Sylvia Andrew - The Bridegroom's Bargain

Richard pushed himself up and away, and stood regarding her for a moment. He said, with a touch of bitterness, ‘You surely don’t really believe I’m about to join you in that bed and make love to you, do you?’

‘You…you said we were man and w…wife,’ she replied nervously.

‘My dear girl, I don’t regard myself as particularly squeamish, but it would take a stronger stomach than mine to make love to a wife who has just threatened to kill me. What do you think I’m made of?’

Lexi gazed at him somberly. ‘I don’t know,’ she said eventually. ‘I thought I did, but I was mistaken. For a while I longed for you to make love to me, I couldn’t imagine anything I wanted more, but now I think I would kill myself if you even tried.’

Richard moved away abruptly and went to the window. He turned round. ‘We have an agreement. Are you prepared to discuss it with me?’

‘It appears I have no choice.’

A VERY UNUSUAL GOVERNESS

“…a lovely story which brings to mind the traditional

regencies…gentle…. Not to be missed!”

—Rakehell

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

October 1815

‘D early beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation…’

A shaft of autumn sunshine shone low through St Wulfric’s ancient stained glass and rested on Canon Harmond as he spoke these opening words of the marriage service. It coloured his surplice and halo of white hair with rich blues and greens, reds and golds. He could have just stepped down from the gathering of saints in the west window.

The sunshine rested on the bridegroom, too, but he certainly didn’t look as if he belonged to any gathering of saints. Tall, standing as usual with an air of cool arrogance about him, Richard Deverell was very much a man of this world. In his black coat and close-fitting pantaloons, both obviously made by a master tailor, in his starched cravat, snowy linen and white silk waistcoat, he looked what he was, a member of one of the most exclusive and worldly societies in Europe—the English aristocracy.

But the strength in his broad shoulders and lithe, athletic figure owed more to four years spent fighting the French than to dancing the waltz in London’s ballrooms. His tanned features and the small lines round his cool grey eyes were the result of long days spent in the saddle under the Spanish sun, and the scar on his cheek was a reminder of a very narrow escape at Waterloo. But then Richard Deverell was said to have the luck of the devil, and certainly his success at cards and other games of chance was legendary.

From her vantage point in the Deverell family pew the bridegroom’s aunt, Lady Honoria Standish, viewed the congregation with a critical eye. Not a single member of the ton to be seen. She doubted any had been invited. With the bride’s father barely in his grave it could hardly have been otherwise. Still, it was a pity. Richard’s wedding ought to have been more impressive than this shabby affair.

‘First, it was ordained for the procreation of children…’

That was more like it. It would be quite pleasant to have some children at Channings again. The place had been like a tomb for too long. It was high time Richard produced some heirs, too—the Deverell estates couldn’t be allowed to go to some obscure cousin or other. She eyed her nephew and nodded. This marriage would put an end to any fears of that sort! Alexandra Rawdon came of good healthy stock and Richard was in his prime. Few women would find themselves able to resist him—it wasn’t at all surprising that the Rawdon girl had been eager to marry him.

Lady Honoria frowned. But why had Richard chosen Lexi Rawdon of all people? She was attractive enough, but Lady Honoria knew of several real beauties—girls of elegance and wealth as well as breeding—who would have given their eyebrows to have become Lady Deverell. Any one of them would have made a more suitable chatelaine for an estate the size and importance of Channings than Alexandra Rawdon. The girl had always been an impulsive, high-spirited harum-scarum, more interested in roaming the countryside, keeping up with whatever her brother Johnny and Richard were doing, rather than sitting at home learning to be a lady.

As a boy, it was true, Richard had spent most of his time with the Rawdons. He and Johnny Rawdon had been the closest of friends, and Sir Jeremy and Lady Rawdon had always treated him as one of their own, giving him the love and affection he had never found in his own home. Was he marrying their daughter out of a sense of obligation to them? She was now quite alone in the world. She had lost her mother a few years ago, Johnny Rawdon had died tragically earlier in the year, and now Sir Jeremy was dead, too. Was this the reason Richard was marrying her?

Lady Honoria turned her attention to the bride. Alexandra Rawdon bore herself well enough—tall, slender, straight as a wand in her white silk dress, her mane of bright copper hair kept in check by her veil and hat. But surely Richard could have hoped for a more radiant bride. It was clear that the events of the past few months had taken their toll. The girl standing beside her nephew was as stiff as a board, and far too thin. Lady Honoria sighed. She had suggested that the wedding should be postponed, but Richard had been adamant—it could be as quiet as anyone chose, but it was to go ahead as planned. He was probably right. Rawdons had owned Rawdon Hall since the days of the Tudors, but Alexandra and her cousin, Mark Rawdon, were the last of them, and Mark, or Sir Mark as he was now, was still a comparative stranger.

Sir Mark must be relieved to have Lexi taken off his hands. Her old home had now passed into his possession, and, even though the cousins seemed to get on well, they could hardly have carried on living there together for very much longer with only an old nurse to chaperon them. He couldn’t have married her himself, even if he had wanted to. Though it was hard to believe, rumour had it that the heir to Rawdon would have to marry a girl with a decent fortune if Rawdon Hall was to be saved.

She turned her attention to the young man standing on the other side of his cousin, ready to give her away. Sir Mark Rawdon. Now there was an open, good-natured fellow—nothing enigmatic about him. Lady Honoria had already experienced the charm of his frank smile and laughing eyes, and thoroughly approved of him. In his own way he was as handsome as Richard, and he was much better looking than his cousin Alexandra, if the truth were known. They both had the highly distinctive Rawdon looks, though Mark Rawdon’s hair was a touch darker. He was very presentably dressed in a dark green coat and buff pantaloons, and his short chestnut locks, brushed into careless elegance, glowed in the shaft of sunlight.

‘Richard Anthony, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife… Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour and keep her in sickness and in health…’

Lady Honoria’s wandering attention was caught as the couple started to make their vows. Those solemn promises in Richard’s deep voice sounded as beautiful as she had ever heard them: ‘To have and to hold…in sickness and in health…till death us do part…’