Читать книгу To Be Seduced - Stephens Ann Sophia - Страница 7

January 1661

He had picked a prodigious cold day to abduct someone. Shivering in his full-length cloak, Richard, Baron Harcourt, hunched into the worn seat of the hired coach and cursed. No one heard him; he was quite alone, waiting for his accomplice to return with their prey. Much as he disliked depending on others, his face could be re cognized in Stanworth, and that would ruin his plan to flee before any villagers raised a hue and cry. His long fingers lifted the leather window covering an inch to the side and he peered out. Only a few pockets of snow were visible on the rutted road. Winter-browned fields lay abandoned just beyond it. A bitter wind robbed the day of any pretense of pleasantness even though the sun shone. One chill gust buffeted his face as he let down the window and called up to the coachman, “Walk the horses, Jem. They’ve stood long enough.”

“Aye, sir.” He heard the slap of the reins and braced himself as the ungainly vehicle lurched into motion. Raising the glass pane into place in a vain attempt to keep draughts out, Harcourt swore again. The only thing worse than sitting in the middle of nowhere in the middle of winter in this miserable equipage was sitting in it as it jolted over a frozen road. He availed himself of a lap robe while he plotted his next move. The ancient coach and sturdy horses had taken nearly every farthing. This was his last throw. If he lost, it would cost him everything.

Despite his grumbling, Lord Harcourt was not in the middle of nowhere. Clearly visible from the coach, an iron gate opened onto the small estate of Abberley. From the entrance, a gravel drive curved around a copse of trees toward a red brick manor house built in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Only mullioned windows and a pillastered doorway embellished the plain facade.

The oak door opened into the great hall, a room of dark wood panels and velvet hangings. Although richly appointed, it possessed a stern quality that discouraged lingering. A door to the right permitted escape to the dining room and kitchen and one opposite led into the library.

This afternoon, the library door stood ajar just enough to allow the conversation within to be overheard in the hall if one listened carefully.

Flattened against the wall, Bethany Dallison knew that if caught eavesdropping, she would doubtless spend the next several days locked in her room. Custom forbade young ladies to know the terms of their marriage settlements. Hardly breathing, she braced her stockinged feet to run at the first sign of being overheard.

“I believe these terms will prove satisfactory to you, madam, while meeting my expectations of the portion due an affectionate husband.” Her suitor, Mr. Daniel Ilkston, had ostensibly earned her mother’s approval because of his sense of responsibility and excellent morals. Bethany knew the true source of her approbation was his own fortune and large property.

She herself found neither his person nor his manner pleasing. He persisted in wearing his thinning dark hair in the chin-length Roundhead style, and even on festive occasions, he clothed his plump form in somber black. His appearance combined with his habit of looking at her as if she were a particularly tasty morsel for him to snap up reminded her of a greedy hen. Mother insisted Bethany would grow to appreciate him, but she doubted that.

He treated her with cool condescension. They shared no interests, for she loved to read and socialize, while he made clear that his wife should occupy herself with supervising his household. And raising children. She shuddered. The thought of conjugal relations with Mr. Ilkston disheartened her greatly.

Her mother’s voice, sharp with disapproval, floated out the door. “This clause has not been changed, sir. I believe I mentioned that providing a suitable upbringing for dear Bethany caused a great expenditure from my own income. I do feel that as her only parent for these many years, it is only proper that I should be reimbursed those costs, particularly since I shall lose my only child upon your marriage.” Bethany could imagine the scowl on her narrow face. Despite her generous jointure, Mistress Dallison intended to wring as much gold as she could from her future son-in-law.

“Dear lady, I agree in principle that you should not suffer because of the loss of your daughter, but I must protest! This amount seems excessive for the care and feeding of one girl, no matter how excellently trained.” In his turn, Mr. Ilkston sounded downright petulant. Bethany heard the slap of papers on the massive wooden table that dominated the library as the argument continued.

She clenched her fists in her woolen skirt. They sounded like two old dames in the market haggling over the price of a prime piglet. Except the piglet was her. Or to be exact, her money. Her father’s will settled a fine fortune on her, and with no other males in the family, she would also inherit the estate upon her mother’s death. She looked down, fighting tears. The banns were not up yet, but if they signed the settlement today, the knot was as good as tied. The contract bound her to Mr. Ilkston as surely as if the wedding had already taken place.

