is an arrangement, nothing more.’

Her face had gone pale, and Michael pulled back, putting physical distance between them. ‘Don’t you recognise teasing when you hear it, sweet?’

She looked bewildered, but shook her head. ‘Don’t make fun of me, please. This is about Belgrave. I simply can’t marry him.’

‘Then don’t.’

‘It’s not that simple. Already my mother has decided it would be the best future for me.’ Hannah rubbed at her temples absently. ‘I don’t know what I can do to convince her otherwise.’

‘It’s very simple. Tell her no.’

She was already shaking her head, making excuses to herself. ‘I can’t. She won’t listen to a thing I say.’

‘You’ve never disobeyed them, have you?’

‘No.’ She seemed lost, so vulnerable that he half-wished there was someone who could take care of her. Not him. There was no hope of that. She was far better off away from a man like himself.

‘No one can force you to marry. Not even your father.’ He adjusted her shawl so it fully covered her shoulders. ‘Hold your ground and endure what you must.’

Visions flooded his mind, of the battle at Balaclava where his men had obeyed that same command. They’d tried valiantly to stand firm before the enemy. A hailstorm of enemy bullets had rained down upon them, men dying by the hundreds.

Was he asking her to do the same? To stand up to her father, knowing that the Marquess would strike her down? Perhaps it was the wrong course of action.

‘I don’t think I can,’ Hannah confessed. She tugged at a finger of her glove, worrying the fabric. ‘Papa can make my life a misery. And I’ll be ruined if I don’t marry.’

Though she was undoubtedly right, he could not allow himself to think about her future. They were worlds apart from one another. She would have to live with whatever choices she made.

‘Time to make your own fortune. If you’re already ruined, you’ve nothing left to lose. Do as you please.’

Hannah stared at him, as though she hadn’t the faintest idea of how a ruined woman should behave. ‘I don’t know. I’ve always…done what I should.’

She took a step towards the house, away from him. He suddenly understood that she’d asked him to rescue her, not because of her parents, but because the need to obey was so deeply ingrained in her. If he kidnapped her from the wedding, she could lay the blame at his feet, not hers.

She’s not your concern, his brain reminded him. Let her make her own choices. Tell her no.

But he didn’t. Though he shouldn’t interfere, neither would he let her marry a man like Belgrave. He let out a breath, and said, ‘Send word to me if anything changes. Your brothers know where I can be found.’

‘Will you be all right?’ she asked in a small voice. ‘What if my father—?’

‘He can do nothing to me,’ Michael interrupted. Within a week or two, there would be hundreds of miles between them. He’d be back with the Army, fighting the enemy and obeying orders until he met his own end. Men like him weren’t good for much else.

The troubled expression on her face hadn’t dimmed. Instead, a bright flush warmed her cheeks. ‘Thank you for agreeing to help me.’ Hannah reached up to her neck and unfastened the diamond necklace. ‘I want you to have this.’

‘Keep it.’ He closed her fingers back over the glittering stones. An innocent like her could never conceive of the consequences, if he were to accept. Her father would accuse him of stealing, no matter that it had been a gift.

‘If you’re planning to keep watch over me, then you’ll need a reason to return.’ She placed it back in his palm.

He hadn’t considered it in that light. ‘You’re right.’ The necklace did give him a legitimate reason to return, and so he hid the jewellery within his pocket.

‘Return in a day or two,’ she ordered. ‘And I’ll see to it that you’re rewarded for your assistance, whether or not it’s needed.’

He wouldn’t accept any compensation from her, though his funds were running out. ‘It’s not necessary.’

‘It is.’

In her green eyes, Michael saw the loss of innocence, the devastating blow to her future. Yet beneath the pain, there was determination.

She crossed her arms, as if gathering her courage. ‘I won’t let my father destroy my future.’ Her expression shifted into a stubborn set. ‘And I won’t let him destroy yours, either.’

The older woman wandered through the streets, her crimson bonnet vivid in the sea of dark brown and black. Michael pushed his way past the fishmongers and vendors, minding his step through Fleet Street.

Mrs Turner was lost again. He quickened his step, moving amid sailors, drovers and butchers. At last, he reached her side.

‘Good morning,’ he greeted her, tipping his hat.

No recognition dawned in her silver-grey eyes, but she offered a faint nod and continued on her path.

Damn. It wasn’t going to be one of her better days. Mrs Turner had been his neighbour and friend for as long as he could remember, but recently she’d begun to suffer spells of forgetfulness from time to time.

He hadn’t known about her condition until he’d returned to London last November. At first, the widow had brought him food and drink, looking after him while he recovered from the gunshot wounds. He’d broken the devastating news of her son Henry’s death at Balaclava.

