The Wilder Wedding

“Here now!” Lambdin interrupted, stepping around the end of the settee and laying a hand on James’s shoulder. “We’d best leave off with this. Laura’s not up to snuff at the moment and this is no topic to trouble her with. Not proper anyway.”

He leaned down and took her elbow. “Come on, old girl, why don’t you go upstairs and have a lie down, eh? Looks a bit peaked, don’t she, James?”

She allowed him to lead her to the stairway. With a murmur of thanks, she did as he suggested. Lord knows she felt good for little else at the moment. And James’s tale of Mr. Wilder’s ancestry made her slightly more ill than she already was.

Laura welcomed Lambdin’s belated concern. She knew he soft-peddled it so as not to alarm her further and she appreciated that. But she couldn’t stand that he had told James Maclin of her illness, even though his doing so did make perfect sense. He had wanted someone to talk to about it. She wished for the same, but Laura knew instinctively that anyone’s pity would undo her completely.

Had Lamb also told the man who stayed for tea? Did you know my poor old sister’s dying, sir? That’s why she tore off in such a snit. Can’t control herself. So sorry.

No, Lamb would never do such a thing. Even so, Mr. Wilder had seemed a trifle too curious with all that staring he had done. A handsome man of the world such as he shouldn’t have glanced twice at a clumsy country girl who was “not much to look at.” James Maclin had described her that way to Lambdin, and in exactly those words.

Wounded vanity ought not to mean much at this point, but it certainly did. Here she was, old, ugly, and…dying. She shrugged off her self-pity with no little effort, busied herself undressing, and then donned her best nightgown. No use to go on and on about it, she told herself sternly. She would just forget she had ever heard it. It wasn’t true in any case. She was fine. Just fine.

The bed felt too soft when she lay down. Would they cushion her coffin, she wondered? God, she had to stop these morbid thoughts. What use was it to dwell constantly on what would happen? She should concentrate on the time she had left, such as it was. If it was true. Could it be?

Laura yanked the covers over her head and curled into a ball. So many things she had yet to do. Her entire twenty-five years had been spent here in the country looking after Lamb and the estate while their parents either traveled or lived abroad.

She knew more about farm matters than most men. With her gone, the haughty Mr. Williams might have to live up to his post as manager, she thought with a smirk. Thus far, all the man had seemed capable of was warding off her suitors, few as they were, and bailing Lamb out of trouble now and again. He had certainly proved proficient at both. Perhaps with his task as watchdog cut in half by her demise, he would have time to see to the business of running Midbrook’s farms. God knows she was sick of paperwork. Perhaps He did know, and that was why…

She would be gone. No more. Dead.

For a long time—perhaps hours—Laura lay there contemplating. Slowly she came to terms with what she had heard. At least for the moment. Strange, how she could almost tolerate the horror of thinking about it.

Not that she looked forward to dying, but reluctant acceptance was better than outright hysteria. She could not allow herself to fall apart.

Her brother had borne the news with surprising strength. And she knew now that she would not ask him to discuss the matter with her. Somehow his determination to spare her the dread of death seemed conscientious, something Lambdin almost never was.

Dr. Cadwallader had obviously advised him, and both believed they were doing the right thing to pretend to her that nothing was wrong. The least she could do was humor them and appreciate their misguided thoughtfulness. She would not speak of it to them. Ever.

Laura decided the thing that bothered her most about dying was that she had never really lived. Life had slid right by her, day after boring day, year after boring year. She had not even had a happy family life to compensate.

Gifts had arrived, expensive things which hardly made up for the lack of parental involvement in her life or Lambdin’s. But some treats had been thoughtfully chosen—Lamb’s prized Arabian, Caesar, and her own beloved little mare, Cleopatra. Her parents had shipped them all the way from Egypt. Ostensibly, the horses were for breeding purposes, but Laura just knew her parents had their children’s pleasure in mind when selecting those two.

How had they known her one great joy was riding? And that she would adore the mare with all her heart? Perhaps Mother and Father did care in their own distracted way. Would they miss her when she was gone? Would they even know the difference?