Her mouth twisted bitterly. She had no living relatives. If she cast herself onto any of the families in the neighborhood, they would scold her as an undutiful child and pack her right back home. She could not even use her own money to flee. Her father’s London banker kept it in trust, except for a paltry amount designated for her personal use each quarter. The trust would be dissolved only upon her marriage, giving her husband control of her inheritance.

At length, her mother and Mr. Ilkston agreed to have the documents redrawn, and to sign them next week. Bethany had gained a reprieve.

She suddenly realized that she would have to join them before their guest departed and that her shoes were across the hall. She skittered along the floor, nearly losing her footing on the polished planks. Hastily slipping her shoes on, she plopped down on a high-backed chair next to a square table, folded her hands in her lap, and gazed serenely out the window, heart pounding. Thankfully, Mother noticed nothing amiss when she appeared and ordered Bethany into the library.

She entered the room. Three pewter goblets stood on the great rectangular table, along with a matching plate holding some small cakes. A pitcher of mulled cider warmed on the hearth before the crackling fire.

Mr. Ilkston attempted a weak gallantry. “Mistress Bethany, you look bright as a silver penny this afternoon. I trust you are well?”

She murmured a polite answer. Her plain bodice and skirt of agate gray wool denoted no special occasion. Nor did the white cotton whisk modestly hiding her shoulders or the muslin cap covering her hair.

Her mother forced a cheery smile onto a mouth tight with irritation. “We agree ’twould be most suitable for the wedding to be privately done here, dearest. Mr. Hay shall come from Highbury to perform the ceremony.” She gestured for Bethany to offer their guest the plate of cakes. “Do have some Shrewsbury cakes, sir—made with my daughter’s very hands.”

Carefully selecting one of the sugar-dusted confections, Mr. Ilkston bit into it. Bethany watched his reaction with anticipation. She did enjoy cookery and was thought to have a fine hand with baked goods. He pursed his lips, taking on the appearance of an officious flounder. “Naturally, I do not partake of sweets often,” he said. “One should avoid frivolity in diet as in other aspects of one’s life.”

Only her betrothed would consider his immortal soul endangered by a few cakes, although she noticed he helped himself to one more. She decided to change the subject.

“Must we send for Mr. Hay? The Reverend Mr. James could marry us at Saint Matthew’s.” Choosing a cake for herself, she nibbled it, enjoying the horrified expressions of the other two.

“Bethany! You cannot mean that, you wicked girl! Mr. James was assigned to Stanworth because he has embraced the popery imported from France.” Mistress Dallison looked ready to collapse with an apoplexy. “Whatever will Mr. Ilkston think?”

With any luck, Bethany thought, Mr. Ilkston would withdraw his suit from so depraved a creature as herself.

“Mistress Bethany does not grasp the implications of her words,” he stated. “It is not unusual for persons with red hair to lack a sense of proper behavior.” His chill gaze swept over her. “However, I trust that I am capable of enforcing godly conduct within my own home.”

Gray eyes narrowed and lips thinned, she bit back a retort. Setting his back up further would serve no purpose. To compose herself, she turned her gaze through one of the diamond-paned windows overlooking the front drive. Movement flashed beyond the copse and a moment later Mistress Gloriana Harcourt appeared from behind it. Bethany often found their neighbors’ niece a silly chit, but just now she provided an excuse to abandon Mother and Mr. Ilkston, at least for a short time.

“Of course you are correct, sir.” She forced a note of contrition into her voice. “I shall amend my actions in the future, and I beg you to forgive my flippancy. Perhaps you would accept fresh cakes as a peace offering?” Without waiting for a reply, she picked up the plate and left the library, pulling the door shut behind her.

In the hall, she hurried over to a window. Gloriana had just set foot on the doorstep and looked over at once when she heard tapping on the glass. Bethany pointed to the side of the house, relieved when the other girl immediately turned toward the rear door of the house.

She scurried to the kitchen to meet her. Mistress Magwort, the sour old soul who cooked for them, stood spitting a roast for supper. Bethany set the cake plate down on the scrubbed worktable. “Mistress Harcourt has come from the Rothleys. I am sure only grave necessity would send her out on such a cold day, so I shall go see what help I may provide.” The old woman grunted without looking up.

As Bethany bundled up in the worn brown wool cloak and matching hood kept on a peg by the rear door, she assured herself that she had not lied to the cook, only speculated. It wouldn’t get her out of trouble with her mother, but her own conscience might let it go.

