Marlbury poured himself another glass of brandy. “All I’m saying is why marry a country bumpkin?”
“Because I refuse to return to my brother without a wife. Thiscountry bumpkinis prepared to marry me. Moreover, shewantsto marry me.”
“Don’t tell me she’s in love with you.”
“Of course not,” Oliver said scornfully. “She barely knows me—what she wants is escape from her dreary life here, and I am the most convenient means for her to do so.”
Marlbury grunted, looking displeased by the prospect. “But settling down?Marriage?”
“Very little will change, save I won’t be beholden to my brother.” Oliver held out his glass for a refill, this time with brandy. “She is hardly expecting me to be a devoted husband—and I suspect she has little desire for me to be. She knows what she is about. You and I can kick up as many larks in London as we like.”
“You make it sound easy, but I’ll tell you something that won’t be.” Marlbury held up a hand, pointer finger directed at the ceiling.
“God?”
“Her sister.”
“Ah.” Oliver hesitated only a second. He’d been in the area for a little over two weeks, and that was long enough to learn about Miss Emily Brunton. According to gossip, she was a shrew of the worst kind. A veritable dragon. Isabella had defended her in lukewarm terms, but hadn’t informed her of their plans, which suggested the sister would not approve.
“Once we’re married, she won’t be a problem,” Oliver said.
“Isn’t the Brunton girl under the age of majority?” Marlbury slanted him a knowing look. “The shrew will refuse permission. Can’t stand for someone else to be happy when she’s not—and she’s plain enough she has no prospects of her own.”
“I thought of that. We’re only half a day’s ride from Gretna Green.” Oliver drained his brandy and leaned back against the chair, the room spinning somewhat. “I’ll whisk her away for a runaway wedding, no permission required. And when we’re back, I’ll take her to London. My brothercouldcontest the wedding, I suppose, but Isabella is technically the son of a gentleman, and I doubt Henry will want a scandal attached to our name. No, he’ll pretend everything was above board.”
“It’s risky.”
“It is,” Oliver conceded. “But not without its merits. Who else can I marry on such short notice?”
“The shrew will contest the marriage.”
“No she won’t—not if she doesn’t want her sister ruined. By the time of the wedding, she won’t have much choice. Of course, it would be different if Isabella were unwilling, but she is more eager than me to go ahead with this plan.”
Marlbury threw his head back and barked laughter at the ceiling. “You dog. The shrew will be furious you’ve outdone her.”
“She can be furious all she likes,” Oliver said absently. “Isabella doesn’t seem to think she will be any great impediment.” He rolled his head, the room turning soft and hazy. This was how he liked the world: a little out of focus. A little out of touch. “You don’t have to like it, Marlbury, but you can’t stop me now.” He reached for a decanter of wine and tipped it straight into his open mouth, letting himself sink further into the chair. Marlbury’s father was currently in London on business and wouldn’t be back for some time, which meant they were alone in the house. And free to drink as much of his father’s liquor as they could get their hands on.
There were worse ways to spend an evening.
“When do you intend to do it?” Marlbury asked.
“Tomorrow evening. We’ll travel through the night to Gretna Green and arrive back in the morning, already married. Then,” he added, “I will have the unmitigated delight of writing to my brother, informing him of my marriage and my intention of calling on him with my new wife.”
“And your new wife’s sister,” Marlbury said.
“Well, we shall see. Isabella said nothing about it. Perhaps she’d prefer to stay here.” Oliver shrugged. The sister and her preferences didn’t concern him so long as she did not make them his problem. “That is a bridge I will cross after the event.”
“Well, good luck,” Marlbury said with a snort. “Rather you than me.”
Oliver lay back on the sofa, the world spinning pleasantly around him. Ever since coming to Bidlington Hall, his future had looked up considerably. Soon, he would have a wife with which to taunt his brother, and an inheritance to prevent him from having to confess to his inadequacies.
“I don’t know,” he said, letting his hand—along with the decanter of wine—fall against the floor. “I think this might be the best decision I have ever made.”
Chapter Three
Emily’sfingersshookasshe smoothed over the paper in her hand. The letter had come addressed to a ‘Miss Brunton’, and she’d opened it without thinking. Now, she sank into the rickety chair by the kitchen table.
Darling Isabella,was scrawled across the top in messy, masculine handwriting, each word splattered with ink as though written painstakingly.
