The Marquess Tames His Bride

‘Betrothal? What do you—?’

But before she could say another word, he swooped.

Got one arm round her waist and one hand to the back of her bonnet to hold her in place.

And smashed his mouth down hard on her lips.

‘Whuh!’ It was all that she managed to say when, as abruptly as he’d started the kiss, he left off. Her mouth felt branded. Her legs were shaking. Her heart was pounding as though she was being chased by Farmer Westthorpe’s bull. Which would have been her fate if she’d fallen into the field, rather than become stuck on one of the lower branches.

‘The rumours,’ he said in a silky voice, ‘about my affair with…well, you know who…are exactly that. Merely rumours.’

‘Affair?’ What business did he have discussing his affairs with her?

‘It is over. Never started. Hang it, sweetheart,’ he growled. ‘How could I ever marry anyone but you? Landlord,’ he said, giving her waist an uncomfortably hard squeeze, which she took as a warning not to say another word, ‘my fiancée and I would like some privacy in which to continue our…discussion.’

And naturally, since he was the almighty Marquess of Rawcliffe, the landlord bowed deeply, and said that of course he had a private room, which he would be delighted to place entirely at their disposal. And then he waved his arm to indicate they should follow him.

Back into the interior of the building she’d just been about to vacate.

CHAPTER TWO

Lord Rawcliffe kept his arm round her waist, effectively clamping her to his side.

‘Not another word,’ he growled into her ear as he turned her to follow the landlord. ‘Not until there is no fear of us being overheard.’

She almost protested that she hadn’t been going to say anything. She had no wish to have their quarrel witnessed by the other passengers from her coach, or those two drunken bucks who’d staggered out of the tap at the exact moment she’d punched the Marquess on the nose, or even the landlord.

‘This will do,’ said Lord Rawcliffe to the very landlord she’d been thinking about, as they entered a small room containing a table with several plain chairs standing round it and a couple of upholstered ones drawn up before a grate in which a fire blazed even though it was a full week into June.

‘You will be wanting refreshments, my lord?’

‘Yes. A pot of tea for my fiancée,’ he said, giving her another warning squeeze. ‘Ale for me. And some bread and cheese, too. Oh,’ he said, dabbing at his bleeding nose, ‘and a bowl of ice, or, at least, very cold water and some clean cloths.’

‘Of course, my lord,’ said the landlord, shooting her a look loaded with censure as he bowed himself out of the door.

‘And one other thing,’ said Lord Rawcliffe, letting go of her in order to give the landlord his full attention. Clare didn’t bother to listen to what the one other thing might be. She was too busy getting to the far side of the room and putting the table between them for good measure.

‘Look,’ she said, as soon as the landlord had gone. ‘I know I shouldn’t have hit you and I—’ she drew a deep breath ‘—I apologise.’ She looked longingly at the door. Rawcliffe might have all the time in the world, but she had a stage to catch. ‘And thank you for the offer of tea, but I don’t have time to—’

He was nearer the door than she was, and, following the direction of her gaze, he promptly stepped in front of it, leaned his back against it and folded his arms across his chest.

‘What,’ she said, ‘do you think you are doing?’

‘Clearly, I am preventing you from leaving.’

‘Yes, I can see that, I’m not an idiot. But why?’

‘Because I am not going to permit you to walk into a scandal.’

‘I am not going to walk into a scandal.’

‘You think you can strike a marquess, in a public inn, and get away with it?’

‘I don’t see why not. You might be notorious, but nobody knows who I am.’

His mouth twisted into a sneer. ‘You flew here on angel’s wings, did you?’

‘Of course not. I came on the stage.’