A Wedding By Dawn. Alison DeLaineЧитать онлайн книгу.
a shame our wedding did not turn out as you hoped,” Lady India was saying as he steered her back to the inn. “But you mustn’t be too disappointed. Sometimes one’s best-laid plans are put asunder for reasons much higher than mortal understanding can grasp. It seems clear—we did just leave a house of worship, after all—that Someone is attempting to keep you on the straight and narrow path, Mr. Warre.”
“Indeed. The straight and narrow path to an early morning wedding.”
“A morning wedding.” He could hear the gears turning inside that lamentably pretty head. “Excellent idea. I always did think a morning wedding would be so charming.”
To think, he’d imagined saying the vows, sending Lady India to the ship with William and devoting a few motion-free hours in that lumpy bed.
“You’ll secure me a room of my own tonight, naturally. It isn’t proper for a bride and groom to pass the night together before the wedding.”
He ignored her.
“I’m sure my father will want to know that everything was done as it should. Nothing unseemly—Father has always been dedicated to making sure one does what ought to be done.” She missed a step, and he tightened his grip to keep her from falling. “I would hate for you to produce me as your wife, only to find your reward withheld because you overlooked a bit of common propriety.”
The word propriety falling from her lips might have been laughable if anything had been laughable, which at this moment it was not.
“I shall be very well behaved, of course. In my own chamber. You needn’t worry about a thing.”
Yet for some unfathomable reason, Nick bypassed the desk clerk and hauled India once more up the stairs to his room.
At the first ray of dawn, he would rouse a pair of sailors and pay them to spend a few minutes in the church as witnesses. But until then, he was going to rest. Not sleep—he wasn’t a fool, no matter how exhausted he was—but rest. It would have to do.
He pointed at a chair. “Sit.”
“I am not a dog, Mr. Warre.”
An hour—perhaps less—and he was already dreading the rest of his life married to her. “Sit down, Lady India,” he repeated.
She flashed him a smile that—devil take it—shot raw lust straight through him. She put her hands on her hips and stared at him. “What are you going to do to me if I don’t, Mr. Warre? Shout at me? Beat me? Or heaven forbid—no. You wouldn’t.” She widened her eyes at him in mock horror and put her hand on her heart. “You wouldn’t call off our wedding, would you, Mr. Warre?”
He went to the bureau, intent on ignoring her, but she was having none of it.
“It would be so disappointing if you changed your mind about our nuptials. My thoughts are already filled with plans for our life together in London—soirées, card parties, dining with all of my friends. And of course there will be the theater, the opera, musical performances of every variety and I shall expect you to accompany me for a long and romantic walk in the park at least four times each week.” She clapped her hands together. “Oh, Mr. Warre, I daresay I am half in love with you already.”
He saw those lips smirking at him in the glass. If he survived the night locked away with her in this hellhole, it would be a miracle.
He pulled at his neckcloth, loosening it, and turned. “Are you.”
“Once we are wed, I shall never leave your side. Not even for a moment.”
“How intimate that will be.”
And how mistaken. He would endure the voyage to England, collect his money and once the mortgage on Taggart had been lifted, he would lock her away where she could not injure his person or his reputation.
“Let me make one thing very clear,” he said, turning now. “You have been apprehended. And unless you’d care to be tied up, you will sit. In. That. Chair.” He pointed at it. “And I shall sit in the other. We shall pass what remains of the night, and in the morning you will become my wife. Depend on it.”
* * *
THERE WAS A time and a place for defiance, and that time and place ended when he threatened to tie her up.
And so she sat.
Minutes ticked into an hour. More than an hour, though it was impossible to tell for sure, except for the candles slowly, slowly shrinking.
India fixed her eyes on Nicholas Warre, barely daring to breathe. It couldn’t be possible. After all his threats, his manhandling, his confident declarations—
She sat perfectly still and watched. Yes, he was falling asleep.
From somewhere in the distance, a drunken sailor song lilted through the open window across the room. She didn’t dare glance at the window.
His eyes drifted shut, only to open again and fix on her. “Go to sleep,” he said. In that hard face with its purpling bruises, those eyes were like chips of green winter ice.
Very fatigued winter ice.
“I’m trying,” she murmured, and shifted in the lumpy armchair. She let her own lids droop closed and flutter open, exactly as his had, so he might assume she, too, was drifting off.
If there was one thing that could be learned from a childhood spent locked away until the impossible was accomplished, it was how to wait.
After a moment she shut her eyes completely. The street below was silent. The only sound was the distant swoosh of waves coming ashore in the harbor. His scent came to her on a puff of breeze.
Falling asleep! Could he really be that foolish?
No. Which meant either he was pretending, or he was as tired as he seemed.
Her hands tightened in her lap. A glance out the window earlier had revealed a drainpipe not two feet from their room. It hadn’t seemed possible that the opportunity would present itself.
Until now.
She opened her eyes just a little and found his still closed. Dark lashes lay against sun-kissed skin, and his lips had relaxed into a less grim shape. A moment passed, then another, but those eyes did not reopen. Small creases at their corners testified that he was no mere youth, but with a face like that... No, ancient was hardly accurate.
Fascinating.
He was incredibly handsome. There was no denying it.
But she’d spent too much time locked away in rooms, too many years at the mercy of a man who showed no mercy. She would not exchange Father’s unyielding lack of compassion for a husband’s—not now, not when she was finally mistress of her own life.
Her toes curled restlessly inside her shoes while his chest rose and fell, rose and fell, a little more deeply with each breath. Wait. Just wait.
Minutes passed.
More minutes
Slowly, carefully, India sat forward. A fresh puff of night air was just cool enough to make her shiver.
Silently she rose to her feet, tensing, fighting off a sudden nervous tremor as she fixed her eyes on Nicholas Warre.
His hands lay slack on his lap. No movement. Nothing.
She crept toward the window. It was torture knowing her pistol was tucked into his breeches, but there was no help for it. She paused at the window and stared at the back of his head, willing him to stay asleep. Between them, the bed sat untouched. Whatever might have happened on that shoddy bed behind him wasn’t going to happen tonight. Or ever.
Slowly, quietly, she stuck one leg outside.
Listened.
Swung the other leg around.
Listened.
The only thing she heard