Chapter 8
No sooner had she done so—and been kissed thoroughly in response, not to mention caressed in a delightfully arousing way—when than an outraged voice boomed from the ballroom.
“I was robbed, I tell you! A masked man on a huge bay jumped out of the hedgerow, brandishing a pistol. No, not one pistol, but two!”
“Oh, dear,” Thisbe said. “How dreadful for Papa.”
“Serves him right,” Gervaise said, letting go of her bum, which had felt so good in his big, warm hands. So had the feeling of his erection pressing against her belly. She would insist on marrying him very, very soon.
“Didn’t you say you were the JP?” Papa shouted. “I knew you were a liar.”
“I expect Sir Simon will do his best to send him away,” Gervaise murmured, “but he has no jurisdiction in Brighton."
“Where’s my daughter, damn you?” Papa bellowed. “I’ll wager she’s already run off with some rake, thanks to your inattention.”
“Ah, well,” Gervaise sighed. “Nothing like an irate parent to get in the way of such lovely lust. Perhaps we should give him some good news to counteract the bad.”
“It won’t be good news to him,” Thisbe said. “He disapproved of you then and will do so now.”
“He’ll change his tune soon enough.” Gervaise offered his arm, and she took it. How could he be so confident? She was already trembling at the prospect of confronting Papa again.
“What the devil?” Papa thundered the instant they reentered the ballroom. “I knew I recognized you! Unhand my daughter, you scoundrel!” He rounded on Sir Simon, jabbing a finger toward Gervaise. “That is the man who robbed me.”
Sir Simon raised incredulous brows. “A moment ago, you told me the highwayman was so well covered by his hat and mask that no one could recognize him by daylight, much less in the dark.”
“Aye, but this man rode up offering help not five minutes after I was robbed, and I recognized his horse. He’s just the sort who would steal from innocent travelers. He is a dastard, I tell you. A wastrel, a libertine, a—”
“He’s the son and heir of a respected peer,” Sir Simon said. Beside Thisbe, Gervaise heaved a sigh.
He was what?
“I don’t believe you,” Papa barked. “You’re no JP. You’re in league with the rogue.”
Sir Simon stiffened. “Do you accuse me of lying?” he demanded in a voice of ice.
By now the whole room was watching and listening. A bluff older gentleman of military bearing stepped forward. “Here now, what’s going on?”
“Colonel Janes,” Sir Simon said, “am I or am I not a Justice of the Peace?”
“You are indeed a JP, Sir Simon,” he answered, looking down his nose at Papa. “Does this gentleman doubt both your word and mine?”
“This is Lord Wrapton, who I suspect is quite mad. He seems to think Mr. Transom is a highwayman, and that I am in league with him.”
“Well now, sir, you were definitely in league with Mr. Transom as a lad, up to all sorts of mischief!” He chuckled. “But Lord Upforth’s son and heir is unlikely to take to highway robbery, wouldn’t you say?” He laughed heartily, and several other people joined in.
“You’re what?” Thisbe whispered.
“Heir to a viscountcy, alas,” Gervaise said, as chagrin suffused Lord Wrapton’s face.
“Poor Papa. He must be so mortified,” she said, but when Gervaise said nothing, she frowned up at him. “And poor you? You’d rather not be the heir?”
“I’m not looking forward to it—to returning to society and behaving as my bedamned status requires.
It all seems so meaningless now. That’s why I left my father’s estate not long after returning from the Continent and eventually made a wager with Sir Simon that would keep me out of sight of the ton.
” He sighed again. “I would much rather be a cook, if I had the choice.”
“You do have a choice!” Thisbe said. “If a viscount—or his heir—chooses to cook his own meals, who can stop him? But not as Mrs. Wix, please.”
“You wouldn’t object?”
“Of course not, as long as you don’t find me lacking in the skills required of a viscountess,” she said. “I hope I have a while to learn. Perhaps managing the house and estate of Lucky Cottage will give us both some practice, but without the unnecessary pomp that goes along with a peerage.”
“We’ll learn together,” he said, “while cooking and doing whatever else we please.” He laughed. “Let’s go tell Best he won the wager.”
* * *
Thisbe Rose and Gervaise Transom wed by special license a week later, at the home of Sir Simon and Lady Best. Gervaise’s parents, Lord and Lady Upforth, and his sister Lily attended, as well as Thisbe’s Aunt Andrea, who twittered happily, and her father, who didn’t remain suitably abashed for long.
After the wedding feast they drove away, and arrived at Lucky Cottage at dusk.
“Home at last,” Gervaise said. They’d hardly seen each other for the past week, what with Gervaise hastening to London to acquire a special license, as well as a spanking new coach and pair, while Thisbe remained with the Bests and spent a great deal of time shopping for bride clothes.
Now, at last, they could be alone together—with all the pleasures that entailed.
Jerome the footman came out to take their baggage, and Sergeant Dolman appeared on the doorstep to wish them well. They walked into the house hand in hand—and there stood the ghost of Eddie Rose, bowing to them in welcome.
“Thank you, Eddie,” she said softly and turned to Gervaise. “He warned you about my father that horrible evening. Did you realize?”
“The gust of wind,” Gervaise ventured, “that practically blew me out of the kitchen? I wondered, for it came in the very nick of time.”
“He’s proud of his role in bringing about our marriage,” Thisbe said.
The ghost grinned and motioned them up the stairs.
Thisbe giggled. “He wants us to go to our bedchamber.” She sucked in a breath. “Eddie, that’s frightfully vulgar of you.”
“Now what?” Gervaise demanded.
“He made what I believe is a very crude gesture.” She giggled again. “He wants us to get on with it.”
“The devil he does,” Gervaise said. “If he thinks he’s going to watch—”
“He’s shaking his head,” Thisbe said. “He looks as appalled as you. I don’t think he’s interested in matters of the flesh anymore—ghosts usually aren’t. He’s just happy we’re married at last, and wants us to enjoy ourselves.”
And enjoy themselves they did.
THE END
* * *
If you enjoyed this novella, try The Right to Remain Single:
Faced with the ghastly suitors her father chooses, Thomasina Warren decides to lose her virginity so that no respectable man will have her.
Who better to ruin her than handsome, charming James Blakely?
But James is an honorable man and refuses point-blank.
Humiliated, she resorts to outright refusal to wed, with the help of a ghost who scares her suitors away.
But four years later, her father has arranged her marriage to a stodgy gentleman who insists that the ghost must be banished forever
James Blakely never forgot the lovely girl who asked him to ruin her, and when he offers to get rid of the ghost, he thinks he’ll be doing a good deed.
Instead, he is faced with the hostile Thomasina, her cowardly suitor, pigheaded father, lecherous cousin, an exorcist monk, and a ghost who warns of danger and deadly peril—and a few short days in which to convince Thomasina that with the right man, she might just want to marry after all.