“Um. Yes. He did mention heirs.”
His large body, covering hers, like in the etchings in Mrs. Burton’s library. She remembered his big hand, cupping the flower; would he be so gentle with her? Would she touch him too? That dark, curling hair, that scarred face, those broad shoulders… And his firm-looking mouth, with the little half smile on his defined lips…
Thea had been kissed before, but only by Percy Russell, whose chaste kisses had been tolerable at best. She had tried hard to like him, for the sake of her whole family, yet with Percy, she always felt awkward, as if she had too many arms. With the earl, even when he had stood so close that she caught his scent, she had felt not awkward but…right.
“The invalid marriage will last only until Helen returns safely married, a week or two at the most,” Thea said. “If he comes near, I shall scream and faint. Or I shall tell him I have my monthly courses and send him running in fear.”
“But he is odd and reclusive. The things they say about him.”
“No. I refuse to listen to more rumors.”
Arabella raised her brows. “Not to mention the fresh rumors this will start about you, if word gets out.”
“But word needn’t get out, given Luxborough avoids society,” Thea argued. “Besides, Ventnor and Luxborough are sure to hush it up. They will never admit to being outwitted by the daughters of a mere merchant. True, our behavior as a pretend married couple will break all the rules, but one cannot be concerned with propriety in such a situation.”
Arabella considered. Thea could almost see her spinning out the implications and ramifications, dozens of moves in advance.
“This plan is flawed,” she concluded.
“We must treat it as a game,” Thea said.
Finally. Today, everything changed. After three lonely years of waiting, aimless and scared, Thea had purpose and a plan. She would have this adventure, she would finagle some money, she would publish her pamphlet and tell her story, and in a few short weeks, she would find her way home.
Arabella gave a single sharp nod: decision made. “I shall send a manservant to accompany you for safety, and you will write to me every day. Do you need money?”
“I have a few pounds from my wages.”
“Carry it always. Sew money into your stays so you can run at any time.”
“I am out of the habit of wearing stays.”
“Your hems, then. I still don’t like this.”
“You cannot stop me,” Thea said quietly. It was risky, but better her than Arabella. “And he’s not entirely unappealing. What’s the worst that can happen?”
“He could slit your throat and throw your body down a well.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad, then, does it?” Thea patted Arabella’s hand. “In one single, bold move, I shall save you, Helen, and myself. I truly am a Knight in shining ribbons.”
“Oh, good grief.”
Thea grinned. “Now, help me pen a note to Lord Luxborough, in which I inform him that I shall marry him in the morning.”
Chapter 4
The vicar protested that it was highly irregular when he opened his door early the next morning, unshaven, bleary-eyed, and smelling of sherry, to find a wedding party on his doorstep. At first, he quibbled over the license and bleated about irritating, inconsequential things like rules, but Rafe quieted him with a mention of the Bishop of Dartford, and Miss Larke’s imperious impatience did the rest. Throughout the argument, Rafe’s fake-bride-to-be, wrapped in a blue cloak and carriage dress, yawned and rubbed her eyes.
No one giggled during the meaningless vows or the paperwork, and soon Rafe was in possession of an invalid marriage certificate. Business concluded, the vicar marched into his house and slammed the door. Miss Larke headed after him, and Rafe strode toward the road to await the loaded carriage.
“Must you walk so fast?” Thea called from behind him.
He glanced at her over his shoulder. The hood of her cloak was pushed back and the morning mist gathered in droplets in her chestnut hair.
“This is how I walk,” he said, and kept going.
“It makes it difficult for me to walk beside you,” she complained.
“So don’t.”
“But that’s what people do.”
“I’m not people.”
A few more steps brought him to the ivy-wreathed gate, and he paced by the roadside. Thea joined him and brushed her damp hair off her face. Now that she was fully awake, her eyes were bright, and as blue as the cornflowers blooming in his garden.
Blast it. He had miscalculated. With his attention on the practical details of his scheme, Rafe had failed to consider Thea Knight as a real woman. A woman whose skin promised to be soft, and whose smile promised mischief, and whose curves promised that her ankles were definitely not her most interesting feature. He had not even thought how to address her now she was his counterfeit countess. Neither “Thea” nor “Helen” was acceptable, and he would not call her “my lady” when she was no such thing.