Slipping out to the walled garden, she nearly ran into Gloriana, walking head down and clutching the hood of her black cloak to keep the wind out of her face. She reached out to steady the smaller girl. “Thank goodness you’ve come! I have no idea why you’re here, but ’tis marvelous indeed.” Bethany had to raise her voice to be heard above a strong blast of cold air.

In turn, Gloriana greeted her eagerly. “Aunt Rothley has been making me daft today! I told her I would take a jar of broth to old Mr. Lawton just to get out of the house.” She brushed aside a strand of fair hair as she looked up. As usual, Bethany felt like a giant next to her petite blondeness.

“She must have been most demanding if you abandoned a warm fire on a day like this.” Bethany eyed the girl curiously, for she knew well Glory’s indolent nature.

The younger girl’s cheeks reddened with more than the cold, but she nodded vigorously. “Indeed she has! That’s why I came to visit you before going back.”

“Do you think your aunt might be in a better humor by now? I hoped to return with you—Mr. Ilkston is here, and he and Mother are waiting for me to return to them.”

She tried not to let her desperation show, but Gloriana’s blue eyes gleamed with laughter. “What? The proper Mistress Bethany deserting her betrothed? I vow ’twill be the subject of gossip for the next month.”

“He’s not my betrothed yet. No announcement has been made,” she snapped. Really, the girl possessed an impudent tongue for a mere sixteen-year-old. She relented an instant later. “Oh, Glory, do help me. I’ll have to spend more than enough time with Ilkston after we’re married.”

The other girl grinned and peeped up at her speculatively. “How are we going to get to the road without being seen?”

“The road? You’re right next to us! We’ll take the bridle path to your uncle’s land.”

“No, we should take the road,” Gloriana insisted. “Perhaps you’d like to go to the village and—and buy some hair ribbons.” Taking her hand, she tugged Bethany toward the drive.

“On a day like this? Be sensible, you goose!” Still nervous at the thought of her mother discovering them, she chewed her lip. “If we stay close to the garden wall, I think we can run before they catch sight of us. Once we’re past the copse, we might be safe.”

The two girls hugged the brick wall of the kitchen garden, then sprinted along the drive, skirts lifted and feet flying across the brown grass. They stopped to gasp for breath once they were out of sight of the house, leaning on one another.

“We can’t stop here. Mother has surely missed me by now. How I wish I’d thought to grab my gloves.” Bethany looked back over her shoulder. She believed they were invisible from the library windows, but feared they might yet be observed.

“You could share my muff,” puffed Gloriana. She paused as if reluctant to go on. “Don’t you need to catch your breath?”

“No, I shall already be punished for leaving. I may as well take what pleasure I can before Mother catches me.” Bethany straightened and walked toward the gate. Turning, she saw Gloriana standing in place, irresolute. “Do hurry!”

The younger girl caught up with her, grumbling under her breath about winter weather and doing favors for others. “Don’t be so uncharitable,” Bethany chided gently. “I’m sure Mr. Lawson was most thankful for some broth on such a day. Here, scandalize me with the latest gossip you’ve ferreted out. You always enjoy that.”

Instead, silence fell between them as they trudged along. A few of last autumn’s leaves whispered across their path, and the afternoon sun cast their shadows ahead of them. Bethany wondered if Gloriana regretted their rash behavior just as the other girl spoke.

“My brother is visiting for a short while.” Her voice squeaked with excitement. Glory hero-worshiped the dissolute young man twelve years her senior.

Having made his acquaintance the summer previous, Bethany understood her companion’s feelings. Even she had found it difficult to resist his charming smile and manners, despite observing his shameless flirtations. To her mortification, she recalled wishing that he might indulge in the same disreputable behavior with her.

“What a pleasant diversion for you. Lady Rothley had not said that he planned to visit,” she said in a tone of polite indifference.

“Oh, she wouldn’t have,” Gloriana replied airily. “We did not know exactly when he’d be here, as he is kept immensely busy in London.”

“I can imagine,” Bethany said dryly. According to her mother’s acquaintances, since the ascension of the second King Charles, the city had plunged itself into a plethora of lascivious behavior, drunkenness, and public disorder. A man of Lord Harcourt’s lax ways would find much to occupy himself, most of it immoral.

The road appeared before them through the manor’s open gate. She hurried between the massive brick and iron posts and turned to wait for the smaller girl to catch up.

