Ever His Bride Read online

  Hunter Claybourne. She hurried down the stairs, chilled by the startling realization that her new husband hadn’t shaken her hand in farewell, because he was a man who never let go of anything.

  Chapter 4

  “Take care of the matter, Tilson,” Hunter said, dizzied still by the scent of the woman’s unwelcome sunlight. “Miss Mayfield and I have business at the Bank. As for you, Biddle, get out of my office.”

  The still-quivering solicitor had retreated to the farthest reaches of the room. Another two steps and the man would have cocooned himself in the drapes.

  “This way, sir,” Tilson said firmly, handing Biddle his coat as he ushered him through the door to the outer office.

  Hunter cursed himself for being a damn fool. He’d expected a damp-browed, wilted wildflower, but Miss Mayfield had defied him outright through the whole of their negotiations. She had weakened his judgment just as artfully as her uncle’s simplicity had swindled him.

  And now he was married to the chit.

  “I’ll be in touch?” Denning sputtered, then pointed toward the door like a baboon. “Egad, man! You just married the woman! And she’s already leaving you?”

  He had forgotten Denning was even in the room. Damn the woman for her distractions, for the gold of her hair and the changeable green insolence of her stare. At least he hadn’t forgotten the other business of the morning, Lucius Treadmore’s failed shipping concern. “Did you bring me a copy of Treadmore’s deed?”

  “Of course, Claybourne. But where the devil is your wife going? You should be with her! What about the wedding breakfast?”

  He ignored Denning, tolerating his irritating exuberance only because he was forced to do so in the course of his work.

  “Who is she?”

  “Forget it, Denning. Give me the deed. Or do I have to turn you upside down and shake it out of you?”

  Denning’s insufferable grin collapsed, and he presented the deed with a snort. “Registering your marriage and a foreclosure in the same day? Your new wife obviously approves, Claybourne, or she’d have protested your doing business on her wedding morn. She certainly seems the sort to rise up in defiance.”

  Denning walked to the window and lifted aside the drapes, allowing a shaft of morning sunlight to spear the carpet.

  Hunter turned from the sudden brightness and unfolded the deed to be certain that all was in order. The property was a fine dockland holding he’d purchased years before. What a pity Treadmore had no sense of enterprise. But no harm done—after this morning, Fanno Pier would belong again to the Claybourne empire, and he would sell it to another, hopefully wiser, investor.

  “Is she an heiress, Claybourne? Is that why you can’t tell me who she is?”

  His marriage to Miss Mayfield was a private, personal item of business, and he refused to speak of her to anyone.

  “Whom I marry is none of your business, Denning.”

  “It is my business when you register your marriage in my book.” Denning squared his shoulders. “I’m an officer of the court, Claybourne. I can ask any question I please.”

  “Have I made an illegal breach?”

  Denning gave him the once over, then went back to his window gazing. “I don’t know. Have you?”

  He dropped the deed on his desk and picked up the marriage contract. The document was frivolous and impotent, but Miss Mayfield’s demands had been sound in the glaring light of her situation: her freedom, her future, her preposterous concern over the lot of any children they might conceive. But he hadn’t figured her stunning beauty into the equation, any more than he had her bullheaded cunning. Damn it all, what had he brought down upon himself?

  “There’s your bride now, Claybourne! Tying a hideous bonnet over all that magnificent hair.” Denning thumped twice on the pane with his fingertip. “Damn the bonnet, she’s beautiful! And you’re letting her escape!”

  Hunter stopped himself from going to the window. He’d wasted enough of the day on the woman, would waste enough of his life in the next year and a day. “And is she getting into a carriage?”

  “Yes.”

  “And is that carriage mine?”

  Denning turned slowly and studied him, obviously looking for a cleft in his certainty. “What if I said it wasn’t?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “I’d be damned surprised, and Tilson would be unemployed.”

  Denning vented a grunt and dropped the curtain into place. “Tilson can relax.”

  “And you may leave, Denning. I’m finished with you. Here.” He shoved the register under Denning’s arm and sent him toward the door.

