Page 4 of This Earl of Mine

He’d never envisaged the lady. If three years of warfare had taught him anything, it was that life was too short to tie himself to one woman for the rest of his life.Marriage would be an imprisonment worse than his cell here in Newgate.

They clattered down the stairs and into the tiny chapel where the ordinary, Horace Cotton, was waiting, red-faced and unctuous. Cotton relished his role of resident chaplain; he enjoyed haranguing soon-to-be-dead prisoners with lengthy sermons full of fire and brimstone. No doubt he was being paid handsomely for this evening’s work.

Benedict halted in front of the altar—little more than a table covered in a white cloth and two candles—and raised his manacled wrists to Knollys. The jailer sniffed but clearly realized he’d have to unchain him if they were to proceed. He gave Ben a sour, warning look as the irons slipped off, just daring him to try something. Ben shot him a cocky, challenging sneer in return.

How to put a stop to this farce? He had no cash to bribe his way out. A chronic lack of funds was precisely why he’d been working for Bow Street since his return from France, chasing thief-taker’s rewards.

Could he write the wrong name on the register, to invalidate the marriage? Probably not. Both Knollys and Cotton knew him as Ben Wylde. Ex-Rifle brigade, penniless, cynical veteran of Waterloo. It wasn’t his full name, of course, but it would probably be enough to satisfy the law.

Announcing that his brother happened to be the Earl of Morcott would certainly make matters interesting, but thanks to their father’s profligacy, the estate was mortgaged to the hilt. John had even less money than Benedict.

The unpleasant sensation that he’d been neatly backed into a corner made Benedict’s neck prickle, as if a French sniper had him in his sights. Still, he’d survived worse. He was a master at getting out of scrapes. Even if hewasforced to marry this mystery harridan, there were always alternatives. An annulment, for one.

“Might I at least have the name of the lady to whom I’m about to be joined in holy matrimony?” he drawled.

The manservant scowled at the ironic edge to his tone, but the woman laid a silencing hand on his arm and stepped around him.

“You can indeed, sir.” In one smooth movement, she pulled the hood from her head and faced him squarely. “My name is Georgiana Caversteed.”

Benedict cursed in every language he knew.

Chapter 3.

Georgiana Caversteed? What devil’s trick was this?

He knew the name, but he’d never seen the face—until now. God’s teeth, every man in London knew the name. The chit was so rich, she might as well have her own bank. She could have her pick of any man in England. What in God’s name was she doing in Newgate looking for a husband?

Benedict barely remembered not to bow—an automatic response to being introduced to a lady of quality—and racked his brains to recall what he knew of her family. A cit’s daughter. Her father had been in shipping, a merchant, rich as Croesus. He’d died and left the family a fortune.

The younger sister was said to be the beauty of the family, but she must indeed be a goddess, because Georgiana Caversteed was strikingly lovely. Her arresting, heart-shaped face held a small, straight nose and eyes which, in the candlelight, appeared to be dark grey, thecolor of wet slate. Her brows were full, her lashes long, and her mouth was soft and a fraction too wide.

A swift heat spread throughout his body, and his heart began to pound.

She regarded him steadily as he made his assessment, neither dipping her head nor coyly fluttering her lashes. Benedict’s interest kicked up a notch at her directness, and a twitch in his breeches reminded him with unpleasantly bad timing of his enforced abstinence. This was neither the time nor the place to do anything aboutthat.

They’d never met in theton. She must have come to town after he’d left for the peninsula three years ago, which would make her around twenty-four. Most women would be considered on the shelf at that age, unmarried after so many social seasons, but with the near-irresistible lure of her fortune and with those dazzling looks, Georgiana Caversteed could beeighty-fourand someone would still want her.

And yet here she was.

Benedict kept his expression bland, even as he tried to breathe normally. What on earth had made her take such drastic action? Was the chit daft in the head? He couldn’t imagine any situation desperate enough to warrant getting leg-shackled to a man like him.

She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue—which sent another shot of heat straight to his gut—and fixed him with an imperious glare. “What is your name, sir?” She took a step closer, almost in challenge, in defiance of his unchained hands and undoubtedly menacing demeanor.

He quelled a spurt of admiration for her courage, even if it was ill-advised. His inhaled breath caught a subtle whiff of her perfume. It made his knees weak. He’d forgotten the intoxicating scent of woman and skin. For onefoolish moment, he imagined pulling her close and pressing his nose into her hair, just filling his lungs with the divine scent of her. He wanted to drink in her smell. He wanted to see if those lips really were as soft as they looked.

He took an involuntary step toward her but stopped at the low growl of warning from her manservant. Sanity prevailed, and he just remembered to stay in the role of rough smuggler they all expected of him.

“My name? Ben Wylde. At your service.”

His voice was a deep rasp, rough from lack of use, and Georgie’s stomach did an odd little flip. She needed to take command here, like Father on board one of his ships, but the man facing her was huge, hairy, and thoroughly intimidating.

When she’d glanced around Knollys’s rotund form and into the gloomy cell, her first impression of the prisoner had been astonishment at his sheer size. He’d seemed to fill the entire space, all broad shoulders, wide chest, and long legs. She’d been expecting some poor, ragged, cowering scrap of humanity. Not this strapping, unapologetically male creature.

She’d studied his shaggy, overlong hair and splendid proportions from the back as they’d traipsed down the corridor. He stood a good head taller than Knollys, and unlike the jailer’s waddling shuffle, this man walked with a long, confident stride, straight-backed and chin high, as if he owned the prison and were simply taking a tour for his pleasure.

Now, in the chapel, she finally saw his face—the parts that weren’t covered with a dark bristle of beard—and her skin prickled as she allowed her eyes to rove over him. She pretended she was inspecting a horse or a piece of furniture. Something large and impersonal.

His dark hair was matted and hung around his face almost to his chin. It was hard to tell what color it would be when it was clean. A small wisp of straw stuck out from one side, just above his ear, and she resisted a bizarre feminine urge to reach up and remove it. Dark beard hid the shape of his jaw, but the candlelight caught his slanted cheekbones and cast shadows in the hollows beneath. The skin that she could see—a straight slash of nose, cheeks, and forehead—was unfashionably tanned and emphasized his deep brown eyes.

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