At her side, Gloriana smiled brightly and pointed past Bethany’s shoulder. “Look! I believe that is my brother’s coach down the road.”

Bethany shook her head at the chit’s transparent attempt at surprise. “For pity’s sake, Glory, why did you not simply tell me your brother awaited you? ’Tis quite unmannerly of you, although I am surprised he did not escort you to the door.”

Her companion looked sheepish. “I wasn’t sure your mother would admit him after the escapade with your maidservant last summer. I am very fond of Richard and did not wish to subject him to embarrassment. Faith, he swore nothing more happened than a few kisses, and that the girl was willing.”

Bethany snorted. “Knowing Joan, she proposed the meetings! But it’s true, Mother would scarcely welcome him had he come with you.” She smiled mischievously. “Although it might have been amusing to watch him puncture Mr. Ilkston’s self-importance.” While she could not approve of loose behavior, she appreciated Lord Harcourt’s piercing wit.

She watched the shabby coach make its way along the rutted road for a moment before adding, “I think we had better go meet him. That contraption looks like it won’t last all the way to the gate.”

Gloriana nodded and they strolled to meet it. Bethany glanced at her. The younger girl’s mouth was set in a determined line and her usually inquisitive eyes remained fixed on the ground.

However, when they reached the slow-moving coach and four, the irrepressible sixteen-year-old called out cheerily, “Rickon! I’m back, and look who came with me. Mistress Bethany thought to visit Aunt Rothley.”

The door swung open, and Lord Harcourt himself stepped down to assist them. Bethany caught her breath. He remained unchanged from last summer. Instead of a periwig, he wore his own hair in long, dark gold waves. The same lazy smile highlighted his strong features as his gaze swept over her with unsettling thoroughness. His assessment reminded her uncomfortably of just how worn her brown cloak and hood were, and how drab she must look beside Gloriana’s fashionable amber dress and black cloak.

“It is my pleasure to meet you again, Mistress Dallison.” Even his voice unsettled her with its combination of honey over gravel. “Please allow me to convey you to our destination.” He stepped forward in a fluid movement and took her bare hand in his gloved one. Gracefully he bowed over it, brushing her fingers with the barest kiss. They fluttered nervously at the unexpected contact and Bethany swallowed as Lord Harcourt tightened his grip. Feeling the strength and heat through his black leather gauntlets only served to make her blush. From the warmth in her face, it must be bright pink. He smiled and assisted her into the coach.

“Your hands are cold. We’ll have to find a way to warm them.” He pressed a kiss into her palm, his green eyes glinting at her wickedly. She gasped softly and snatched her hand away. He shrugged and helped Gloriana inside, then settled himself on the seat opposite them.

She pointedly placed herself as far from him as the cramped space allowed and stared out the window disinterestedly. His clear green eyes shot her an amused glance before he turned his attention to his sister.

The two of them chatted idly during the brief ride to Rothley Hall. Left to herself, Bethany observed the coach’s interior. Stuffing burst from the cracked leather seats and dark blue paint peeled off the wooden sides. Warped window frames permitted a steady draft of cold air inside, forcing her to keep her hands inside her cape. She thought this must be the worst-sprung vehicle she had ever ridden in. She could not imagine enduring its teeth-rattling bounces for a lengthy journey. Lord Harcourt’s purse must be lean indeed to have resorted to such a miserable conveyance.

Her ears pricked up when Gloriana teased her brother to fetch her back to London. To her surprise, Lord Harcourt’s brows drew together in unexpected disapproval.

“That would be quite improper, as you should know. ’Pon rep, I’ve explained it to you often enough.” His sister protested, but he ended the argument with a flat “No.”

Lifting the window covering, Bethany recognized the stretch of road leading to Rothley Hall. She anticipated sitting by one of Lady Rothley’s warm fires for an afternoon of amusing conversation before having to face her mother.

Lord Harcourt noticed they had reached their destination as well. He knocked on the top of the coach and it halted.

“Glory, we’re here.” His serious tone made Bethany turn to look at him. He held his sister’s hands and gazed into her face, now white and frightened, as if he silently asked her a question. It was one she apparently understood, for she gave him a jerky nod of her head in return. “Good girl,” he said softly. “You’ll be well?” She nodded again. To Bethany’s surprise, he opened the door without another word and got out to help them down. Surely he did not mean to have them walk to the Hall from the gate!

