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The Vengeful Bridegroom. Kit DonnerЧитать онлайн книгу.

The Vengeful Bridegroom - Kit Donner


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water in the basin.

      “Do I understand you planned to marry me as early as January, before the bet was even made?” She could hardly credit this news, for it was illogical.

      He stopped and looked at her, his brow furrowed. “Ah, I had planned to offer for a young lady this year to take as my wife. I had no notion it would be you. I’m sure you’ll be most comfortable here.”

      His plans mattered naught to her, and a beautiful bedchamber changed nothing. He had still married her for the needed funds. Madelene deliberated what to say when he interrupted her thoughts.

      “In the morning, we’ll begin setting the house to rights.” He walked toward her and stopped in front of her, studying her intently.

      She lifted her chin, determined not to show lack of character or fear of his closeness, although she couldn’t quite manage her bottom lip not trembling. He was so very close—

      But he didn’t kiss her. And she was glad. She didn’t want to know what his kisses tasted like. This man, out of necessity called husband, had brought her to a neglected estate with no servants. Madelene was unprepared to call her grievances trifling.

      Probably tomorrow, he would have her cooking dinner or making soap or some such nonsense. Not Madelene Colgate. Madelene Colgate Westcott, she amended reluctantly. She hoped he noticed her steady glare at him.

      His brown gaze seemed to search her face for something, but she couldn’t fathom what.

      “Sleep well, Mrs. Westcott,” he told her before heading to the door. And then she was alone.

      Was he actually leaving her bedchamber? Did he intend to return? That man certainly provoked more questions in her mind than he answered. After their hasty journey and sleep on lumpy thin mattresses, she felt the headache coming on. She gazed longingly at the large tester bed and wondered whether she had enough energy to change into her bedclothes.

      When she saw her trunk by her bed, she frowned. Where had it come from? Mr. Westcott had certainly not carried it here, because he had been with her since their arrival. Someone must be here with them, but Mr. Westcott had chosen not to enlighten her. How very strange.

      Simply too much to think about. I’ll worry on it tomorrow, she thought sleepily. Madelene laid on the bed fully clothed, prepared in case Mr. Westcott would return and claim his husbandly rights. She wasn’t exactly sure how she could keep him at a distance, particularly after a quick glance around the room showed an absence of bed warmers. She’d have to think of a better weapon for protection from her husband. An odd thought; she had never thought she’d need protection from her husband.

      The thought of a husband brought back ugly memories of Aaron Winchester, a man who had professed unceasing devotion to her until Matthew had advised him that her dowry was more a pauper’s purse than a king’s. At first, he claimed this news meant nothing to him, that he couldn’t live a day without her beside him. He had used all the right words, and all the words she had waited forever to hear. Aaron had kept the farce right up until a week after the banns were announced.

      She didn’t remember the banbury story he told her that night. She may have heard the words “his mother refused to consider Madelene for his wife, and he had acquiesced because after all, it was his mother.” He couldn’t look her in the eye, coward he, and suddenly his presence caused a sickness within her.

      She had held her tears, determined not to show any distress at his words until he had left her life. The pain had felt like a slice through her heart, and she was filled with a saddening comprehension that no man would want her without a dowry. She later learned he planned to marry a young woman from a wealthy family in the north. Aaron, vain and obsequious, was more concerned over the style of his cravat then a possible Luddite protest or the never-ending war with Napoleon.

      Madelene read in the Post the marriage of Lord Winchester to Miss Cecily Bryncome. Her father was Samuel Bryncome, owner of several mills in the north. His mother must have been pleased. Madelene refused to consider that he wouldn’t have made her happy, wanting, instead, to nurse a broken heart. It was better to feel something rather than a continued state of emptiness, she had thought at the time.

      Months later found her in an unanticipated marriage, bonded to a man who again only wanted her for what money she could bring to the bargain.

      I’ll close my eyes for only a moment.

      Madelene sat up in bed with a start. Something had awakened her. With her knees clasped to her chest, she listened for any slight noise while keenly watching the doorknob.

      Nothing.

      A few more minutes. Still nothing.

      Apparently she had imagined the noise.

      She sighed in relief, blinking awake. If Mr. Westcott retired for the night, wherever that may be, she could conduct an exploration of the ground floor, which would be helpful when it came time for a quick departure.

      Carrying the still-lit candle, she walked over to the door and opened it slightly to peek out. A window shutter banged, startling her, and she slammed the door shut. Holding tight to the doorknob, Madelene had to slow her heartbeat thundering in her ears to listen again outside her room. The wooden floor creaked outside her bedchamber. Surely this house wasn’t haunted or some such nonsense.

      Several minutes went by and all was quiet. Terribly relieved, her pulse returned to normal, she opened the door again wide enough to see the dark hallway. Taking a deep breath, she decided to head back down the stairs. All doors exiting the house would be high on her list of places to investigate.

      She stepped into the dark, her candle illuminating a small window of light, and pulled the door closed. Her eyes were still adjusting to the narrowed light when she tripped over a body in the hallway.

      The candle flew out of her hand as she pitched forward.

      “Staire attento, Signora!” commanded a low voice as Madelene yelped in surprise.

      She slammed to the floor. Stunned. Out of breath.

      Her candle, doused by the sudden toss, rolled down the hallway. In peril for her life, Madelene quickly turned onto her back and braced herself on the carpet. Her heart galloped in her chest, her breathing stopped.

      Madelene swallowed hard, then gazed up at the stranger, a short, thin man who stood before her, holding his hand out to assist her.

      She screamed.

      Her scream must have frightened the stranger because he retreated against the wall and into the shadows. Madelene heard footsteps on the stairs and heard Mr. Westcott’s voice.

      “Madelene, what is wrong? Are you hurt?” he asked roughly and slightly out of breath from running up the stairs in breeches and boots, his shirt missing.

      In those brief moments, his comforting presence had slowed the beating of her heart and given her strength to rise to meet him. “Thank goodness. This person was outside my bedchamber,” she said, pointing to the figure in the shadows. “He probably plans to rob us or create some kind of havoc—”

      He looked into the shadows, then surprised her by laughing. Walking over to the stranger, Mr. Westcott pulled him further into the light of a flickering hallway sconce.

      “This is Alec, my friend. Alec, this is my, my wife, Mrs. Westcott.”

      Madelene peered at this new house occupant. She could not make out his face in this poor light, particularly when he wore a dark hat low over his face. Slim of build, he dressed in a black shirt, vest, breeches, and boots, from what she could see in the wavering glow.

      After patting her hair back into some semblance of order, she nodded at Alec. “Mr. Westcott had not mentioned you before, and I certainly didn’t anticipate tripping over anyone outside my bedroom door. Do you have a place to sleep here in the house?” She looked to Mr. Westcott for direction.

      “Alec has watched the house these last few months. I met him during my recent stay in Florence. When he wanted to leave Italy,


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