Father was not really her father, of course. Not as he was Lambdin’s. Still, he had adopted her when he married her widowed mother, giving Laura his name. She had never dared ask for more than that for fear Father would change his mind and she would be an outsider. As it was, she received the same infrequent attention as he gave the son he had sired.

At times she believed Father originally purchased the remote manor and its accompanying acreage just to keep her and Lambdin isolated and out of trouble.

That had certainly been his motive for hiring Mr. Williams as manager. As for her situation, the number of available suitors had kept her opportunity for misdeeds to a minimum. Thanks to Mr. Williams’s vigilance regarding those few fellows, she had just celebrated her twenty-fifth birthday without any hope of a proposal, proper or otherwise.

Now she would die an old maid. Laura Ames Middlebrook, Proper Spinster. Unwed, untraveled, unremarkable. What a truly rotten epitaph.

Exhaustion finally took over and the next she knew, morning had dawned. The bright sunlight streaming through the tall casement windows seemed out of keeping. She wanted rain, lots of it. And cold, mourning winds soughing through the eaves.

Suddenly Laura leapt out of bed in an unexpected fit of rage. She threw open the windows and stalked out onto the balcony, beating her fists against the railing. Damn it all, this was unfair! When was she supposed to live? Really live, instead of existing in this bucolic little burg, counting sheep and cows, and worrying over crops that were not even hers? Why did she have to do all the work while her parents made merry abroad and her brother played with his horses?

Well, no more!

She slammed back into the bedroom. Lead crystal perfume bottles crashed against the wall leaving gouges in the plaster. No more! The piecrust table cracked beneath the weight of her heavy water pitcher, scattering knickknacks everywhere. No more! Her breath heaved out in furious pants. One swipe of her arm cleared the mantel.

She looked around desperately, hands fisted and lips tight. Panic overwhelmed her. She slid into a crouch by the bed, her nightgown bunched at her knees, glass from the photograph frames biting into her feet. And she wept.

Chapter Two

Ten days later, Laura had gotten herself in hand. She had taken control. Her course was set now. No more useless grieving, she had decided firmly. No more self-pity. Time was running out and she must make the most of what was left to her.

Lambdin had seemed agreeable when she announced her decision to go to London. He had said it was a famous idea to strike out on her own, and had even promised to create a diversion so that Mr. Williams would not notice her leaving until it was too late to stop her. Obviously, poor Lamb didn’t want to endure what was coming any more than she did. He never could face a crisis with any grace. Laura determined that she would.

Better to distance her mind from everything at home. She might long for Lambdin and her wonderful little mare, Cleopatra. Perhaps she would even miss silly old James and the villagers, but she would not return. Mere existence would no longer serve.

Once she had arrived in London, Laura had prepared herself immediately, with every intention of experiencing life to the fullest extent. Beginning without delay.

First she had confirmed Dr. Cadwallader’s diagnosis. The young doctor she had visited agreed with the findings the very moment after she had listed her symptoms. He specialized in treating young women and their ills, he had assured her. Though the man proposed a lengthy and rather expensive treatment, Laura had declined when he offered no promise of a cure. Obviously, there remained little anyone could do for her condition. That only strengthened her determination to carry out her plans. Voracious shopping had occupied the time she might have spent in further useless moaning about her fate. She found that if she stayed constantly on course, never stopping to think too deeply, she absorbed the pain of acceptance gradually.

Why, by this time she could even look forward to the bit of time she had coming to her. What adventures she intended. And not for tomorrow. Today was the thing. Right this very moment.

Laura straightened her skirts and strengthened her grip on her new parasol. Her hair lay expertly coifed under an elegantly feathered chapeau. An undetectable touch of cosmetics brightened her complexion and lips. Her frightfully expensive gown fitted superbly over delectable silk under-things. She wore the confident air of a woman who knew she appeared at the height of fashion.

The only accessory that did not coordinate perfectly was the expensive malacca cane, the one with the hidden catch, a sword cane. Just carrying the thing made her feel totally invincible for the moment.

