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The
Accidental Wedding ~ excerpt
Bath, England
1819
“Find you a suitable wife?” The Honorable Nash Renfrew's
aunt stared at him through her lorgnette. Maude, Lady Gosforth,
enjoyed using her lorgnette. It magnified her gimlet eye horribly
and usually made the recipient of the stare squirm.
Nash never squirmed. “If you would be so good, Aunt Maude.”
She sniffed. “From all I've heard, you have no difficulty
finding women. Even in St. Petersburg.”
Nash didn't blink an eyelid. How the deuce had she learned of
his activities in St. Petersburg when her principal residence
was in Bath? But her contacts were legendary. It was why he'd
asked for her help.
He said coolly, “It's not the same.”
His aunt snorted. “No, it's not. And you also want me arrange
a ball for four weeks' time? A ball—at the beginning of the
season?”
“If it's not too fatiguing a task, dear Aunt.”
“Fatiguing? Of course it is! I'm too old to give parties
anymore!” she said with an attempt to look feeble.
“I'm sorry, Aunt Maude. I didn't realize. You're in such
blooming looks, you see . . . Never mind, I'll hire someone—”
“Hire someone? You'll do no such thing. Events organized
by hirelings”—she spoke the word with loathing—“cannot
be anything but vulgar. I will try, somehow, to find the energy
to arrange something—and to find you a suitable gel—but
I warn you, Nash, with such short notice and at the beginning
of the season with all the invitations already gone out, it will
be the paltriest, most insipid affair.”
“I know. I'm sorry.” Nash had no fear it would be anything
but magnificent. He added casually, “Can I prevail on you
to send an invitation to the Czar of Russia's aunt, the Grand
Duchess Anna Petrovna Romanova.”
The lorgnette dropped. “The Czar of Russia's aunt?”
“She'll arrive in London a few days before the ball. She
knows nobody in London and has requested my assistance. She won't
mind a small affair.” The grand duchess was as gregarious
as his aunt and adored a grand fuss.
“A grand duchess?” Aunt Maude sat up, her eyes sparkling
with ambition. She achieved a weary sigh. “How you do run
me ragged, boy.”
“I know.” He assumed a penitent expression. With a Russian
grand duchess, this ball would be the event of the season and
his aunt knew it.
Nash had applied for leave to return to England for two reasons:
to take possession of an inheritance, and to find a wife. The
ambassador, knowing how difficult the elderly grand duchess could
be, had granted leave on condition that Nash dance attendance
on the old lady in London.
Nash, the ambassador said, had a way with autocratic and difficult
old ladies. It came, Nash informed him, from a lifetime of dealing
with eccentric and autocratic aunts and great—aunts. One
of whom was currently peering beadily at him through her lorgnette.
“So on top of balls and grand duchesses, you expect me to
conjure up a wife out of thin air?”
“Not just any wife. The right sort of wife. I wish to make
an excellent marriage.”
One well—plucked brow rose. “Naturally, you are a Renfrew,
after all. It is what we do. But what, pray, is your definition
of an excellent marriage?”
Nash had given the matter a great deal of thought. Apart from
birth, breeding, education, and intelligence, his bride needed
to be not just well born, but well connected. She should have
some understanding of politics but be dispassionate about “causes.”
She should be well trained in the management of large social occasions
and have a certain degree of charm. Above all, she should be discreet,
refrain from gossip, and be tolerant of other people's eccentricities.
As for children, he had no need of heirs and no interest in children.
If his wife wanted one, he supposed he wouldn't mind.
“And I suppose you expect this paragon to be beautiful and
an heiress, as well,” Aunt Maude said caustically when he
finished.
Nash gave her his most brilliant smile. “That would be delightful,
best of aunts.”
She softened visibly. “Pshaw! Younger sons!” Then she'd
eyed him thoughtfully, with the gimlet look that all her nephews
were familiar with. “Not interested in marrying for love,
then?”
Nash raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Marry for love?”
“Your brothers did and they're both very happy.”
“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!”
*
* * * *
But
when Nash is riding across country in a storm he is thrown from
his horse and is badly injured. Maddy Woodford rescues him. She
patches him up, places the unconscious stranger in her own bed
and settles down to sleep on the floor...
