Chapter Two
Emily Brunton wiped her forehead with the back of her hand.
It was quite incredible the way how, at this temperature, one could be both freezing cold and sweating.
Her knees ached as she knelt before the fire, the logs she had hauled in smoking futilely.
Her temper, never the most reliable at the best of times, threatened to boil over.
Isabella was once again late. She had left quite some time ago to take the eggs to market, and as had become routine over the past two weeks, had yet to arrive back home.
Emily sat back on her heels and sighed, brushing the soot off her dress. The time had finally come when she would have to speak with her sister about the desires of men and how dangerous they could be—and how someone as pretty as her would be a target.
Isabella would not like it. But it had to be done.
The fire refused to light, the smoke growing thicker the more Emily attempted to coax flame from the embers. The problem was the damp wood—but she simply could not cut it fast enough, and sourcing the wood was difficult enough at this time of year.
Her bones ached with the cold as she rose, abandoning the fire to its own devices and wrapping the blanket back over her shoulders as she started on what would be a very miserable cold dinner.
Finally, as she had quite given up on her sister, Isabella burst through the back door, a scarf around her neck and her cheeks flushed red from the cold. Her eyes sparkled, and she looked like a girl in love.
Emily’s heart contracted.
She had long known that Isabella chafed at the natural restrictions placed on them by their straitened circumstances, but at this sight of her sister’s joy—caused by something outside of Emily’s control—she felt it like a punch to her gut.
“Shut the door,” she said, attempting to keep her voice normal. “You’re letting the heat out.”
“What heat?” The brightness on Isabella’s face dimmed at the sight of the smoking fire. Still, she shut the door.
“Where have you been?”
“I told you. I went to sell the eggs.”
“Mm.”
“Mr Pickett says it’s going to snow.” Isabella scraped the mud from her boots. “He says he can smell it in the air.”
“Well, Mr Pickett is usually right about such things.” Emily peered out of the window at the sky.
“And the clouds do look heavy. Thank goodness you got back before any bad weather struck.” Something that would not have been a consideration if she had been back when Emily expected. “Did you get everything?”
“Flour, butter and mutton.” Isabella hoisted her basket onto the table. “Mrs Landstone says the price of coal has gone up again.”
Just in time for snowfall. No doubt Emily would have to open new blisters on her hands chopping more wood so it could fail to light in her hearths.
“Never mind,” she said. “At least you got mutton. Any more news from the village?” Emily watched Isabella’s face for any sign of a blush.
But Isabella’s face merely lit up again.
“There’s a ball next week at the Rose she was, technically, a gentleman’s daughter.
Only the gentleman in question was dead, and he had left his daughters with next to nothing to survive on.
If she could have saved Isabella from the fate of being penniless in a small village in the middle of nowhere, she would have, but not by having her sister ruined by a gentleman.
There were no lengths she would not go to in order to prevent that from happening.
“Tell me you’re not serious,” Marlbury said.
Oliver reclined across the sofa, the wineglass tipping dangerously in his lax fingers. “Why not?”
“Marriage.” Marlbury clucked his tongue. “And to the Brunton girl?”
“She’s the prettiest face I’ve seen since retiring from London, and more to the point, she’s amenable to the match. She wants an escape, and I will have property to bring her back to once my sister-in-law releases my inheritance.” Oliver loosed a long sigh. “She is the ideal candidate.”
“She is penniless.”
“It’s not as though I need an heiress,” Oliver pointed out, draining the last of his wine.
“And I rather doubt an heiress would have me. My brother was right about one thing—there is rather a dearth of rich ladies lining up to wed me. I am not the eldest son of a marquess.” He looked pointedly at his friend.
Lord Marlbury was the son of the Marquess of Rotherham, and when he came to marry, he would have his pick of the ton.
“I do not have dowagers thrusting their daughters upon me.”
Marlbury poured himself another glass of brandy. “All I’m saying is why marry a country bumpkin?”