Glory looked over her shoulder with an apologetic expression before stepping out of the coach. Puzzled, Bethany prepared to follow, only to find her way blocked as Lord Harcourt placed an arm across the doorway. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but if we are to walk to the Hall, I should get out of the coach.” Her cold voice clearly displayed her displeasure, but he did not reply.

Instead Gloriana looked up at her from the road. “Bethany, I am so truly sorry,” she choked out. “Richard said he needed my help and I am obligated to—he’s my brother and he took such care of me after our parents died. Please try to forgive both of us.”

“Enough, Glory. You must go.” At his flat statement, the girl pulled her hood up and trudged up the drive to her aunt and uncle’s, her cloak wrapped around her. Lord Harcourt turned and leapt up into the coach so quickly that Bethany was forced to sit back down. “I regret to inform you, Mistress Dallison, that you will be coming with me.” He knocked on the roof again.

“I—beg—your pardon?” Dumbstruck, Bethany scarcely noticed as the vehicle lurched into motion.

“You will accompany me to my estate in Yorkshire, where we will be married.” His matter-of-fact tone did not stop the air rushing out of her lungs in shock. He looked at her sympathetically. “I’m very sorry, my dear. But I need a great deal of money very quickly, and you are the most accessible heiress of my acquaintance.”

He continued to observe her minutely during the long pause that ensued. When she lunged to wrest the door open, his hand shot out to capture her wrist easily.

“No.” The softly spoken word belied his iron grip. Trying to pull away from him only resulted in an agonizing stab up her arm, and Bethany yelped in pain and anger.

He released her at once, only to move across to her side and examine her slender wrist in the light of the window. “I apologize, madam.” He looked at her ruefully. “I did not realize you have such delicate bone structure.” He looked bemused as his gloved thumb and middle finger easily encircled her wrist.

She froze as his hand slowly moved to her face. His leather-clad fingertips grazed her cheekbone as his eyes looked soberly into hers. Bethany caught her breath at the intimate touch, but a blaze of outrage cleared her mind.

The arrogant blackguard was trying to seduce her! She glared at him. “Get away from me and stop the coach at once! I am most certainly not going to marry you.”

Instead, he released her and leaned back against the seat at her side. “I believe you will have no other choice. Rest assured, I have no desire to harm you, but after two days and a night in my company, the world will assume the worst. You will either become Lady Harcourt or you will be ruined.” Glancing her way at last, he raised his eyebrows suggestively. “A title and an estate, my dear. Many other females would snap me up without hesitation.”

Fear seeped into her fury as Bethany realized his utter seriousness. She shook her head to dispel her sense of unreality. Giving in to fright would not help her. Or would it? Perhaps a bout of hysterics would convince him to turn the coach around and dump her back on her mother’s doorstep.

As if reading her mind, her adversary smirked and pulled a small object out of his pocket. “A vinaigrette. French ladies carry them to use in moments of great distress.” He offered it to her. “In case of faintness. We will both find the journey far more pleasant if you do not indulge in a fit of some kind.”

She itched to slap that irritating smile off his face. “I am never faint.” She lifted her chin and glared at him. Lord Harcourt simply shrugged and tucked the filigree oval into the depths of his greatcoat.

“My felicitations, dear Mistress Dallison. I am sure you are the first female of my acquaintance to say so.” His voice quivered with amusement.

Bethany nearly ground her teeth but held on to her temper. She needed a cool head to convince him to return her to Abberley. She cringed to think what her mother would say, not to mention Mr. Ilkston. Her fortune would doubtless overcome his shock, but she feared he would make her suffer for it once they married.

The thought unexpectedly surfaced that life with Lord Harcourt would make the most intimate aspects of marriage very pleasant, but the idea flashed out of her mind just as quickly. Like Ilkston, he just wanted her money; he merely followed a more direct course of action to obtain it.

She wished again that she controlled her own money. Disgusting as the idea might be, she would have considered bribing him to return her with her reputation intact. But the law allowed only widows any control over property and income. Most women depended on funds settled on them by their fathers and husbands.

At this thought, Bethany straightened on the seat and blinked. Unmoving, she stared at the opposite side of the coach for several seconds. Suddenly facing Lord Harcourt, she took a deep breath. If he guessed at the idea that had entered her mind, she faced disaster.

