Silk And Seduction Bundle 2

Chapter Six

‘Midge, the fellow is an impostor!’ Rick was saying. ‘You know he is. My father left no stone unturned in his search for the little boy your mother wanted to adopt. He found the orphanage where your grandfather had tried to conceal him.’ He took hold of her shoulders, forcing her to look into his face. ‘And the records that proved he was killed in a great fire that destroyed a whole wing of the place.’

‘But look at him!’ Imogen protested. ‘The records must have been wrong. Or your father…’ A dreadful doubt shook her. ‘He didn’t want to have him in the house!’ She gasped. ‘Just like my grandfather!’

‘Do not say one word against your grandfather,’ her uncle weighed in. ‘He was doing his best to put things right. Utter disgrace to foist the brat on your poor mother in the first place! Should never have been brought into the marital home!’

Rick shot him a look of annoyance. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but tearing a boy she thought of as her son away from her was not the best thing for my stepmother at all. Nearly broke her heart to lose the boy, wherever he might have come from. Mourned his loss to her dying day. Midge,’ he sighed, ‘for heaven’s sake, my father may have had his faults, but he would not have broken his word. Amanda only agreed to marry him on condition he promised to search for that boy.’

But Imogen no longer shared Rick’s faith in his father’s notion of honour. He had not been unduly worried about leaving her penniless, when he had helped himself to the inheritance her mother had tried to bequeath her. With hindsight, she could see that he had only tolerated having her about, for Amanda’s sake. She did not think he had ever quite managed to forget she was Kit Hebden’s child too. And Stephen had not one single drop of Amanda’s blood running through his veins. Would he really have welcomed Kit’s bastard into his home and allowed him to be brought up alongside his own sons?

Catching a movement out of the corner of her eye, she turned and saw Stephen push himself off the pillar, against which he had been lounging, to stare at her as though he could not believe what he was hearing.

‘Hugh Bredon was not lying, and the records were not wrong!’ Lord Callandar shouted. ‘He did manage to locate the foundling home where my father sent the boy. And there was no question the brat died in a fire. I saw the records myself.’

‘Then who is he?’ Imogen’s bouquet swooshed through the air as she waved in the direction of the Gypsy. ‘Why does he know so much about what everyone tried to hush up? Why does he look like me?’

‘Stop talking such nonsense, girl! He looks nothing like you.’

‘But his smile, Uncle! And the shape of his brows when he frowns. They are straight. Just like mine. Like my father’s.’

‘What is going on?’

At the sound of Viscount Mildenhall’s calm authoritative voice, everyone involved in the altercation turned to where he was standing in the church doorway.

Imogen ran to him and grabbed hold of his forearms.

‘Oh, please, Monty, help me! I have done everything you have asked of me, haven’t I? Won’t you let me have my way in just this one thing? It is our wedding. Yours and mine. Surely I may have just one guest of my own choosing? If you say he may come in, then nobody else has the right to refuse him. He can sit right at the back, if you like, right out of sight!’

He tensed as she specified that it was a ‘he’ they were all arguing about.

‘Perhaps,’ he said coldly, ‘it would help if you were to explain exactly who he is you are so keen to attend our wedding despite your uncle’s objections?’

‘Stephen,’ she said, stepping back and releasing his arms as though they burnt her. ‘My brother.’

‘Your brother?’ It felt as though the sun had come out. ‘I see no reason why your brother should not attend if he wishes. Why all this fuss?’

‘Because he is not her brother, that’s why!’ bellowed her uncle. ‘The impudent rogue who claims kinship with her is just some filthy Gypsy, trying to cause trouble!’

‘It’s true, Monty,’ put in Rick, stepping forward. ‘The Gypsy boy in question died years ago.’

‘A Gypsy?’ He was so relieved it was not the marriage itself she was objecting to he would have cheerfully given permission for a whole tribe of Gypsies to dance right down the aisle banging tambourines if that was what she wanted.

