Marrying Mischief

The familiar shock of white hair, the dreamy gray eyes under wire-rimmed spectacles, and the portly figure contained in slightly out-of-date black attire, made her ache to hug this sweet man she loved so dearly. Would he understand her predicament? Would he approve what they were about to do to rectify it?

She waved as she approached and spoke to him when she drew close enough for him to hear. “What do you think, Father? Have I gone completely beyond the pale this time?”

He smiled, as she’d expected he would, and gestured toward Nicholas with his prayer book. “Moot question, but not to worry, child. His lordship has matters well in hand, my dear. Yes, yes, I’m certain you’ll do right well with one another.” In an abrupt change of subject that was totally characteristic of him, he asked, “You’ve seen Joshua?”

Emily brightened, happy to bring her father good news. “Just last evening. I wish he could be out here so you could see him. His health is improving, however, and you’ll not believe how he’s grown, Da. His voice is so deep and, though he’s still abed and ’twas hard to tell for sure, he looks to have grown a foot taller these past months.”

“Good, good. Well he should grow, now shouldn’t he? Be strange if he didn’t at his age.”

“Pardon me, sir, but we ought to proceed,” Nicholas interjected. “It is misting and we wouldn’t want our Emily to catch a chill on her wedding day.”

Emily shot him a frown. How dare he interrupt her conversation when she was reassuring her father about her brother’s health. But the men already standing there and those who’d just joined them, were watching them as closely as if this were a tennis match. She knew better than to set up a contest of wills with Nick when she had no prayer of winning. She must choose her battles.

The very idea that she could not afford to speak her mind made the urge to do so all the greater, but she kept her mouth firmly shut and stifled the longing. Impulse had been her downfall too many times to give in to it.

“Now, now,” her father admonished Nicholas. “No need to rush on account of that. My daughter’s as hardy as one of your sailors there. Got a strong constitution, my girl has. Never sick. Never.”

Emily almost rolled her eyes in exasperation. Fine thing, her own parent likening her with a seasoned tar. And Nicholas did not have to add insult to injury by allowing his amusement to show. She was already jumpy as a rabbit. Did they both have to make matters worse?

“Let’s get on with it,” she snapped. She marched forward and stationed herself at Nicholas’s left.

“Pretend, Emily,” he said, leaning near her ear to speak softly so that only she could hear.

She searched his eyes to see whether he was making sport of her at this particularly inappropriate moment, but it appeared he was now quite serious.

“Stretch those lovely lips into a smile,” he ordered, hardly moving his lips when he said it. “And for pity’s sake, take my hand. Pinch me if it makes you feel better, but do not outwardly betray your reluctance further or it will trouble the vicar. I have just spent half an hour convincing him that we are well suited.”

“Half an hour? A great deal more than you spent persuading me,” she muttered. But she did as he suggested. She pasted on the most pleasant face she could manage under the circumstances and thrust out her chin. In a louder voice, she said, “Shall we begin?”

The lines her father read and the vows required were those Emily had heard dozens of times in her years as the vicar’s daughter. She had witnessed weddings of great joy and meaning, and those where couples were less than enthusiastic. Never had she been a party to a total travesty such as this. She feared lightning might strike one or the other of them before the deed was done.

Fate would have served her better if she didn’t still love the cad, but she did promise to do that much since she had no choice in the matter. God alone knew she had tried for years to banish him from her heart with no success. It seemed he was stuck there like a nettle that could not be pulled free.

And she would be faithful, she thought to herself, almost laughing aloud at the idea of searching out any other man. She’d had problems enough with this one, even when he’d been absent. Heaven only knew how much trouble he’d be now that he was back again. Yes. One man would be more than enough.

When her father mentioned the part about obeying, Emily crossed the fingers of her left hand, hidden within the folds of her skirt.

As for honoring him with her body, Emily stumbled over those words when prompted to repeat them. Nicholas had reached for her free hand and was grasping both now as if he knew about the crossed fingers, daring her to avoid the promise.

She was making it under duress, Emily told herself. Even so, she supposed she would have to live up to it, in spite of her demand that they not share a bed.

