Chapter Three
Charles Dacre, Viscount Daxton, opened one bleary eye. Groaning seemed too much effort, and in any case, it would do no good. A day of hell was assured and it would be intense, with that particular heavy quality he associated with a spree of several days and nights duration. No single night’s drinking could make a man feel this bad.
Damn it, why did he do these things? Because he’d been enraged, he remembered, after quarrelling with his father and storming away from Dacre Abbey, determined to drive his horses and himself to the devil. Inevitably, he’d taken pity on the horses at least, though he couldn’t quite recall where he’d ended up.
The decoration of the room was unfamiliar, but at least he was in a comfortable bed with its drapes partially opened. Licking his parched lips, he turned carefully over, in search of water or even, if God or whoever owned this bed was kind, coffee.
Sunlight shone through partially opened curtains in a single beam, causing a stab of acute pain through his eyes to his head. But more than that, it illuminated the young woman who sat in the window embrasure, her legs drawn up under her gown, a book open in her lap.
The sun caught burnt golden lights in her simply-pinned, dark red hair and cast a glow almost like a halo around a face of unusual beauty—pale skin, a slightly snub nose, long eyelashes, darker than her hair, fanning out over the soft curve of her cheek. Her lips were shapely, her throat slender and elegant. In all, it was a quiet, refined kind of beauty. Not at all the type he was used to in his inamoratas.
And the gown was hideous. Grey and dull and old. That wasn’t normal in his inamoratas either, although he was generally more interested in the delights inside than in the outer casing.
On the other hand, she did look vaguely, naggingly familiar—especially that rare, striking color of hair—so perhaps this was some kind of game.
“I don’t suppose,” he croaked, and was surprised to see her jump. The book slid from her lap and she sat up straight, her stockinged feet shooting straight to the red-carpeted floor. He blinked and began again more strongly, “I don’t suppose you have a pot of coffee—several pots of coffee—stashed about the premises?”
She jumped to her feet. “I’ll send for some.”
She walked to the door. He liked the way she moved, quick and graceful, without any languid affectations. Natural, almost soothing, despite her obvious nervousness and his own monumental if self-inflicted pain.
She opened the door and spoke to someone in the room beyond.
“I’ll see to it, m’lady,” came a gruff voice he knew much better. Carson, his valet. At least, he called him his valet, but in truth, he had no more training than Daxton’s dogs in the skills of a gentleman’s gentleman. Daxton just liked having him around because he was impervious to his lord’s tantrums and made decent coffee. And never asked stupid questions, whatever outlandish task was required of him.
“Wait, ma’am, you don’t want to go back in there,” Carson warned in alarm.
“Of course I do,” the girl said calmly. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Belatedly, Daxton’s wits began to catch up. My lady? Who the devil was she? She certainly spoke and walked like a lady.
“Because he’ll be like a bear with a sore tooth,” Carson said quite truthfully, “and he’ll swear worse than any trooper, or anything you might hear in the worst stews in London. Besides, he’ll need to eat and he won’t want to. He’ll throw it and won’t care who it hits.”
“He won’t throw anything at me,” the girl said calmly and walked back into the room before he could yell at Carson.
“Won’t I?” Daxton threatened, easing himself gently into a sitting position. He appeared to be naked, which reminded him he couldn’t yet remember making love to the lady of the house. He hoped it would come back to him, because something about her was very different and very desirable. Even in this state, his body was reacting without permission. And she was still hauntingly familiar.
She blushed rather adorably and averted her gaze from his naked chest. “No,” she said. “Gentlemen don’t throw things at their—”
She broke off, and he grinned wolfishly.
“Lovers?” he suggested, and her blush deepened, intriguing him further. He wasn’t used to mealy-mouthed women in his bed, whatever their class. Of course, in this case, he appeared to be in hers.
Christ, did I seduce a lady of virtue? Surely I’m not that tempting a proposition? Certainly not in my cups after a three-day spree…
At least she had spirit. She didn’t back down before his teasing or her own embarrassment. Instead, she met his gaze, although with a certain conscious courage that he rather admired.
“I was going to say wives.”
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Gentlemen don’t throw things at their wives,” she repeated patiently.
Whatever horror he might have felt at the implications of this was abruptly mitigated by an elusive memory. No wonder she looked familiar to him.
“Willa Blake,” he said with an air of triumph, then scowled. “Damn it. Please tell me I’m not in Shelby’s house. And excuse the language,” he added hurriedly.
