Page 6 of This Earl of Mine

His trusted man of business, Edmund Shaw, had done an exemplary job as Georgie’s financial guardian for the past few years, but in three weeks’ time, she would turn twenty-five and come into full possession of her fortune. And according to English law, as soon as she married, all that would instantly become the property of her husband, to do with as he wished.

That husband wouldnotbe Josiah.

Despite her mother’s protests that it was vulgar and unladylike to concern herself with commerce, in the past five years Georgie had purchased two new ships and almost doubled her profits. She loved the challenge of running her own business, the independence. She was damned if she’d give it over to some blithering idiot like Josiah to drink and gamble away.

Which was precisely why she’d had Edmund draw upthis detailed document. It stated that all property and capital that was hers before the marriageremainedhers. Her husband would receive only a discretionary allowance. To date, she’d received seven offers of marriage, and each time she’d sent her suitor to see Mr. Shaw. Every one of them had balked at signing—proof, if she’d needed it, that they’d only been after her fortune.

She let out a relieved sigh as the prisoner’s pen moved confidently over the paper. Ben Wylde’s signature was surprisingly neat. Perhaps he’d been a secretary, or written dispatches in the army? She shook her head. It wasn’t her job to wonder about him. He was a means to an end, that was all.

He straightened, and his brown eyes were filled with a twinkle of devilry. “There, now. Just one further question, before we get to the vows, Miss Caversteed. Just what do you intend for a wedding night?”

Chapter 4.

Heat flashed across Georgie’s skin, both at the impertinent question and the way the rogue’s cheeky gaze moved over her. Laugh lines crinkled the corners of his brown eyes. She was used to such speculative ogling from her years in theton, but not once had her body reacted as it did to this blackguard’s leisurely perusal. Her breath quickened.

Pieter growled again and took a step forward, but the man grinned and held up both hands in an expression of innocence.

“Can’t blame a chap for trying.” He chuckled. “Jus’ tryin’ to scratch an itch.”

“There will be no wedding night,” Georgie said firmly. “I want your name, Mr. Wylde, not your—”

“Cock?” he suggested cheerfully.

“—company,” she finished, proud of her cool tone.

His teeth flashed white as he smiled. “Why not? You’ll never see me again. No one will know. Exceptin’these fine gentlemen, of course, and I’m sure they’d give us a few moments of privacy—”

“I am not having… marital relations… in a dirty prison with a stranger I just met!” she ground out.

His eyes twinkled. “Aww. Have pity. Give a poor wretch one last, ’appy memory of England. I might not even make it to Australia. I could be wrecked, or taken by sickness—”

Georgie narrowed her eyes. “I know precisely how perilous the oceans are, Mr. Wylde. My father died at sea.”

The teasing laughter disappeared from his eyes. “Forgive me. I am sorry for your loss.”

She waved away his sympathy. “In any case, my answer is still no.”

“Will the marriage be legal if it ain’t consummated?”

Georgie bit back a curse. She had no idea if consummation was actually required, but this man wasn’t going to be around to cast doubts on the validity of their union. And she certainly wasn’t going to mention it to anyone. “I’ll take the chance, Mr. Wylde,” she said briskly. “Now shall we begin?”

He bent at the waist in a parody of a gentleman’s bow, which somehow managed to look entirely natural. “Why not, Miss Caversteed?” There was an ironic edge to his voice. “I have nothing else planned for this evening, save counting the lice in my cell.”

On shaking legs, Georgie approached the makeshift altar and felt a gust of warm air as the prisoner came to stand beside her. The hairs on her arm rose, as if she’d brushed against a cobweb. She glanced down at her feet; there was an indentation in the flagstones, a concave dip where the stone had been worn smooth. Thousands of others had stood here over the years, pledging their own vows of fidelity.

Cotton opened the Bible to begin the ceremony, and Knollys and Pieter stood to one side to act as the witnesses. Georgie quelled a moment of panic. This was not something to be taken lightly. What was she doing, marrying a stranger? Making a mockery of this solemn institution? Swearing to love, honor, and obey this one man until death? She would probably be struck by lightning for uttering such falsehoods in a sacred place.

The darkness, the flicker of candles, the oppressive cave-like walls, made her feel as though they were participating in a far more ancient ritual. Something primal and profound that included fire and blood and the bonding of hands. Of souls.

She shook her head to banish the thought.

The preacher began.

She did not class herself as a romantic—she left that to her younger sister, Juliet—but this was not how a wedding should be. No flowers, no choir or hymns or beaming, benevolent vicar. No family and friends. Instead, there was this cold, echoing, slightly musty-smelling chapel. Cheap tallow candles instead of the more expensive beeswax they used at home.

Warmth permeated her side as the prisoner shifted closer to her, almost as if he were offering silent support. His hip and shoulder pressed against hers and lent her strength.

Her voice didn’t shake when she spoke her vows. This was a matter of self-preservation, of protecting Mama and Juliet. She would not falter. The man at her side was not Josiah.

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