Chapter 8
“So you’re certain my cousin didn’t see you,” Russell Scott queried the rough-looking man that he’d hired to follow Lord Summerlin if he ever set out anywhere without him. His jaw growing tighter as the fellow nodded, clutching his soiled hat in his work-worn hands, Russell swore between clenched teeth.
“I hid round the corner, is wot I did, milord. Stayed out of sight, but watched like a hawk. An hour after Lord Summerlin arrived at the town house, he came out with two fine ladies on his arm followed by footmen who loaded a trunk onto the back of the coach—oh, aye, and wot looked to me like a hamper for food went inside. Then kisses and hugs all around and tears from that comely blonde in the family way. Not sad tears, mind you. Happy tears, seemed to me—”
“Go on,” Russell grated impatiently, not wanting to hear about tears or kisses or fond embraces. “What happened then?”
“Well, Lord Summerlin assisted the auburn-haired lass into the coach and then he climbed in and they were on their way.”
“No chaperone for the young lady? No maidservant or female companion?”
“None at all, just the two of them in the carriage. So I jumped on my horse and followed them, aye, north through the city to the main post road out of London. That’s when I thought it best to turn round to come tell you, milord.”
“The main post road,” Russell muttered, staring down at the message clutched in his fist that he’d received before his hired man had returned moments ago with this wretched news.
A message from Alexander—no, Walker, that usurper making no effort at all to adopt his true honored name—that said only he’d be away for a few days on business and to give his regrets to Lady Belinda.
The footman who had delivered the message an hour past had left before Russell made it to the door to query from whence he’d come, but no matter. Russell had known his hired man would return eventually with more details about Walker’s whereabouts. Yet he hadn’t expected this turn of events—dammit, foiling everything that he’d planned so meticulously for the evening!
“Stay close, Jack, I may have need of you,” Russell ordered tersely, waving the man from the foyer of the town house that he’d leased at the behest of the duke for himself and Walker for the Season. Except Russell had never intended he would be here for the entire Season, but only a week at best.
A week to enact a plan he had nurtured since he’d heard of the royal pardon that would bring his cousin back to England and the dukedom that Russell had believed one day would belong to him!
“Ruined…ruined,” Russell muttered, growing more furious even as his instincts screamed that he knew exactly what Walker Burke was about in that coach with Miss Marguerite Easton at his side.
Damn them to hell, they were bound for Gretna Green! He was certain of it! With Lady Dovercourt’s blessing, no doubt, given Jack’s recounting of her happy tears. His hired man’s description of the women had revealed at once to Russell their identities from meeting them last night at Almack’s.
Surely the countess would never have allowed Miss Easton to depart unchaperoned with Walker if that infamous border village was not their destination. And here Russell had planned for Walker’s demise that very night on their way to dine with Lady Belinda, their coach to be set upon by cutthroats masquerading as common thieves!
Why, he had even intended to suffer a knife blade to the shoulder to deflect any suspicion that he might have been at the heart of the attack. He had thought of every detail…but had never considered that Walker might run off to Gretna Green with a common vicar’s daughter. Now what in blazes was he going to do?
Russell stormed into the drawing room and began to pace furiously, wondering what the woman he’d long desired for his wife might think of this swift turn of events.
Walker had chosen another bride over Lady Belinda Cavendish—by God, would she even believe it?
After Andrew Scott’s death, Russell had made his intentions known to her, but when she’d heard of the inquiry into Walker Burke’s true parentage, she had spurned him. And after word had spread like wildfire of Prince George’s pardon, Lady Belinda had made it quite clear that she intended to wed Alexander Scott. What would she say now? What would she do?
That thought made Russell slow his pacing, a familiar idiom coming to mind that made him smile in spite of his fury.
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
Suddenly he knew he had to see her. Not tonight, but as soon as a carriage could carry him to her door. That is, after he spoke to Jack about seeking out that pair of cutthroats Russell had hired and sending them on swift horseback after Walker and Miss Marguerite Easton.
A pity, really, that the chit had been drawn into what Russell had planned for Walker, but there was nothing to be done about it. She must be slain, too. If those men didn’t reach them until after the marriage was consummated, then there would be the possibility of an heir who could still thwart his intent to become the next Duke of Summerlin.
“Never!” His roar enraged, Russell’s next fierce outcry was for Jack as he strode from the drawing room.
