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Her mother had kept Alice occupied with a whirlwind of fittings, social calls, and whatever else ladies did to prepare for weddings, but Nick had visited her several times, thinking to steal a few more heated, lingering kisses.
Unfortunately, her parents had never left them unsupervised again.
Probably too worried he’d ravish the lady.
Which, given the opportunity, he would have seriously considered, as every time he saw her, it struck him anew what an unusual and arresting combination of beauty and brains she possessed.
The papers were fascinated by the wedding, and wagers were flying fast and furious in the clubs as to how long the marriage would remain amicable.
What they didn’t know was that the union would remain more than amicable, because it required only a temporary exchange of affections.
Every gentleman who’d ever attended one of his disreputable entertainments would be there to smirk as he tied the noose.
To hell with them.This was the perfect, expedient union.
Or it would be if he made it to the church in time.
Nick searched the room, flinging clothing left and right. “Don’t stand there laughing, you hairy arse.”
“You’re buggered any way you look at it,” Lear said cheerfully.
“This is bad. Very bad. Help me find my coat.”
“I’m not a valet,” Lear said.
“Neither is Berthold.” He was a former champion prizefighter and a middling valet, but Nick kept him on because Berthold wouldn’t have been able to find other employment.
“If I don’t make it to this wedding you can kiss my business good-bye,” Nick reminded Lear. “No more Portuguese red or oak-barrel Jamaican rum for me. So you’d best find my boots. And find Berthold, too. He ought to be able to help.”
That lit a fire under Lear. “Right. I saw old Bert sleeping in the hallway.”
He strode to the door. “Berthold,” he bellowed.
Nick’s purported valet stumbled into the room, rubbing his eyes. “You needn’t shout.”
“Pull yourself together, man,” Lear barked. “We must assemble this miscreant of a marquess into a respectable member of society, fit to wed an innocent heiress before God and the jaded eyes of the ton.”
Berthold’s bleary eyes widened. “What time is it?”
“Nearly too late,” said Nick irritably. “Where’s my best beaver topper?” He hadn’t seen his best hat for days.
Berthold started guiltily. “May have been sold to pay the butcher’s bill.”
“Christ,” roared Nick. “I have to reach that church before we all starve.” He threw a shirt over his head and buttoned the neck.
“Here, have mine.” Lear handed over his sleek top hat.
As Lear and Berthold helped him struggle into his tight-fitting tailcoat, Nick’s mind raced across town, picturing Alice standing at the altar all alone, wearing something frothy, with diamonds in her light brown hair and tears sparkling in those big turquoise eyes.
Some other fellow in the congregation might see all that divine beauty and volunteer to wed her then and there.
Panic flared like brandy touched by a flame.
He shoved a hand through his hair and grimaced at his disheveled reflection in the glass. “Good enough,” he announced.
“Wait,” cried Berthold. “I’ve got to shave you.”
“No time. Saddle Anvil.”