“Oh, I’ve heard much worse,” she said vaguely, causing him to hope uneasily that it hadn’t been from him. “And no, you are certainly not in the Shelbys’ house. You are in your own rooms at the Blackhaven Hotel.”
“Blackhaven!” he repeated, clutching his head as memories started to flash back. A gaming party. Ralph Shelby and the sudden desire to pick a fight with him. With anyone really, but Shelby had been conveniently there. Had he achieved his aim?
He flexed his arms and legs, glanced under the covers for signs of injury. He didn’t appear to have been shot, which he supposed to be a good thing, though the knuckles of his right hand were certainly grazed. He’d hit someone or something.
Wickenden had been there at some point, too, hadn’t he? Had he hauled Daxton off before he’d stepped over the mark? Or had Daxton shot Shelby? Killed him?
God knew. But yes, Willa had been there—why, he couldn’t imagine, for it was hardly the sort of party for a lady.
He squeezed his eyes shut. “Oh, the devil, this is bad. It isn’t very clear yet, but…please tell me I didn’t abduct you.”
“Not exactly,” she said cautiously. “I decided to go with you.”
His eyes flew open of their own accord. “Why?” he asked blankly.
She smiled with what he took to be deliberate vagueness, but annoyingly Carson chose that moment to come in with a tray bearing a pot of coffee, two large cups, a bowl of sugar, and a jug of cream.
“My lady,” Daxton repeated, glaring at his man. “You called her my lady.”
“Lady Daxton,” Carson said with relish. “You took her to Gretna Green and married her before witnesses, and there ain’t no getting out of it.”
Daxton grabbed the nearest thing to hand, which unfortunately turned out to be a mere pillow, and took aim. But before he could throw, it was suddenly taken from him and placed back on the bed.
Flabbergasted, Daxton watched Willa Blake smooth the coverlet and walk to the table where Carson had just set down the tray. “Coffee, my lord,” she said calmly. “With sugar and cream?”
“Black, m’lady,” Carson supplied, when Daxton said nothing. He felt he was still two conversations behind this one and the tightening knots of guilt and marriage seemed to constrict his throat.
He watched her approach him again, the girl whom he remembered as sweet and funny, a part of his more innocent childhood.
“What have I done?” he uttered, dragging his hand through his tangled hair so hard that it hurt.
She pushed the cup into his hand and he drank it down without pause. Obligingly, she brought the coffee pot and refilled the cup before fetching one for herself, and returning to her original position on the window seat.
Another fragment of memory hit him. Driving his horses with the reins in one hand, while passing the brandy flask to his passenger, Willa. He had the impression they were both laughing, though he suspected that was a trick of his befuddled brain.
Something else bothered him rather more. He remembered a sweet, tender mouth under his, smooth skin against his fingers, a soft, perfect breast… Or at least, he thought he did. It might have been a dream or simple fantasy.
A quick glance assured him that Carson had left.
“One question,” he blurted, because he had to know. “Willa. Did I…hurt you? Force myself upon you?”
Color rose into her cheeks once more, but still she remained outwardly calm. “No, you fell asleep and only woke ten minutes ago.”
She might have been lying, but he couldn’t help the twitch of his lip. “At least you have that to be thankful for. Did you drive the curricle back here?”
“No, you ordered a post chaise to bring us back. Carson carried you up to your room.”
“And how long have I been here? How long have we been…married?”
“We were married yesterday morning,” she replied calmly. “And you’ve been here in this room since we arrived back yesterday evening.”
He pressed his knuckles to his forehead, trying to think. “Then it’s as well we’re married, for I’ve ruined you utterly. You had best get as far away from me as possible while I get what’s left of my mind back.”
She stood at once. “I’ll be in the outer room.”
“Further,” he advised. He wanted to shout and swear and break things.
“I can’t,” she said without emphasis or self-pity. “As it stands, I have nowhere else to go.”
He closed his mouth. Of course. Shelby wouldn’t have her back in his household when she’d apparently quite publicly eloped with Daxton. This was a problem of monumental, gigantic proportions.
“Ruined you or not, I’ve rather messed up your life,” he said harshly.
“Oh no, my lord,” she argued, though with a surprising hint of humor in her eyes as she walked across the room. “You assured me you were improving my life.”
“I hope you didn’t believe me.”
“Of course, I did,” she said, and went out.
*
Willa felt cold inside. She’d known from the outset she was taking a risk, and she wasn’t yet prepared to give up. But she couldn’t help wishing he didn’t look quite so horrified by the marriage. Clearly, he remembered very little about it and nothing at all about his amorous interlude in the carriage—which was the least of her worries, she reminded herself severely.
