Chapter Twelve

"A special license?" Oscar echoed, staring at Emily. She couldn't be serious. "I rushed across London in response to your note and you're telling me to procure a special license."

"I presumed you'd seen the newspaper." She was implacable, a serene blue-green island in the red-papered drawing room.

"Yes, but…" He'd imagined another visit to Fleet Street in her company. All four of his tall and strong footmen and three burly coachmen had accompanied him to visit her in anticipation of their trip, where he would prove to her how strong he was. No more nice earl, he'd meant to show this publisher who was in control. It had never occurred to him that Emily would have this singularly female idea of how to solve the problem.

"A respectable married couple is dull. An unmarried couple is always going to be scandalous. This is the only way to prevent our incident from overshadowing my sister's debut." She was no more emotional about this than he'd expect if she were choosing a hat.

His head was spinning. No sooner had he become used to the idea of marrying her than she had changed her mind and wanted pretense. He'd relaxed into the fa?ade and now she wanted to marry, immediately. A life of bachelorhood, a decade of being a rake, and half a decade of pretending, and it was ending with a casual demand for marriage by special license.

"You must have hit your head when we fell down that hole. I won't do it." He shook his head with as much nonchalance as he could rally.

She must know this was a bad idea. He just had to remind her who he was, and she would dash back to her spinster life and fern collection. He would be free to silently concentrate on worrying about Annie's illness, as there had been precious little news about her condition since he'd first heard, and trying to tip the balance of opinion on the Contagious Diseases Act Repeal.

"You will do it." She folded her hands together in her lap as she sat into an ornate chair with flowing wooden arms.

"Or what?" This time he didn't have to muster a cynical lip curl. It came easily.

"Or there will be consequences."

"Will your father try and shoot me? It seems to be a dangerous occupation, being your intended."

Her eyes glittered, and he knew immediately he'd gone too far.

"I meant a breach of promise suit. You'd be so poor afterward, you'd wish you had married me." Her voice was like rock. "And it was an accident. And it wasn't my father."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." Perhaps it had been her young-love taking his own life. That was often couched as an ‘accident', to avoid the shame and stigma of a suicide. "I take it back. But surely you see that I am a terrible bet as a husband." He spread his hands in presentation of himself.

She looked him up and down, and he would have sworn he saw heat flare in her eyes. "You aren't what I would have chosen."

That hurt a lot more than it ought to have.

"When you followed me, you knew this was a possibility," she continued. "We will live separate lives. You will give me children. I will give you an heir. We will manage."

There was a long pause where she didn't say what was surely going through her mind. That he wasn't to force her. That she knew he could give her a child, as he already had one. That he would give her children and not dally with any other woman.

"It will not be a sentimental match, my lord." She smiled wryly. "I am done with any sort of sentimentality."

"Didn't you hear me in that pit." He must make her understand. He had tried to tell her and warn her off. "You are making a mistake."

"Perhaps." Her expression was as calm as a lake on a still, summer night.

"You sound like you don't care." How could she live with him, knowing what he'd done? He could barely live with himself.

She looked away. "I love my sister. She deserves the best chance."

Averting her face might make her think that she was hiding her thoughts, but it was a failure. Because it was all too obvious that this was nothing to do with Connie. She wanted to marry him. For some inexplicable reason.

All the implications of them being married rushed over his skin. They would live together. He'd see intimate moments with her, like when she adjusted her hair before she left the house. When she took off her boots and rolled down her stockings at the end of a long day.

She was fully clothed now, but she'd be in his bed. A gently bred virgin, creamy skin trembling for him. It had been a long time since such an idea had made him hard. It had used to, Lydia was proof of that. But now the thought of a tender flower to avoid crushing was hardly appealing. Emily seemed more like a willow, bending deftly but springing back up.

"Are you sure you want this? You will be nothing more than an addendum to me, an afterthought. Oscar Clawson, third Earl of Markshall, and wife. There's more to a marriage than taking a man's name. He owns you. Your body will be mine." He stood up abruptly and was gratified to see Emily's face lapse into confusion for a second before she masked it. That was a beginning.