  “You’re not going to tell me who she is, are you?” Denning waited a beat for an answer, then sighed as he retrieved his hat and cane. “Stephie will murder me in my sleep when she learns that I married you to your mystery bride and didn’t confess it to her. You’ll find your match in that wife of yours, Claybourne.”

  “Good afternoon, Denning.”

  “And a good wedding day to you, Claybourne.” Denning offered one last grin then let himself out.

  Wedding day. Now there was a preposterous notion. And yet he found himself imagining her hair tugged free of its bindings, a halo of gold, rumpled bedclothes—Damnation!

  He yanked on the bell rope.

  “Sir?” Tilson said, brushing a fall of crumbs from his chin as he entered. “Sorry,” he mumbled around whatever morsel was in his mouth.

  Tilson was a capable young man with a growing family, the perfect amalgamation of pluck and anxiety to make for a loyal clerk. He asked few questions and offered fewer opinions, but his wife coddled the man like a babe, sending scones and jam with him every morning, and having a box lunch delivered promptly every half-noon. She treated her husband like a monied merchant, then complained at the state of the family finances. He had often overheard her heated whispers through the office door, bleating at Tilson to beg a raise in pay.

  But Hunter had studied Tilson’s household finances and had judged the salary he offered suitable for a married man with two children. The woman still hadn’t forgiven him for throwing open his office door on one such argument and presenting these fiscal facts to her in black and white. Mrs. Tilson had sped from the office in a veil of weeping, leaving Tilson to decide between rushing after her and staying at his desk during work hours. Tilson had wisely chosen to stay, but looked much the worse the next morning for what must have been a long night’s battle under the barrage of his wife’s ignorance of business.

  Wife.

  He wondered what sort of mood his own was in at the moment.

  “Sir?” Tilson said, following with a clearing of his throat.

  “Ah, yes.” Hunter shrugged into his coat, annoyed at the recent lapses in his thinking—lapses which had begun late last night, and in the confounding presence of Miss Mayfield. And in her absence, even sleep had been elusive. “I’ll be lunching with Lord Spurling at Hammershaw’s, then attending a meeting of the Committee at Lloyd’s. Should last the afternoon.”

  “Yessir.”

  “See that the bailiff delivers the notice of foreclosure to Treadmore. He’s had his last warning. I want him out by morning. And …”he began, remembering the marriage contract on his desk. He’d promised a copy for Miss Mayfield, but the meaning of the five clauses was still too unsettling for others eyes to see. Especially the hen-pecked young Tilson.

  “Yessir?”

  “Nothing more.” Hunter folded the contract and locked it in the safe. “I take it that Miss Mayf … my … wife is waiting for me?”

  “As you required, sir.” Tilson lowered his gaze for a moment, toeing his shoe along an arc of gold in the carpet. “Though Mrs. Claybourne didn’t seem at all happy about it, sir, if I may say so.”

  “No, Tilson, you may not say so. Ever.”

  “Yessir. Thank you, sir.” Tilson turned to retreat, but stopped and brightened a degree. “Oh, and … congratulations, sir, on your, uh … recent—”

  “Good day, Tilson.” Hun
ter lifted his hat from the coat tree, brushed past the man, and let himself into the mezzanine.

  The spectacle of marble and mahogany and brilliant brass stirred joy and satisfaction in the center of him, just as it always did—aromatic of beeswax polish and the fragrant spices from the India traders, and ringing with the sounds of pristine heels upon gleaming stone.

  This was his kingdom, his impregnable fortress. The Claybourne Exchange. The more conservative and elegant rival to the almighty Royal Exchange in its influence on the country’s wealth, but far more capable of overcoming the vagaries of the world’s markets than that ponderous behemoth across the street. Kings, counts, and foreign governments crossed Cornhill Street to trade in the Claybourne Exchange. None could doubt his supremacy and none dared challenge him.

  Especially a chit like Miss Mayfield and her felonious uncle. A year was a long time to wait for the Drayhill-Starlington shares to finally become his, but he’d already begun to redesign his plans to fit the new schedule. In time, he would cause the delay to work to his advantage.

  Turning flotsam into cold, countable cash: that was his strength, his claim to power.

