Roarke shook his head. “What happened then?”
“Lily showed up the day after father’s funeral, the same day you’d returned to school. She looked as terrible as the last time I’d seen her, and I knew a combination of drugs and alcohol were to blame. I’m convinced it affected her mind even further, for she caused such a…ruckus that the magistrate was called. She would have likely been sent to Newgate Prison if it wasn’t for your mother’s intervention.”
“My mother?” Roarke queried.
Mara nodded. “In a sense she saved Lily’s life.”
“I’ve never known my mother to be such a paragon of mercy.” Roarke couldn’t quite keep the bitterness out of his tone, for there were many times in his youth that he’d felt the sharp edge of Lavinia Garrott’s tongue, but with maturity and the advent of his title, she had learned to curb her harsher impulses.
“You don’t understand,” Mara entreated. “She was the one who paid for Lily’s care these past seven years at the York Retreat.”
Roarke snorted. “That must have dipped rather deeply into her allowance. I can only imagine what she asked in return for her generosity…” Suddenly he stilled, for it all clicked into place. The truth hit him square in the chest until he felt he couldn’t breathe. He wantedhis suspicions to be wrong, but the guilt that broke out on Mara’s face was enough confirmation.
“That’s why you faked your death. She told you to leave me in return for helping your sister.”
Bloody hell.He needed a drink.
Mara could tell that Roarke was upset—which is why she hadn’t told him everything. To tell him about his father on top of it all wouldn’t accomplish anything but to add to his pain. Mara learned long ago that Thomas Gray was rather correct when he mentioned in his poem that,“Where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise.”
The flat quality of Roarke’s voice scared Mara, but she answered truthfully. “Yes.”
“And you obviously agreed.” His eyes were just short of condemning. “Why?”
She swallowed. “I didn’t have any other choice—”
He stood abruptly. “Actually, youdid. You just didn’t see fit to place your trust in me.” He snorted. “Apparently, that is one thing that will never change.”
She let his harsh words absorb into her heart. Without spilling the rest of the sordid story, she had nothing else to say. Let him think that Lavinia hadn’t been so convincing in her argument, or that she hadn’t been so young and naïve and scared about the fate of the only family she had left…
At least he wouldn’t have the full weight of the past to contend with for the rest of his life.
At her continued silence, Roarke turned on his heel and slammed the door on his way out. She couldn’t help but flinch. She had no idea if he might return or not. Unfortunately, the mail coach had already left, so she had no choice but to await his return—however long it might be.
* * *
It was nearly three o’clock in the morning when Roarke finally returned, making no effort to be silent as he allowed the door to bang against the wall. Mara had stayed awake as long as she could before managing to fall into a fitful doze, but his crude entrance had her sitting straight up in bed. If his rumpled appearance wasn’t enough to convince her he was drunk, the smell of alcohol on his breath nearly knocked her backward, even from across the room.
What did surprise her was the fact he wasn’t alone.
He had been in such a state earlier that she imagined all sorts of unpleasant scenarios that he might find himself in, even going so far as to visit a bawdy house, but coming back with anothermanwasn’t one of them. A rather rotund, older gentleman with thinning gray hair and a rather dark scowl, it appeared that he wasn’t pleased to be there, most likely because Roarke had dragged him out of his bed in the middle of the night.
“Hello, m’dear,” Roarke said with a decided weave in his stance and a narrowed glare, as if he weren’t exactly sure it was Mara before him or if he’d intruded on another room by mistake.
“What’s going on here?” she demanded, but instead of appearing chastised, Roarke merely grinned in a lopsided manner, as if relieved he was indeed with the right woman.
“It’s simple, really. You see, this”—he waved his hand to indicate the man beside him—“is Bishop John Fisher of the Salisbury Cathedral.” As he turned to the individual in question, he added in a rather slurred manner, “Lovely place, that.” He brought his attention back to Mara, and went completely off topic for a moment, “Do y’know they have an original copy of the Magna Carta dating back to 1215?”
“That’s fascinating, Roarke,” Mara tried to keep her voice calm. “But what is he doing here?”
“Oh, you don’t know?” At first he appeared genuinely confused, but then his grin returned. With a nearly comical expression, he reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled forth a rather crumpled piece of paper. “I suppose I did forget t’mention the fact he’s here t’marry us. I have the special license right here. I’ve had it for quite some time, actually, so I decided it was time t’use it. I thought it might be a bit o’ a pickle to find a clergy at this ’our, but the gent at the Venison was more than ’appy to help me through the tunnel t’the church once I told ’im of my plight. He’s supposed to be my best man…” His voice trailed off as he turned to look behind him, apparently seeking the gentleman in question, and nearly fell on top of the bishop as he did so.
Mara shot to her feet. “Have you gone mad?” she snapped at Roarke, before turning to the bishop with a pleading expression, “Please, don’t press charges. If you could just find it in your heart to understand that his lordship isn’t thinking clearly—”
Roarke held up a hand. “I’m thinking perw…” he paused and tried again, “Parfec…” Shaking his head, he amended, “I’mfineand no’ t’worry, this man has been paid handsomely for his services.” He offered a wide smile to Mara as he held out an arm. “Shall we get on?”
Mara resisted the urge to bolt as the “gent from the Venison” suddenly appeared in the doorway, along with a rather scantily dressed woman hanging on his arm.
“Sorry to keep ye waiting, Lord Eversleigh. I had to wait for Connie ’ere to act as your bride’s lady.” As he noticed Mara, he boldly gave her form an appreciative appraisal. “Nice choice, me lord.”
Roarke’s grin merely grew as he threaded Mara’s arm through his and gave a nod to the bishop.
As the man gave a weary sigh and opened his Bible, Mara struggled to get Roarke to see sense. “Stop this!” she hissed. “You’re not thinking clearly. What about your mother? And society?”
He simply patted her hand. “It warms m’heart that you are so concerned about my reputation, but it matters not, m’dear wife-to-be. It is because o’ you and my mother that I ’ad to resort t’these drastic measures. Now smile and try t’look happy. You’re about t’become a viscountess.”
