Page 2 of The Marquess Wins a Wife
Somehow he gritted out, “French sheaths.” A slow blink met this pronouncement. “Condoms.” Still nothing. “Good God,” he said. “They are items made of sheep intestines, which, when worn over a man’s—”
A wild gasp interrupted him, followed by a swift, “I think that’squiteenough, sir,” for which he found himself profoundly grateful. A heavy silence followed. And then, timidly, she inquired, “And…this prevents the begetting of children?”
“Quite ably.” And merely to be contrary, because it had been justdelightfulto scandalize her, he added, “The furrow is plowed, but the field remains barren. Whoeverplanted his—er, seed—in your sister’s field, it wasn’t me.”
“I don’t believe you, Mr. Wycombe,” Miss Talbot said, in that fierce little voice. “I’ve learned that men will say and do anything necessary to absolve themselves of their responsibilities. I do not intend to let you escapethisone.”
Wycombe!Christ.Well, this week had been destined to go straight to hell from the very beginning. He had meant only to step outside for a few moments, to recover his composure after one of the guests had made an oblique, tasteless reference to—no; he was not going to allow Celia to occupy still more of his thoughts.
Somehow, he’d stepped into a trap meant for another man. No matter what he said to the chit, he would not be believed—so he supposed he might as well hold his tongue and enjoy the moment when she at last realized her mistake. The little abductress would suffer for her criminal streak then. “I suppose we’re off to Scotland, then.”
A firm nod. The moon glinted off of a lock of hair that had escaped her bonnet, gilding it in silver. “By way of Hatfield,” she said. “Where we shall retrieve Imogen.”
“Imogen Talbot,” he said, testing the name in his mouth. “No, I don’t think so. Couldn’t marry a woman called Imogen.”
“You haven’t got a choice.”
Luke managed a rusty laugh. “You can take me to Scotland,” he said, “but even an anvil priest will require consent.”
“And you’ll give it. If you prefer not to be filled with lead.” God, he could almost admire the steadiness of her voice, if not of her hand. Anyone would think she’d abducted half a dozen men at least.
“How long do you think you can hold that pistol pointed at me, Miss Talbot? Because we’re a fair distance from Hatfield, and I can’t imagine your arm isn’t growing tired.” Luke stretched out his legs, reclining back in his seat and enjoying the way Miss Talbot shifted on the seat across from him to avoid brushing so much as an ankle with him.
There was the bite of annoyance in her voice when she spoke next. “For love of a sister, Mr. Wycombe, I can hold this pistol as long as it takes.”
And damned if he didn’t believeher.
∞∞∞
It had been near to four in the morning when at last Mr. Wycombe had come outside the house. Lizzie had been up for hours already by that point, her energy already flagging. She was exhausted now as dawn began to sweep over the horizon, the stars winking out one by one as the peachy strains of morning crept in.
Mr. Wycombe had been silent for the majority of the journey, to her incredible relief—and also aggravation, because it had become rather difficult to keep her eyes open when everything in her had wanted simply to relax into sleep. She had absolutely no idea how she was meant to keep him at the point of a pistol all the way toScotland. Probably she would have to have Willie bind him hand and foot.
Her arms felt at once loose and leaden, and her fingers tight and stiff, trembling with the effort to maintain her grip on the gun. Through sheer dint of will she had managed it, keeping him in her aim throughout what had remained of the night, and finally—finally—she glimpsed in her brief peek through the dusty glass window of the carriage the familiar terrain of home.
Mr. Wycombe, damn him, looked entirelytoofresh. He roused from his comfortable slouch as the carriage veered off the main road. “Have we arrived, then?”
“Nearly so.” It was a weary rasp, through a throat dry as a bone. But thenshehadn’t been drinking and carousing all evening and far into the morning. Her vigil outside the house, spent awaiting her opportunity, had kept her occupied—there had been no timefor frivolities like food or drink.
“I don’t suppose there’ll be time for a bit of a rest between now and when we must depart for Scotland?” He gave a massive yawn which seemed entirely too contrived, and there was a mischievous glimmer in his blue eyes which suggested he had done it for the sole purpose of makingherdo so as well.
Which had almost worked, damn him. She clenched her jaw against it and swallowed it back. “I haven’t yet decided.” But there wouldhaveto be. Even if he had to be locked in a closet to secure it. Shedidneed to rest.
“You’ll have to change the horses at least, you know.”
Why had heput more thought into his kidnapping than she?
At long, long last, the carriage pulled up before the nearly-derelict house, and Mr. Wycombe peered through the window out at it, his eyes narrowing until he gave a little huff of discontent, as if disappointed. “Not much of a dowry, then, I assume.”
Lizzie ground her teeth together. “If you had need of a large dowry, you should not have compromised my sister.”
Mr. Wycombe heaved a massive sigh, stretching his arms over his head. “I supposethatis meant to be my betrothed?”
Lizzie wrenched her head to the window to see Imogen flying out the door to meet them, her lovely gold hair unbound and streaming behind her, still in her dressing gown. “You,” she snapped, “will becharming.”
“There are many words that have been used to describe me,” he said with a shrug, his posture all careless indolence. “Charming has rarely been among them.”
“I expect it to be this morning,” Lizzie snapped.
