Page 2 of Escape of the Bridegroom (Escape #2)

E ve Romilly had been with her father when she had first seen Lord Wolf striding down the road toward their house. Her heart had never before skipped a beat at the sight of a man, but this gentleman was quite out of the ordinary. It had nothing to do with expensive tailoring or a confident swagger—in fact, his clothes, although correct and well-fitting morning dress, looked a trifle old and he walked with purpose, his movements quick and unstudied. But it was his face that caught her attention.

He was, simply, the most handsome man she had ever seen, his features dark and yet refined, his mouth firm and shapely. A serious man, with an unconscious frown of worry. And yet it was not, she thought, a face without humour or intelligence. A good man who liked to laugh. More than that, a man who liked to live . Vitality seemed to blaze out of his eyes, out of every swift step and swing of his long, slender body.

Although not given to fantasies, she thought she would like this man, even without that rare little tug of pure, physical attraction.

At first, she had not connected him with her father’s scheming, for Papa was happily gloating about something to do with Miranda and her chief new admirer, the charming if indigent Mr. Patrick Wolf.

“Mark my words,” he was saying, “my grandchildren will be lords and ladies yet.”

“I really doubt it is marriage Mr. Wolf has in mind,” Eve murmured a little dreamily for her attention was still on the stranger in the street below. “You should warn Miranda, Papa, for she does not listen to me and my aunt encourages her in—”

“ That is our man,” Papa interrupted with glee. “And quite unfashionably punctual. That my dear, is one desperate baron. Run along now until I send for you. Change your dress, though, for you’re much too frumpy.”

“But Papa, I was going with Mr. Neville to—”

“Not today. I want you here. If all goes well, I’ll send for you in one hour and I’ll expect you to be well dressed and on your best behaviour. No dreary chatter about orphans, no cutting comments or criticism of the idle rich. For once, take a leaf out of your sister’s book. At least she understands gentlemen.”

It was on the tip of Eve’s tongue to point out that Miranda clearly did not understand gentlemen if she imagined Patrick Wolf contemplated marriage with her, but her father was clearly not interested, shooing her from the room into the connecting office of his clerk, Mr. Henley, and firmly closing the door.

The knowledge that Papa was about to receive the beautiful man in the adjoining room made her stomach tingle.

“Mr. Henley,” she whispered. “Who is my father’s visitor?”

“Lord Wolf, miss.”

“Oh dear...” She paused in her rush toward the door to the landing. Foolishly, she had wanted a closer look at the stranger—without being disloyal to Mr. Neville, of course—but clearly the man had come to detach his brother from Miranda’s clutches. Surely Papa could not be so mistaken as to believe his visitor wished to discuss marriage contracts?

Papa was rarely mistaken, of course, but in his obsession with aristocratic grandchildren, his judgement was seriously impaired. She waited until she heard the footman announce the visitor and retreat back downstairs before she fled to make her own arrangements.

First, she had to scribble a quick apology to Mr. Neville for failing to accompany him to the orphanage. She was annoyed, for she had been looking forward to the visit—she liked the children and God knew they needed a few outings away from the bleak, leaky building which currently housed them. She was helping Mr. Neville raise funds for a larger, better home for them, but donations were slow.

She sent Georgie the boot boy—himself a former resident of the orphanage—scampering off to the vicarage with her note, put an end to a squabble between the housemaid and the kitchen maid, and went upstairs to her own bedchamber to change.

What did Papa expect of her? As she raked through her gowns without enthusiasm, the reason for her father’s ebullience suddenly struck her.

He was no fool, and he saw the Wolf brothers as his means to acquiring aristocratic grandchildren. Therefore, he had some means of compelling the marriage.

She dropped her hands back to her sides, frowning. Did Miranda know about this? Had she gone off with their aunt to buy new gowns in which to celebrate her betrothal to a baron’s heir? Did she not realize how resentful her husband would be of such a compulsion? In any case, from Eve’s glimpse of the baron, he was hardly likely to oblige Papa by dying any time soon. It could be decades before Miranda became Lady Wolf.

She would move in the first circles, though, and she would like that. Until she realized she was despised by those she imagined were her friends, and by her husband. Eve shuddered at the prospect of such misery and humiliation.

