Ever His Bride Page 4

  “Done,” he said, cutting off her argument, and any thought beyond the completion of this damnable contract. “Your third article, Miss Mayfield?”

  She cleared her throat twice. “My third article regards your behavior in public.”

  “My behavior?” He would have laughed, but the woman looked ready to throttle him, her jaw set in stone, her mouth drawn tightly as if he’d already committed some indecent act.

  “You, sir, are to keep your women out of the public eye.”

  “My women?” He did laugh then—for all the women who had presumptuously taken his arm after dinner, who had smiled and hinted, who’d made him burn—

  “I won’t be laughed at, Mr. Claybourne. I realize you are a man of great social and financial importance, but I will not be embarrassed by your flaunting your mistresses where I might hear about them, or read about them in the news. I have my pride. Surely you can restrain yourself for a year and a day.”

  “I can assure you, Miss Mayfield, you’ll read nothing of my escapades in the newspapers.”

  “And if your social life demands your attendance at a function, you will go alone, or if you must have a partner, we will attend together.”

  A partner. The idea had some merit. “I agree.”

  “Good, because—”

  “And I demand the same courtesy from you, Miss Mayfield.”

  “From me?”

  Now her cheeks were burning brightly, and Hunter felt his own blood rising, wondering who she was thinking of, which man in her life could coax such a flame of color. “You’ll keep your parade of gentlemen out of my house and out of the newspapers.”

  “I have no such parade, Mr. Claybourne! Nor do I intend to arrange one.”

  “Fine. Article Four, Miss Mayfield.”

  “Article Four.”

  Felicity endured Claybourne’s insolent glare as she went to the desk and looked over Mr. Biddle’s shoulder to read the earlier articles. Imagine, him believing that she had a parade of men following her. Claybourne obviously harbored a guilty conscience. A man of his dark charms must attract women of the lowest sort, not to mention his fair share of the highest.

  “As we have agreed so far,” she said, “we will divorce at the end of one year; I may travel; you will keep your mistresses in seclusion, and…”

  And the wedding night? A flush leaped like a forest fire out of her bodice and dashed up her neck to lick at her earlobes.

  “And what?” Claybourne asked slowly, his curiosity at her sudden embarrassment far too apparent.

  Marriage held certain physical responsibilities for a woman. Had she been marrying a man she loved, she would be eager to share his bed. But the very thought of sharing anything with Hunter Claybourne made her head go light. As it had last spring as she’d ridden over the Yorkshire moors in a hot-air balloon, soaring into the gladness of the day. The thought of sharing a marriage bed with Claybourne evoked the same kind of fear, born of the unknown and a feeling of falling from great heights. His hovering darkness descended on her, his mouth softened by the gilding of the gaslight above.

  She turned to the wide-eyed Mr. Biddle. “Will you leave us for a moment, sir?”

  Biddle nodded and sped out the door, followed by Claybourne’s bark of warning not to leave the building.

  “Time is wasting, Miss Mayfield. What part of our marriage contract couldn’t you discuss in front of Biddle?”

  Claybourne stood at the edge of the desk, his gaze efficiently charting her face, his arms linked across his chest.

  “The…marital part.”

  “Marital, Miss Mayfield?”

  “Yes. Article Four involves… well, I don’t know how to put this properly without sounding…” Unable to face the man, Felicity shifted her interest to the shiny brass rail that edged the desk, and ran her fingers along it.

  “Without sounding what, woman?”

  “Without sounding vulgar. Mr. Claybourne, since ours will be a marriage in name only.” She dashed a glance back at Claybourne, hoping he would understand the immodest source of her hesitancy so she wouldn’t have to lay bare the intimacy of her fears. But he merely stared at her with those obsidian eyes. A curse on his rock-headedness, and the giddiness in her chest.

  “Go on, Miss Mayfield.” Now the bloody monster seemed amused at her stammering. Was he going to make her speak the words?

  “I assume, Mr. Claybourne, that our marriage is to remain… unconsummated.”