***
“Are you hungry, Marguerite? It’s been several hours already since we left London.”
Several hours? Sitting in the well-appointed carriage across from Walker, who faced the rear of the rumbling conveyance, Marguerite shook her head and fought to steady her breathing.
Lindsay had been so kind to fill a hamper for them with bread, cheese, and other savories, and several bottles of cider and wine, but Marguerite had no appetite at all. How could she?
The time had flown in a blur, even with the one stop they’d just made for a change of horses. At this swift pace, Walker had said they would arrive in Gretna Green by the morning after next!
He’d told her the glossy black carriage, a gift to him by his father, was one of the sleekest and lightest ever built. The four lathered matched bays, also a gift, had been stabled at the coaching house to rest up for their return and exchanged for the best team the proprietor had to offer—and so Walker intended to do at every twenty-mile mark.
No footmen had accompanied them to add to the load, and Walker planned to replace the liveried driver, who would be well compensated for his silence, with hired ones when the time warranted. Everything seemed to be falling so seamlessly into place—even the new carriage bore no Summerlin family crest to identify them!—that to Marguerite it now felt as if heaven above had ordained she’d soon be Walker’s bride.
Oh, Lord. Her cheeks burning, Marguerite occupied herself once more with looking out the window at the passing countryside.
A useless exercise, really, for she could scarcely focus on anything she saw. She felt so flustered, so overwhelmed by the sudden turn of events, which hadn’t abated since she and Walker had left a teary-eyed Lindsay waving after them. Marguerite was almost grateful for the constant clatter of the carriage wheels and pounding horses’ hooves as a cover for her whirling emotions. Walker’s several attempts to draw her into conversation had been drowned out by the ruckus, even with him sitting just across from her.
And of course he should be sitting across from her, as was only proper considering they weren’t yet married. Walker had made no move to do otherwise, instead bracing his muscled leg against the opposite seat and spending much of his time staring out the window, too.
At first Marguerite had been startled that Lindsay hadn’t sent along a maid as a chaperone, which would have also been proper…but then again, she and Walker would soon be husband and wife. That thought made her swallow hard and hazard a glance at Walker, only to find him studying her with a curious look upon his face.
Could it be that he couldn’t quite believe, either, that they were on their way to Gretna Green when she had only just agreed to marry him?
He smiled at her, which made her breath seem to stop.
He was so darkly handsome, unbelievably so, this man whom she’d secretly thought of for three years and prayed that one day she might see again. Now he was seated no more than three feet from her, the toe of his boot touching her knee every time the carriage swayed!
In fact, the road had become so rough that she clutched the leather strap at the window to steady herself even as the carriage wheels hit a jarring rut that made her cry out. She had no more than blinked and Walker now sat beside her, his arm going round the back of her waist to keep her from jouncing off the upholstered seat.
“Oh…oh my!” She felt her teeth almost rattling at another bump, and he pulled her closer against him, bracing his leg now where he’d sat only a moment before. Though the jolting continued for what seemed an eternity, Marguerite felt herself held so tightly, so protectively, that she didn’t bounce at all. His hard thigh pressed against hers steadied her, too.
Then, just as suddenly, the road grew smooth again and the carriage resumed its normal swaying…though Walker made no move to release her or to return to his own seat. Instead he bent his head close to her ear so she would have no trouble hearing him over the clamor of wheels and horses.
“Would you mind if I remain beside you, Marguerite? Just in case, of course…”
His warm breath tickled the shell of her ear, his lips brushing her there with the swaying of the carriage. She didn’t attempt to speak for the rampant pounding of her heart, but nestled closer against him.
She had never before felt so safe and secure as she did at that moment within his embrace.
Her future husband, Walker Burke.
Truly, the man of her dreams…
***
“That wretched bastard.”
Russell smiled in triumph at Belinda’s bitter words, though she didn’t see his reaction from where she stood at the parlor window with her back to him.
Her slender white hand clutched the gold velvet drapery so tightly that he thought she might pull it down from its rod.
Ah, God, the woman possessed fire and fury beneath that cool blond demeanor that he couldn’t wait to savor on their wedding night! If Russell had ever sensed a moment where he could taste the victory of all his dreams and desires, it was this one.
The priceless look on Belinda’s face when he’d told her that Walker had run off with Miss Marguerite Easton to Gretna Green would remain etched forever in his mind.
