an eyebrow.
Bertie opened his mouth, then shut it. He retreated a pace, his brow furrowing.
Dorian bent his gaze upon Miss Adams, who had advanced from the doorway to stand beside him. “Any objections, Miss Adams?” he asked. “Or second thoughts?”
“Certainly not,” she said. “The ceremony may take place whenever you wish.”
“I understand that everything has been prepared for speedy nuptials,” he said. “If you’ve the preacher somewhere about, we can do it now.”
He turned his stare upon the trio of relatives, bracing himself for an outburst of hysteria.
They believed he was a madman. He knew he looked like one. The rain had merely diluted his coating of mire ooze, which streamed from his sopping garments onto the carpet.
No one uttered a word.
No one moved.
Except the witch, who paid no more attention to her relatives than if they’d been the statues they were doing a splendid imitation of.
“You’ll be more comfortable after you have a bath,” she said. “And something to eat. And a nap. I know you are exhausted.”
Every muscle in his body ached. He could scarcely stand upright. “I can be comfortable later,” he said, darting another defiant glance over the mute trio. “I want to get married. Now.”
“I should like to wash and change, too,” she said. She stepped nearer and tugged at his soggy shirt cuff. “It will take time to send for my maid and my clothes, as well as the minister. They are all waiting at the inn, along with our solicitors. The lawyers must come, too, so that you can sign the settlements. You don’t want to be waiting about for everybody in wet clothes, I’m sure.”
Lawyers.
Chill panic washed through him.
They would examine him to make sure he knew what he was doing. Very recently, the Earl of Portsmouth’s fourteen-year marriage had been annulled on grounds he’d been of unsound mind when it was contracted. Miss Adams would not want to risk an annulment and lose all claim to his fortune and the title whose influence she needed.
But if they found him unsound . . . He shuddered.
“Look at you,” she said sharply. “You’re shivering, my lord. Bertie, do stop gaping in that fish-like way and come and make yourself useful. Take your stubborn friend upstairs before he collapses, and tell the servants to ready his bath and find him something to eat. Genevieve, you will send to the inn for what we need, won’t you? Abonville, I wish to speak with you.”
No one uttered a protest, not so much as a syllable.
Bertie hurried toward him, took the bemused Dorian by the arm, and steered him back through the library door.
Moments later, when they reached the stairs, Dorian saw Hoskins dart through the servants’ door and hasten to the library.
He wondered whether the witch had cast a spell over the lot of them.
“Shouldn’t dawdle if I was you,” Bertie warned. “If Gwen catches us hanging about, she’ll take a fit, which I’d rather she didn’t, seeing as how she took one already and my ears are still ringing. Not but what she was right. We wasn’t listening proper, was we?”
He grasped Dorian’s arm and tugged. “Come along, Cat. Hot bath, Gwen said, and she got that right, too, by gad. You look like what the cat dragged in, and meaning no offense, but you smell like I don’t know what.”
“I told you she drove me into a mire,” Dorian said. “What do you expect a man to smell like after a soak in a reeking bog?”
Unwilling to be dragged up the stairs by his overanxious friend, Dorian shook off the helping hand and started up on his own.
Bertie followed. “Well, she wouldn’t’ve had to chase you, would she, if you hadn’t gone and bolted,” he said. “Couldn’t think why you’d do it. I told you she wasn’t like Jess, didn’t I? I told you Gwen was a good sort of girl. Did you think I’d let them shackle you to any beastly female? Ain’t we friends? Don’t we look out for each other? Well, I should think so, or at
Bertie opened his mouth, then shut it. He retreated a pace, his brow furrowing.
Dorian bent his gaze upon Miss Adams, who had advanced from the doorway to stand beside him. “Any objections, Miss Adams?” he asked. “Or second thoughts?”
“Certainly not,” she said. “The ceremony may take place whenever you wish.”
“I understand that everything has been prepared for speedy nuptials,” he said. “If you’ve the preacher somewhere about, we can do it now.”
He turned his stare upon the trio of relatives, bracing himself for an outburst of hysteria.
They believed he was a madman. He knew he looked like one. The rain had merely diluted his coating of mire ooze, which streamed from his sopping garments onto the carpet.
No one uttered a word.
No one moved.
Except the witch, who paid no more attention to her relatives than if they’d been the statues they were doing a splendid imitation of.
“You’ll be more comfortable after you have a bath,” she said. “And something to eat. And a nap. I know you are exhausted.”
Every muscle in his body ached. He could scarcely stand upright. “I can be comfortable later,” he said, darting another defiant glance over the mute trio. “I want to get married. Now.”
“I should like to wash and change, too,” she said. She stepped nearer and tugged at his soggy shirt cuff. “It will take time to send for my maid and my clothes, as well as the minister. They are all waiting at the inn, along with our solicitors. The lawyers must come, too, so that you can sign the settlements. You don’t want to be waiting about for everybody in wet clothes, I’m sure.”
Lawyers.
Chill panic washed through him.
They would examine him to make sure he knew what he was doing. Very recently, the Earl of Portsmouth’s fourteen-year marriage had been annulled on grounds he’d been of unsound mind when it was contracted. Miss Adams would not want to risk an annulment and lose all claim to his fortune and the title whose influence she needed.
But if they found him unsound . . . He shuddered.
“Look at you,” she said sharply. “You’re shivering, my lord. Bertie, do stop gaping in that fish-like way and come and make yourself useful. Take your stubborn friend upstairs before he collapses, and tell the servants to ready his bath and find him something to eat. Genevieve, you will send to the inn for what we need, won’t you? Abonville, I wish to speak with you.”
No one uttered a protest, not so much as a syllable.
Bertie hurried toward him, took the bemused Dorian by the arm, and steered him back through the library door.
Moments later, when they reached the stairs, Dorian saw Hoskins dart through the servants’ door and hasten to the library.
He wondered whether the witch had cast a spell over the lot of them.
“Shouldn’t dawdle if I was you,” Bertie warned. “If Gwen catches us hanging about, she’ll take a fit, which I’d rather she didn’t, seeing as how she took one already and my ears are still ringing. Not but what she was right. We wasn’t listening proper, was we?”
He grasped Dorian’s arm and tugged. “Come along, Cat. Hot bath, Gwen said, and she got that right, too, by gad. You look like what the cat dragged in, and meaning no offense, but you smell like I don’t know what.”
“I told you she drove me into a mire,” Dorian said. “What do you expect a man to smell like after a soak in a reeking bog?”
Unwilling to be dragged up the stairs by his overanxious friend, Dorian shook off the helping hand and started up on his own.
Bertie followed. “Well, she wouldn’t’ve had to chase you, would she, if you hadn’t gone and bolted,” he said. “Couldn’t think why you’d do it. I told you she wasn’t like Jess, didn’t I? I told you Gwen was a good sort of girl. Did you think I’d let them shackle you to any beastly female? Ain’t we friends? Don’t we look out for each other? Well, I should think so, or at
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