In truth, she was weary of all these schemes. Papa was never happy unless he was plotting, and Miranda seemed to have inherited the trait. Eve, on the other hand, longed for a quiet life, doing something worthwhile in the company of a good and gentle man.

Mr. Neville did not make her heart flutter. He was older, more thoughtful than she imagined the baron to be, and ambitious only for the spiritual wellbeing of his parishioners and the physical care of the orphans. It was good work, but Papa was not yet ready to consider Mr. Neville as a son-in-law. Perhaps with Miranda safely married to Patrick Wolf

Only, Miranda’s unhappiness would be unbearable.

Eve sat down on her bed to think. She knew she was guilty of assuming everyone felt as she did, and in fact this was rarely true of Miranda. The mischievous child had grown into an ambitious, self-obsessed young woman, more attuned to her father’s thoughts than to Eve’s.

Miranda wanted this marriage. And who was Eve to try and take it from her? Miranda laughed at Mr. Neville.

“Even you could do better than him!”

Eve did not like conflict. She did not wish to quarrel with her father or her sister. But at the same time, she had no intention of letting them stand in her way. When the time was right, she would marry Mr. Neville, with or without their approval. She had to allow her sister the same choice.

Not that she could stop her. Their father was behind Miranda’s marriage.

So why was Miranda allowed to go out with their aunt this morning, while Eve was kept at home?

To show Lord Wolf the respectability of the family? It had to be that, for Miranda was more beautiful and much more charming to parade before the baron.

Sighing, Eve went again to the wardrobe and took out the blue morning gown. It was this season’s, though plain like most of her clothes, but it was definitely ladylike, cool and respectable. That was the part she must play to convince the baron that his brother’s marriage into the family would be acceptable.

She just hoped it was the right thing to do because part of her wanted to behave like a harpy, bedecked in jewels and silks that were too small for her, just to put Lord Wolf off. Wouldn’t they all be happier that way?

No. She firmly believed that everyone should have the right and the responsibility to choose their own path through life. Therefore, she would play the obedient daughter one more time; and tomorrow she would speak again to Mr. Neville and tell her father she was going to be married.

Her mind made up, she rang for the lady’s maid she shared with Miranda.

Her father sent for her while the maid was still dressing her hair in one of Miranda’s ridiculously elaborate styles.

“Never mind,” Eve said, brushing the dismayed girl’s hands away. Dragging her fingers through her hair, she sent pins flying in all directions. In a couple of seconds, she had seized the rope of her hair, wound it tight into a simple knot at the back of her head, and stabbed in a few pins to hold it. “It’s respectable,” she told the maid, and marched out to play her part.

Her father’s voice was at its most jovial as he answered her knock, so when she walked into his study, she was utterly unprepared for the tension that froze her in her tracks.

Her father stood in the middle of the room, beaming with triumph and good humour, a brandy glass held in his short, stubby fingers. “Eve, my dearest, come in and make your curtsey to Lord Wolf.”

Obediently, Eve curtseyed in the general direction of the unmoving figure in the chair by the desk. Only as she straightened, raising her eyes to his face at last, she almost staggered backward under the blast of fury and contempt blazing in his face.

Stunned, since she had done nothing to deserve such hatred, she cast a pleading glance at her father for guidance.

Lord Wolf finally rose to his feet—which, by all the rules of courtesy, he should have done the moment she entered the room.

Dear God, she had been wrong when she imagined him good-humoured and a little anxious. He was all ice and steel and loathing.

Oh, Papa, what have you done?

“Allow me to be the first to congratulate you, my darling,” her father said, embracing her. “I have just received his lordship’s most flattering offer for your hand in marriage, and I’m delighted to say I have accepted.”

Eve’s jaw dropped. Her father stepped back and she gazed at him, uncomprehending. Someone in the room appeared to be mad.

Papa was not looking at her but at the baron. “Is that not correct, my lord?”

Lord Wolf didn’t look at her either. His gaze was locked with her father’s, his eyes hard as agates, his face dripping with all the haughty contempt of the aristocrat for the presuming, vulgar mushroom.