  “It is,” he said too casually, too quickly, leaving her feeling exposed and thoroughly repudiated. Apparently not worth his slightest temptation.

  “Good,” she said, not as relieved as she’d expected. Not that his opinion of her mattered; she found him not at all interesting. Too towering, too darkly dangerous, far too arrogant— “Then my fourth article is irrelevant. However, I shall add it to the contract anyway.”

  She sat in the desk chair and was poised to write the number four on the contract when Claybourne’s hand clamped around hers. It was very warm and very large.

  And his voice was very near her ear. “What is it you plan to write there, Miss Mayfield?”

  His breath lifted the curls along the nape of her neck, dancing them lightly. That balloon-soaring fear returned and nudged her off course for a moment. She went willingly—floated across patchwork fields, caught his updrafts and touched the clouds.

  “Your plan, Miss Mayfield.”

  She shook off the peculiar dizziness and forced herself to focus on the bronze tip of the pen, which was nearly obscured beneath Claybourne’s hand.

  “I’m writing Article Four, Mr. Claybourne.”

  “Which is?”

  He smelled of fog and exotic spices. His fingernails were clean and neatly trimmed, the back of his hand tanned and lightly haired, but striped with prominent white scars on two of his knuckles. The contrast between pampered gentleman and street fighter was so great, she almost asked about the cause. But she didn’t want to know. He was a brief moment in her life, no more. She turned her head slightly to see him better.

  “Mr. Claybourne, the contract must address the issue of dealing with the result of an error in judgment between us—”

  “What possible error in judgment?” He looked affronted, as if he had already considered every possible issue and she need not waste his valuable time considering any other.

  “I mean to say that, should we find ourselves, at some point, overcome with… with, well, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know. Tell me.”

  She shook off his hand and stood up to get away from him. “Please listen to me, Mr. Claybourne. This is very important.”

  “I’m listening, Miss Mayfield.”

  She stepped around to the front of the desk. “You’ll pardon the crudeness of my language, Mr. Claybourne, but, just in case our marriage is consummated… by some miscalculation—”

  “Miscalculation?”

  “Whether it be on your part or mine—”

  “Yours?”

  “And should a child come of this… miscalculation—” She glanced up at Claybourne. He was looking across the room at the wall of drape-shrouded windows, into some unseen distance. He probably wasn’t listening, but she continued anyway, knowing she’d never be able to broach this conversation again with any kind of confidence. He was so very large, and his hand had been so very warm, his pulse so strong … . “If we should conceive a child between us, for whatever reason, I want to be assured that he or she will live with me at the end of our marriage. That you won’t fight me for custody.”

  He said nothing. Perhaps he hadn’t heard her.

  “Well, Mr. Claybourne? You don’t appear the sort of man who’d want to bother with children. And I couldn’t bear to part with any of my own. Do you agree?”

  “There will be no children between us.”

  “Then you agree with Article Four.”

  “Yes. Write what you will.”

  “Good.” Felicity felt his gaze follow every st
roke of the pen until she finished the clause. As she fit the pen into its holder, her arms seemed made of lead. “Time to call in Mr. Biddle.”

  “Not quite yet, Miss Mayfield.” He slipped the paper from beneath her hand, smearing the final line and taking up the pen. “I have an article of my own.”

  “Only one?” Felicity scrubbed at the ink he’d left on her fingertip. “You surprise me. This marriage is your idea, Mr. Claybourne. I would have thought a financially astute man like yourself would have drawn up a contract of your own ahead of time.”

  He sighed as he studied the page, obviously feigning interest in its clauses. “An unnecessary effort, Miss Mayfield. According to law and tradition, you and everything you own become mine when we marry. Not only do your debts become mine, but your actions, your income, and your possessions will belong to me without question.”

  “Then I present to you the rest of your property, Mr. Claybourne.” Felicity pointed to the sad-face portmanteau she’d been toting for the last year. “I hope you are dreadfully happy with it. Though I’ll need it in my work. Perhaps I can rent it back from you on a weekly basis?”