Heads turned as she entered the Everton Building of Public Offices and crossed to the ironwork lift. They recognized a woman with a purpose when they saw one, Laura thought with a lift of her chin and a secret smile. Death be damned. Today she would begin living every single moment to the hilt. And given a bit of luck and a little more time, she would hire Mr. Sean Wilder to help her do it.

Once she reached the third floor, Wilder Investigations proved easy enough to find. The opaque, half-glass door stenciled gold and black with the company name stood open.

Laura allowed herself a moment to observe the man she had come to see. She watched the broad back and shoulders stretch against a dark brown gabardine coat. He was even larger than she remembered.

Conservative dresser, she mused. The earthen hues he seemed to prefer accentuated his coloring. Like the suit he had worn on his visit to the country, this one seemed designed to avoid ostentation. Not pricey, yet hardly cheap, and cut extremely well. No jaunty plaids or racy houndstooth for this fellow. His clothes were ordinary to a fault. Considering his extraordinary physique, however, Laura knew very well he could not have bought this suit ready-made.

She almost laughed at his studied attempt to avoid drawing attention to himself. Maybe he thought such was necessary in his line of work. He might as well wear glitter-paste stones and purple satin for all the good it did him. Sean Wilder couldn’t go unremarked in a crowd of thousands.

His size and good looks only accounted for a portion of that remarkability, however. Something within the man exuded absolute self-reliance, maybe even danger. Attractive trait, that. Adding intelligence, a sinfully handsome face, and compassion to his list of attributes, Laura knew she had selected the nearly perfect man.

There was his reputation, of course. There were truly wicked rumors about his sordid past, as well as his present endeavors. But those only added to his appeal as far as she was concerned.

When Laura saw him straighten and begin thumbing through the papers he had drawn out of his files, she took a deep breath and rapped on the door frame with the head of his cane. Time was wasting.

“Just leave the coffee on the desk,” Sean muttered. “There’s tuppence for you on the blotter there.” He flicked through the folders in the oak drawer and cursed when he found the one he wanted, misfiled. He pulled it out and riffled through it.

Good thing he had kept his own personal notes while he worked for the Yard. He needed access to the official records, but these jottings he had saved were better than nothing for the moment. Whoever had sent him the threatening letter this week must be one of the miscreants he had given evidence against at one time or another. There were certainly enough candidates for a lengthy list.

He favored George Luckhurst, a well-educated fellow he had nabbed for a murder down near Buck’s Row. The note’s penmanship indicated it had not been written by one of the usual inhabitants of his former beat. The folder in one hand, he reached atop the filing drawers and scanned the open missive again.

You bastard, I will destroy you.

Luckhurst had escaped later during a transfer from Fleet to another facility. Could be him, Sean mused as he laid the note aside. He would ask Inspector MacLinden about the fellow.

“Mr. Wilder?” a soft, musical voice enquired.

Sean turned swiftly. Papers from the folder in his left hand slid to the floor and scattered. He hardly noticed. The vision in lavender georgette smiled and inclined her head. “My apologies for interrupting your afternoon, sir, but I’ve come on a matter of business. Also to return your cane.” She glided forward and gently laid the object across his desk.

Recognition brought with it a fierce ripple of pleasure. He could hardly credit the change in her, but there was no mistaking who she was. Those huge, gray, dark-lashed eyes. That tender, expressive mouth, today unhampered by its former tremble. “Well now, if it isn’t Miss Middlebrook.”

“You remember me!” she exclaimed, dimpling. “I should have expected you would, given my behavior when you visited. I do apologize. You must have thought me the worst sort of ninny.”

“Not at all,” he replied to the flirtation. Then more to the point, he added, “Where is your brother?” Sean, more than most, understood the dangers of a woman going about without protection. “Surely you haven’t come here alone?”

She nodded slightly and sent the long, delicate feather in her hat swaying. “I’m afraid I have. Not at all the thing, is it? But my business has nothing to do with Lambdin, or my father’s dealings with you, for that matter. May I sit?”

