He had placed it on the table in front of him.
She gasped in outrage. “Justin! What do you think—”
“I tried to reason with you,” Justin said, his eyes narrowed. “But I have come here to inform you that you’re not marrying that man today. You’re marrying me. It is convenient that you are already dressed for the occasion.”
“I am not marrying you. You absolute scoundrel! To think you could try to kidnap me—”
“I should have done this weeks ago.” Hartley rattled the gun on the surface of the table. “We are going to get into my carriage right now. I have a vicar waiting at my lodgings.”
“You planned this?” she yelled. “Justin, I’m not getting into your carriage. I am to be married right now. To another man!”
“No. You. Are. Not,” he enunciated, his eyes bulging slightly.
“A vicar won’t marry us if I don’t consent,” she said, feeling like she was explaining a complicated concept to a small child. “It’s illegal. We haven’t even had banns read!”
“I have a special license. And any vicar can be bought.”
“But everyone knows that I’m engaged to someone else!” Really, the man was impossible. And not a little dull-witted.
“No one will be able to say anything once we are legally wed. And no one will believe you, anyway. If you say you didn’t marry me of your own free will, everyone will think you are mad. You are known for making impulsive, rash decisions. Half of London thinks that you already tried to jilt Tremberley once.”
Henrietta blanched at this uncharitable view of her own actions. Did people really believe she was so flighty? She knew that some of her actions could be a bit…spur of the moment but switching from one man to another on the day of her wedding was hardly in line with her character. Could anyone really believe that she would want Hartley when she had been about to marry Trem?
No, she thought. Trem wouldn’t believe it. And neither would Catherine or John—not even the block-headed version of her brother that had been on display recently could believe that of her.
Really, Justin was deranged. If he really succeeded in marrying her, did he suspect that Trem would just let her go? Even from Hartley’s perspective, in which he was the ardent lover and Trem the fortune-hunting usurper, Trem wouldn’t just allow another man to run off with his fiancée. That was not how men of their class behaved.
Most importantly, Hartley couldn’t keep them apart forever, no matter what any vicar or marriage license might say. Trem would never believe that Henrietta had wanted to marry Justin and Henrietta would escape from Hartley the moment she could.
“You are going to walk to the door,” Justin said, “and go where I tell you to.”
He picked up the pistol and pointed it at her. And then he stood.
Her mouth went dry.
Bollocks.
She heard the door to the orangery open and she nearly exclaimed in relief as Sebastian Burnbridge crossed the threshold.
“Justin,” Sebastian said, walking slowly towards them. “Put the pistol on the table.”
She could tell that Sebastian was working to keep his composure. His face had darkened with rage and the set of his mouth showed how seriously he regarded this situation.
“Out of the way, Burnbridge,” Hartley nearly snarled. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt anyone. But I will.”
With a sinking feeling, Henrietta realized that he looked like he meant it.
Justin would do anything to take her.
Chapter Thirty-Three
His bride was nowhere to be found. The guests were seated and Trem waited in the vestibule of the chapel. But Henrietta had yet to make an appearance.
At first, Trem had thought his fiancée was just taking extra time with her bridal toilette. Catherine had been dispatched to bring her down from her room. Now, however, it had been fifteen minutes since Catherine had left the chapel—ample time to have found Henrietta if she was where she was meant to be—and she had not returned.
Leith and Montaigne had begun to eye him with glances that verged on sympathy. Henrietta, of course, had disappeared before and everyone had said she was escaping him. He had felt secure in her love for him yesterday. However, being left waiting in such a fashion would make any fellow wonder.
“I’m sure she’ll be here soon, mate,” Montaigne said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Probably just…readying herself.” He made a gesture that seemed to vaguely mime a woman primping before a glass.
