Once Upon a Wedding Night

He swung around with a glare, a lock of dark hair falling across his brow. “Ah, she sent reinforcements, did she?” He saluted her with his glass. “Never say defeat.”

Eleanor laced her fingers together in an effort to still their shaking. “She does not know I am here, my lord.”

“But you are here to plead on her behalf, yes?” He managed to point at her while holding a bottle in one hand and the snifter in the other. “Let me save you the trouble and send you on your way.”

Settling herself on the sofa, she decided to omit her part in the scheme. “My niece was only trying—”

“The woman needs someone to knock sense into her head. She’s lucky I have no desire to mete out the punishment she truly deserves. Time in prison would be more than appropriate for her.”

He downed his brandy and refilled it again, muttering under his breath, “But I would not dream of inflicting her on those poor, hapless guards.”

Eleanor grimaced over his harsh denouncement. On a good day, she found Lord Brookshire intimidating, but in a foul temper, he terrified her. “I can’t fault you for your anger. She does need someone to take her in hand. I’m only an old woman. What power do I have over her? As it is, my time on earth runs short. Meredith needs a husband.” She hardly saw herself as nearing death’s door, but hoped it might arouse Lord Brookshire’s pity.

“She had a husband,” he pointed out.

Dropping her hand from her chest, she said with ill-concealed disgust, “A true husband. A husband who actually resides in the same home with her would be a start.”

“What man would want such a deceitful wife?” Brookshire stabbed his finger toward the ceiling, where Meredith presumably packed.

“She’s not unattractive,” Eleanor defended. “And quite capable of running a household. She’s been left to her own devices for so many years and still managed Oak Run better than any man before her. She would be an asset for any husband.”

“You have described nothing more than a good housekeeper.” He waved his snifter in a small circle. “Now that I know your niece for what she is, I can understand why a husband would abandon her.”

Eleanor gasped. “That is most uncharitable, my lord. Edmund never gave her a chance to be a real wife.”

“Well, no,” Lord Brookshire grudgingly admitted. “He wouldn’t have.”

She tilted her head curiously at his unexpected agreement. “You agree, then?

“I do know a little of my half brother’s… nature.”

“A proper husband and a few children should keep her in check.” She nodded reflectively, as if this were a revelation for her and not a theory she had mulled over for several years. “Meredith would become his responsibility and not yours.”

He considered Eleanor for a long moment. She ducked her eyes from his piercing gaze and held her breath, hoping she had achieved her point. Elated that he appeared to be listening, she decided to push further. “Once married, Meredith would no longer be your responsibility. None of us would.” Her hand fluttered to her throat, indicating her person, should he have forgotten that she was part of the burden.

His snifter stopped halfway to his mouth. “Buyers keepers?” he asked dryly.

“Well, let’s not be vulgar about it, my lord. My niece is not property.”

“You are absolutely correct, ma’am. She is not. She is of age.” He twirled his brandy in the snifter and took a swallow. “She does not have to remarry to free me of responsibility. I can simply declare myself free.”

Eleanor smiled. “That’s easier said than done. Society will look to you for her care and management.”

“I’ve never cared much for what Society dictates.”

Eleanor ignored her little frission of alarm. She had to make him see marriage as the best solution for everyone concerned. “Meredith was married to an earl. With a reasonable dowry, she would be quite a catch for some gentleman. It should not be a difficult matter to wed her off.”

“Have you some poor fool in mind already?”

“No, but the Season starts soon. An excellent opportunity for Meredith to make a suitable match.”

He sat in silence, studying her before shifting his attention to the now empty snifter in his hand.

Her knuckles whitened where they gripped the sofa arm.

“Are you suggesting your niece have a Season? Isn’t she a little old for the marriage mart?”

“There are many gentlemen who prefer a mature woman over a child bride. Especially should she possess a respectable dowry. Weren’t you planning to settle something on my niece?” she asked, having already overheard from his own lips that he would.

“I intended to give your niece a one-time settlement in lieu of the jointure my half brother failed to provide. I told her as much.”

She leaned forward. “That could just as easily be her dowry.” From the furrowing of his brows, Eleanor knew he was close to relenting.

“Just think, she would no longer bear your name, no longer share your title.” She leaned back in the chair. “With your name, she would forever be linked to you, whether you like it or not. But then… that might be to our benefit.” Eleanor sighed, tapping her lips in mock consideration, pretending to reconsider her own argument.

And that seemed to do it.

“Very well. I will make the arrangements and send word when you should set out for Town.” He frowned. “I am only doing this to rid myself of your niece” he reminded crossly. “I’ll not be put through all this trouble for nothing, so she better make a match—and pity the fool.”

She stifled the urge to leap up and hug him. “Oh, she shall, my lord. I will do everything in my power to see that it is done. I cannot wait to tell her the news. Or should you be the one to tell her?”

“By all means, you. I have no desire to see your niece again. Correspondence should serve as adequate communication until she weds.”