"I know that. But this will be a formal marriage. And you won't hurt me."

"Won't I? You'll want to test that theory. If we're going to be married, don't you think we should seal the agreement with a kiss?" By the end of this discussion, she'd run scared from the idea of marrying him.

"A kiss?" She rearranged the shawl draped across her shoulders. "I don't think that's necessary."

"Au contraire, my lady." He strolled towards her as if this were nothing to him. As if his heart weren't thumping in his chest like a gavel in a courtroom. "We cannot do without it."

"This isn't a romantic match." But her gaze said differently. Her pupils were dilated. Her hair, soft looking with a sheen like highly-polished old oak wood, was so neat it would be a travesty to allow her to leave an interview with her fiancé with it so tidy. It wouldn't acknowledge his prowess or her attractiveness.

"You said you wanted children." Taking his time, he looked her over, obviously lingering at her lips, her breasts, her waist. That dress hid her body, but no corset could entirely lie about the shape of a woman.

"Yes." Her pink tongue moistened her lips.

"Then we'll need to kiss." He stood over her, his boots at the hem of her skirt, deliberately intruding on her space. Towering above her made him feel uncomfortably large compared to her proud and petite form sitting almost at his feet. He pushed the feeling away. He scoured her face for signs of the fear he'd expected to induce in her. None, yet.

"We'll need to be as close as two people can be, and you need to be sure you can manage it. If you can't kiss me, how can I know you won't faint when I stick my cock in you?"

"There's no need to be crass, my lord." There was no maidenly fit of vapors, but the pulse in her neck was fast and her color raised.

"But there is." Leaning over her, he crowded her, bracketing his arms around her by putting his hands onto the arms of her chair. His face was just above hers. "There'll be no, ‘my lord' when you're in my bed. You'll call me Oscar. There's nothing crasser than the marital act. It's called that to sanctify it, but really, it's just the same as…" He paused to draw out the emphasis, then said clearly, almost saying the obscene word into her mouth. "Fucking."

Her cheeks stained red, but she didn't back down. He admired that, even though it was antithetical to his purpose.

"I'm sure we'll come to some agreement." There was a light breeze through her words as if her chest were constricted. By fear or lust? He didn't know which he wanted it to be.

"We will." He let his mouth fall onto hers, pushing her head back. Her lips were yielding and warm. Pressing harder, he kissed her with all the aggression he could muster. And she kissed him back. When he opened his mouth, she opened hers. When his tongue reached out, hers did too. He ignored it and thrust into her mouth like a conquering hero. The gasp from the back of her throat sent sensation down his back. As much as he wanted to interpret her noise as fear, he knew it was arousal.

He gave no quarter and she seemed not to want any. Her hands had crept up to his neck and her fingers dug into his hair and scalp, keeping his lips on hers and dragging him closer. She was fire beneath him and he couldn't get enough of her kiss. This was addlebrained and he wanted more. He was supposed to be terrifying her, but instead, he was losing himself, getting pulled into her sweetness and ardor.

If she ran from him as she should, this would be his last kiss with her, forced on her. He'd take everything he could; he had to touch her. Holding himself on one hand, still over her, stroking his tongue against hers, he dragged his palm over her cheek and down the infinite softness of her skin. Snagging the neckline of her dress, he pulled it down to reveal the curved top of her breast. The dress was aqua silk, smooth and cool on his fingertips. But the moment he touched her breast it was warm and soft. And her moan. Oh, it settled in him, just under his cravat, expanding there. It was sustenance he didn't know he'd needed. He rubbed across the plump roundness of her, careless that he was creasing her dress.

This was going wrong in every way that he was wrong. She was responding to his attack as if he were welcome. But then, this was just a simple touch to her bust, even if it was undoing him. She must understand the danger she was in. He grasped her skirts by her knee and dragged them up. She stiffened, and a surge of raw triumph crashed over him.

Her hands loosened from his hair and it was like a part of him went too. But after a second, her fingers were at his waist, tugging at his waistcoat.