  “Don’t be insolent, Miss Mayfield. I don’t want your portmanteau.”

  “And I want nothing from you in support, not a single penny. Only to know where I will stand.” She thanked God that Claybourne didn’t know of her emergency fund sitting in the Bank, just across the street.

  “Where you go during this year of our marriage is unimportant to me.” He dropped the contract onto the desk.

  “You’ll hardly know we’re married, Mr. Claybourne. I shall travel extensively, as indicated in Article Two. You needn’t concern yourself over my actions.”

  “I’ll not concern myself as long as your actions never reflect badly upon me. I’ll not be made the subject of your penny magazines, nor find the Claybourne name linked to your exploits in any way. Should you sully my reputation or my good name—”

  “Sir, if your name is sullied during the four seasons of our marriage, it will be by your own hand.” His face hardened, instantly reminding her of the beast she was taking on as a husband.

  “Let it be known from this moment that Article Two—your freedom to travel—depends entirely upon your actions. Should my name enter the newspapers for any reason, you’ll wish you’d been sent to prison instead.”

  You’ll have to find me first, she thought but didn’t dare say.

  “Do you understand me on this point?” When she nodded, Claybourne scrawled the additional article into the contract. “Sign here,” he said, consulting his pocket watch.

  She carefully read Article Five, then signed her name beneath his own, glad and grateful to be done with his inquisition.

  “I shall have my clerk make a copy of this for you.”

  “And I’ll have my solicitor keep it safe, sir.” It would be safer in her portmanteau with her gazette articles, since Biddle would probably use it for a handkerchief. But Claybourne didn’t need to know her plans.

  He yanked on the bell rope behind his desk. “It is time, Miss Mayfield.”

  “Time for what?”

  “How easily you forget: we shall be married today.”

  “How can we today?” Claybourne’s pronouncement brought her up short. “What of a license?”

  “A civil ceremony will suffice. Did you expect a reading of the banns and a stroll down the aisle at St. Paul’s?”

  “Frankly, Mr. Claybourne, I had assumed that when I did marry, the reason would be to love and to cherish till death did my husband and I part. But this is no marriage; it’s a business transaction. I don’t care where or how it happens. In fact, why not seal the bargain at a clerk’s stall in the lobby of the Bank?”

  Claybourne arched a skeptical brow. “What a ridiculous idea.”

  So, the man lacked a sense of humor as well as a sense of humanity.

  The office door opened to the clerk. “Yes, Mr. Claybourne?”

  “Bring in Biddle and Mr. Denning, then remain here yourself, Tilson. I’ll need you as witness.”

  Tilson was brushed aside by an angular man who tossed his hat and cane onto a chair as he breezed into the center of the room, and met Claybourne with a hearty handshake.

  “Hunter Claybourne, you old dog! Getting married—I never would have thought it.”

  The man’s attention darted toward Felicity, and a huge grin brightened his already florid face. “Ah, but now I understand your reasons. She’s a beauty!”

  “That’s enough, Denning,” Claybourne said with enough distaste to include the entire room.

  But Denning had already lifted Felicity’s hand to his lips. “Tell me your name, miss, and I will ever treasure the privilege of knowing it.”

  Before she could respond beyond a simple blush, Claybourne stepped between them, presented his broad back to her, and growled something unintelligible at Denning.

  Denning laughed and went briskly to the desk. “In a hurry, old man? I shouldn’t wonder why.”

  Claybourne ignored the man as he would a fly.

  “Who is this man, Mr. Claybourne?” she asked, not really expecting him to answer.

  “Madam, I am Gordon Denning, the super-intendent-registrar. I record all of Claybourne’s business transactions.”

  “Denning is here to marry us,” Claybourne said, as if he did this sort of transaction on a weekly basis.

  “A business deal. You are very sure of yourself, Mr. Claybourne, were very sure of my answer!”

  “Here, Miss Mayfield,” he said, pointing to the floor beside him.

  “Don’t you mean ‘heel’?” she asked, returning the unyielding edge in Claybourne’s voice. He looked thunderous, this future, if fleeting, husband of hers.

