Only Marriage Will Do
Cover Copy
Happily-ever-afters don’t always begin at “I do.”
When the man of her dreams rescues Lady Juliet Ferrers from the villain claiming to be her husband, she is sure she has found her one true love. But is she free to marry him? Not to be deterred, Juliet arranges for her hero to escort her to her family estate in far off Northern England—hoping that along the way she can win his love—and his hand…
Captivated by Juliet’s sweetness and beauty, Captain Amiable Dawson can’t help but be spellbound by the promise of a life with her. But the spell breaks when questions arise about her marital status. Soon the upstanding Amiable is unsure if he is indeed married to Juliet. And when his rival absconds with her, Amiable must choose between the law of the land and his heart’s desire to rescue Juliet once more…
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Books by Jenna Jaxon
House of Pleasure Series
Only Scandal Will Do
Only Marriage Will Do
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Only Marriage Will Do
House of Pleasure Series
Jenna Jaxon
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Copyright
Lyrical Press books are published by
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Copyright © 2015 by Jenna Jaxon
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First Electronic Edition: June 2015
eISBN-13: 978-1-61650-618-6
eISBN-10: 1-61650-618-0
First Print Edition: June 2015
ISBN-13: 978-1-61650-619-3
ISBN-10: 1-61650-619-9
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
For my wonderful friend, Trish, whose help, support, and encouragement has been a saving grace in my journey as a writer. I cannot thank you enough for all you’ve done for me.
Acknowledgements
My heartfelt thanks go out to my three amazing critique partners, without whom this book would be much the poorer: Patricia Green, Kary Rader, and Ella Quinn. Please keep up the good work. I would also like to thank my editor, Penny Barber, for all her wonderful help and collaboration with this volume. She keeps me on the straight and narrow as much as is humanly possible and it certainly shows in the work. And of course my greatest thanks to my family for their constant love and support when mom goes into the writing cave.
Chapter 1
London
July 2, 1761
The brass lion-head knocker under Amiable Dawson’s hand sent a sharp rap through the dark walnut door of Dunham House for the second time. The hot July sun hadn’t done his temper any good as he waited on the marble stoop for entrance to the Marquess of Dalbury’s townhouse. He’d been in a foul mood ever since the news of his beloved Katarina’s marriage to the marquess had reached him. Blast it to hell, the girl had accepted his proposal. At least he could make sure she was well and well taken care of by this man she had married.
At last a short, dark-haired maid opened the door. She took one look at him, gasped, and stepped back into the house. Her eyes widened and she glanced to her right, wringing her hands. “Who may I say—”
A man shouted from within. “No, I do not believe you.”
“I do not care what you believe. I told you the truth.” A woman’s voice, raised and sharp with terror, sent a chill through Amiable.
Katarina. What in God’s name?
He barged past the stunned girl and strode down the hall toward the commotion. He burst through the doorway, expecting to defend the woman he loved, only to stop dead at the sight of a man lunging across a sofa and grasping a woman by the wrist. Amiable had half drawn his sword before he realized the woman was not Katarina, but a complete stranger. He dropped it back into its scabbard. None of his affair after all.
The young man, foppishly dressed in a robin’s egg blue satin coat dripping too many layers of frothy lace at throat and wrists, looked at Amiable, a snarl on his lips.
Taking advantage of the distraction, the woman wrenched her arm from the man’s grip. “Praise God. He has arrived at last.” She staggered as she righted herself. “Now you will have to believe me, Philippe.”
The fop scrambled back off the sofa and groped for a black lacquer walking stick that lay on the floor. Lips pressed together, he glowered at the woman. “That remains to be seen, ma chère. In any case, I have shown you the papers. They speak for themselves.”
The woman ran from behind the sofa to Amiable’s side, grazed a kiss over his cheek, and whispered, “For God’s sake, help me. I am alone and he wants to force me to go with him. Please, agree with whatever I say.”
He smiled into her pleading face, then grasped her hands and gave them a gentle squeeze to signal his acquiescence. “Whatever is the matter, my dear?” Hell if he knew. However, he could play his part, even with little information. Let the lady lead and he’d follow as well as he could.
The woman swayed toward him, then took a deep breath. “My dear, may I present Viscount St. Cyr?” She nodded toward the fop. “Philippe, my husband, the Earl of Manning.”
Amiable froze. This woman had married Katarina’s brother? If so, he certainly had an obligation to protect her. But where the devil was Jack? He bowed to the man and said simply, “My lord.”
“Philippe and I were betrothed for a short time last year, my dear. Before the scandal put an end to it.” Trembling, she stared St. Cyr down.
“That was none of my doing, Juliet. My father broke the betrothal, not I.” He spoke English with a cultured French accent and gave an impassioned plea that wavered by the end.
“Then I must write a letter of gratitude to the Count de Mallain.” Juliet rubbed her wrist, glanced at St. Cyr, and drew closer to Amiable’s side. The afternoon sun glinted off a tear in the gold trim of her rose gown. “He saved me from making a dire mistake.”
“Juliet, how can you say such things?” St. Cyr grasped his walking stick and twisted the knob. “We are meant to be together, chérie. I thought of nothing but you the whole long year we have been apart.”