His breathing clogged. Lady Emily, the perfect lady, was endeavoring to touch his waist. He'd always known she was special. What he hadn't realized was that her purity would save him from himself. She was setting him on fire. Her eagerness was paraffin-soaked tinder and seasoned wood on his spark of need. A spark by itself was nothing. But with fuel, it was quickly all consuming.

"They're engaged." A female voice from the hall cut into him. Emily's lips stilled on his. Her hands rested on his shirt.

"Indeed," the Duke replied in a growl. "They're not married yet."

They weren't. And whatever their marital status, there was no question about their moral status. She was above him in every way.

Under him, Emily wriggled and tried to rearrange her attire. "Markshall!" she hissed.

As the latch clicked and the door swung open, he insouciantly straightened to his full height, turning so he blocked the view of Emily's disarray from the door.

The Duke and Duchess of Cumbria stared at him openmouthed.

"Your Graces." He smiled grimly. "Lovely to see you."

"Look here, Markshall—" The Duke began.

"I think," Oscar interrupted him, "we'll need a special license."

***

The license wasn't as difficult to procure as he'd thought. For a reason he didn't inquire into, Jones knew all about wedding licenses and waved away the idea of a special license. Apparently, if one specified the church and lived in the parish, it was easy enough. Just pay a guinea, have both Emily and him sign that they didn't know any impediments to the marriage and the priest gave them a common license. Thus, he didn't have to go to the outrageous expense of inconveniencing the Archbishop of Canterbury. He announced the engagement in The Times, and just over a week after the fern hunting incident, they were quietly married. No big society wedding, just her family and his cousins.

It was when she walked over the threshold of his townhouse, her hand daintily over his, that it really sank in that she was his wife. He barely had a moment to take in that fact before Lady Emily morphed into Lady Markshall, apparently without effort. She charmed his housekeeper and butler with her smile and flattering assurances that she knew the house worked beautifully. She thanked the footmen who carried her trunks by name and complimented the maids on their work.

The cook excelled herself for dinner and Emily ate just enough to satisfy the kitchen she enjoyed the food, but her eyes were shadowed.

It all tasted like ash to him. After dinner, he practically ran to the haven of the smoking room, despite the farce of separating the sexes when there was only the two of them. But the enormity of what they'd done was undeniable.

Toying with an unlit cigar, he swirled whiskey in a glass and stared at the landscape painting on the wall. The news from Sir Thomas was scant. Annie's illness was getting worse, her fever high and her breathing labored. And there was nothing he could do.

He'd always told himself that he hadn't married Lydia because he wasn't the marrying type. His behavior had been reprehensible then, and maybe this with Emily was even worse. By saving Lady Emily's reputation when he wrecked it, he'd finally closed the door on fixing Lydia's reputation. He would never make it right with her.

It didn't do to think of it like that though. There was no way Lydia would have accepted him. He'd made careful inquiries to that end years ago. But by indulging his need to prey on innocence, he'd compromised Emily. By doing the honorable thing and marrying her, he'd set in stone his bankrupt morals by imposing on Emily for the rest of her life. Even if it might have silenced Lady X- and her malicious newspaper articles, it was a mess. He was a mess.

At some point, he'd have to face Emily, but he didn't want to tonight. The thought of bedding his wife to have a child in wedlock when he already had a child who was unwell, maybe dying, was unspeakable.

It was a good thing Emily had meekly agreed to separate after dinner. If she were with him, she'd be a temptation to his worst impulses of lust and covetousness. That was what had got them together in the first place, after all, when he should have been concentrating on working on lords to make them lazy over the issues of coal mining children. That was his job.

A thought scratched at him. Maybe if he could get the Contagious Diseases Act repealed, he'd have made enough recompense to deserve Emily.

He held his glass of Laphroaig to his nose and inhaled the smoke and peat scent. Taking a sip of the almost medicinal Scotch, he nodded to himself. He had to remember what he was aiming to do and who he was. His duty was to honor his daughter by working to overthrow an unfair system from the inside. As a known rogue, he was the only one who could.

In a while, he'd go to bed and he wouldn't seek out his wife. Pretending to be drunk on his wedding night would be fine. It was absolutely normal. Considerate, even.