Tucking the vinaigrette away, Richard congratulated himself on the success of the first part of his plan. Despite the fierce scowl on her face, the girl offered little resistance so far. Granted, she had demanded he stop the coach, and then tried to open the door while it still moved, but he had expected no less. He had recognized the willful streak behind her pretty face the previous summer, but he had every confidence of mastering her. Once he wed her and bedded her, everything she had became his.

Expanding on this pleasing subject, he regarded the young woman beside him. She refused to look at him, pinning her gaze straight in front of her. He satisfied himself with the view of her rigid profile, even opening the window covering farther to permit more sunlight into the coach. He had thought her pretty enough last summer; he was pleased that his recollections proved accurate.

Her fair skin glowed against the darker wood and leather. A few pale freckles spotted the bridge of her nose. He tamped down an urge to trace them with his fingers. She had shied away from his touch earlier and a frightened bride would not suit his purposes at all.

He realized he had never seen her hair uncovered and wondered what color it was. He guessed brown from the brow and lashes turned so fixedly away from him. The color of her eyes, he knew, ranged from cool gray to silver lightning.

When she turned unexpectedly to face him, they flashed bright sparks of anger before hardening. The charming sight so disarmed him that he was not prepared for her question.

“How much money do you need?”

She might just as casually have asked how much he needed for a new shoe buckle. He stared at her.

The baggage dared to roll her eyes at him. “How much money do you need,” she repeated, her tone of voice suggesting that she spoke to a person of limited mental capacity.

Richard stalled for time to assess this new ploy. “Why do you want to know?” He leaned against the back of the seat and cocked an eyebrow at her. Stretching one booted leg before him gave the appearance of ease, while his other foot remained firmly on the floor, enabling him to move quickly should she try to bolt again.

She did not try to bolt. Instead, she settled herself more firmly on the seat and looked him full in the face. “I might not have enough to meet your debts.” A triumphant smile curved her lips.

Clever puss, to search for his most vulnerable point. “I’m quite sure your assets will more than meet my needs,” he purred. “My uncle determined your worth to be a good fifteen thousand pounds, and I have immediate need of but five thousand.”

“Ah.” Bethany tilted her head against the back of the seat as if thinking. When she looked at him again, he guessed her next words.

“Very well, Lord Harcourt. I will marry you.”

He’d won the throw.

Trying to hide his overwhelming relief at her capitulation, he pressed her hand between both of his. “Thank you for doing me the honor of agreeing to be my wife, madam.”

“Indeed. Naturally, there are conditions.” At her suddenly brisk tone of voice, his brows lowered. “In the first place, I wish to be married in London, so you’ll need to turn the coach around. In the second place, I trust you will not pester me with unwanted attentions after the ceremony. I collect you planned to marry me and leave me in Yorkshire?”

He could not seem to find his voice. She continued, unperturbed. “I think under the circumstances that will do very well, although I might like to travel at least to York or Scarborough occasionally.”

Lord Harcourt gathered his wits. “And just how do you think to enforce your—er, conditions, girl? Tell me that.”

“Easily.” How a slip of girl managed to look down her nose at him while sitting down, he did not know. “I shall say ‘No’ in front of the minister.”

“And destroy your reputation? You’re bluffing.”

A delightful blush covered her face, but she did not back down. “I might be ruined, but you’ll still be poor,” she retorted. “And that would defeat your purpose, wouldn’t it?”

She betrayed no sign of her anxiety as she waited for his response. Lord Harcourt underestimated her fortune. Perhaps he would underestimate her intelligence as well.

“I should think a God-fearing woman would wish to avoid the immoral atmosphere of London,” he mocked. “Are you so eager to embrace the city’s delights?”

“Certainly not,” she replied stiffly. “Our former vicar now lives there, and I wish him to marry us.”

“I suppose I must respect your sentiment in wishing to have your childhood pastor marry you.” To Bethany’s surprise, his lordship spoke in earnest She sniffed disdainfully.

“Sentiment has nothing to do with it,” she said tartly. “’Tis simple enough to pay someone to act as a man of the cloth. You shall not wed me in a mock ceremony only to take my money and abandon me.”

The insufferable man had the gall to take offense. “Good God, madam, I’m not a thief.”

“I vow ’tis a burden off my mind to know that I’ve been kidnapped by an honest man,” she spat.

For a few seconds Lord Harcourt’s green eyes blazed with rage. Then his lips twitched into a reluctant grin.

“Touché, my dear,” he chuckled. Opening the window, he shouted to the coachman to make for London. Now if he could just get his bride-to-be to the altar without throttling her.