“Yes, of course.” Sean pulled one of the captain’s chairs around to a more convenient position and held it for her to be seated. Then he took the other facing her and leaned forward. A subtle hint of jasmine surrounded her like an aura and drew him closer to the source. Warnings of danger clanged like bells on a fire wagon inside his head. He ignored the sound and smiled.

What an amazing metamorphosis. Gone were the out-of-date clothes and haphazard hairstyle. The gorgeous gray eyes looked clear and direct, so unlike the teary, heart-clutching sight they had appeared when he first saw her. That sunny smile of hers, which he hadn’t been subjected to until now, could melt stone. Sean felt entranced in spite of himself. His better judgment didn’t seem to count for a damned thing.

He deliberately shook off the abhorrent thought. Entranced, indeed. The girl had come to discuss business, not to be ogled. Sean straightened in his chair and forced himself to relax. “So then, what may I do for you, Miss Middlebrook?”

She wound her hands together around the silken cords of her reticule, betraying a subtle attack of nerves. “I have come to make you a proposition, Mr. Wilder.” Her gaze settled directly into his, stealing the breath he had been about to take. “As you may or may not know, I am moderately wealthy in my own right. I have an inheritance from my maternal grandmother, a lump sum amount and a healthy trust, plus stock in several companies. I reached my majority six months ago and control it, independent of my stepfather or brother.”

“How fortunate for you,” Sean said, amazed that her family let her wander out of the house alone. The woman needed a constant keeper if she bandied about facts such as this. “There is a point to your offering me this financial information, I presume?”

“Indeed,” she said. “Every farthing I own will be yours unconditionally if you agree to take on the task I’m about to propose.” Her perfect brows drew together. “And, sir, I do pray you will.”

How serious she looked about it. Sean smiled and nodded to himself. She probably wanted him to investigate someone who had offered for her. Wanted to see whether the rascal had a mistress tucked away or if he might be prone to reckless gambling. Simple matters, easily unearthed. One should also discover beforehand any dangerous or peculiar sexual habits, as well, for her safety’s sake, but she would never think to ask for that.

At any rate, Sean admitted she showed a modicum of good sense in checking a suitor’s background. He only wondered why the men of her family left it to her to determine the fellow’s worth.

Sean hoped the man in question deserved her. The gossamer cloak of innocence she wore could too easily be ripped away, leaving her victim to some scoundrel bent on ill use of that lovely body and the little legacy she mentioned.

As for the offer of her whole inheritance, he knew that a few hundred pounds would seem a fortune to this little country rustic. That hardheaded stepfather of hers would never allow her control over more than that, Sean felt certain.

She regarded him steadily, as though she were taking in every nuance of his expression. A bit unnerving, that regard of hers. And women never unnerved him. He knew them too well.

He shifted, leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Must be very important to you, this proposal.”

“Quite,” she answered. “I wish to be married.”

“I figured as much,” he said, fully intending to send her down the hall to an acquaintance of his who handled such personal investigations. He usually limited his own tasks to matters of commerce. Nevertheless, he was curious enough to wonder whether his own intervention might not be more helpful if warding off a rake became necessary. Why not give the lady a hand with this? He had only one small case pending, and that figured more in the nature of a short holiday.

“Very well, then. Who is this lucky fellow you have set your sights upon?” he asked politely.

“You, sir,” she replied with a dimpled smile. “I want to marry you.”

Him? She wanted to marry him? Sean choked back a laugh. He sucked in a deep breath and bit his lips together. He must try not to sound condescending or he would hurt her feelings. She obviously considered this a legitimate proposal. Damned serious business, too, judging by the look of her.

“Well now, I am truly flattered, but I’m afraid I must decline, Miss Middlebrook. I have no desire to enter into the wedded state. I’ve been there, you see, and I can’t say that I liked it in the least. Nothing personal, you understand.”

For the first time, she appeared somewhat flustered. Sean watched as she recovered her decorum and lifted that sweetly rounded chin. Her words held a slight ring of desperation. “You are a man of much experience, are you not, Mr. Wilder?”

“Yes, you could say that, however—”

“You have traveled? Faced dangerous situations? Known a great number of…of women?”