He didn’t want her anywhere near him.
However, they would need to talk, and very soon. Until they did, she couldn’t even write to her aunt, let alone make any kind of living arrangement.
Leaving his lordship to fight with his thick head and nausea, she left his rooms and made her way to Clara’s chamber in the attic. Although Willa had introduced the girl as her maid in order to make sure she had somewhere to lay her drooping, exhausted head, there was clearly no space for her in Lord Daxton’s chambers. Willa had slept on the sitting room sofa wrapped in a blanket before, greatly daring, she’d gone through to Daxton’s room to see if he was awake. She’d imagined, rather too optimistically, that catching him as soon as he woke, they could reach some kind of immediate understanding.
She sighed, then darted ahead to avoid the aristocratic voices she could hear behind her, and ran up the attic stairs.
She discovered Clara sitting on the edge of her bed, trying to put her dried gown back on. The girl looked dreadful—red-eyed and pale, with her nose running like a tap.
“Back into bed,” Willa instructed after feeling her forehead. “You are clearly ill. I’ll have them bring you some gruel and a fortifying tonic, and if you’re no better this afternoon, I’ll send for the doctor.”
“I’m just so tired, m’lady,” the girl said weakly, “but I’ve got to go home. My mother and father will be worried sick.”
“I shall send a message up to the farm that you are safe and unharmed, but prostrated with a cold.”
“Really?” the girl said in amazement. “You would do that for me?”
“Well, I think we have to be each other’s respectability for now,” Willa said ruefully. “So, remember you are my maid.”
“It might wash with your people,” Clara said dubiously. “Mine won’t believe a word of that.”
“It might be best if they pretended to. We’ll make up some story, if you can keep your quarrelling suitors quiet. I suspect they won’t admit to their infamy.”
“Maybe not,” Clara murmured. “To be fair, only Jem behaved infamous to me. Dan probably thought he was rescuing me.”
“Even after he knocked you into the lake?”
“Men,” Clara said bitterly.
Having seen her new “maid” comfortably settled, she sent one of the hotel messengers up to Black Farm. Willa then returned stealthily to the viscount’s rooms, where a war seemed to be going on.
Through the open door between the sitting room and the bedchamber, she could see Carson standing in the center of the room, bearing a tray, while his master berated him with an impressive array of oaths and insults.
“Take this bloody mess of ill-cooked pottage away and bring me the damned brandy!” he thundered. “What I need is a hair of the blasted dog!”
When he paused for breath, Carson pleaded, “Just eat it, sir. You know you won’t be right until you do.”
“Don’t presume,” Daxton snarled. “Damned impertinent waste of—”
Willa took her courage in both hands, praying the viscount was not marching naked about the room on his way to punch his hapless servant. She hurried across to the door, pushed it fully open with the briefest of knocks and walked in.
He was only half out of bed, one naked leg tangled in the sheet, allowing her a glorious glimpse of his powerful thigh and hip, and of course his broad chest and shoulders that she’d already half seen as he awoke. Why on earth hadn’t Carson put him in a night shirt?
Ignoring both her embarrassment and the inexplicable fluttering of her heart, she calmly took the tray from Carson.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll make sure his lordship eats.”
Carson regarded her with understandable doubt. “I’ll just wait here by the door.”
“No, that’s fine, you may go,” Willa said cheerfully, setting the heavy tray on the bed with some relief. “What would you like to eat first, my lord? A little toast? Or straight to this delicious ham?”
Forcing herself, as Carson abandoned her to her fate, she looked up from the plate, straight into Daxton’s turbulent eyes. She tried to ignore the bare flesh between. But even unwashed and unshaven, with his fair hair impossibly tousled, he was still the most impossibly handsome man she had ever seen.
Acute annoyance still lingered on his face, but after a tense moment, his lips twitched.
“You’re treating me as if I’m ten years old,” he observed.
“Why would I do such a thing?” she wondered.
“Because I’m behaving as if I’m ten years old,” he said flatly. “In your opinion.”
“And in yours.”
His eyes narrowed, “Are you going to feed me like a baby?”
“I believe ten-year-olds normally feed themselves, but if you believe it will help—”
A crack of reluctant laughter interrupted her. “You really aren’t afraid of me, are you? Very well, bring the muck here and I’ll eat it—on one condition.”
“Which is?”
“That you share it with me.”
“I broke my fast hours ago. At your lordship’s expense, I’m afraid.”
Daxton lifted the largest plate on the palm of his hand and appeared to be taking aim at the door.