But before he could tell her so, she had lifted her chin, and said, ‘Yes! My father took a Gypsy woman as a lover…’

Her uncle groaned and covered his face in his hands. She flung her shoulders back, her whole posture now screaming defiance as she continued, ‘And she had his son. And my father brought him to live with us until my grandfather sent him away while my mother was too ill to know what was happening. And his name is Stephen, and he brought me a gift!’ She waved her bouquet towards one of the pillars where he had noticed a swarthy individual lurking before. But there was no one there now.

‘Oh!’ she shrieked, darting to the edge of the portico. ‘He has gone! I must find him!’

Her uncle, surprisingly swift for such a portly man, darted after her, grabbed her arm and pulled her back as she would have run down the steps.

‘Oh, no, you don’t! We have a church full of guests waiting!’

Viscount Mildenhall strode across to the top of the steps, where she was still struggling with her uncle. ‘Midge,’ he said firmly. ‘Your uncle is right.’ For a second, a look of utter loathing blazed across her face. He gritted his teeth and went on, ‘You cannot go running all over town, today of all days. Let Rick find him for you. Captain Bredon!’ he barked.

To his relief, years of military discipline had Rick snapping instantly to attention. ‘Sir!’

‘Find out where the fellow went, and see if you can make some sense out of all this.’

‘Right away, sir!’

Imogen’s eyes widened as Rick ran obediently down the steps, crossed the street and approached a group of people who had been avidly watching the altercation on the church steps. One of them raised his arm and pointed. Rick promptly trotted off in that direction, and was soon lost to sight.

‘Rick will get to the bottom of this,’ he vowed. ‘You know you can trust him.’

He saw the fight go out of her.

‘Y-yes,’ she said in a muted voice, hanging her head. Viscount Mildenhall looked pointedly at where her uncle’s hand still held her arm in a vice-like grip and Lord Callandar finally released her, but she just stood there, looking so lost and alone that the viscount could not help himself. He drew her into his arms and held her close, rubbing his hands up and down her back. After an initial start of surprise, she leaned into him. He felt a flare of triumph at the way she was drawing comfort from him, even if it was only because nobody else was offering it.

Her uncle made a disparaging noise at the back of his throat and stalked off towards a knot of people who’d had the temerity to creep up the steps at the far end of the portico.

‘Better now?’ said Viscount Mildenhall presently, slackening his hold.

She nodded, stepping back and glancing around her guiltily, as though just becoming aware of their breach of etiquette.

Until her eyes snagged on the pillar where the man who claimed to be her brother had been standing. And gasped.

Lying on the ground was a small brown-paper packet.

She swooped on it like a hawk to the prey.

‘Imogen! Put that down this instant!’ her uncle bellowed.

She rounded on him, cheeks flushed, the gift clasped between both her hands as though she would fight anyone who attempted to take it from her. Then, without taking her eyes off her uncle, she began to sidle towards Viscount Mildenhall as though seeking sanctuary.

Viscount Mildenhall’s heart missed a beat. There was a damp patch on her gown where she had knelt on the flags to pick up the packet she was convinced came from her brother. Her glove had a green smear of moss on it, and petals from her bouquet were scattered all over the flagstones. Her bonnet had been knocked askew in the tussle with her uncle and her curls were falling into her eyes.

Now she looked like Midge! The girl who was more at home climbing trees after birds nests than flitting about drawing rooms. Midge, who had written such amazingly warm and witty letters to Rick, though he was not even her real brother. Who had cast her mantle of goodwill over him, too, congratulating him on his promotions, commiserating with him on his injuries and convincing him that somewhere out there, away from the hellish brutality of the battlefields that comprised his life, warmth and decency still existed.

He did not think he had ever seen a woman look more appealing. He felt a strong rush of affection for the impulsive, honest, direct woman he was about to take to wife.

Swiftly followed by a vision of spending a lifetime pulling her out of the scrapes her impulsive nature was bound to catapult her into.

‘I’d better take that,’ he said firmly, stepping in between her and her uncle. He placed his hands over hers, and lowered his voice, so that only she could hear him. ‘I will keep it safe for you. No need to provoke your uncle any further.’

