Carrying The Gentleman's Secret

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#u9698cb9b-b03c-512d-aeb0-a4d79a370ba0)

1852

Beset with nerves, self-doubt and just a little terror at the speed with which events had taken her over, Lydia stood beside Henry Sturgis, the man who in a few minutes from now would become her husband. The realisation of the fact struck her anew and, as it did, she asked herself again if she was doing the right thing.

When Henry had told her he wanted to marry her, at first she had not been sure of herself, not really. The little time they had spent together had been exciting, but she had resolved to make no resolutions. With the death of her mother one year ago and after a lifetime of fending for themselves, to unite in such intimacy with another human being was a hard step for her to take.

Why? she asked herself. Why was it so difficult? Why was she so sensitive to committing herself to the challenging emotions of love, honesty and trust? Other people didn’t have a problem with it. Why should she?

Fear! Fear of what? Of moving forward, she supposed, of letting another person into her life and pledging herself to them. Pledging yourself meant holding another’s heart in your hand, of offering a secure place where anything was possible and everything between the two involved was understood. Pledging yourself meant facing what life had to offer together in the name of love. The problem was, she didn’t know if she wanted to. It was a risk, like leaping into a void, with no idea what she would find there.

Would it work? That was the question. Unable to make up her mind whether or not to marry Henry, she had decided she would carry on with her work as normal and see how things turned out. But Henry was in a hurry and after further persuasion from him and the resurrection of an unwelcome ghost from her past—a ghost in the shape of her father, who had cruelly abandoned her as a child and now wanted to reinsert himself into her life, which she wanted to avoid at all cost—she had relented, trying to convince herself that Henry was the living promise of all she desired and her escape from fear. But she wouldn’t think of that now. Not here. Not now, not ever.

The minute she had said she would marry him, Henry had set the wheels in motion with what she silently considered indecent haste. She’d had no say in the necessary arrangements. Two days hence they were to travel to Liverpool to take passage for America. Henry lived in America and his father was very ill. Should anything happen to him, he didn’t want to be on the wrong side of the Atlantic. It was for this reason they had come to this Scottish village called Gretna Green, the first changing post over the border, which was also a fashionable and romantic place for couples to marry immediately and without parental consent.

Now they faced the self-appointed priest who, for a substantial fee, had agreed to oversee the ceremony. The house where they had chosen to be married might not be as sanctified as a church, which Lydia would have preferred, but in the hushed quiet of the room and with the requisite two witnesses hovering behind them, it had all the solemnity she could wish for.

Lydia wore a costume of vibrant raspberry, simply styled and unadorned, with a well-fitted bodice. Her bonnet with its wide semi-circular brim, decorated with a small bunch of pink and white rosebuds, matched the dress. A profusion of black curls escaped the confines of the bonnet and caressed her face.

The priest leaned forward. ‘Are you ready to begin?’

Lydia nodded dumbly.

‘Yes,’ Henry was quick to reply, unable to hide his impatience to get the proceedings over with as quickly as possible. ‘Get on with it.’

Lydia looked at the priest when he asked them if they were of marriageable age. Yes, they replied. There was a disturbance at the back of the room as the door was flung open and someone entered.

‘Halt the proceedings.’

Lydia thought she must be mistaken. She thought she had heard someone say the ceremony must be halted. Startled, she turned at the same moment as Henry. It was simply unreal—the people, the priest, the sunshine streaming through the window. Two men had entered the room. The taller one who had spoken strode towards them. She looked him over openly. His tall, broad-shouldered physique radiated stamina and command, seeming to dwarf the other inhabitants of the room.

‘Can this not wait?’ the priest said crossly. ‘You are interrupting the ceremony.’

‘With justification.’

A sudden silence fell over the room. Lydia felt the cold at the back of her neck. It insinuated itself and slithered like tentacles down her spine. She stared at the man who had made the announcement.

‘What justification can there possibly be that allows you to burst in here and interrupt a wedding ceremony?’ Lydia retorted sharply with a fine cultured accent like cut glass, her gaze passing over the intruder with cold disdain.

The man’s gaze flicked from Henry to her, regarding her with an arrogance that was clearly part of his masculine nature. His eyes narrowed dangerously and his lips curled fractionally, but what passed for a smile was merely a polite obligation and a cool, dismissive one at that.

