Marrying Mischief. Lyn Stone
her proved to be the most exasperating.
Happy is the bride the sun shines on. Emily grimaced at the rain now driving against the windows of the dining room. Wishing it away, she trained her attention on the food before her. She tried to ignore Nicholas as best she could, but he made that impossible.
She was heartily sick of small talk. It was difficult to respond to it when the realization that she was a wife now had just hit like a wall falling on her. She felt trapped by it, unable to wriggle this way or that. This could not be undone. It was forever, better or worse. She feared worse. She stared at the ring on her finger.
“I’ll buy you another when I go to London,” Nick said, obviously following her gaze. “Something grander if you like.”
She shook her head. “I’d rather you didn’t. I like the design of this one. It will do nicely, thank you.”
Fisting her hand in her lap, she glanced out the window again to avoid looking at him. In the distance, through the rain, she could see the spire of Father’s church above the treetops.
“I wish we could have married in the church,” Nick said as if he read her thoughts. “We should have had the entire county there to wish us happy.”
“You dreamer,” she replied and almost snorted. “They would have attended out of curiosity to see whether you had lost your mind. I noticed you neglected to break the news to your cousin.”
“Carrick? I always have as little to say to him as possible. I admit I was tempted to tell him about the cholera. He’s always had an unholy fear of any sickness, morbid or otherwise. We’d never have seen him again.” He grinned. “But of course, he would have promptly reported me for making landfall with an infectious disease and had me arrested.”
He changed the subject. “Tell me, how is Miss Jocularity doing these days?” He popped the bite of meat into his mouth, chewing vigorously.
Emily watched, spellbound by the workings of his smooth-shaven jaw. Realizing what she was doing, she jerked her gaze away and trained it on her plate.
But he would expect an answer. “Miss Tate? Still worthy of the appellation we assigned her. She frowns through Papa’s sermons, castigates every child within hearing distance, and prims up whenever I pass by.”
Nick swallowed and pointed at her with his fork. “Surely not. She always liked you best of all.”
Emily put down her own eating utensil, sat back in her chair and glanced again at the rivulets of rain. “Not anymore.”
When he said nothing to that, she looked back at him. “I forfeited her good graces. Nothing I have done since has restored me in her eyes. And she is not alone in her opinion.”
He regarded her steadily. “Because of the kiss,” he guessed.
“Yes, because of that.”
“You know who bears the blame for my leaving, Emily. That public display of ours was foolish and irresponsible. The results inevitable. You must know how deeply I regret it.”
“Why should you feel regret? You had what you wanted with none to think the worse of you. Even if you had remained here, my father would never have required you to answer for it.”
“I had no choice but to leave.”
Nick had mentioned blame. Was he saying she should assume it? Emily had to admit she had welcomed his kiss the way a dying woman would greet an extra hour of life. Had she, in her fervor, misread his desire? Maybe he had merely done what he thought she expected at the time. Her kiss must have disappointed him and he worried she would demand that he salvage her good name regardless of that. Why else would he feel forced to leave so suddenly? He said she should know where the blame lay. Where else but with her? His father had said it was so. Nick must think so, too.
“Very well, I believe I understand now,” she said, lowering her gaze again.
“Do you?” he asked, offering no reassurances. Not that he owed her any if he was right and it had been all her fault. He had certainly known she would expect marriage, even if her father would not have insisted. Of course he’d felt he had to leave.
“Would you please excuse me?” Emily pushed her chair away from the table and rose, tears perilously close to falling.
“Certainly,” he replied, standing immediately.
Before she reached the doorway, he approached and touched her arm. “Emily, wait. You look very pale. You’re not feeling ill, are you?”
She shook her head without looking at him. “No. I did not sleep well.”
“Go and rest, then.” He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Come down to the library when you awaken. Or I shall bring a tray and join you for supper if you like.”
Replying with a curt nod, she escaped, hurried up the stairs to the far end of the third floor hallway and shut herself in the countess’s room. Tears of humiliation and despair had overtaken her halfway there and she gave way to them in full once the door was closed behind her.
She threw herself onto the bed and buried her face in a pillow. All these years she had blamed him for abandoning her to the scorn of their small village when in truth, it was she who had caused him to leave his home. Going away then had saved him from having to marry her, a woman he could not love, only to find himself trapped by that very fate because of her most recent folly. He must hate her now. Despite that, he still acted nobly toward her.
“Because he is noble,” she cried into her pillow, “as I shall never be. It will never work. Never!”
Rarely did she allow herself to weep over anything, but now she could not seem to stop. Rain beat against the windows as if the very skies wept for her. Years worth of pent-up misery spilled forth and she cried until she felt decidedly ill. Her eyes grew swollen and her head ached abominably. Exhausted beyond bearing and steeped in anguish, she finally fell asleep.
Nicholas balanced the tray of tea and cakes on one hand and knocked gently on her door with the other. It was four in the afternoon and he’d not seen Emily since breakfast. Her pallor and near silence had worried him. Angry or happy, she was rarely as quiet as she had been earlier.
When she did not answer, he knocked more firmly. “Emily? I’ve brought tea.”
Still no response. Nicholas tried the handle and found the door unlocked. He pushed it open a few inches and saw her lying facedown on the bed, still fully dressed. “Oh, God!” He flung the door open and rushed in. With a clatter of dishes, he shoved the tray onto the nearest flat surface and ran to her. “Em?”
She mumbled something but refused to move. Nick rolled her over onto her back and cupped her forehead with his palm. Hot. Burning with fever.
He grasped the bellpull and yanked it furiously, then ran to the doorway and shouted for the doctor. Immediately he dashed back to her, loosening her clothing, his hands trembling with fear for her.
“Nick? What…what are you doing?” she croaked in a weak voice as she batted ineffectually at his hands.
“You’re sick, Em. Be still! This corset is—curse the damned thing!” He untied and pulled free the laces that held it together below her breasts. At last he parted it, tugged it from beneath her body and threw it aside. He ripped the gown from her and tossed it, as well.
She stared up at him, muddled, speechless and obviously shocked by what he was doing.
“The doctor will be here in a moment,” he assured her while he drew the covers up to her neck. The brief glimpse of her clothed in only her chemise barely registered. He was too concerned she would die.
The doctor hurried in carrying his black case of instruments which he deposited on the bed beside Emily. Nicholas had moved out of his way, but quickly rounded the bed so that he could observe. “She has fever,” he announced, “and look at her face.”
A frightened Emily raised