She looked deep into his eyes, and though he could see a brief struggle taking place there, eventually she relented, relaxing her hold on the package and letting him take it from her.

‘We must have a long talk about all of this, later,’ he continued, slipping the package into an inside pocket, ‘and decide what is to be done. But for now…’ He held out his arm, and jerked his head in the direction of the church.

‘I…’ She straightened up, pushed her hair off her face and gripped her battered bouquet with renewed resolve. ‘I…’ She looked over her shoulder one more time, in the direction the Gypsy and then Rick had gone, and he saw a brief look of anguish flash across her face.

But then she took his arm. She did not merely lay her hand upon it, but linked her own arm through it, as though she needed something solid to cling to as he steered her away from her uncle, who had begun to harangue the crowd. He could feel tremors running through her whole body, but she kept her head held high even when the buzz of conversation within the church hushed into an expectant silence the moment they stepped over the threshold.

He bit back an oath. Everyone was looking at them as though he owed them an account of what had just taken place in the portico. Well, he was certainly not going to dither about in the doorway, answering a lot of questions about a business that was nobody’s concern but Midge’s! The best thing to do would be to get on with the ceremony as though nothing untoward had occurred.

Squaring his shoulders, he marched briskly down the aisle. So briskly in fact, that Midge had almost to trot to keep up with him.

Then he barked, ‘You may commence!’ to the rather startled clergyman.

Shocked gasps rippled through the congregation, which doubled when Lord Callandar came striding down the aisle on his own and took up his position behind the bridal couple, audibly muttering imprecations.

‘Are you sure you wish to proceed?’ the minister asked Midge, pointedly ignoring Viscount Mildenhall.

Her cheeks went pink, but her voice was firm as she declared, ‘I am!’ The minister looked at the way she was clinging to Viscount Mildenhall’s arm, appeared satisfied, and after clearing his throat loudly, opened his prayer book and intoned the opening words.

All went well until he asked who was giving the woman away. Lord Callandar prized Midge’s fingers from Monty’s arm and practically flung her hand into Monty’s extended palm. Then strode away, still muttering under his breath to take his place beside his own wife, who had such a frozen expression on her face she might have been modelling to be a waxwork dummy.

And from somewhere behind him Viscount Mildenhall heard a sound a bit like muffled coughing. A grin began to tug at his lips. It sounded suspiciously like that ne’er-do-well Hal Carlow trying desperately not to fall about laughing.

His stance eased. He would not mind letting just Hal know what had sparked off the whole episode. He didn’t think Midge would object, since Hal was a close friend of her brother, too. Actually, he reflected, she had not seemed to care if the world knew her brother was a Gypsy. She would have had him in the church, and probably introduced him to all and sundry, had he not slunk off into whatever back alley he had crawled from.

Lord, he grinned, that would have set the cat among the pigeons!

As he turned to leave the church—vows made—with Midge still clinging to his side like a limpet, he made a point of looking Hal straight in the eye. The scoundrel was still holding a large handkerchief to his face, and his eyes were watering. The only thing the irrepressible joker would have found more entertaining would have been for the argument in the porch to erupt into a full-blown brawl which spilled into the church. For a moment, his mind filled with a vision of Midge setting about all and sundry with her bouquet, raining petals and broken foliage all over the nave. With a completely straight face, Viscount Mildenhall lowered one eyelid in a surreptitious wink.

There was a decided spring to his step as he led Midge out into the sunshine, towards the carriage that waited to take them back to Mount Street. He felt more like himself than he had since setting foot back in England.

London Society was foreign territory to him; that was the trouble.

Until his older brother had died, he had existed almost exclusively in what was very much a man’s world. First school, then army barracks and the officer’s mess, where he had earned the respect of his subordinates and made friends where he felt some connection.

He had not wanted to leave the Army any more than his father had wanted to see him step into his brother’s shoes. He had left Shevington as much to escape the feeling he would never measure up to the earl’s favoured firstborn, as to appear to be obeying his edict to find a wife.