And as the weeks passed, she began to withdraw, her mind clouding over. There were times when she only remembered things from the past.

Today she didn’t recognise him at all.

Michael tried to think of a way to break through to her lost memory. ‘You’re Mrs Turner, aren’t you?’ he commented, keeping up with her pace. ‘Of Number Eight, Newton Street?’

She stopped walking, fear rising on her face. ‘I don’t know you.’

‘No, no, you probably don’t remember me,’ he said quickly. ‘But I’m a friend of Henry’s.’

The mention of her son’s name made her eyes narrow. ‘I’ve never seen you before.’

‘Henry sent me to fetch you home,’ he said gently. ‘Will you let me walk with you? I’m certain he’s left a pot of whisky and tea for you. Perhaps some marmalade and bread.’

The mention of her favourite foods made her lower lip tremble. Wrinkles edged her eyes, and tears spilled over them. ‘I’m lost, aren’t I?’

He took her hand in his, leading her in the proper direction. ‘No, Mrs Turner.’

As he guided her through the busy streets, her frail hand gripped his with a surprising strength. They drew closer to her home at Peabody Square, and her face began to relax. Whether or not she recognised her surroundings, she seemed more at ease.

Michael helped her inside, and saw that she was out of coal. ‘I’ll just be a moment getting a fire started for you.’ Handing her a crocheted blanket, he settled her upon a rocking chair to wait.

After purchasing a bucket of coal for her, he returned to her dwelling and soon had a fire burning.

Mrs Turner huddled close to it, still wearing her bright red bonnet. He’d given it to her this Christmas, both from her love of the outrageous colour, and because it made it easier to locate her within a crowd of people.

‘Why, Michael,’ she said suddenly, her mouth curving in a warm smile. ‘I didn’t realise you’d come to visit. Make a pot of tea for us, won’t you?’

He exhaled, glad to see that she was starting to remember him. When he brought out the kettle, he saw that she had hardly any water remaining. There was enough to make a pot of tea, though, and he put the kettle on to boil.

‘You’re looking devilishly handsome, I must say.’ She beamed. ‘Where did you get those clothes?’

He didn’t tell her that she’d loaned them to him last night, from her son’s clothing. Bringing up the memory of Henry’s death would only make her cry again.

‘A good friend let me borrow them,’ was all he said. When her tea was ready, he brought her the cup, lacing it heavily with whisky.

She drank heartily, smacking her lips. ‘Ah, now you’re a fine lad, Michael. Tell me about the ball last night. Did you meet any young ladies to marry?’

‘I might have.’ The vision of Lady Hannah’s lovely face came to mind. ‘But they tossed me out on my ear.’

She gave a loud laugh. ‘Oh, they did no such thing, you wretch.’ She drained the mug, and he refilled it with more tea. ‘I’m certain you made all the women swoon. Now, tell me what they were wearing.’ She wrapped the blanket around herself, moving the rocking chair closer to the fire.

While he answered her questions about the Marquess and his vague memory of the women’s gowns, he tried to locate food for her. Scouring her cupboards, he found only a stale loaf of bread. Beside it, he saw a candle, a glove and all of the spoons.

He searched everywhere for marmalade, finally locating it among her undergarments in a drawer. He was afraid to look any further, for fear of what else he might find. Ever since she’d begun having the spells, he’d found all manner of disorganisation in her home.

He cut her a thick slice of bread and slathered it with marmalade. God only knew when she’d eaten last.

Mrs Turner bit into it, sighing happily. ‘Now, then. Who else did you meet at the ball, Michael?’ She lifted her tea up and took another hearty swallow.

‘A foreign gentleman was there,’ he added. ‘Someone from Lohenberg.’

The cup slid from Mrs Turner’s hand, shattering on the floor. Tea spilled everywhere, and her face had gone white.

Michael grabbed a rag and soaked up the spill, cleaning up the broken pieces. ‘It’s all right. I’ll take care of it.’

But when he looked into Mrs Turner’s grey eyes, he saw consummate fear. ‘Who—who was he?’

‘Graf von Reischor,’ he said. ‘The ambassador, I believe. It was nothing.’

He said not a word about the man’s impossible claim, that he looked like their king. But Mrs Turner gripped his hand, her face bone white. ‘No. Oh, no.’

‘What is the matter?’ He stared into her silver eyes, wondering why the mention of Lohenberg would frighten her so. Neither of them had ever left England before.

A few minutes later, Mrs Turner’s face turned distant. She whispered to herself about her son Henry, as though he were a young child toddling toward her.

It was useless to ask her anything now. The madness had descended once more.

Hannah wasn’t entirely certain what a ruined woman should wear, but she felt confident that it wouldn’t be a gown the colour of cream. This morning, Christine Chesterfield had inspected every inch of her attire, fussing over her as if she were about to meet the Queen.

