Page 57 of My Dark Duke

“No funny business,” he whispered, as he grabbed her by the elbow. “You’ve five minutes to fix yourself.”

Lillian struggled, wishing to be free of his grip, but it only made him hold tighter. His fingers dug into the flesh of her arm, so deep she was certain there would be a bruise there tomorrow. He frog marched her up the stairs to one of the guest bedchambers.

The room was dark, lit only by a tallow candle. On a dresser stood a basin of water, cold as ice, and on the floor beneath was a chamber pot. Lillian hastily relieved herself before washing as best she could in the frigid water. She longed for a fire to warm herself, but unlike the late Lord Bailey, her cousin appeared to be budget-conscious when it came to fuel.

Once she was done, she took a steadying breath, as she tried to assess what avenues of escape were open to her. Not the window, for they were high up on the third floor. The door was also barred to her, as Mr Hope stood guard outside.

Perhaps, Lillian thought, as she looked frantically around the room, she might seek to overpower him? Not with her strength, but with a weapon.

Her eyes came to a rest on the fire poker by the fireplace. If she was to sneak up on Mr Hope from behind, then maybe…

A fierce thudding on the door brought her back to reality, and Mr Hope barged in.

“Enough dawdling,” he snarled. “The vicar has arrived. Don’t embarrass yourself in front of him; he’s indebted to his lordship and any pleas will fall on deaf ears.”

Mr Hope placed his hand once more on Lillian’s arm to drag her back downstairs. What fight she’d had left her body, as she realised there was no hope of escape. She should have taken her chance with the window, she thought, her body turning to ice.

In the drawing room they were met by Lord Bailey and the vicar, a bumbling chap called Mr Figgis, who had obviously arrived in a rush, for his shirt was only half tucked into his trousers.

“What a happy occasion,” the vicar commented, misreading the room entirely. He rocked to-and-fro on the heels of his boots, waiting for someone to speak. When no one answered him, he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Right. Shall we get started?”

“Please,” Lord Bailey snapped, as he reached out for Lillian’s hand to pull her forward.

Though unable to speak, for fear she might earn herself a bullet, Lillian was still free to use non-verbal means to convey her displeasure.

She wrenched her hand from the baron’s and crossed her arms across her chest, as Mr Figgis began the sermon. He had obviously been coached to make it as short as possible, for he skipped most of the traditional readings and dove straight into the vows.

“Do you, Charles William Hamilton, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?” Mr Figgis’ voice asked, a detectable shake to his voice.

“I do,” Lord Bailey agreed, with a brusque nod. “Now do hers, quickly.”

If the situation were not so dire, Lillian might have laughed at how decidedly unromantic it all was.

“Yes, of course,” Mr Figgis stuttered, as he turned to Lillian apolitically. “Now, Miss Hamilton, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold unto death - good Lord, what’s that?”

Mr Figgis’ shocked addendum came as a chorus of shouts from outside went up. Lillian stilled, barely able to breathe; had Thorncastle somehow, miraculously, found her?

She turned on her heel and made a dash for the door, but her escape was thwarted by Lord Bailey, who grabbed her before she had a chance to escape.

“Hold them off,” the baron called to Mr Hope, before turning to Mr Figgis. “Finish up, quickly.”

The vicar looked as though he was about to comply, but Lillian was not so easily ordered about. She wriggled furiously, trying to escape Lord Bailey’s grasp, hope giving her new energy.

“Will you hold still?” Lord Bailey roared, his patience snapping. He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved his Flintlock, the barrel of which he pressed against Lillian’s temple.

Mr Figgis gave a gasp, his eyes bulging, as he finally realised the wedding he was performing was not a usual one.

“Continue,” Lord Bailey grunted.

“I really don’t think…” the vicar demurred, his voice a faint whisper. “That this is legal, my lord.”

“I really don’t think a man with your level of debt can afford to hold such scruples,” came the strangled retort.

Mr Figgis visibly debated this, his fleshy face a picture of moral confusion. He gave a deep sigh, before turning to Lillian apologetically.

“Terribly sorry about all this,” he said, as affable as though he had just stood on her toe. “But needs must. Now, where were we? Do you Lillian Hamilton, take this man to be your lawfully wedded - ”

His words came to a halt, as the door to the drawing room was thrown open. Framed by the doorway, stood Thorncastle, his eyes as steely as the pistol he held in his hand.

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