Chapter Two
Miss Lavinia Thompson had enough rage and embarrassment flowing through her veins to give the inebriated lord in front of her a dressing down of the highest magnitude. Along with another slap if needed. How dare he say such things about her in front of his friends!
Never in her nine and twenty years had she been so disappointed by a man, and over the years there had been numerous opportunities for such. She propped her hands upon her hips and glared at the Earl of Laughton, her protector of just over one year, the man to whom she was mistress.
“Well? I’m waiting on an answer.” Her palm still stung from the slap she’d delivered.
Confusion clouded his blue eyes. “Still marrying you.” His words were slightly slurred, a true testament to the number of spirits he must have ingested. “Don’t need the duke to tell me when.”
“You’re acting like a nodcock, Percival. A drunken idiot.” She shook her head. “Did you talk about your wife tonight?” Each time he did that, he grew maudlin and landed deep in his cups. It was one of his vices and would kill him if he didn’t take himself in hand.
“Miss my wife.” His expression fell. “Loved her.”
“I know.” She softened her tone slightly. It wasn’t often he talked about his deceased wife, but when he did, it took him days to pull himself out of the doldrums. And each time she couldn’t help but feel she was wasting her time playing at being a mistress, for men like Percival, men who kept mistresses, would never fall in love with women like her.
Hers wasn’t a life that deserved such an emotion.
For the space of a few heartbeats, she thought he might sober enough to realize what an idiot he was being. But then the fog of the drink must have descended once more, and he shook his head. “She is gone. Need a new one.”
Once more the dream shifted, danced further away from her questing fingers. “You will marry. Later today. Noon to be exact. To Lady Eleanor. Remember?”
“Yes.” He shook his head. “To you. Why is no one listening to me?” He stumbled over to the small, round, rose-inlaid table and grabbed up the brandy bottle Lord Saintfort had deposited on it. “M’ friends agree you’re m’ bride.” His speech would completely deteriorate before too long.
What a coil. He was hellbent on causing the scandal of the Season, and she wanted no part of that, for she’d worked too hard to reach the place where she was now. What she should do was walk out on him, go back to her townhouse, and wait for the wedding announcement in the papers, but the sudden new path he intended glimmered too brightly. To have a shot at a respectable life! It could be hers if she would but go along with the earl’s plan despite his pickled brain.
He hung onto her arm with a bottle in his other hand. “Best go downstairs. Don’t want to wait. Want to bed you.”
Dear heavens.
He wouldn’t be conscious much longer. If they delayed further, she might miss the chance. If he was willing to shove his feet into excrement, who was she to halt him? “I…” Lavinia looked at him. There was a certain longing, a need deep in the depths of his sapphire eyes that tugged at her chest. It had nothing to do with him wishing to claim her body. On the nights when he waxed poetic about his dead wife, nothing could pull him out of the melancholy state. He’d have to sleep it off.
Perhaps her disenchantment with the life she led had gotten to her; perhaps she wanted the earl to finally learn a lesson about how he lived his life, but a small grin curved her lips. If she married him, the demimonde would finally be behind her, and she could care for her sister without worry. Now, it was doubtful she would ever gain a proper life within the ton. Her birthright ensured that, but as the earl’s wife, she would have power at her disposal, and reach she would previously never be able to gain. With that, she would do something good from this debacle.
At least Percival was skilled between the sheets. Her last lover hadn’t brought nearly the satisfaction that he did. And the earl paid well for her services, took care of her, kept her in high style. Not to mention that if she did this, he’d save money to boot.
Really, there was no downside… for her. He’d take the brunt of it once news swept through the ton.
“You win. I’ll marry you, but don’t blame me for the consequences you’ll reap.” She yanked the brandy bottle from his hand, rested it on a table and exchanged it for the marriage license that boldly proclaimed his name and that of the esteemed and young Lady Eleanor. “And God help me for going along with it.”
Oh, he would hate her as well as himself in the morning, but her future would be set.
The earl snorted. “God has nothin’ to do with it.” He tapped his temple with a forefinger. “Only me. I won’t be dictated to by some chit’s father.”
“Oh, Laughton, how far you’ll fall,” she said softly. Perhaps it was for the best, as his friends had stated. For far too long, the earl had lived his life without purpose. Now, he’d be given one and she hoped it would sort him out before he drank himself into the grave. Lavinia rolled her gaze heavenward. “Sadly I fear you’ll be the only one to dig yourself out of this hole once the light of day shines upon it.” Then she urged him toward the door. “Not even an appeal to the Creator will help.”
Other scandals would hit the beau monde soon enough. They would only need to weather the gossip until that time. The Duke of Bradford’s wrath, on the other hand, was a different kettle of fish entirely.
As ceremonies went, theirs was bizarre. Laughton could hardly stand upright let alone put together a string of coherent words. The minister who had arrived objected strenuously to performing such a function in the dead of night, but Lords Randolph and Saintfort bribed him with enough coin that not only would he do it, but he’d also change the bride’s name on the license and remain mum on the subject if someone questioned him about it afterward.
Most of her attention had been funneled into keeping Percival upright and prodding him to repeat the words the minister said to him.
The earl turned toward her. Slight panic etched across his face. “I don’t have the ring with me,” he said in the world’s worst stage whisper.
She glanced at the minister, offered him a small smile in apology. Then she squeezed Percival’s hand. “It doesn’t matter in the moment. Merely use your signet ring. You can exchange it later.”
“Good idea. Clever girl.” His grin was this side of wicked. “Gonna employ that mouth of yours soon in other endeavors.”
The comment was so uncouth that even Lords Randolph and Saintfort didn’t laugh.