But she had no time either to cringe in shame or defend her family.

“Quite correct,” Lord Wolf drawled. “Providing I get my money.”

It was so deliberately insulting that heat burned up her face with bewilderment and anger. He plucked something off the desk—it looked like a banker’s draft—and strolled toward the door. “Arrangements may be made by letter. Good morning.”

He did not trouble to close the door. It was Eve who did that before turning her anxious gaze on her father, whose smile had slipped a little.

“What have you done?” she asked hoarsely.

The smile returned in full force. “I have arranged a marriage for you with Lord Wolf.”

“But...but Miranda—”

“Don’t be silly! I would not waste Miranda on a mere baron, let alone on his untitled brother. This is perfect. Because as Lady Wolf, you will introduce your sister to the ton. I daresay she will marry a duke in the end!”

“I daresay she will,” Eve said tartly, “but it will be without my help. Papa, I respectfully decline his lordship’s offer, since I am already engaged to marry Mr. Neville.”

“The vicar fellow?” Her father gave a derisive chuckle. “Don’t be silly, Eve. You will marry Wolf, for your family and his survival.”

“Survival?” she repeated, distracted as he’d probably known she would be. “How is his survival threatened?”

Papa shrugged. “Well, financial and social survival, but you know these honourable types. I daresay he would rather shoot himself than become an outcast.”

“Why on earth should he become an outcast? Particularly if he does not marry me !”

“Because he has taken on young Patrick’s gambling debts. I know it makes no sense that such debts are considered honourable while the tailor’s bill may be ignored until the poor tailor is bankrupted, but that’s the Quality for you.”

Eve stared at him, but she had never been slow. “You sold me for the price of Patrick’s gambling debts?”

“Don’t be offended! They amount to ten thousand pounds, plus another two to get his lordship’s land in order.”

“But...Papa, you can’t do this! It is my life and I have plans with Mr. Neville—”

“Neville,” her father said with contempt. “He’s nearly as old as me. I’ve given you a younger, fitter, much more handsome man with a title—”

“And nothing but contempt for me and mine!” Eve interrupted. “Did you not see how he looked at me? At us? Papa, he is not someone you can manipulate with impunity!”

“I already have.” Complaisance suffused his voice and his face. “You will be Lady Wolf within the week.”

The blood drained from her face. “But I can’t,” she said, truly panicked now. “I won’t!”

***

M IRANDA, OF COURSE , laughed like a drain when she heard. “How wonderful of you, Papa! I can’t pretend I’m not a little bit miffed that Eve will be married before me, but he’s only a baron after all, and once she’s married to him, I shall have the pick of the ton.”

Eve gave up. She should never have expected any sense let alone help from her sister. Abandoning Miranda and Papa in the drawing room, she seized her cloak and hat and went out into the rain in search of Mr. Neville.

She found him in the vicarage, drying out in his parlour after getting soaked during his return from the orphanage.

“Miss Romilly!” he exclaimed as she brushed past the housekeeper. “My dear lady, you should not be here unaccompanied!”

“But I’m desperate!” she exclaimed, throwing herself onto the hearth at his feet.

“Tea, Mrs. Pye,” he said in alarm. He was a gentle, formal man, which was one reason why, despite their wish to marry, they were not yet on Christian name terms. The other reason was harder for her to fathom but had something to do with his being sixteen years her senior and the man she most respected in the world.

The door had barely shut on the housekeeper before Eve burst into tears. Somehow, she managed to pour out the whole tale of her father’s infamy and his high-handed betrothal of her to an aristocratic stranger whom she was expected to marry within the week.

Kindly, if somewhat awkwardly, Mr. Neville patted her shoulder. Wiping her face as her story shuddered to a halt, Eve saw the sorrow in his eyes. It didn’t comfort her.

“My dear, you owe your father obedience,” he said hoarsely. “The laws of God and man agree on that.”

“But my father compelled him—”

“That was very wrong of him. On the other hand, Mr. Romilly is helping him out of his financial difficulties and giving him a wife who is beyond price. I have cause to know that.”

She stared at him. You will not fight for me .

“I – I thought you wanted to marry me,” she said in a small, flat voice. Desolation washed over her.