  “Trouble, Claybourne?” Denning asked through a half-smile. He seemed to be enjoying himself enormously at Claybourne’s expense, which didn’t seem to be a wise thing to do.

  “Mr. Denning,” Felicity said, moving toward the windows, and away from Claybourne. “Is there any law that governs the proximity of the bride to the groom during the ceremony?”

  Denning studied Claybourne for a moment, then lifted his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “None that I know of, Miss Mayfield. As long as the bride and groom are in the same room. Unless, of course, the deed is done by proxy, and then—”

  “Then I choose to stand here by the—” But Claybourne had taken two long strides and grabbed her elbow.

  “You will stand here,” he said, possessing her, drawing her with him to the desk. “We will do this correctly, Miss Mayfield. There will be no question as to the legality of our union. Does the State require anything else, Denning?”

  Denning looked even more amused as he peered around Claybourne at Biddle and Tilson, and then counted with a finger, “Two witnesses, a bride, a groom, and a registrar.” He smiled brightly. “Everything seems to be in order.”

  “Then proceed. I haven’t got all day.” Claybourne cleared his throat and straightened. His warm fingers brushed past hers, then fled to the folds of his coat.

  His fleeting touch aroused a measureless, unasked for yearning inside her, a desire for something warm to hold on to. This ought to be a joyous moment in her life. Getting married. The room ought to smell of roses and heather, not of book leather and ledger paper. The man standing beside her ought to be the treasure of her heart, not a prison warden. But this wasn’t a true marriage, and she set the discomfort from her mind, hoping that Claybourne wouldn’t notice the absurd tears gathering in her eyes.

  Fewer than a hundred words later, she found herself married to Hunter Claybourne and signing her name in Denning’s marriage registry. Her temporary husband hovered over her, making sure she signed correctly.

  He’d made no move to kiss her, had even scowled at Denning when the man had begun to mention the fact. And now she felt more than a little brazen for even thinking about such a thing. A kiss? She tried to dredge up a measure of disgust at the thought, but instead found herself fol
lowing his capable hand as he dipped the pen into the well then scrawled his name above hers.

  “Done,” he said, jamming the pen back into its holder and straightening to his full height. He smiled down on her in stark animosity, firing off the opening salvo.

  Living with Claybourne would be like living inside a storm cloud: she’d be constantly dodging his lightning strikes and his drenching moods. With any luck at all, and a creative travel schedule, she would rarely see the man.

  “Thank you, Mr. Denning,” she said, as she left her new husband’s side to picked up her portmanteau and shawl.

  “The pleasure was mine, Miss Mayf … excuse me …” He beamed a goading smile at Claybourne. “I mean, Mrs. Hunter Claybourne.”

  She shot a glance toward Claybourne and caught his forbidding frown, pleased that his dark mood matched her own.

  But at least now she was free of his threats; she had fulfilled her part of the bargain. She’d return to Beacon Chase today and attempt to convince Mrs. Duffle that her arrest had been a dreadful case of mistaken identity, then to spend a few days of quiet while she polished this month’s gazette articles, and still have plenty of time to meet her Friday deadline to Mr. Dolan.

  She crossed the floor and stuck out her hand toward Claybourne. When the lout didn’t take her it, she shrugged and started toward the door. “I’ll be in touch.”

  She couldn’t think of a single agreeable thing to say to Mr. Biddle, so she walked past him and through the outer office to the mezzanine, feeling no more married than she had when she arrived.

  Which was a very good thing, because she had no intention of actually getting married to anyone, any time soon. She was immensely happy in her life, and felt her very best when she was traveling.

  She stopped long enough at the top of the stairs to slip her shawl over her shoulders and take the bonnet from her portmanteau. She touched the purse at her waist and decided to make a quick visit to her emergency funds while she was so close by the Bank of England. Her uncle had only deposited the money there the day before he left, and she wanted to assure herself that it was still safe.

  And that Claybourne couldn’t reach it.