Sean felt uncomfortable with her frankness, but only because of her obvious innocence. He couldn’t think of a soul he knew well who possessed that quality. His wife surely hadn’t, and Camilla wouldn’t know the meaning of the word.

How much did this Laura Middlebrook really know about him? he wondered. Rumors abounded, of course. He had even created some of them himself. But the truth about him was even worse. He might have to give her that truth to dissuade her from this madness.

For now, he simply answered, “Yes.”

“I have been in town for a week, sir. I have made it a point to ask about you.” She looked neither apologetic nor embarrassed by the admission, he noted. “Please don’t be upset about it. I’m certain you make enquiries about people every day as a matter of course, given your line of work.”

Sean straightened and leaned forward again, his face not an arm’s length from hers. “Does your brother know you have come to me with this ridiculous proposition?”

She shook her head and brushed her feather aside with one gloved hand. “Of course not. He would never have allowed it.” Annoying how quickly she had recovered that composure of hers, he thought.

“I shall be direct with you, sir,” she said, lowering her head and peering up at him through those long, dark lashes. “I need a husband immediately, one who knows the ways of the world and how to take me about in it. I mean to travel as far and as fast as I can, see everything possible, do everything possible.”

“Indeed.” He cocked one brow, encouraging her to continue.

“Yes. And that doing everything must include marriage. Therefore, I want someone appealing, someone with exper tise in that area. So I chose you.”

“May I ask why? We are practically strangers.”

She answered immediately, as though she had her answers catalogued. “As I said before, you are a man who knows his way about, Mr. Wilder. Also, I sensed your sincere concern for me when I was so distraught. That speaks well for your character, I believe, since you didn’t even know me at the time.” Her head ducked shyly again and he lost sight of those luminous gray eyes as she added, “And I do find you enormously attractive.”

Sean crossed his legs to hide his sudden reaction to that bold statement. He swept away images of long, liquid satin hair drifting across his bare chest, of sweet young breasts pressing against him, of smooth, slender limbs entwined with his. His avid response, along with her presumption that he was for sale angered him. She must know of his childhood—a time when he had been bought and paid for—to suggest such a thing. “A stud for your stable, eh?” he asked with a harsh, forced laugh.

She raised her head and arched one beautifully shaped brow. “Certainly not! I wish to hire you. To exchange six hundred thousand pounds for a few months—perhaps only weeks—of your time.”

“Six hundred thou…?” Sean swallowed hard to prevent choking visibly. “I do believe you are mad.”

“No,” she declared reasonably, “I am merely trying to arrange all that has been left to me, and help someone in the process.” The gray eyes increased their earnest regard. “I would like for that someone to be you.”

Sean had a sudden desire to shock her out of her pantalets. “Just how much do you know about me, Miss Middlebrook? Let us set your facts straight, shall we?” he dared.

She nodded amicably. “My solicitor has it that you were indigent as a lad.”

“A real beggar from birth. Brought up in a whorehouse,” Sean affirmed. “That is no secret. All of London knows it.”

Her lips pursed and the eyebrows raised a fraction as she continued, “He says that a wealthy benefactor rescued you and saw you properly educated.”

“Ah, the royal benefactor story again,” Sean said, pulling a wry face. “Triggered by my uncanny resemblance to the old Prince Consort.”

She inclined her head smiled doubtfully. “True?”

“Would you like it to be?” he countered. The last woman he asked that certainly had.

“No, of course not. Yet I can see how the idea might be helpful to you. Gain you entrance into certain circles for investigative purposes and all that.” Her small gloved hand executed a wave of dismissal. “Judging by his pictures, you look nothing like Prince Albert did, by the way. And he probably died before you were ever born!”

“Just after,” Sean supplied. “I am twenty-eight.”

“Well, much as she adored the prince, Her Majesty would hardly dote on you if it were true. Ridiculous notion. I cannot imagine how the gossip started unless you initiated it yourself for the very reason I mentioned.” She ran her pink tongue over her bottom lip. He followed the motion of it with salacious interest. “Well, did you?” she asked.