Scandal Becomes Her. Shirlee Busbee

they would be happy as larks, Nell thought, they weren’t being handed over to a stranger!

      She had not slept well and it had been well past noon on Monday before she left her bedroom. Not even the knowledge that her father had set a burly servant to guard the area beneath her window from any further intruders had calmed the turmoil in her breast. It was not intruders she feared but the future. And if she was truthful, she did not fear the Earl of Wyndham, she just didn’t want to marry him.

      Nell did not deny that she had found him attractive, over-poweringly so, and there was no pretending that he was not imposing—even, as he had been when she first laid eyes on him, with a night’s growth of beard darkening his cheeks and his clothing stained and disheveled. Nor could she ignore the fact that as a prospective husband he met several of the criteria any sensible young lady, and certainly the young lady’s family, would demand. He was well born, titled, in fact, and, to make matters worse, it was an old and venerated title. He was respected in the ton. And, he was rich. Very.

      All of those things were important to her father and her brothers. Sir Edward was elated that she was making such a grand match, even if it had come about in an unorthodox fashion. She supposed, if she was fair, that she should be grateful that Lord Wyndham had proved to be honorable. And it wasn’t, she admitted, that she had found him repulsive. Quite the contrary, if she was honest with herself, remembering the unexpected thrill she had felt when his hard body had pressed against hers and his mouth had hovered so near to hers.

      But all that did not mean that she wanted to marry him. She had known better than to immediately tackle the issue with her father, nor had she wanted to bring up the subject when he and her brothers had been half-drunk with relief and gratification at the lucky outcome. They were ecstatic at the notion of their sister becoming the Countess of Wyndham.

      Despite taking all of that into account, Nell was not comfortable with the idea of being handed over to the earl in such a hurly-burly fashion. Marriage was for life and it was the rest of her life that they were all so busy arranging. She was grateful to the earl, but there must be another way out of the situation other than marriage. With that in mind she had waited to seek out her father until after Robert had left the house this morning. Having found her father in the library, she wasted not a moment putting forth her question.

      When Sir Edward looked blank, she repeated, “Must I marry him?”

      “Well, of course you must! Besides the impropriety of what happened and the Humphries arriving at a dashed inconvenient time—it is in the Times!” He stared at her. “What is wrong with you, gel? The Earl of Wyndham! Why every matchmaking mama in England has been after him since his wife died. And to think that my daughter is the one who snaffles him right out from under their very noses.”

      “In the Times?” she squeaked, her heart dropping down to her toes. Snatching the proffered newspaper out of her father’s hand, she read the small notice, any hopes of preventing the marriage fluttering away with every word of black print.

      Features pale, she sank down into the oxblood leather chair next to Sir Edward. The newspaper slipped unheeded from her fingers.

      “’Tis a grand match, my dear. One that should make you happy,” her father said gently. “It is the sort of match I have always hoped that you would make.” He paused and sent her a keen look. “Nell, you know that your happiness is paramount to me, it always has been, and if I thought for one instant that Wyndham would make you an indifferent husband, scandal be damned! I would not countenance the match. But he is a fine man—we may not move in as high a circle of the ton, but your brothers and I are aware of his reputation. It is without stain. Friends we share in common with Wyndham have always spoken highly of him and I know of no reason that would make him unacceptable—even if we did not have a scandal to avoid.”

      Her father meant to help, Nell knew that, but all he did was cut the ground from beneath her feet. “But I don’t know him,” she muttered. “I don’t love him.” Accusingly she added, “You and mother loved each other and she wasn’t a stranger. It isn’t fair that you marry me off to someone I don’t know—and don’t love.”

      Sir Edward sighed. “My dear, your mother’s and my marriage was arranged almost from the moment of our births. Neither of us had any say in it. She was an only child, as was I. Our parents were dear friends whose lands marched side by side and they yearned for a closer tie between the two families—and there is no denying that they wanted to unite our estates.” When Nell would have interrupted, he held up a hand. “Yes, we grew up together, knowing that someday we would wed, but we were not in love with each other at the time of our wedding. We liked and respected each other and the union made our families happy—that was reason enough for us.” A faraway expression in his eyes, he murmured, “Love came later, as our relationship deepened. Within months, nay, weeks of our wedding we could not imagine life without the other and we realized that our parents had known what they were about in arranging for us to wed—even if practical matters played a part in it. I have never regretted a day of my marriage to your mother. I miss her still.”

      Defeated, Nell stared at him, the feeling of being trapped increasing. She could offer no argument to refute his words. And she knew her father well enough to recognize that his mind was made up; she would find no help from him in escaping marriage to Wyndham.

      Aware that he had dealt her a blow, Sir Edward reached over and placed a hand over hers. “Nell, it will not be as bad as you fear. Wyndham strikes me as a likeable, reasonable sort, and even if you do not love him, remember that love is not a requirement for marriage among our sort.” He touched her cheek and smiled. “You may, you know, surprise yourself by falling in love with him.”

      Her stormy eyes met his. “But what if he never falls in love with me? What then?”

      Sir Edward winced. “I cannot predict the future, my dear. Your marriage will be what you make of it.” His eyes met hers. “And you can make it happy…or you can make it miserable. The choice is yours.”

      Julian had never linked the words love and marriage together before and as he contemplated his nuptials, the word love was not paramount in his mind. He was realistic about his marriage. And looking at it as a purely practical matter, he could see several advantages in marrying Miss Eleanor Anslowe.

      In fact, when Lord Talcott arrived that morning demanding to know how in the devil the Times could have made such an outrageous mistake, once he had his friend calmed down, he ticked them off for him.

      Quickly ushering his apoplectic friend to the rear of house, Julian had proceeded with care. Ordinarily, he would have laid the entire tale before Talcott. He trusted his friend and there were few, if any, secrets between them. But events were different this time, this time a lady’s honor was involved, a lady who would become his wife, and it seemed to him that the fewer people who knew the truth the better. Adrian Talcott, who knew him intimately, might guess that a rig was being run, but Julian had no doubt that his friend would follow his lead—even if puzzled and eaten alive with curiosity. He quelled a flicker of guilt at not divulging the truth and, sticking to the bare bones of the story he had put forth already, it still took Julian several minutes to make Talcott understand that there had been no mistake: the Times had it correct. He was going to marry Eleanor Anslowe. On Wednesday next. Talcott was, of course, invited to the wedding.

      “B-B-But you don’t even know the chit! At least,” Talcott added after a moment’s hesitation, “I don’t think you do. And marriage! You have sworn to me often enough in your cups, that marriage was a trap that would not catch you again.”

      His long legs crossed at the ankles, Julian slouched in a dark green mohair chair next to Talcott’s, his long fingers steepled beneath his chin. His gaze was on the small fire crackling on the gray marble hearth in front of them and for a moment Talcott thought that he had not heard him. But a second later Julian murmured, “I know. And I will admit that another marriage was something that I had not thought to undertake—even if it meant that my bloody cousin Charles would inherit the title and all that goes with it, and which he would promptly gamble away.”

      Talcott grinned. “Well! I am happy to see that