But the husband hunters had come out in droves the moment he had arrived in town, anyway. He had been appalled by all the posturing and simpering, the sly yet cutthroat competition between girls who pretended to be friends with each other.

Nothing he did ever managed to shake them off. The more obnoxious he made himself, the more obsequious everyone became.

Except Midge. She had detested that fop, the version of Viscount Mildenhall he had created, almost as much as he did.

Well, everyone would call her Viscountess Mildenhall from now on, but he could not see the acquisition of a title changing her one little bit. Just as, he suddenly saw, nothing had ever managed to dent Hal Carlow’s sense of the ridiculous, not even his recent promotion to major.

Just because he had suddenly acquired a title, it did not mean he had to strive to be something he was not. Today she had called him Monty. No, she called Monty back to life. He had barked out orders, Rick had snapped to attention, and he and Hal had experienced a moment of perfect camaraderie.

Gaining a title was only like getting a promotion of sorts. He was the same man inside that he had always been.

It felt as though a weight rolled off his shoulders as he made the decision to take a leaf out of Midge’s book. He was going to stay true to himself, and to hell with everyone else’s expectations!

Thank God he had run into Rick Bredon! And that he had, against all the odds, managed to get Midge to the altar.

It was only as he handed her into his carriage and he noted the dejected slump to her shoulders, that the massive discrepancy between their attitudes towards this marriage hit him all over again.

‘This has not been the wedding day you must have wanted,’ he acknowledged, climbing in and sitting next to her. ‘But it can only get better from here on in, I promise.’

She had not wanted to marry him; he accepted that now. She had gone through with what she saw as her duty to her family. And she had done so with her head held high.

Damn, but he was going to make sure she never regretted marrying him! And he was going to start by wiping all thought of that other man right out of her head. He took her chin in his hand, put his arm round her shoulder, and declared, ‘I am going to kiss you now. And this time, you will not slap my face. Or bite me. Unless,’ he mused, ‘it is like this.’ And he sucked her lower lip into his mouth and nibbled at it.

She gave a shocked gasp, giving him the opportunity to thrust his tongue into her mouth.

She did not struggle. On the contrary, after only a brief moment of tension, she melted under his determined seduction like butter on a summer’s day.

He knew he had not imagined her response to his kisses out on Lady Carteret’s terrace! If he had not been in such a foul mood, if he had not insulted her…

He groaned, and tugged her onto his lap. There was a loud ripping noise. He glanced down to see that his boot was still firmly planted on a portion of material that had come away from the hem of her gown. He tensed.

Most women, he knew, would have berated him for his clumsiness. Midge only sighed as she assessed the damage, before tilting her face towards him again.

‘I will buy you another,’ he vowed swiftly, taking ruthless advantage of the last interlude of privacy they were likely to get before nightfall.

Midge sank down onto the chair before the dressing table and stared in shock at her reflection. No wonder Monty had suggested she ought to go upstairs and freshen up before greeting their guests. She looked the complete antithesis of what a Society bride should be. Her hair was all over the place, her gloves were beyond redemption, and she was going to have to take off the beautiful dress her aunt had somehow managed to conjure up for this day. As for her bouquet: it was no more than a memory. It had already been coming apart before it got crushed between them as he had pulled her onto his lap. And when he had lifted her out of the carriage and set her on her feet, she had been too stunned from those few minutes of untrammelled passion to do more than blink up at him as the broken stems and crushed blooms rained down to the pavement.

Pansy had taken one look at her and run straight to the pile of trunks at the foot of her bed, bless her.

‘It was not all my fault,’ she began to explain, but Pansy was too busy pulling out dresses to determine which was the least creased, to pay attention.

The maid probably would not believe that a man as fastidious about his own appearance would have so casually reduced her to this state anyway, not when she had come home with her things in like condition so many times before.

Though he had looked far less flamboyant than usual, today, now she came to think of it. Even more soberly dressed than he had been on the night they had met at the theatre.