“I know you’ll do it,” she added. “You don’t need to prove it. However, I have every intention of making sure you eat everything.”
At least the challenge glinting in his eyes held a spark of humor. “How are you going to do that?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” she admitted. “But I need to talk to you, not to a crapulous shell.”
“Crapulous?” His lips twitched.
“Crapulous.”
He dragged his leg back under the covers “Don’t go in much for flattery, do you, new wife?”
“No,” she agreed, ignoring her heated cheeks as she set the tray on his lap.
He patted the bed next to him. “Sit here. And I’d thank you for a cup of coffee. Have one yourself.”
She felt his gaze on her face as she obligingly poured two cups. Almost without noticing, he picked up a piece of toast and began to eat. She said nothing, merely set the coffee cup on his tray and sat on the side of the bed, facing him, her own cup and saucer balanced in her lap.
“What do you want to do?” he asked bluntly. “Do you want me to have the marriage annulled?”
They still had that option. There were grounds in non-consummation, but she didn’t quite understand the painful twist of her stomach.
“If you think it’s best,” she managed.
“It would get you shot of me,” he said brutally. “I’d make a terrible husband.”
“And you don’t want to be married.”
“Well, I’m not really fit for it,” he said. “Or suited to it in any way.”
“I can see that,” she managed. “Except in so far as you can now get your hands on the money.”
He blinked. “I told you about that?”
“It was the main reason you made your offer.”
“Christ, I’m a boor,” he said ruefully. “Still, better than the alternative.” He didn’t elaborate, but took a sizeable gulp of coffee. “So, let’s put that amongst the cons of annulment. We’d be pretty well off and could live independently, without my father constantly closing the purse strings. Also…” He eyed her thoughtfully. “I’m a rotten bargain, but if the marriage was annulled, I doubt you’d be any better off than you were before. The Shelbys wouldn’t have you back, would they?”
“I wouldn’t go back,” she said. “I’d do what I should have done years ago and apply for a post as governess. Or something.”
He wrinkled his nose. “I feel you’d have better fun with me.”
She regarded him with a mixture of amusement and frustration. “Is there no more to life than how much fun we can extract from it?”
“No. Why should there be?”
She regarded him thoughtfully. “You are quite…liberating,” she allowed, and he grinned as he lifted a large forkful of ham and egg toward his mouth. Without thought, she took a piece of toast from his plate.
“It is perfectly true,” she allowed, “that I would be much more comfortable as Viscountess Daxton. But it would cut up my comfort to know that you abhorred the situation.”
He rubbed his forehead as though trying to dispel the monumental headache he must still be suffering.
“Well, I certainly didn’t plan to be leg-shackled just yet. It’s one of the reasons I was so angry at my father.” He reached for his coffee cup, a lopsided smile curving his lips. “In fact, I told him I’d go out and marry the first woman I saw, who was liable to be one of the house maids. It carried no weight, of course, because we both knew I wouldn’t do it.”
“And here you did.”
“Hardly.”
“I’ve a feeling his lordship won’t see much difference between me and the chamber maid,” Willa said.
Daxton didn’t deny it. “Don’t worry. We’ll keep out of his way until he’s got used to the idea.”
Willa’s eyes flew to his face. A hint of mischief gleamed in his eyes as he thoughtfully chewed his breakfast.
As neutrally as she could, she said, “Then you think we should stay married?”
“On the whole, yes. If you can stand it. If I have to be married to anyone, I’d as lief it was you. And wastrel as I am, my name and fortune are some protection for you.”
There was relief in that. Though hardly a declaration of undying love and fidelity, it was a beginning. She didn’t ask for details of the marriage he foresaw. Daxton had always lived very much for the day, without much thought of the future. So, she merely smiled at him and finished her slice of toast.
But the smile seemed to have caught his attention and a trace of unease entered his expression. “I’m not a very good man, Willa,” he warned.
“You’re not a very wicked one either.”
His eyebrow flew up. “Compared with Ralph, you mean?”
“I wouldn’t dream of comparing you to Ralph,” she retorted.
“Has that bas—” He stopped himself, scowling. “Has he hurt you?”
“No, no,” she said hastily, for the last thing they needed on top of this scandal was another quarrel with the Shelbys. She wouldn’t even put a duel past Daxton if he ever learned the truth. And in fact, there had been no physical hurt involved. Not to her, at any rate.
