Two Wrongs Make a Marriage. Christine Merrill
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he would receive from Stayne and the fringe benefits of a buxom and affectionate wife, John de Warde, Lord Kenton, was proving to be the nicest role Jack had ever played. He would be sad when the farce had to end.
It had been more than an hour. More than two. And at last, more than three. In fact, it was nearly time to dress for bed, which was quite ridiculous. Thea had donned the négligée her mother had pressed upon her at half past one in the afternoon. It was getting rather chilly.
Her mother had assured her she would be well out of the thing by now. Thea had allowed the final scraps of embarrassing advice, because she had assumed that they would be just that. Final. No matter what occurred between her and Kenton, it would not have to be coached, described or dissected by a too-curious female parent. It could be a secret, between her husband and herself.
If Father had ruffled his feathers with precipitate demands for funds, there might be more than an unusual number of secrets to keep. While she knew more than a maiden should about the activities of the marriage bed, she lacked the experience to be a seducer. But she was prepared to be as willing and enthusiastic a pupil as a disgruntled husband might wish.
As soon as Kenton came home, at any rate.
How much had Father demanded of him? And how long could it take to write a bank draft? Thea had a mortifying fancy of treasure caskets changing hands. Or, worse yet, sheep and goats. Somewhere in London, her worth was defined in livestock and chattel. She must hope that her value was sufficient to fix the mess they were in.
From somewhere down the hallway, outside the closed bedroom door, she heard a thump. And then another and another. As the sounds came closer, they formed an irregular pattern. Booted footsteps? Perhaps if the visitor had a wooden leg. There was something not quite right about them.
The door to her room burst open, slamming against the opposite wall to reveal her husband leaning lopsidedly in the door frame.
‘Kenton?’ It was him, she was sure. But judging by the noxious stench accompanying him, he was disguised by gin. A quick examination of his boots revealed the reason for his uneven gate. At some point during their wedding afternoon, his champagne-polished Hessians had been abused to the point where one heel was missing. He had walked halfway out of the other and had been staggering along on the calf, trying to free himself as he walked. As she watched, he gave a final kick and the offending footwear sailed across the room to land beside the bed.
‘Kenton. John. Jack.’ She tried to settle on a name for him that best suited the situation. ‘Shall I call your valet?’
‘No, thank you,’ he said, and, for a moment, he sounded almost like the man she’d expected. His voice was beautiful, as it always was. Clear, resonant and compelling. It was the sort of voice to melt hearts and reservations. And if they could get this difficulty behind them, she would happily listen to it for the rest of her life.
‘Do you wish me to help you?’ She crawled towards the edge of the bed, the silk of her nightdress billowing about her. ‘You appear to need some assistance.’
He threw a hand dramatically in front of his eyes. ‘Do not help me, you … succubus. Do not help me ever again.’ He seized his remaining boot, hopping about a bit before managing to free himself of it and then tossing it after its mate.
‘I do not understand.’ She sank back on the bed, painfully sure that her last statement had been a lie.
‘Don’t you, now.’ He struggled out of his jacket and pulled a bundle of papers from the pocket before dropping it on the floor. ‘And you knew nothing of these, I suppose, when you decided it was urgent that you marry the first man stupid enough to be trapped by you.’ He dropped the familiar invoices on the mattress beside her.
‘I have no idea what you mean,’ she said, hoping that she looked sufficiently guileless.
‘Then I will tell you. These are a wedding gift. From your father. Your settlement. The one he promised to give to me, after we were wed.’
‘Oh.’ Now the storm would break for sure. And no amount of transparent silk would hold it back.
‘Of course, foolish man that I am, I went to him, imagining it would be something akin to a small estate, or a rather large bank draft. Instead, I find—’ he brandished the first paper ‘—the bill for the wedding breakfast. And here is another, for your wedding clothes and your mother’s as well. Tailor’s bills, grocer’s bills. Butcher’s bills, for God’s sake. And they are a month old. Am I expected to pay for chops that I have not tasted?’
‘Recently, there have been difficulties,’ she said. It was a huge understatement.
‘Difficulties?’ There was a slightly hysterical edge to her new husband’s lovely voice that took her by surprise.
‘Well, yes. My mother has always been prone to extravagances. But of late, a miscalculation on the part of my father has led to misfortune.’
‘Misfortune?’ The tone of this, if possible, was even higher than the last statement had been.
‘But I am sure that they are nothing that you cannot handle, as heir to Lord Stayne.’
‘Ahhhh.’ And this was the strangest sound of all. One-part confirmation, and two-parts wordless oath, followed by a sharp slap to his own temple and a collapse into the nearest chair. ‘I see it all now. The ease with which it was possible to catch you. Your sudden, devoted interest in me, which my own vanity made me want to believe. And damn me for a fool in that. Stayne will have my neck back in the noose as sure as your eyes are green.’
‘Noose?’
‘Where were my eyes? Where was my brain? And why, Lord, why must it be so easy for a ginger-haired girl with a magnificent bosom to trick a trickster?’
‘A trickster.’ He was hardly speaking to her any more. But since all he’d spoken before appeared to be lies, it was just as well. The last little speech had been so full of information that she could hardly take it all in. He was a trickster. He feared hanging and he feared Stayne.
Apparently, he admired her eyes and certain other portions of her anatomy. It was nice, but not germane.
‘Why would your own father want to see your neck in a noose?’ But he’d said, back in a noose. ‘And why was it ever there in the first place?’
Lord Kenton stared back at her with a bitter grin. ‘I have no idea what my father would want. I’ve never met the man.’ He reached for a flask in his pocket, opened it and took a healthy gulp of the contents.
It was her turn to sit down suddenly on the nearest surface, collapsing back on the bed and hugging a pillow to her chest to conceal everything she had meant to display. ‘But that means that you’re …’
‘A bastard,’ he replied cheerfully and offered her the flask.
She waved it away. ‘Then you cannot be Stayne’s heir.’
‘I am not even his natural son,’ Jack replied. ‘At least, I do not think I am. My mother was none too clear on the identity of my sire. I did not press her on the subject.’
‘And I married a man of no birth, no consequence …’
‘And no fortune,’ he added, taking another drink. ‘And there you are, hoisted upon your own petard. Since I married an heiress with no fortune, I have no sympathy for you.’ He stood, walked to the fireplace and tossed her father’s bills one by one into the flames.
‘You cannot,’ she said, dropping the pillow and hurrying across the room to retrieve them.
‘You are clearly unaccustomed to having debts. These are but first requests. They will send others. I speak from experience.’
‘A bastard with unpaid debts.’ She folded her hands across her chest, trying to draw the spider’s web she was wearing into some semblance of modesty.
‘And do not forget the