However, nothing in the vicar’s little book of ceremonies required her to say when she must. Nick could jolly well wait until she felt like it.

“I will,” she answered.

Nick squeezed her hands and smiled down at her.

She started to say, “Eventually,” aloud, but the word would not form on her lips. Too many ears were listening and her courage did not extend quite that far.

Chapter Four

Nick slipped the ring onto Emily’s finger. It was not originally intended as a wedding band, but there could hardly be a ceremony without a ring of some sort. He’d been surprised to find that this and the other jewelry had survived. If his father had discovered it, it would surely have been sold. The dainty gold filigree surrounding the sky-blue stones looked perfect on Emily’s graceful hand, fitting in every way, he thought.

“By the power vested in me by the Church of England, I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the vicar proclaimed in the loud, sonorous voice he usually reserved for the pulpit.

Nicholas closed his eyes for a brief moment. Emily was his now. He had convinced himself it was never fated to happen, that it had never been meant to take place, that she would be long wed with several children by the time he returned to England.

In those first letters to her after he’d reached India, he had poured out his heart to her, vowing undying love like the half-witted fool he was at the time. He now knew that love as described by the poets did not and never had existed. But he had liked Emily so much, felt wildly protective of her and had actually lusted after her with all his might that last year they had been friends. He had wanted her desperately then and, much to his chagrin, found that he still did.

In his letters he had explained in minute detail about his forced departure, assuring her that he had not only her own future in mind, but also that of her family.

She’d not only withheld her forgiveness, but had never offered any response whatsoever. She had intended to cut him from her life permanently.

Her unbending attitude had made him furious with her. Though the worst of his anger had passed long ago, he did admit now that a residue of it remained. It had literally doubled the instant she’d demanded a marriage in name only.

She looked up at him now, obviously steeling herself for the kiss that would seal their union. He wished he could kiss her witless, show her just how alive and well her desire for him truly was.

Emily might no longer trust him, and she might resent having to marry him, but her response each time he touched her was evident. Beneath his thumbs he could detect her rapid pulse. Her breathing grew unsteady as he drew nearer. Heat reddened her cheeks. Her lips trembled.

God only knew how much he wanted to take that impudent mouth and make it his, but he did not. Firmly reining in the impulse, he lowered his closed lips to her forehead and rested them there for an instant.

Did he imagine that hum of disappointment she made deep in her throat? Or had that been his own? He stepped away, still holding her hands.

“There,” he said simply as the hesitant applause and good wishes of his men rent the stillness of the cold morning air around them.

“Thank you, sir,” he called out to the vicar. “We will invite you back as soon as is possible.”

Emily tugged one of her hands from his and waved at her father as the old fellow smiled at them and turned to leave.

Nicholas stood with her as she watched the vicar climb into his trap and ride off down the lane.

From the road through the wood in the opposite direction, he heard hoofbeats approaching. “Wait over there out of sight,” he ordered Emily and nodded his approval when she obeyed. He could see no point in having to explain a wedding in the middle of his courtyard in the misting rain.

The rider halted in confusion when he noticed the closed gates. It was Carrick, his first cousin. The brat had been the bane of Nick’s existence and seven years without his company was not nearly long enough.

“Hallo, Nick! Welcome home,” the man said, doffing his hat and nodding in lieu of a formal bow. “Are you refusing me entrance?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am,” Nick answered with little regret. “You must ride on, Carrick. If you wish a reunion, it must wait.”

The outright rudeness seemed to shock even Carrick, who issued a small laugh of disbelief. “Are you going to tell me why you cannot speak with me now?”

“No, I am not,” Nick declared with no room for argument. “Do as I say, Carrick, and leave me in peace for the remainder of this month.”

“Something’s amiss here. I feel it.” Carrick paused, obviously expecting Nick to relent. Then he warned Nick, “I shall discover what it is.”

Nick said nothing, simply stared him down.

After a long moment of tense silence Carrick nodded. “As you wish.” He slowly reversed his mount and galloped away toward the village. No one moved until the distance had swallowed up horse and man.