  He greeted a knot of wealthy clients as he passed them on his way down the stairs. He’d made a dozen fortunes for these men; without his guidance they would lose them again, and so they stayed on. Some even sought his friendship, which he always declined. Friendship and business didn’t mix, so he avoided friendships, relationships of any sort entirely. Uncomplicated acquaintances provided him with the contacts he needed for success. Beyond that, he needed no one.

  Especially not a wife.

  “A glorious day, Claybourne, wouldn’t you say?”

  Hunter turned on the stairs and stared up at Lord Vincent, wondering for an awkward instant if the grinning fellow had somehow heard of his recent marriage. Not that it mattered. The marriage wasn’t to be a secret; he had just planned to keep the fact of it private.

  Hunter offered his most pleasant smile, searching the man’s face for a trace of such news of his marriage. “You gentlemen seem in grand spirits.”

  “Why wouldn’t we be?” Vincent laughed and bounced the two steps down the stairs to sling a hail-fellow’s arm over Hunter’s shoulder. “Brakestowe Iron Works!”

  The group rumbled “ayes” and “hurrahs” from the landing.

  “Ah, yes.” He’d forgotten. This exchange wasn’t about his marriage. More evidence of Miss Mayfield’s distractions from his day; he should have remembered that Brakestowe’s quarterly profits were announced at nine, should have been there to hear the good news himself. Instead, he’d spent his morning marrying himself to a thief.

  “The shares have sold out, as you probably know, and are now worth half-again as much as we paid for them, just as you said they would be, Claybourne. You’ve made us all very happy.”

  “And very rich,” added Lord Haverstone.

  Hunter offered a benevolent smile and patted Vincent on the arm. “Did you think I would misadvise you, my lord?”

  “Never!” the man bellowed, raising a fist in salute. “Hurrah!”

  The others followed suit, and Hunter continued down the stairs to a satisfying round of cheers. He counted bishops, peers, and members of the royal family among the most prestigious of his clients. Yet he never revealed to anyone the names or the substance of his dealings with them. Privacy and security were the bywords of the Claybourne Exchange. His good name was his fortune.

  Branson, his footman greeted him at the curb, glancing warily toward the fiercely frowning woman who glowered from the window of the brougham. A wet cat locked in a wire cage.

  “Good luck, sir,” Branson said, stepping away.

  Hunter opened the door himself, expecting his wife to spring on him. Instead, she continued her murderous glower and leaned deeper against the seat, her arms folded across the ugly portmanteau that dwarfed her lap. He wondered for an unsettling moment if she might be armed with pistol or knife.

  “Do you find great joy in imprisoning me, Mr. Claybourne?” she asked, as he took the seat opposite her.

  “We’re going to the Bank of England, Miss Mayfield. Drive on!” he said with a rap to the roof. The carriage entered the traffic.

  “To the Bank? Why? I thought we were finished with each other. I have work to do, Mr. Claybourne.” She lifted a writing portfolio from her bag. “Do you see this? My travel articles for the Hearth and Heath. I have deadlines to meet—”

  “One final detail, Miss Mayfield. A paper to sign.”

  She peered out the window and added another fret to her brow. “Why travel in a carriage, Mr. Claybourne? Why not walk? The Bank of England is right there, across Threadneedle Street. Is your station so lofty you’d rather not brush shoulders with the rabble, or dirty your boots on the street?”

  To answer the woman was to give credit to her comment, so he remained silent. The short ride was punctuated by a grisly growling coming from somewhere in the vicinity of his wife’s midriff. The Cobsons weren’t known for their generosity; she probably hadn’t gotten a crumb from them this morning. He supposed he ought to feed her. He didn’t want her fainting, or rumors to spread that he’d let his own wife starve. That wouldn’t do at all.

  “Come, Miss Mayfield.” He stepped from the carriage onto the crowded walk in front of the Bank.

  Branson moved in to help her down the step, but Hunter stuck his gloved hand out and she allowed him to help her down. Her own gloves were worn and fawn colored, and looked small inside the black leather prison he’d made of his own hand. She lifted her green gaze to him for the briefest moment, and he was transported suddenly to a misty meadow. He missed the pressure of her touch when she yanked her hand away.