“But there is the matter of a sponsor. She was never officially presented. Will you handle the arrangements? I’m afraid I don’t know anyone of sufficient rank capable of gaining Meredith a presentation at court, and she simply won’t be accepted without—”

He waved a hand in a weary manner. “Fine, fine. I’ll see to it. I’ll send word once the arrangements have been made.” A flicker of doubt crossed his face. “I hope this isn’t more trouble than it’s worth.”

Beaming, she quickly assured him, “Look at the long-term gain. And it’s only a brief inconvenience. Soon she will be some other gentleman’s responsibility, her ties to you severed completely.”

* * *

The slam of the library doors reverberated behind Meredith, making her wince—even if she was the one responsible for the racket.

“We had an understanding,” she began without ceremony. “You cannot simply command me to marry. This is not the tenth century and you are not my lord and master.” She pulled up short at the sight of Nick asleep on the sofa. His booted feet hung heedlessly over the sofa arm.

He opened his eyes and cringed against the morning sunlight pouring in from the windows. With a groan, he flung an arm over his eyes. “Must you scream and carry on?”

“I am not screaming” she said, lightly kicking the empty bottle of brandy on the carpet with her slipper. “You’re obviously suffering from the effects of overimbibing, my lord. In your condition a whisper would sound like a scream.”

“Be that as it may, my lady, I would appreciate it if you lowered your voice a spot.” This polite request came from behind her.

She spun around to discover Dr. Swell occupying the chaise behind her and clutching his head.

He still wore his garments from the day before— the worse for wear after spending a night in much the same manner as Nick. Another empty bottle littered the floor near him.

“Dr. Swell,” she began with some embarrassment as the events of yesterday flooded her memory.

Her hands flew to her no longer padded tummy self-consciously. “Good morning.”

Had Nick explained her deception to him? If not, the good doctor would certainly make the correct deductions now. He would never believe that she had miscarried the night before and was up and about the following morning. There was only one explanation for her appearance this morning. If Nick had not told him already, the physician need only look with his own eyes to learn of her perfidy.

Despite her less than dignified entrance, the gracious hostess revived herself within Meredith. “I am sure the staff prepared a room for you. You did not have to sleep in the library.”

Swell sat up, scratching his dark hair with both hands. The action sent the hair flying in every direction. He studied her through bleary eyes, working his mouth as if it were exceptionally dry.

If he noticed she lacked yesterday’s belly, he did not reveal it.

“Nick seemed inclined to sleep here. And it’s a sad, sorry thing for a man to drink alone, so I decided to keep him company.”

She masked her surprise at their familiarity. “How unpardonable of Lord Brookshire not to see to your comforts. You must be famished, Doctor. Shall I ring for a tray?”

“Er, Nick.” Swell ceased his scratching, looking beyond her to Lord Brookshire. “Gonna help a chap out here?” He looked back at her with a somewhat sheepish expression.

“He’s not a physician,” Nick muttered with a bothered, annoyed, rather-be-asleep edge to his voice.

The blunt statement had her whirling around to glare at his prostrate form. He remained motionless, one arm flung over his face, as if he had said nothing of significance.

“What?” She spun back around to face the “alleged” physician. “Who are you, then?”

“Mac Swell. Nick’s business partner.” Mac shrugged uncomfortably as he darted for the door.

“Well! Mister Swell! You… you…” She groped for words scathing enough to hurl at his retreating, cowardly form, but he shut the door behind him before she could manage. Meredith felt tempted to give chase, but then realized the one truly deserving the full force of her wrath was still in the room.

“You’re screaming again,” Nick muttered.

“You’re bloody right I am!” She swung back around, too furious to give thought to her rough language. Hands on hips, she unleashed the full extent of her ire. “How dare you bring that man into my home, tell me he’s a physician, and attempt to have him examine me.”

“It would never have gone that far. I bluffed and won.”

She pounded one fist into her palm, recalling the audacity of Mac Swell’s wink. “I should have known the moment he winked at me.”

“Stop your caterwauling. You never knew what you were up against. I take advantage of people for a living. Now, did you have a reason for barging in here or can I go back to sleep?”

She fought past her stinging pride and exhaled deeply. There was a larger issue to address than Mac Swell not being a physician. She began calmly, praying the information her aunt had relayed to her was incorrect, a simple misunderstanding. “My aunt informs me that you have decided I must remarry.”

He grunted. Not exactly the denial for which she had been hoping. She smoothed her hands over her starched paramatta skirts, struggling for patience. “Of course, this begs an audience.”

Silence stretched, and she began to suspect that he had fallen back asleep.

“This was not what we had discussed.”

Still no response. She inched closer, bending at the waist, trying to peer at his eyes hidden beneath his arm. He must have heard some movement, for he suddenly moved his arm, looking out at her from slit lids. Practically nose-to-nose, he asked, “You’re still here?”