‘I apologise for any inconvenience caused, but I have justification enough—as you will, I am sure, soon agree. This man is not who he says he is. Had I not come in time he would have committed a criminal act.’

Astonished, Lydia stared at him. ‘Are you a policeman?’

‘No, I am not.’

From the tone of his voice and the set of his head and shoulders, Lydia knew that he was going to tell her the truth of the matter that was the reason for his intervention and her instinct told her that it was going to be worse than her worst imaginings. She stood rigid beside Henry, scarcely daring to breathe, waiting for him to continue.

‘It is my duty to inform you that this man you were about to marry already has a wife.’

Uncomprehending, Lydia felt her eyes widen and she stood immobile as a marble statuette as time drifted by in this sunlit room. In the time it had taken him to utter the words, all the devastation and bitterness of her expression could not be concealed.

There was a ringing silence. Nobody in the room said a word. Henry’s face had faded to the colour of dough. He was the first to recover. His mouth formed a grim line and his expression was guarded and wary—not unlike a small boy’s who has committed a wrongdoing and suddenly realises he has been caught out.

‘What is this?’ he demanded, his gaze fixed on the intruder. ‘And what the hell are you doing here?’

‘Surely I don’t have to spell it out?’ the tall stranger said, his voice dangerously quiet. ‘Of all the stupid, irrational—Have you lost your mind?’

In the face of such intimidation, Henry was visibly shaken, but it only lasted a moment. ‘Damn you,’ he uttered, his mouth forming the words which were barely audible.

Lydia tore her eyes from the stranger and looked at the man she had been about to wed, telling herself that whatever was happening had to be a mistake, that it was some kind of nightmare. It could be nothing else, but the stranger wore an expression of such steely control that she knew he was telling the truth even though she couldn’t comprehend it just then.

‘Do you know this man, Henry? And how does he know you? Answer me.’

Henry was emanating enough antipathy to suggest he not only knew this man, but that he was likely to commit violence. Anger had replaced his initial shock. Ignoring the woman he had been about to marry, he took a step towards the man, his back rigid and his fist clenched by his sides.

‘You followed me. Damn you, Golding!’ he snarled. ‘Damn you and your interference to hell.’

‘And you’d like that, wouldn’t you? I didn’t think it was asking too much when I insisted you remain faithful to Miranda—after all I have done for you. If it were not for me, your noble pile would have fallen into ruin and you would be living on the family farm, eking out a meagre living off the land. Instead of that you are living the life of the lord you were born to be and still chasing women.’

‘How did you know where to find me?’

The man didn’t so much as flinch. ‘It wasn’t difficult. You left my sister. She became bored and followed you to London. When she failed to locate you she came to me. I decided to pay a visit to your club where your friends were most accommodating with the truth. What lame excuse did you intend giving your wife for your absence?’ He spoke with an edge of aggression in his voice, which suggested that he was a man used to being answered at once.

‘I would have thought of something.’

‘I don’t doubt it. You’ve become rather good at lying to her. Damn you, Henry, you were about to become a bigamist.’

‘Until you stepped in. You could not have orchestrated your arrival with greater skill or better timing.’

‘I will not ask for an explanation—the situation speaks for itself. But how the hell do you think it would stand up in a court of law? Now I am here and though I am tempted to kill you, the love I bear my sister forbids it. Any wife faced with one sexual scandal after another would have her faith eroded in the man she married. She has just grounds to divorce you for this, but I doubt she will. She has a will of iron and your unacceptable, disgraceful behaviour since your marriage has only hardened her further. She is Lady Seymour of Maple Manor, a member of the peerage and no matter what you do to her she means to keep her place in society. Damn it, man, you have hurt her deeply. I hope you’re proud of yourself.’

He switched his attention to Lydia, bearing down on her like a tidal wave, his thick, dark brown hair, with just a hint of silver at the temples, gleaming in the light of the sun slanting through the windows. Tall, lean of waist with strong muscled shoulders, attired in a dark frock coat and cravat and light trousers, his gaze with a touch of insolence passed over her. His mouth tightened and his eyes, cold and unfriendly, flashed dangerously as he glared at her.

He studied her as Lydia studied him. She felt herself chafing under it.