Thinking of duels, though, she still had to talk him out of the one he’d challenged Shelby to the night they’d eloped. Daxton hadn’t mentioned it, so with any luck, he’d forgotten. In fact, since he’d hit Ralph, perhaps it was up to Ralph to pursue the challenge now? Affairs of so-called honor were a bit of a mystery to her.
Daxton was frowning thoughtfully over his fork. “Hmmm. Why is Shelby in Blackhaven? Is he ill? For it’s not like him to dance attendance on his family.”
Willa hesitated. “I suppose I can tell you, since we’re married now.”
“As your husband, I insist upon it,” he said with mock loftiness.
“Well,” she said confidentially. “I suppose you heard the on-dit in London that Lady Arabella, the Duke of Kelburn’s daughter, refused the offer of marriage everyone expected her to accept?”
Daxton frowned, clearly dredging his erratic memory. She doubted gossip of this kind interested him, so it was probably a matter of chance how much information happened to get through to him. “Beaton,” he recalled. “Kelburn—and Monkton, too—spent ages bringing him up to scratch. So, she turned him down?”
“Apparently. Her family banished up here in disgrace. Or because she was ill, depending on who tells the story. Anyway, Ralph thought he was in with a shout.”
“Why?”
“Well, she doesn’t come to London and is a bit of a recluse. Beaton is over fifty. I suppose Ralph thought there would be no rivals. Besides, he met her once, years ago, and seemed to think she would be grateful for his offer, being quite old and no longer very marriageable. So, nothing would do but that we all must travel post haste to Blackhaven. Where we discovered not only that the Nivens had already gone, but that in the unlikeliest social event of the year, Lady Arabella had married someone else. The famous Captain Alban, in fact.”
“Serves him right,” Daxton said with satisfaction. “Shelby, I mean, not Alban.”
“Why do you and Ralph hate each other so much now?”
“That’s not a story you want to hear,” Daxton said hastily.
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, it’s not one I can tell,” Daxton retorted. “Not to you, especially now you’re my wife.” He pushed the cleared tray away from him, retaining only his coffee cup, from which he drank in a distracted kind of a way. “We’ll need different rooms. This isn’t suitable for you. And you’ll need a maid, too. Hmmm… I’ll write to my father and send an announcement to the Morning Post in London. Then there’s your aunt and Ralph. I was going to suggest we hang around here for a few days, just to get used to the idea, only you might be uncomfortable with the Shelbys here, too.”
She thought about it. “It’s very ill-natured of me, I know, but I find I rather like the idea of greeting my aunt on your arm as Lady Daxton.” As a viscountess, she even took precedence over her aunt, the widow of a mere baronet.
Daxton grinned. “Glad to be of service. I expect it will really annoy Ralph as well.”
“I expect it will. He knows we left the hotel together last night and must have presumed you set out to ruin a member of his family for spite.”
Daxton shifted with sudden discomfort, as if not perfectly sure that hadn’t been one of his motives. “I didn’t behave well,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, Willa. If I could undo it, I would.”
She knew that, and knew it shouldn’t hurt. They hadn’t met for eight years, since they were children. Well, she’d been twelve. He must have been around sixteen, a wild, handsome, and charming boy on the cusp of manhood. Now, they were effective strangers. She blinked away the intrusive, delightful memory of the carriage interlude.
She stood up. “Let us make the best of it, then. I’ll go and bespeak a larger set of rooms if any are available—”
“Carson will do that. He’s listening at the door anyhow.”
“No, I’m not,” came Carson’s indignant tones.
“Go and do it,” Daxton commanded. “And then bring me lots of water, a razor, and fresh clothes. Even my wife shouldn’t have to see me like this.” He frowned. “Is that the only gown you have?”
“I have a slightly better one for Sundays, and a very faded evening gown for dinner. They’re still in my aunt’s rooms, though. If she hasn’t thrown them away.”
“We’ll go shopping,” he pronounced with a grin. “See and be seen. It might be fun. I know nothing about this town, though the world and his wife appear to be here. I’m sure I saw Wickenden the other night.”
“Lady Wickenden was born here,” Willa said.
“How do you know these things? Is she a friend of yours?”
“Oh no,” she said, making hastily for the door since Daxton appeared to be getting out of bed, stark naked as he so clearly was. “I’ve never met either of them. I just spent a lot of time listening to conversations I had no part in. I’ll wait in the sitting room.”
She whisked herself to the other side of the door, and then was sorry. She would have liked to have seen more of that large, powerful body.
Hastily shaking the improper thought away, she discovered writing materials and set about composing an announcement of the marriage for the newspapers. It seemed unreal, as though she were writing about someone else.