Page 2 of The Accidental Wedding
“Gabriel and Harry weren’t raised at Alverleigh with the daily example of my parents’ great love before them,” Nash pointed out. “If they had, they’d be bachelors still, like Marcus and myself.”
“Gabriel and Harry were raised by your spinster great-aunt on whose pantheon of life men ranked below dogs and horses, and slightly above cockroaches,” his aunt pointed out affably. “She did, of course, revere Renfrew blood, which balanced things slightly.”
Nash shrugged. “My point is, they’ve never seen how destructive love matches can be. My marriage will be a carefully planned alliance based on shared ambitions, not on the murky byways of passion.”
She snorted again. “A bloodless arrangement.”
“That will suit me perfectly.”
“But to go through life without love or passion—”
“Passion?” Nash cut her off. “According to both my parents, theirs was the passion of a lifetime. And when they weren’t ripping each other—and our family—apart with their jealous quarrels, they were circling each other like randy dogs.” Nash repressed a shudder. “I would rather dwell in . . . in the middle of an ice field than live like that.”
“You’re wrong, dear boy, but I won’t try to change your mind. You have the legendary hard head of the Renfrew male, after all. I’ll find you your paragon, but don’t blame me if you expire of boredom after six months.”
He shrugged indifferently. “Marriage isn’t meant to be entertaining.”
She viewed him with dismay. “But, dear boy, it is. Marriage should be a continuous adventure.”
“My work gives me all the adventure I want. But in your terms, perhaps what I want is a bad marriage.”
Aunt Maude shuddered. “Never joke about such things,” she ordered him. “Never!”
One
The horseman appeared on the ridge, a dark silhouette etched against a seething bank of leaden silver clouds. He remained motionless for a second or two, surveying the scene below, then he commenced the descent of the hill in a slow, controlled canter. As he moved, lightning rippled across the sky in a sheet.
“How very apocalyptic,” Maddy Woodford commented from the front stoop of her cottage. “Whoever he is, he knows how to make an entrance.”
Lizzie Brown followed her gaze. “Gentleman,” she pronounced, buttoning her coat.
Maddy laughed. “How can you tell? Farmers and merchants can ride fine horses, too. Do you know him?”
Lizzie grinned and shook her head. “Never seen him before, but he’s cutting across country, in’t he? And it’s private land.” She shrugged and rolled her eyes. “Only a gentleman would do that. Us ordinary folks don’t take trespassing lightly. People get transported for less.”
“I suppose.”
“Bound for Fonthill or Whitethorn Manor, I reckon.” Lizzie added with a grin, “Mebbe he’ll pass right by you. You could stand in his way, miss. A gentleman would have to stop. You never know, you might catch yourself a fine, rich husband.”
Maddy snorted. “With my luck he’d be the sort who’d ride straight over me without even looking, and there I’d be—”
“In a right pile of muck!” Lizzie finished, and both girls laughed. “No, he’d stop, for sure, specially with you looking so pretty with your hair all fancy.” Lizzie gave Maddy’s hair a critical look. “I did a good job on that, I reckon.”
Maddy put a hand to her newly coiffed hair. Lizzie was using her to practice. “You did a beautiful job, Lizzie. You’ll make a wonderful lady’s maid.”
“I hope so, Miss Maddy. I’m sick to death of milking cows. And you’d make some gentleman a lovely wife, I reckon.”
“As long as they don’t find out I haven’t a bean to my name.” Maddy laughed. “Besides, I’m not convinced a husband is worth the trouble.”
The laughter died from Lizzie’s face. “You’re right there.”
Maddy shot her a guilty look. “Oh, Lizzie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” She’d spoken without thought. Lizzie had been married just four months when her husband went to town with all their savings and never came back.
Lizzie wrapped a scarf around her head and said in a hard voice, “Don’t mind me; you’re right. A pig in a poke, that’s what marriage is. You never know what you got till it’s too late. Trouble is what men are, all right, but rich trouble, well, that’s easier to live with.”
Maddy nodded in perfunctory agreement. She didn’t agree. Rich trouble was the very worst sort. And avoiding it was why Maddy was here, living in a run-down cottage. But Lizzie didn’t know that.
Nobody did. Maddy didn’t dare tell a soul.
