Compromised Miss by Anne O'Brien

patiently. The smile he cast her over his shoulder was as sharp as the wind that stirred the dried leaves in the beech hedging beside the terrace. ‘All he can offer is a title and a bottomless purse.’
    ‘Is he as wealthy as that?’
    ‘Of course. Didn’t you know? The Hallastons are as proud as the devil and could purchase Lydyard’s Pride twenty times over with the change in their pockets and not notice the loss.’
    ’I didn’t know.
    ‘I wager Wallace did! Or why the urgency to snap Venmore up? Never mind, Harriette—’ as she felt colour drain from her face ‘—I doubt Venmore will blame you for his predicament. Just don’t lose your heart to him, will you?’
    ‘Of course not! I wouldn’t do anything so ill judged.’
    But she feared—she knew—that somewhere between his landing in a bloody puddle in her boat and his unemotional statement that she now belonged to him, she had done just that. Even the thought of marriage to Lucius Hallaston, however unlikely it might be, of being kissed by him, owned by him, fluttered the nerves in her belly and drove bright colour to her cheeks.
    Alexander smiled. ‘Then all I can do is to wish you every happiness, cousin.’
    Perhaps she had imagined the lack of enthusiasm in his reply. As for Alexander’s rescuing her—why, in the core of her heart, she had no desire to be rescued at all.

Chapter Five
    T he Earl of Venmore waited outside the little church of St Mary the Virgin in Old Wincomlee, contemplating whether Miss Harriette Lydyard would put in an appearance for her marriage or whether, in his absence she had turned in revolt against her brother and had changed her mind. He consulted his watch—a new purchase. She was late. Above the stand of elms to the left of the church he could make out the wings and chimney stacks of Whitescar Hall, the Lydyard residence. Should he go and hammer on the door and ask for the lady?
    Probably to be told that Captain Harry was somewhere in the Channel, escaping to France, battling against the waves in the Lydyard’s Ghost !
    She was late.
    Frustration—or was it actually fear that she would leave him standing at the altar?—shortened his temper. Luke found himself at a loss. In truth, he had never met such resistance in a lady, and to his sardonic amusement, it did not sit well with him. Unaware, he placed his palm over his breast pocket, over the letter he had received tohis surprise the previous week. An unusual letter from a bride to her prospective bridegroom.
     
My lord,
    I shall understand if you decide that marriage to me is not what you want and that you do not wish to be coerced into it. No one can pretend that I am suitable material for a countess. Nevertheless, I shall be at the church at the time and date specified. If I do not see you then, I would thank you for your attempts to deflect my brother’s wrath from my shoulders.
    It would after all be an easy matter for you to buy a fast cutter to get you to France.
    I wish you well for the future and hope that you revise your need, whatever it might be, to work with Monsieur Noir.
    Harriette Lydyard
     
    Quaint. Merciless in its summing up of the situation. Appallingly direct. Perhaps it would be better all round if Miss Lydyard did decide to cry off, better for both of them. And since no one outside this village knew of the match, it would be no harm done.
    And yet, Luke discovered, that was not what he wanted at all. Miss Lydyard was more of an attraction than her cutter. He was considering this strange whim when George Gadie rounded the west buttress, hove to beside him and saluted him with a grin.
    ‘She’s on her way, y’r honour. A slight disagreement, do y’see, about whether to get out the coach…Miss Lydyard wouldn’t.’
    And there she was, walking briskly towards him.
    Luke felt an easing of the constriction in his chest.
    She had got her own way and walked, approaching along the path from the side gardens of the Hall to the Church, Sir