Page 86 of Only a Mistress Will Do

The broad smile that burst forth made her face glow, as if happiness itself shone there. “Then I will get my cloak while you order the carriage around, my lord. We must make ‘haste to the wedding.’” She leaned closer and whispered, “I would not waste a precious moment in making our marriage come to pass.”

“Neither would I, sweetheart.” He dropped his napkin on his plate and rose. “I will get my cloak and meet you downstairs.” The closeness of her drove him wild. Every time he looked at her, his desire to possess her sweet body must show clearly on his face. The sooner they married, the sooner he could stop feeling guilty about their illicit liaison.

He spent the short ride into Devizes mooning over Violet, who sat beside him chatting animatedly about their return to London, and dreading the upcoming interview with the vicar. The niggling fear the man would refuse to marry them, special license or not, ate at him like a cankerworm. She must become his wife before that blasted duel. He would not risk leaving her destitute once more should Harper somehow manage to best him and take his life.

“You look rather grave, my love.” She grasped his hand and drew it onto her lap, the warmth of her stealing into him. “Does the thought of returning to London distress you?”

“There could be no greater joy for me than to enter a London ballroom with you on my arm, my sweet.” There was nothing he looked forward to more than presenting her to London Society as his viscountess. Pray God he would be able to do so. Still, he wouldn’t alarm her with morbid speculations. He raised their clasped hands and kissed hers, tingling with the anticipation of further delights when they returned to the inn. “No, I merely wish these preliminaries done and over so we may celebrate the beginning of our life together.”

“Ummm. I like the sound of that.” Violet raised their hands and returned the kiss. When he thought she was letting go his hand, she instead stripped the glove from it, made as if to kiss it again then licked the flesh on the back of his knuckles.

“Good God, Violet.” His cock stiffened as if by magic. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“Need you ask, my lord?” The mischievous twinkle in her eyes gave away the answer.

“I suppose not, although I will insist on exploring more of your erotic knowledge later…in our chamber.”

She kissed his hand again, a quick peck that did nothing to dispel the discomfort in his breeches. “I shall await that encounter with great anticipation.”

An urge to turn the carriage around and head back immediately seized him. His blood had heated to a feverish boil the instant she touched him. Where else might she employ that tongue? Damn. He scooted an inch or two away from her enticement. Not since Bathsheba tempted King David had a man faced worse torture. They must present themselves before the vicar if they intended to be married. Pray God the interview was short.

Fortune shone on them in the person of Mr. Ezekiel Curry, the vicar of St. Mary’s. Once the little man understood what they wished, he agreed to hold the wedding in the event the special license was properly presented with witnesses. After this agreement had been reached, in a mercifully short time, Tris and Violet were left to inspect the stained glass windows behind the altar.

Unfortunate he and Violet could not be married with all the pomp and circumstance of a proper wedding at St. George’s in London. Dressed in a spectacular gown, with a bevy of attendants also in their finery, she would have been the talk of the town. An equally impressive wedding breakfast with all their friends and family—quite half the ton would be in attendance. He’d wager a good horse on it. Did she mind having to settle for him, Duncan, and Manning? If only they need not make haste. He would make it up to her somehow.

They left the church arm in arm. The sun showed brilliantly, though the bitter wind had picked up. Tris put his arm around her to help shield her from the chill. He started toward the carriage, glad to be heading back to the toasty inn.

“Tris!”

“Duncan!” Tris had jerked his head up, instinctively drawing Violet behind him, though he recognized the voice almost immediately. He leaped forward and clasped the man standing in front of a strange carriage about the neck. “By all that is holy, how do you come here so soon?”

* * * *

Violet’s heart lurched, startled by the unexpected appearance, then beat furiously as Tris eagerly greeted the man who had killed her cousin. She dropped her gaze to the slate-gray pebbles and dead grass at her feet. Although she’d heard much of the Marquess of Dalbury, she had not seen him before. In the end, curiosity outweighed animosity. She raised her head just enough that she could assess him without a direct gaze.

An inch or two shorter than Tris, and with a slighter build, the marquess’s imposing demeanor still proclaimed his air of command. Authority emanated from his casual stance as he leaned back, surveying her and Tris with one penetrating look. Even the offhand way his cloak draped over his shoulders gave him the appearance of someone whose word was obeyed without question. He clasped Tris’s shoulder, pleasure in their meeting drawn in every line of his smiling face. Like one would greet a brother.

She’d never pressed Tris for details about his friendship with the marquess, but from what she’d gleaned, she’d thought theirs a mere friendship. The devotion evident in Dalbury’s face, however, had her revising that opinion. The connection between them seemed close as a blood relation. Without a doubt the man would be a part of their lives and she couldn’t imagine having to endure his presence in their home, perhaps on a regular basis. If she were to judge from Tris’s reaction right now—his face animated, his stance close to the marquess, his conversation which hadn’t stopped in five minutes—she’d have to learn to mask her feelings for the marquess.

“Violet…Miss Carlton.” Tris took her arm, pulling her forward to stand before the marquess and his companion.

Her legs trembled. Hopefully they’d blame it on the cold. She was about to meet the father of her misfortunes, like it or not.

“Miss Carlton, may I present Lord Dalbury?”

“My lord.” She cast her gaze down and curtsied to avoid meeting his eyes.

“Duncan, I think you have not met my betrothed, Miss Carlton?”

“No, we have not met, although I believe we have a connection through tragic circumstances.”

Violet jerked her head up at the gentle, respectful tone. Somehow she’d expected surliness or mockery from the despicable man. Instead, his rich brown eyes held compassion, his demeanor a gravity bordering on regret.

“Allow me to extend my belated condolences on the deaths of your brother, your cousin, and your grandmother. Tristan has told me of the misfortunes my encounter with Mr. Davies and Mr. Carlton have cost you. I wish, for your sake, the outcome of that meeting had been much different.”

Uncertain how to respond, she drew into herself, murmuring, “Thank you, my lord.” She could hardly rail at him in front of Tris, and of course, the circumstances were not completely his fault. No one had forced Kit to insult his family.

Brows swooping down into a scowl, Lord Dalbury’s face darkened. “I have since discovered the author of those unfortunate events was one Thomas Redmond, who used your cousin most cruelly to strike at me. I can tell you, although he has not been brought to the justice he deserves, he has suffered a loss.” The marquess shot a look at Tris, who turned away smiling. “Still, if there is any service I may do you, Miss Carlton, you have but to name it. I am yours to command.”