* * * * *
Two
hours later, Maddy was still wide awake and getting crosser by
the minute. She was freezing.
All that was left of the fire were a few pale coals. Fuel was
so hard to come by she couldn't afford to keep it burning all
night. Besides, the woodpile was outside, and she'd freeze if
she went out there. Flurries of sleet beat against the windows.
She'd made a bed of hessian sacks then wrapped herself in a patchwork
quilt and two blankets. But the stone floor was icy and every
draught in every crack in the old cottage seemed to find a way
directly to her skin.
And all the time the steady, rhythmic breathing of the man in
her bed taunted her. She could hear it in the lulls between the
rain and wind. He was warm. She was half frozen. He was sleeping—it
didn't matter why. Broken head or not, he wasn't lying awake,
cold and tired and miserable and cross. She was.
He was unconscious, for goodness sake. Insensible. Oblivious.
What harm could he do? She sat up, seized the patchwork quilt,
rolled it into a thick snake, then stuffed it lengthways under
the bedclothes of the bed, against the body of the sleeping stranger.
Her own little Hadrian's Wall, to keep her safe from the barbarian.
The unconscious barbarian with his beautiful mouth and dark bristles
and his clean, well-kept hands.
He didn't move or make a sound, just kept on breathing steadily.
She smiled. Some barbarian.
She
slid into the bed. Heaven. It was warm from his body. Nobody would
ever know . . .
Maddy slept.
In the bleakest hour of the night, the man in the bed woke. He
lay in the unfamiliar surroundings, trying to make sense of his
situation. He had no idea where he was, no idea when he was, for
that matter, except that it was nighttime. But what day, and what
place—it was a mystery. His mind was a blank.
Not a blank, he corrected himself, more like a swirling fog, with
people and events half glimpsed and then vanishing. Taunting him.
His whole body ached. His head felt as though it had been split
open. He lifted a hand to it and frowned as his questing fingers
discovered the bandage. He'd been injured then. How? And by whom?
And been bandaged by . . .
A woman. At the heart of all the swirling thoughts and fleeting
images, he knew there was a woman. With gentle hands and a soft
voice. And the smell of . . . He turned on his side and breathed
in. He could scent her. Like a hound, he could scent that she
was close.
He wasn't alone.
Who was she that she shared his bed? He closed his eyes. So many
questions. So few answers.
He didn't care. She was there and that was enough. He moved closer
and found something else in the bed. A long lump of cloth. Why?
He pulled it out and tossed it aside, then returned to the woman.
She lay curled on her side, facing away from him, warm and soft.
He slipped his arms around her and drew her close against him,
curling his body to fit the curve of hers.
Her foot brushed against his leg. It was cold. He tucked her feet
between his calves and felt them slowly warm.
The nape of her neck lay exposed on the pillow. He lowered his
face to the soft skin and breathed in her fragrance.
It felt right. His hold on her tightened. She was his anchor,
the one solid thing in a shifting sea of taunting ghosts. The
questions hammering at the inside of his skull slowly faded.
He lay with his aching body curved against hers, his mouth just
touching the fragile skin at the nape of her neck, breathing in
the scent of her. Gradually the rhythm of his breathing slowed
until it matched hers, and he slept.
* * * * *
Morning
dreams were the nicest. In morning dreams, Maddy woke slowly,
letting her deepest wishes run riot, spinning fantasies . . .
Her fantasy lover . . . Warm, strong . . .
Skin to skin with nothing between them. The heat of his body,
the hard, relaxed power of it curled around her protectively.
. . . possessively. The warm weight of his arm . . . Legs entwined,
his brawny, a little hairy, pressing her calves between his .
. . His breath, matching hers, in . . . out . . . in. . . .out.
She lay entwined with him in a soft, soft bed, sharing warmth,
skin against skin, sharing dreams and plans for the day, after
a splendid night of making love . . .
She stretched, then stiffened as she realized that the stranger
was holding her breast, gently but firmly.
Possessively.
She froze. “What are you doing?” she whispered. Ridiculous
question. It was perfectly obvious what he was doing. “Stop
it.”
*
* * * *
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The
Accidental Wedding
