A Marriage Of Rogues. Margaret Moore

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      As exhilarated as she was at that moment, though, a sense of dread haunted her, too. But it was follow through with her plan, or live in poverty and insecurity the rest of her life.

      She put her hand lightly on Sir Develin’s forearm, aware at once of the muscle beneath the fine clothes.

      “We’re going north,” he said to the coachman. “To Gretna Green.”

      Ignoring the shocked look on the face of the coachman, Thea straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin and climbed into the carriage.

      * * *

      As the barouche rocked and bumped its way north toward Gretna Green, Dev surreptitiously watched the woman seated across from him. She’d squeezed herself into the opposite corner, as far away from him as it was possible to get within the small confines. What did she think he was going to do? Attempt to seduce her right there in his barouche?

      Even if he was tempted to do so—and he was, a little—he was too exhausted to make the effort. He hadn’t slept well for the past fortnight, and last night was even worse. He’d paced the floor for hours, trying to decide if marrying her was the right thing to do, for either of them. In the end, the arguments she’d presented in favor of the marriage had outweighed his objections.

      At least for now.

      Until the ceremony was concluded, he could still change his mind. And so could she.

      “How long do you think it will take us to reach Gretna Green?” she suddenly demanded, one shapely eyebrow arched in query.

      “By midday, I should think, if the roads are dry,” he answered.

      “Your coachman looked quite surprised when you said we were going to Gretna Green. Did you not tell your household where you were going and why?”

      How could he, when he wasn’t even sure she’d be waiting for him at the inn despite her boldness the day before? “I said I was meeting a lady.”

      “That’s all you told them?”

      “That was all they needed to know.” He crossed his arms and regarded her with a serenity he didn’t feel. “After all, you might have changed your mind.”

      “Not I,” she swiftly and firmly replied before she went back to looking out the window.

      She was certainly determined. That made her an interesting female, but was that really a quality he wanted in a wife? On the other hand, she had kissed with a boldness that had been quite exhilarating. No squeamish missishness from her!

      As for the wedding night...

      He wouldn’t think about that. Instead he took the opportunity to study this woman he had pledged to marry.

      She wasn’t beautiful, but she was pretty. Her movements were graceful, her fingers long, and her body slim and shapely beneath that horrible pelisse. Her straw bonnet was equally unattractive and cheap. It looked like the sort of thing a farmer’s wife would wear. A very poor farmer’s wife.

      She abruptly turned and fixed him with her powerful gaze. “Has no one ever told you that it’s impolite to stare, Sir Develin?”

      Like a green lad, he felt a flush steal over his face and damned himself for it. “Those are the ugliest garments I’ve ever seen,” he said, his embarrassment making him sound more harsh than he intended. “Surely that wasn’t the only color of fabric available. It looks like snuff. Used snuff.”

      She did not blush. Instead she regarded him with what could only be called a glare. “It was the best fabric I could afford. The color made it less expensive. I daresay the cost of clothing is something a privileged scion of a noble house never has to consider.”

      He didn’t bother to defend himself, in part because she was right. Although he wasn’t extravagant, he rarely paid attention to the cost of his clothes. “After we’re married, you’ll need better garments as soon as possible.”

      “I quite agree,” she said. “Will you expect to oversee the selection?”

      “I can think of nothing more boring.”

      She nodded, then went back to looking out the window.

      He slumped against the squabs and closed his eyes. If she didn’t wish to speak to him, so be it. Indeed he should welcome the silence broken only by the rhythmic thudding of the horses’ hooves as they galloped along the road.

      And he should use the time to once again try to decide if he was doing the right thing, he thought drowsily. It wasn’t too late to change his mind.

      Perhaps he should, perhaps he should, perhaps...

      * * *

      Thea awoke from a restless doze and rotated her stiff neck. She had no idea how long she’d been asleep in the carriage. She’d nodded off some time after Sir Develin had. A quick glance showed he was still sleeping on the seat across from her.

      She studied the face of the man she was going to marry. Sir Develin was almost thirty, but he looked much younger when he was asleep, especially with that lock of dark hair hanging over his brow.

      As for the rest of him, he was broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, tall and as well dressed as she was not. No wonder he was so popular with the ladies.

      She looked down at her pelisse. He was right, of course. It was terribly ugly and she hated wearing it, but what else could she do when her choice was buy cheap and homely fabric or go without food? She would welcome a new wardrobe more than he could ever know, and she was doubly glad to think he would let her choose it.

      She was wondering how much she would have to spend when the carriage rattled to a halt and the coachman called out, “Gretna Green!”

      The baronet awoke with a start and looked confused for a moment before he brushed the lock of hair off his forehead and said, “There already?”

      “You’ve been asleep.”

      “Oh,” he said with a yawn as the coachman opened the door, revealing a cobbled and busy inn yard. Beyond, the large main building of the inn, half-timbered and covered with ivy, looked comfortable and prosperous.

      Sir Develin jumped out with the same alacrity as before, then reached up to help her disembark. He was regarding her so gravely she feared he was going to tell her he was going back to Dundrake Hall and leaving her there.

      She hadn’t come that far, hadn’t made that presumptuous proposal, to be thwarted now.

      Her lips pressed together with determination, she put her hand in his and, ignoring the sudden rush of heat that action prompted, stepped down. As soon as her feet touched the ground, she immediately left Sir Develin and approached the nearest servant, a stable boy carrying a basket of oats, and asked, “Where is the smithy?”

      She hadn’t only learned all she could about Sir Develin before going to Dundrake Hall; she’d made sure she understood how and where marriages were conducted in Gretna Green.

      The lad grinned, revealing a gap where one of his front teeth should be. “Out the СКАЧАТЬ