Wycliff hesitated a moment. “A marriage of convenience would be perfectly acceptable on my part,” he said lightly. “I am not interested in a love match. I only want a son. But I won’t be ruled by fear, either, siren. I am not afraid of your developing a partiality for me.”
“But don’t you see-”
He held up a hand, forestalling further argument. “I consider myself warned and absolve you of any responsibility.”
His easy smile was meant to take the sting out of his dismissive words, but she wasn’t mollified. Nor was she pleased when he abruptly changed the subject.
“Now then, perhaps we should discuss our upcoming nuptials. Do you object to marrying by special license?”
It was Brynn’s turn to frown. “A special license? It is usual to be married in a church.”
“The ceremony can still be held in church. I prefer not to wait for the banns to be read. I thought Friday next a good date. Six days from now.”
“Six days!” Brynn’s mouth dropped open as she regarded him in dismay.
“That should allow me sufficient time to send to London for a special license.”
“Surely there is no reason for such haste!”
“Regrettably I cannot afford the time away from my pressing affairs.”
“An appointment with your tailor, no doubt?”
She saw his eyes narrow momentarily at her barb, but she didn’t apologize. She already resented Wycliff’s highhandedness, and a dashed, slipshod wedding was one more mark against him.
“A rushed union will only seem rash and give rise to gossip,” Brynn pointed out.
“I expect my consequence is great enough to ward off most gossip. Earls are generally accorded more license in bending the rules.”
“More than mere mortals, you mean?”
Not responding directly to her tart tone, he rose gracefully to his feet. “Does sea travel make you ill?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“I came to Cornwall by sea. My yacht is docked at Falmouth. I thought we would return to London that way, since sailing will be faster than traveling by coach, and more comfortable as well.”
Brynn felt a surge of panic rise in her at the realization that she would have to travel with Wycliff. Sweet heaven, she would soon become his wife. Their marriage was truly going forward.
“Are you agreeable to sailing?” he prodded when she sat silent.
“Either way makes no difference,” she murmured, her thoughts distracted.
“Very well.” Moving to stand before her, Wycliff reclaimed her attention by reaching down for her hand. Holding her gaze, he brought her fingers to his lips, totally unsettling her composure.
Brynn snatched her hand away, feeling the sensual tingling of her skin.
“Forgive me for leaving you so abruptly,” he murmured, “but I should see to the details of our nuptials.”
“I don’t mind in the least if you go,” she declared. “Indeed, the less I see of you the better.”
His lashes lowered slightly over his blue eyes as he studied her. “It does not bode well, sweet, for our marital bliss if we are constantly doing verbal battle.”
“That presumes marital bliss a worthy goal,” Brynn returned coolly. “I told you, I have no interest in a blissful union. A discordant marriage will be much safer for you.”
“But not nearly as pleasant,” he returned smoothly.
“I will not fall for your practiced charm, my lord Wycliff,” Brynn said stubbornly. “You cannot make me succumb.”
His beautiful mouth eased into that potent, masculine half smile she was coming to know. “I see I will have to enlist all my powers of persuasion to convince you differently. I must confess,” Wycliff added in a wicked murmur, “I look forward to the challenge.”
The following six days passed with deadly swiftness. Brynn alternated between dread of her upcoming nuptials and attempting to convince herself that she had exaggerated the possible danger.
The arrogant Lord Wycliff was constantly underfoot at Caldwell House, putting himself out to be charming. By the time the wedding grew close, he had won over both her youngest and oldest brothers.
Theo was eating out of his hand and suffering a severe case of hero worship, in part because Wycliff willingly spent time in the boy’s precious laboratory. Even Grayson seemed at ease, despite his humiliation of needing the earl’s generous settlement.
Only Brynn refused to relent. She had to maintain a strict aloofness from Wycliff. She couldn’t allow any amount of devilish charm or seductive smiles to sway her or to penetrate her defenses.
Although required by the conventions of courtship to suffer his company, she made every effort to avoid being alone with him. In his presence, she endured his admiring, brilliant gaze with as much fortitude as she could muster, pretending to function in a rational way. When he was away, she tried to block from her mind any thought of him or what their impending union would bring.
At least there was one advantage of wedding in such haste, she discovered. Between arranging the details of the service, settling her youngest brother’s future, and preparing to totally uproot her life, she had less time to worry.
And just possibly her concern was inflated out of proportion. The women in her family, Brynn reminded herself, could marry without disastrous consequence if they took care not to fall in love. And she was entering into a marriage of convenience, nothing more.
Moreover, her dark dream of Wycliff hadn’t returned. Perhaps her feeling of impending doom was mere bridal nerves.
Lucian’s dreams of Brynn, however, turned more vivid-visions of his death mingling with erotic images of their marriage bed. The unsettling dreams, along with the warnings he encountered about his future bride, did give him a moment’s pause.
His elderly host, the Duke of Hennessy, reacted to the betrothal with surprising distress.
“It troubles me, Wycliff, that you chose Miss Caldwell when you could have countless other brides. There is a history in her family you should know about-”
“I’m aware of the tales,” Lucian replied. “But I don’t give them much credence. I confess surprise that you do.”
His grace looked uncomfortable. “I am not superstitious as a general rule, but I knew her mother. In fact, I courted Gwendolyn myself once. I must say, I consider myself fortunate to have escaped. But if your mind is made up, I suppose I have no right to protest.”
“My mind is made up,” Lucian asserted.
The duke’s genteel neighbors seemed just as disturbed by the news. They eyed Lucian with disbelief and whispered behind his back, although they didn’t presume to express their opinions. The villagers, too, seemed dismayed by the turn of events. And Lucian’s valet was concerned enough to venture his master’s displeasure by relating tales he’d heard from the ducal servants. There were even veiled accusations about Brynn Caldwell being a witch.
Lucian, however, dismissed the tales and maintained his course. He didn’t investigate the church records as Brynn had suggested, for he disliked bowing to superstition. And when his betrothed suggested once more that he withdraw his suit, that he still had time to change his mind, he shook off his misgivings.
He didn’t believe in curses. He wanted Brynn Caldwell for his wife, and he wouldn’t be intimidated into giving her up.
It felt magical, his skillful touch. His lips moved over her flushed face, her throat, her breasts, claiming her nipples, his mouth wet and warm. She arched her back, seeking his gentle torment. As if he understood her desperate need, his hand brushed her loins. She trembled, her flesh burning for hint…
Brynn awoke with a start, her body suffused with heat as the remnants of her erotic dream faded. Lucian-Lord Wycliff-had been kissing her, touching her, arousing her to passion.