Her disbelief in those crystalline blue eyes.
Her outrage as two spots of color burned her alabaster cheeks.
And then the hard set of her red lips as she gritted her teeth in rage.
Oh yes, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
“So you said they left only a few hours ago,” Belinda said tersely.
“Yes.”
“And there is little chance of catching up with them before they reach Gretna Green.”
“It’s unlikely. They have a good start over anyone that might follow them…and my uncle’s gift to my cousin of so light and swift a carriage won’t help matters. Or his deep pockets, thanks as well to my uncle, that will buy him the fastest horses and most able drivers. Now that Walker has made his choice of a bride, I can only imagine that he’ll wish to have wedded and bedded her as quickly as his funds will achieve it.”
At Belinda’s sharp intake of breath, Russell knew his words had struck home. Her grip on the drapery had grown even tighter, her knuckles stark white.
But why not punish her for spurning his attentions time and again? Why not revel in her rage and distress? Why not toy with her for a few moments longer that he might have come here to offer some assistance in preventing this marriage? That Walker—still Alexander Scott to her—might yet make her the duchess she longed to be? That her spendthrift family so needed for her to be?
Russell couldn’t help smiling again, but stiffly…for he felt rage, too. Rage that this incredibly beautiful woman could see no further than Walker when Russell was standing right there, the very answer to her prayers.
Yet, to his surprise, Belinda turned slowly from the window to face him, an emotionless look in her eyes and upon her face that made his blood run cold.
“Of course they must die. Will you do this for me, Russell?”
He didn’t readily answer, stunned that it could have all been so easy, so simple.
No persuading her that eliminating Walker and his bride was the only way for her aspirations to come true. No reasoning with her or cajoling. No need, certainly, to reveal to her that his hired men were already riding north in hot pursuit of their quarry.
A rush of exultation swept over him and he nodded, knowing in that incredible unexpected moment that the dukedom—and Lady Belinda Cavendish!—were finally going to be his.
She came toward him then in a rustle of violet silk and took his hand, her fingers as cold as ice. “Good. Once it is done—”
“You will marry me,” he finished for her, noting the flicker in her eyes of an emotion he could not name. The vivid blue had grown dark and stormy, and he knew then that this was a woman he’d be wise never to cross.
His bride-to-be. His duchess. He bent over her hand to kiss her ice-cold fingers, her voice sounding brittle with still barely controlled rage.
“Yes, my lord, I will marry you.”
***
With the mantel clock chiming midnight, Belinda lay in bed staring blindly at the brocade canopy above her.
What a wretched difference a mere twenty-four hours could make in one’s life. Her life!
Last night she had felt certain after dancing the rest of the evening with Alexander and focusing all of her considerable feminine charm upon him, that she was destined to become his bride. And yet…he had chosen another. A parson’s daughter over her, the daughter of the Earl of Stratham! Could such an insult even be borne?
“Thankfully, not for long,” Belinda grated to herself, her rekindled rage leaving no doubt that sleep, tonight, would be impossible.
She doubted she would sleep much at all until Russell brought her the news that the deed was done. Slain by ruthless highwaymen, or so he’d said that’s how it would appear. Her future and that of her family would at last be assured once Walker Burke—how disagreeable and common a name!—and his ill-bred country mouse of a wife were dead.
She should have known a coarse American such as he would have done no better, a former pirate no less with his high-placed friends and royal pardon from Prince George. None of that would help him now, the bastard. Bastard!
To her dismay, tears bit her eyes but she furiously swiped them away.
She hated him, just as she’d hated Andrew for leaving her to go to war and then dying so needlessly in battle. He had been the son of a duke! Why couldn’t he have remained in England and enjoyed the wealth and privilege of his birth rather than hold to some misplaced sense of honor and duty?
Belinda closed her eyes tightly against the memory of his handsome face and Walker’s, too, twisting the silken sheet so viciously that her fingers hurt.
Men! Such pathetic but necessary vehicles for getting what one wanted and needed out of life.
She should be grateful that Sir Russell Scott still wished to wed her though she had scorned him when news had flown that Andrew’s twin brother had been found. What did it matter who came to the marriage bed as long as one day soon, she would bear the title of Her Grace, the Duchess of Summerlin?
She, too, had been born for such wealth and privilege and she would have it, by God, she would have it!