“I do. The happiness you have brought me... The happiness I had hoped for... I cannot deny this pains me as much as it does you. But God moves in mysterious ways. Who are we to doubt Him? Perhaps this is how you can do most good.”

“But he hates me!”

Mr. Neville took her hands in his. “Lord Wolf? He has been bested in a bargain. It upsets men. But if he is remotely human, he will soon realize the true treasure that is his wife. Through you, he and his brother might well mend their ways. And help our orphans besides.”

Eve blinked. She was not a good enough person to have even considered their plight amidst her own crisis. “Help our orphans? I hardly think Lord Wolf is in a position to donate what we need.”

“But he is,” Mr. Neville said seriously. “The building I showed you last week—”

“The big, old house with the little park?” she said impatiently. “Just beyond Covent Garden? Basically sound but in need of repair.”

“It belongs to Lord Wolf.”

She sat up straight. “Then he could sell it to pay Patrick’s debts! He’s probably forgotten all about it!” And she wouldn’t need to marry him at all...

“He might have forgotten, for it’s clearly no use to him. But neither can he sell it. The solicitors explained it to me when I inquired. It’s part of the entail on Lord Wolf’s property.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders sagged again.

“Don’t you see, dear Miss Romilly?” Mr. Neville’s unworldly eyes were shining again. “You may be the instrument by which our orphans find their new home. With your dowry and your good influence, his lordship can surely make the necessary repairs and let the house to us for a very nominal rent. It would be perfect.”

Everyone’s life, it seemed, would be perfect, if only she made the sacrifice.

No, Mr. Neville would not fight for her. He would give her up for his orphans. It was not the kind of love she secretly craved. In fact, she had a sneaking suspicion he was secretly relieved by not having to alter his life to accommodate her.

Never had she felt so alone and friendless.

Her life was falling apart.

Mrs. Pye, who had been tactfully taking her time, now entered with the tea. Miserable with rejection, Eve rose, wiped her eyes once more and gave herself a severe talking-to. She might be plain and unlovable, but she was no milksop.

She could make the best of what had been decided without her.

Or she could run away.

***

O VER THE NEXT FEW DAYS , she flitted between the two choices before her. Running was the more appealing option. An adventure, far away from everyone who knew her, and she had her generous allowance, mostly saved, to make that a practical possibility, or at least a beginning.

And yet, stupidly, her father’s honour as well as the Wolf brothers’ ruin depended on her staying.

She did not see his lordship again to help convince her one way or the other. The two images of him that she held in her mind—the most handsome, appealing man she had ever seen in the street below the window, versus the most implacable and frightening enemy when she finally met him in the study—began to blur.

Marriage with Mr. Neville would never now happen, so it might as well be Wolf as anyone else. Maybe she could make it work somehow to the orphans’ benefit if to no one else’s. At least it would get her out of this house of schemes and tantrums. Only, she wasn’t sure she could bear his lordship’s contempt as she bore her family’s. His hatred shrivelled her heart even as it angered her mind. He considered her the price of his ten thousand pounds. He would marry her for his brother’s sake and there would be no pretence of anything else. He meant her and her father both to know how much he despised them for it.

A stupid, entitled man who could not or would not see that it was himself and his brother he should despise for creating this situation. Not the man who had offered him the way out. And certainly not the woman who was their sacrificial pawn.

Run, Evie, run...

While she vacillated, packing and then unpacking her light travelling bag several times, a few letters were exchanged between her father and Lord Wolf. Apparently, none of them mentioned her.

And then, on the fourth morning after the catastrophic visit, she was dragged out of bed by Miranda and their aunt, and informed that today was her wedding day. Exhausted and bewildered after several nights of very little sleep, she found herself splashed with cold water and crammed, shivering, into her least favourite gown. They primped her hair and scented her skin, giggling and chattering until her head hurt and her spirit crumpled.

Even that she could have borne if her bridegroom had only once looked at her as she walked across the drawing room, trembling on her father’s arm. But he didn’t.

And then came the unkindest cut of all.

Mr. Neville, dignified and sad-eyed, stepped forward to perform the ceremony.

It was too late to run. But not too late for tears.