“Because I refuse to return to my brother without a wife. This country bumpkin is prepared to marry me. Moreover, she wants to marry me.”
“Don’t tell me she’s in love with you.”
“Of course not,” Oliver said scornfully. “She barely knows me—what she wants is escape from her dreary life here, and I am the most convenient means for her to do so.”
Marlbury grunted, looking displeased by the prospect. “But settling down? Marriage?”
“Very little will change, save I won’t be beholden to my brother.
” Oliver held out his glass for a refill, this time with brandy.
“She is hardly expecting me to be a devoted husband—and I suspect she has little desire for me to be. She knows what she is about. You and I can kick up as many larks in London as we like.”
“You make it sound easy, but I’ll tell you something that won’t be.” Marlbury held up a hand, pointer finger directed at the ceiling.
“God?”
“Her sister.”
“Ah.” Oliver hesitated only a second. He’d been in the area for a little over two weeks, and that was long enough to learn about Miss Emily Brunton.
According to gossip, she was a shrew of the worst kind.
A veritable dragon. Isabella had defended her in lukewarm terms, but hadn’t informed her of their plans, which suggested the sister would not approve.
“Once we’re married, she won’t be a problem,” Oliver said.
“Isn’t the Brunton girl under the age of majority?” Marlbury slanted him a knowing look. “The shrew will refuse permission. Can’t stand for someone else to be happy when she’s not—and she’s plain enough she has no prospects of her own.”
“I thought of that. We’re only half a day’s ride from Gretna Green.
” Oliver drained his brandy and leaned back against the chair, the room spinning somewhat.
“I’ll whisk her away for a runaway wedding, no permission required.
And when we’re back, I’ll take her to London.
My brother could contest the wedding, I suppose, but Isabella is technically the son of a gentleman, and I doubt Henry will want a scandal attached to our name.
No, he’ll pretend everything was above board. ”
“It’s risky.”
“It is,” Oliver conceded. “But not without its merits. Who else can I marry on such short notice?”
“The shrew will contest the marriage.”
“No she won’t—not if she doesn’t want her sister ruined. By the time of the wedding, she won’t have much choice. Of course, it would be different if Isabella were unwilling, but she is more eager than me to go ahead with this plan.”
Marlbury threw his head back and barked laughter at the ceiling. “You dog. The shrew will be furious you’ve outdone her.”
“She can be furious all she likes,” Oliver said absently.
“Isabella doesn’t seem to think she will be any great impediment.
” He rolled his head, the room turning soft and hazy.
This was how he liked the world: a little out of focus.
A little out of touch. “You don’t have to like it, Marlbury, but you can’t stop me now.
” He reached for a decanter of wine and tipped it straight into his open mouth, letting himself sink further into the chair.
Marlbury’s father was currently in London on business and wouldn’t be back for some time, which meant they were alone in the house.
And free to drink as much of his father’s liquor as they could get their hands on.
There were worse ways to spend an evening.
“When do you intend to do it?” Marlbury asked.
“Tomorrow evening. We’ll travel through the night to Gretna Green and arrive back in the morning, already married. Then,” he added, “I will have the unmitigated delight of writing to my brother, informing him of my marriage and my intention of calling on him with my new wife.”
“And your new wife’s sister,” Marlbury said.
“Well, we shall see. Isabella said nothing about it. Perhaps she’d prefer to stay here.” Oliver shrugged. The sister and her preferences didn’t concern him so long as she did not make them his problem. “That is a bridge I will cross after the event.”
“Well, good luck,” Marlbury said with a snort. “Rather you than me.”
Oliver lay back on the sofa, the world spinning pleasantly around him. Ever since coming to Bidlington Hall, his future had looked up considerably. Soon, he would have a wife with which to taunt his brother, and an inheritance to prevent him from having to confess to his inadequacies.
“I don’t know,” he said, letting his hand—along with the decanter of wine—fall against the floor. “I think this might be the best decision I have ever made.”