  She stood on the curb and chewed on her lower lip as she surveyed the block. She set her ever-present portmanteau on the ground and adjusted her bonnet. “How long will this take, Mr. Claybourne? I have business in Fleet Street.”

  “Come,” he said, taking her elbow as she stared up at the edifice.

  He’d taken only a half-step when she gave a shout, then bolted from him into the oncoming crowd. Her uncle had escaped him, but he damn well wasn’t going to let her get away too. He caught her before she’d passed another hitching post and held fast to her waist, a tantalizing expanse made more so by her rapid breathing.

  “Let me go, Claybourne!” She squirmed and tried to twist out of his hands.

  “You can’t run from me, woman.”

  “I’m not running, you blockhead! Someone just stole my bag!”

  He glanced up from her anger and saw the thief shifting through the crowd, trying to look like a part of the noontime foot traffic. Damned parasite.

  Felicity watched in amazement as Claybourne handed her his hat, then adroitly zigzagged through the oncoming press of people. His progress was easy to follow; he was a full head taller than anyone else, his raven hair darker than rail iron. She wouldn’t have expected such agility from a man of his temperament. But it was brawn, not neglected muscle, that flexed beneath his coat. She wondered witlessly how that supple strength would play against his linen shirt. A thoroughly indelicate thought about a complete stranger, but he was her husband now. It was probably quite all right for her to wonder what he looked like without his shirt.

  Even so, she felt that same flush creep out of her neckline and quickly changed the direction of her thoughts to the subject at hand. The two ragged boys, one nearly grown and the other not more than ten or eleven years old. The larger had elbowed her and the smaller had sped away with her bag. Her paltry stash of ready money was still in the purse dangling at her waist, but her portmanteau contained all of her clothes and all her writing from the last month of travel. She hoped Claybourne would catch at least one of the little thieves, hoped most of all that he wouldn’t hurt them. He seemed capable of any kind of violence.

  Claybourne came suddenly striding toward her, wrestling with something, frowning ruthlessly and parting the sea of people as easily as a s
teamship cuts through water.

  “Is this the one?” he asked, shoving a ragged boy to the ground at her feet, tearing the already tattered sleeve with his carelessness. The boy cowered dramatically and a space grew like a desert island around them as the crowd gathered quickly for the spectacle.

  “Well, is this the thief, madam?” Claybourne repeated, his dark eyes glittering in misbegotten triumph, his breathing steady but outraged.

  “I don’t know…” she said, not at all pleased with Claybourne’s rancor. She’d been the man’s victim for the last twenty-four hours and knew exactly how the lad must feel. “You needn’t frighten him, Mr. Claybourne. He’s just a boy.”

  “Look up … boy.” Claybourne lifted him by the upper arms to Felicity’s level.

  “Mr. Claybourne, you’ve torn his shirt.”

  “And he has stolen your portmanteau.” Claybourne held him off the ground as if the boy weighed no more than a scrap of yellowed newsprint that had blown past in the wind.

  The woeful lad’s eyes glistened gray as a stormy sea; his blond hair bristled with caked mud. He smelled like he hadn’t been near a hot bath in years, if ever. Belligerent pride worked the guileless bow of his mouth, but stark terror seemed to keep it shut.

  She shifted her gaze to Claybourne’s face and was disgusted by the open loathing she found there. He held the boy as he would a bundle of stinking rubbish.

  “Look closely, madam,” Claybourne barked, giving the boy a teeth-rattling shake. “Yes or no, is this your thief?”

  It was, but she’d never confess it to Claybourne. The lad probably hadn’t eaten in a week. Everything she owned had been in her portmanteau, but she was a very wealthy and lucky woman compared to the child dangling from Claybourne’s malevolent hands.

  “No, Mr. Claybourne, this is not the boy who ran off with my bag.” It pleased her to see impotent anger blaze in Claybourne’s eyes. “You’ve imprisoned the wrong person. Again. You seem to be very good at that, sir.”

  He set the boy hard on his feet, but held fast to his shirt collar, his fist wound so tightly, she feared the boy would be strangled.