Saying I Do To The Scoundrel - Liz Tyner Mills & Boon Historical

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      He could not be her husband.

      ‘Certainly,’ he said the word in such a way she could see the lust pooling in his eyes and his lips glistened with it. ‘I’ve wanted you since you were younger, but I have had other interests. Before you get too old, I want children. And a duke’s granddaugher will do.’

      When she opened her mouth to tell him no, his eyes shone as if he anticipated exactly what she wanted to say and could hardly wait for the refusal—not because he would be crushed, but because he could crush her.

      ‘Thank you very much. I’ll consider your proposal.’ She couldn’t refuse. He had to have a reason to push his uncle to pay the ransom.

      But when she looked at Fillmore’s eyes, and saw past them into the darkness beyond, if she had had any doubts about throwing her lot in with the brandy-fogged, unshaven, sadly clothed—but surprisingly well-formed—man, Fillmore’s stare cured her reticence.

      Fillmore had standing in society—his mother had married some cousin to Wellington and his uncle was married to a distant relation to the King, but she wouldn’t have cared if he wore the crown himself.

      Brandt, who travelled the ill-got path and covered himself in rags, had more appeal than Fillmore.

      Fillmore called her attention back to him. He turned her palm up and rubbed her hand, holding so firm she couldn’t pull away, while he caressed the softest part of her palm.

      His eyes met hers. ‘Our wedding night will be something you never, ever forget.’ His other hand now held her wrist and she couldn’t pull away. He bent as if to kiss her hand and his tongue snaked out, and she saw the pinkish thing unroll and slide across her palm. A trail of moisture stayed behind.

      She turned her face away from him, trying to conquer the bile in her throat, and control her churning stomach.

      She pushed her eyes back to him and kept her expression calm. If the filthy drunken kidnapper doesn’t kidnap me, she thought, I’ll put a dress on him and he can marry Fillmore in my stead.

      ‘I must think about this.’ She stood, putting some distance between them. ‘I really must.’

      She grabbed a lamp and scurried away before he could fully grasp that she was escaping, and she rushed into the small room where Gussie slept.

      * * *

      Gussie lay asleep on the bed, the puffed sleeves of her gown visible in the candlelight and her cloth doll lying in the floor beside her.

      ‘Sleep well, Gussie,’ Katherine whispered, picking the doll from the floor and putting it at the foot of the bed.

      Katherine held out the lamp, watching Gussie. She didn’t know what it was about the sleeping child that made her so angelic. The chubby cheeks? Innocence in her face? No one with a soul could ever want to hurt a child like Gussie. She could not go to the asylum. The poor child had trouble just being in a room with Augustine.

      Gussie rarely spoke more than a word or two, but Katherine knew her sister could think.

      Gussie had replaced the purgative in the medicine bottle with water. And she had to have pulled a chair around to reach it. The clear liquid had alerted them when they’d poured some in the glass for her. A remedy the physician had sworn would help her speak, but Gussie hadn’t liked it.

      And she didn’t like wearing shoes, either, and her half-boots had disappeared and had yet to be found.

      But it didn’t matter what went on in Gussie’s thoughts. She couldn’t be in a place without her governess or Katherine to watch over her.

      Katherine had to get funds. Not only for herself, but for her sister’s sake. She needed to be able to give Gussie a safe haven and she would find them a home hidden so far away they could never be found.

       Chapter Five

      Brandt walked to the Hare’s Breath, stepping under the placard with the painted rabbit puffing into the wind. Some men avoided the tavern, he supposed, because it was almost as particular as Almack’s. The patronesses were a grizzled sort at the establishment, but you knew by the lift of an eyebrow, the foot easing out to trip you, or the ale being accidentally drizzled down your back if you’d lost your voucher. And if you didn’t heed the gentle warnings, you’d lose teeth, or part of an ear, or maybe even the ability to straighten your fingers.

      He never thought he’d feel welcome in a place which smelled like dirty feet and bad tobacco, but he did.

      A moth flew in front of his face and he swatted it away, then moved to get a mug from the tavern owner, Mashburn. Mashburn never stopped the conversation he had with the gamblers while he got Brandt’s drink. Then the owner walked around the table and each man flicked his wrist, tucking the faces of the cards against the table. When the proprietor reached his brother’s chair, he leaned forward, squinting. He then reached over his brother’s back and tapped two cards. ‘Best hand you’ve ever had,’ the tavern owner murmured.

      The men laughed, each knowing that his words were a game of their own.

      One swallow and something tickled Brandt’s lip. He reached up and brushed at it, then looked at his fingers. A hair. Short. Straight. Probably from the dog lying in the corner. He dropped the hair to the floor. The creature could get it on the way out if he wished it back.

      He took one more swallow of the ale, but then put it aside. The place was packed for such a night. Four men played cards. The usual group. Another table held the solicitor who received free ale because the tavern owner loved to hear the stories he told when he couldn’t remember to keep his silence and a skinny lad sat beside him who was a cousin to a cousin of someone somewhere and now he stopped at the tavern most nights, trying to grow into his trousers.

      The moth—or perhaps it was some kind of beetle—returned. He swatted again.

      He wished he could swat away the memories of Miss Wilder, with her overgrown bonnet and the smudges under her eyes. He’d followed her to a house that reminded him of the last true home he’d lived in. She’d walked right up to the front door and then she’d paused, and the older woman had spoken and they’d moved inside.

      Her face looked pleasant enough, he supposed, but it was hard to see for the bonnet. He’d thought she was trying to disguise herself in case someone she knew was on the street, but now he wondered if she was trying to hide her womanliness.

      Her skin glowed with sweetness. He wanted to run his hand the length of her body, reclined beside him. The thought lodged in his mind and he tried to drink it away. But there wasn’t enough drink in the tavern.

      The skinny lad was speaking too loudly. Brandt gave the boy the one-sided glare that was to tell him to watch his words. The boy ignored it.

      ‘He’s tied to his mother’s bonnet strings,’ the skinny lad made a jest of the solicitor. Everyone laughed, but the solicitor. Solicitors didn’t find much amusing.

      The solicitor swung a fist and Brandt jumped into the fray to separate them.

      The insulted man’s gold-tipped cane flew towards Brandt’s jaw and the man with the jest ran for the door.

      The solicitor swung his cane again and Brandt caught it, twisting it and slinging the man on to a gaming table. The table broke and cards flew. Men jumped from the table and when they stood, all had fists. Brandt stepped back, dropping the cane.

      The tavern owner and his brother tossed the solicitor out the door and Brandt grabbed the gold-tipped cane and stepped outside.

      He held out the cane to the owner. The man took the cane and he couldn’t speak plain for the liquid in him. Brandt asked the man if he remembered where he lived. It took him a while to understand, but he helped him find his way back to his mother’s house. Brandt didn’t know why he’d done the kindness, but the man thanked him. Thumped him on the back

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