Chapter 15
Damien stared up in astonishment at the graceful hand that the woman on the stairs sifted through her long red hair. She had changed into a demure white silk gown in place of her gypsy garb; what lay beneath was a mystery he was growing intensely curious to solve.
Her simple gown graced a body with ample curves and a softness that he found incredibly sensual. She was not the same woman he had brought to this house. She was definitely one who piqued his interest.
Of course, she could still spring a shock or two after they exchanged vows, and he had some surprises in store for her, too. Still, the sight of her now made him hopeful that a passionate future lay ahead of them.
As if he were an expert on matrimony. He was not. His former lover had emptied his coffers before she ended their engagement to marry a business partner. She believed that Damien was on the road to ruin, his wealth depleted. When he discovered who she was at heart, he considered himself fortunate that she had revealed her true colors before he’d given her his name.
At any rate the bride-to-be and her captive groom would make a commitment to each other before her father, brother, maid, and Damien’s valet. It would be easier to escape Newgate Prison than the arranged marriage that must take place in a week if Damien was to succeed in preventing an assassination. He could not afford to let Emily escape, thus risking her life and ruining the culmination of months of covert work to capture the traitors. Of all the sacrifices he had been prepared to make, a wedding had never entered his mind.
The baron could not allow an earl, eccentric though he may appear, to slip through Emily’s fingers. In fact, once he had finally recognized the name Boscastle and realized Damien was indeed the Earl of Shalcross, the baron was far less interested in the details of the disgrace than he was in the marriage arrangements.
“May I ask if the wedding date has been set?” the baron inquired, breaking the stillness.
Damien shook his head. “I prefer a small private ceremony in Hatherwood. As soon as possible.”
Lord Rowland beamed. “My hopes exactly.”
Damien lifted his chin, smiling like the scamp he was. “You don’t mind, do you, Urania?”
“Emily,” she said through her teeth. “We don’t need to use code names for each other now, my dear heart.”
“Code names?” the baron said in bewilderment.
“She means our pet names, the silly endearments that amuse only us,” Damien said smoothly, leaning against the railing with a lovelorn sigh.
“Do you have a date in mind?” the baron asked again, frowning now.
“Ten days at most. I would prefer to be married and gone within a week.”
“A week?” Emily and Michael said in unison.
The baron smiled. “That’s rather a whirlwind courtship, isn’t it?”
Damien shrugged. “The winds of fortune brought your daughter into my life, sir. I cannot risk them blowing her into the arms of another.”
Winds of fortune, Emily thought. Sir Angus—the earl—was a great bag of wind himself. And she would deflate him the next time she saw him. If she saw him again.
She glanced at her brother, who seemed pleased by this improvisation. Damien looked, well, who knew what was going on in his devious mind? She’d bet it had less to do with a wedding reception than with chasing rebels for the good of England.
Anyway, she was marrying him for her own protection.
“A marriage built upon a foundation of letters written to each other over a course of time is bound to last,” the baron announced. “I am honored, my lord, to accept your proposal for Emily’s hand.”