‘Now remember,’ her mother warned, ‘be on your very best behaviour. Pretend that nothing happened the other night.’

Nothing did happen, she wanted to retort, but she feigned subservience. ‘Yes, Mother.’

Christine reached out and adjusted a hairpin, ensuring that not a single strand was out of place. ‘Did you read my list?’

‘Of course.’ Hannah offered the slip of paper, and her mother found a pen, hastily scratching notes.

‘I’ve made changes for tonight. At dinner, you are to wear the white silk gown with the rose embroidery and your pearls. Estelle will fix your hair, and you should be there by eight o’clock.’

Her mother handed her the new list. ‘I have advised Manning not to serve you any blanc mange or pudding. And no wine. You have been indulging far more than you should, my dear. Estelle tells me that your figure is a halfinch larger than it should be.’

Her throat clenched, but Hannah said nothing. She stared down at the list, the words blurring upon the page. Never before had she questioned her mother’s orders. If she couldn’t have sweets, then that was because Christine wanted her to have an excellent figure. It was love, not control. Wasn’t it?

But she felt herself straining against the invisible bonds, wanting to escape. Her mother was worried about the size of her waistline, when her entire future had been turned upside down? It seemed ridiculous, in light of the scandal.

With each passing moment, Hannah’s discomfort worsened. ‘Mother, honestly, I don’t feel up to receiving visitors. I’d rather wait a few days.’ She hadn’t slept well last night, and her mind was preoccupied with the uncertain future.

‘You will do as you’re told, Hannah. The sooner you are married, the sooner you can put this nightmare behind you.’ Her mother stood and guided her to the parlour. ‘Now wait here until Lord Belgrave arrives. He told your father he would come to call at two o’clock.’

Hannah realised she might as well have been speaking to a stone wall. In her mind, she envisioned her parents chaining her ankle to the church pew, her mouth stuffed with a handkerchief while they wedded her off to Belgrave.

At least she had an hour left, before the true torment began. She contemplated escaping the house, but what good would it do to run away? Nothing, except make her parents angrier than they already were.

No, if she had to face Lord Belgrave again, she would tell him exactly what she thought of him. Perhaps he would call off his plans.

Her father, the Marquess, stood beside the fireplace, his pocket watch in his hands. Disappointment and sadness cloaked his features as he put the watch in his waistcoat. He paced towards the sofa and sat down, his wrists resting upon his knees.

Hannah went and sat down beside her father. She reached out and took his hand. Anger would never win a battle against her father. But he had a soft spot for obedience.

‘I know that you are trying to protect me,’ she said gently. ‘And as your only daughter, I know that you want someone to take care of me.’

His grey eyes were stormy with unspoken fury, but he was listening.

‘I beg of you, Papa, don’t ask me to marry Lord Belgrave,’ she pleaded. ‘I don’t care if he reveals the scandal to everyone.’

‘I do.’ Her father’s grip tightened around her knuckles. ‘I won’t allow our family name to be degraded, simply because you lost your judgement one night.’

Hannah pulled her hand away. ‘I will marry no one.’ Rising to her feet, she added, ‘Most especially not the Baron of Belgrave.’

‘It won’t be Michael Thorpe. God help me, you will not wed a soldier.’

The thought had never entered her mind, but at the reminder of the Lieutenant, a caress of heat erupted over her body. Sensual and rebellious, a man like Michael Thorpe would never treat her with the polite distance so typical of marriage. No, she suspected he was the sort of man who would possess her, stealing her breath away in forbidden pleasure.

Hannah shook her head. ‘Of course not.’

Plunging forward, she revealed an alternate plan. ‘Send me somewhere far away from London until the talk dies down. We have cousins elsewhere in Europe, don’t we?’

‘Germany,’ he admitted. His countenance turned grim, but she though she detected a softening in his demeanour. Please, God, let him listen to me, she prayed.

At that moment, the footman Phillips gave a quiet knock. ‘Forgive me, my lord, but the Baron of Belgrave has come to call upon Lady Hannah.’

The Marquess hesitated a moment before speaking. Hannah gripped her fingers together so hard, her knuckles turned white. She shook her head, pleading with her father.

‘Give him another chance, Hannah,’ the Marquess said quietly. ‘Despite his reproachable actions, the man does come from an excellent family. He can provide you with anything you’d ever need.’

She couldn’t believe the words had come from her father’s mouth. She’d known that he cared about appearances, that upholding model behaviour was important to him. But she’d never thought it was more important than her own well-being.

‘Papa, please,’ she whispered again. ‘Don’t ask this of me.’

Her father’s face tensed, but his tone was unyielding when he spoke. ‘Tell the baron my daughter will await him in the drawing room.’