Page 21 of Taken to the Grave
“How soon?” She didn’t care if she sounded eager. Shewas.
Hugh pecked her hand one last time and then with a roguish grin said, “I have a special license.”
She stared, astounded. “You do?” To obtain a special license for marriage, he’d have needed to appeal to the Archbishop of Canterbury. Hugh would have been required to name Audrey on the application, and the archbishop would have reviewed it to be sure they were both eligible.
“I visited the archbishop the day your mourning ended,” he admitted. “I was the greenest and most impatient of bucks and the man practically chuckled as he signed the license, but…” Hugh leaned closer, and for a moment, Audrey thought he would kiss her and to hell with whoever was looking on. “We can marrytonight. Or tomorrow. Certainly, before you come to your senses and change your mind.”
She laughed. “I will never change my mind. You already know how stubborn I am.”
“I do. Mules look to you for inspiration,” he said, and Audrey balked.
“It is part of my charm!”
“You have many of those,” Hugh said, their lively banter making her feel light as air. His eyes raked her over in a slow, seductive manner that put her in mind of his promise to confine her to his bed. The rest of the world could fall away, disintegrate into mist, and she would be none the wiser. Nor would she care. However, even as those fervent and fanciful thoughts slid through her mind, her practical side stood firm against them. A few things needed resolving before the two of them could, without reservation, abandon the world for a time.
Audrey touched his shoulder, smoothing the fabric even though it didn’t need it. “You realize, of course, that we cannot indulge in marital bliss for weeks on end, as you’ve so indecently described, until we find Miss Silas. And Sir.”
He winced, and she regretted bringing up the missing boy. But it wouldn’t be right to marry without Sir there. He formed a forlorn grin and nodded. “You are correct.”
“Another one of my charms,” she said, only wanting to lighten his mood.
He laughed, but this time it held a dismal note. “Then we best find a way to speak to Gwendolyn Bertram.”
Across the newly greening gardens in the square, the front entrance to Gunter’s Tea Shop bustled.
“I believe I have an idea,” Audrey said.
Chapter
Seven
The backs of Hugh’s eyelids burned from lack of proper sleep. He’d spent a second night pacing his study until he could stand it no longer and had his driver bring the carriage around. He and a sleepy Norris had traveled the streets of Mayfair before bracing themselves and heading east, toward Whitechapel and Wapping. He’d kept his flintlock pistol primed and ready, as did Norris in the driver’s box. But though he saw countless young boys around Sir’s age loitering about, none of them had been him.
After a few hours, he’d taken pity on Norris and directed him to return to Bedford Street. Norris had likely dropped like a sack of turnips into his bed, while Hugh had been too wound up to do more than tip a hefty pour of whisky into a glass. But then, he’d dumped it out again.
During the autumn and early winter, he’d started drinking to excess, using spirits as a salve for the wounds Audrey’s silence from the Continent had inflicted. He’d come home pickled most nights, and it had driven Sir away. He already had a drunken brute of a father; he likely feared the same would happen with Hugh. Once he’d gotten that through his thick skull, he’d vowedto not use spirits to numb himself during some hardship, and he had followed through.
He now forced his brain to stay alert as he and Audrey waited at a corner table inside Gunter’s Tea Shop, the hour hand closing in on three o’clock. It was cold inside the shop on Berkeley Square, which helped him in his endeavor to stay awake. The sweet scents of flavored ices permeated the air, but the tension that seemed to have taken up permanent residence inside his stomach had eliminated any desire to eat.
“She should be here by now,” Audrey murmured, her spoon slicing easily through the pistachio sorbet that had already been melting when it was delivered to their table.
“She might have suspected the ruse.”
Audrey put her spoon in her mouth and glared at him. He would have apologized for doubting her plan, but he was too entranced by the sight of her lips sliding the creamy sorbet off the curve of her spoon.
The woman was going to be the death of him. Especially if he could not marry her and make good on his promises of the previous afternoon outside 37 Berkeley Square. He’d sent immediate word to his solicitor, Mr. Potridge, to proceed with the purchase of the house, which was currently unoccupied.
“I believe Gwendolyn was rattled enough by my visit to believe it,” Audrey argued.
She’d sent a note to Miss Bertram that morning, and with any hope the young lady would heed the brief message:Come to Gunter’s at 3 o’clock, alone. I need to see you.She’d signed itBethie, saying that was what Flora had called Bethany the day before.
“That might only be what Flora calls her,” Hugh had cautioned when she’d outlined her plan. But it was worth the try.
They’d selected a table in the back, away from the front windows and from view of the conveyances lining this side of thesquare. Waiters were busily rushing back and forth across the street, receiving orders for ices, and delivering them before they could melt. As the weather had improved, some of the ladies and gentlemen were in the gardens of the square on benches, too. The buds on the trees were still young and compacted, allowing for a view of number thirty-seven, across the square. Another reason for his sleepless night and restless mind had been due to taking too much pleasure in imagining himself and Audrey, married and making their home there together.
He'd decided at the last minute to bring her around Berkeley Square and show her the house. Getting down on one knee and formally proposing had also been spontaneous, so he hadn’t even had the ring. It was in his pocket now, of course, but there hadn’t been a suitable moment to present it to her. A table at Gunter’s certainly wasn’t it.
The front door opened, and a young woman fitting the description Audrey had given of Gwendolyn Bertram entered. She was alone and seemed to be searching for someone. Hugh pushed back his chair and rose with his task while Audrey, her back to the door, quickly swallowed her sorbet and touched a napkin to her lips in preparation.