“That is hardly your concern now, my lord,” Amiable said. “The lady is my wife and however much you may regret losing her, I must ask you to refrain from such statements of affection lest it become a matter of honor.” He itched to lay his hand to his sword again but did not wish for the situation to escalate. Yet.
“Oh, but it is my concern, my lord.” The Frenchman stalked toward them, one deliberate step after another. “I have the prior claim to dear Juliet. In fact, I must insist you remove your hands from my wife immediately.”
“Your wife?” Amiable scowled at the Frenchman, although his resolve slipped. Had he stuck his nose int
o a proper quarrel between husband and wife? Would he never learn to control his impetuous nature? Certainly not if it concerned a woman in distress, it seemed. He pushed Juliet behind him.
“You must stop saying that, Philippe. I am not your wife.” Tears glistened, and she blinked them back.
He admired courage in a woman. She might not be his Katarina, but she deserved his protection nonetheless.
“Why would you claim such a thing, man?” he demanded. “Juliet and I were married properly, with the banns read and in a church.” He prayed she had given the man no particulars before he had arrived.
“Our ceremony was no less proper. The magistrate performed it before witnesses.”
“Why have you not spoken to me of this, my dear?” Give the woman her head. He’d become quite interested himself in what had transpired.
“I never married him, Jack. You must believe me.” She sank her fingers into his arm in a death grip as her eyes sent a desperate plea for his confidence in her. “I never spoke my vows to him.”
“You did not need to, ma petite, as you well know. Jeanette spoke them for you,” St. Cyr snapped, his voice loud in the small room.
Lord, give me strength… “Who is Jeanette? If she spoke the vows, then you are married to her, my lord. Not Lady Manning.”
St. Cyr sneered. “The Marquess of Dalbury sent Jeanette Valois to France as proxy so his sister and I could marry despite the circumstances. When my father broke the betrothal, I acted against his wishes and went through with the ceremony with Jeanette standing in for Juliet.” St. Cyr leered at her. “So you see, I am your true husband as I have the prior claim. Even though secret, the marriage is valid. You belong to me.” He reached for Juliet’s hand.
“Allow me to doubt a bit longer, St. Cyr.” Amiable knocked the man’s hand aside. “Why did you not contact my wife before now with the news that the marriage had indeed taken place?” He glanced at Juliet. “It has been something over a year now?”
She nodded, and hung her head. She drew a handkerchief from her pocket and twisted it.
“I would have written,” St. Cyr said, “but because of the unfortunate relations between our two countries, mail became uncertain. I could not send a letter through diplomatic channels and risk it coming to the attention of my father.”
St. Cyr almost sounded plausible, yet something in his voice did not ring true. His smooth replies sounded much rehearsed. Had Amiable defied his father to marry a woman, he’d make damned sure the woman knew so she wouldn’t marry someone else. His hackles rose. He simply did not trust the man. “And now, by some miracle, twelve or so months later, you manage to appear in England with this unsubstantiated tale of a marriage.”
“I managed to get passage on an Irish ship leaving Paris, and from Dublin I made my way to London.”
“Your timing is exquisite, Philippe.” Juliet glared at the Frenchman. “My brother has just left for Italy and will not return for some months.”
“This need not concern the marquess.” St. Cyr waved, dismissing Amiable. “I can arrange for the annulment of your marriage to this gentleman, and then we can—”
“I am afraid that is out of the question, St. Cyr.” Damn but he wanted to take the young fop by the seat of his satin breeches and throw him out the front door. “Disabuse yourself of the idea I will have my marriage annulled, with or without her brother’s consent. She is my wife and there’s the end of it. You have upset her enough for one day. I will thank you to leave.”
“Juliet, mon amour.” St. Cyr reverted to his native French. “You cannot have a serious regard for this monstrous oaf?” He raked Amiable contemptuously with his gaze. “He is a barbarian compared to me, my dear. I can make you forget him, forget any of his crude gestures of love. Do you remember our embrace? At the king’s Christmas court ball? Such a quaint custom of the mistletoe. You seemed to long for more than just my tongue that night, my sweet.”
“Philippe, please.” Juliet shrank from him, blushing until her face matched the hue of her dress.
“I fear you did not heed my words earlier, St. Cyr,” Amiable replied in flawless French, pulling his sword free. “You have just besmirched the honor of my wife and I will have satisfaction of you.”
“Jack, no.” Juliet pulled Amiable to a corner of the room and whispered, “Please do not engage him, sir. We can hardly have a scene here without…” She peered over her shoulder.
Totally unconcerned with the challenge he had just been issued, St. Cyr inspected the Watteau on the wall, once again idly twisting his walking stick in his hand. The fool.
“You have no true reason to challenge him.”
“There you are wrong, my dear. Any gentleman has the duty to defend a lady’s honor.” He smiled at her, then turned back to St. Cyr. “May I suggest you apologize, my lord, unless you wish to meet me tomorrow morning?” He pointed his sword tip at St. Cyr’s mouth. “I will be much obliged to cut that offensive tongue out at your earliest convenience.” At last. Action he could take satisfaction in. He’d savor the anticipation of such a meeting.
St. Cyr paled a trifle as he looked from him to Juliet. “Forgive me, mon ange,” he addressed her, “for recalling our past intimacies. They should have remained in the memories of just us two.”
“Humph.” He stared hard at St. Cyr. Not the most contrite plea for forgiveness, but nothing more seemed forthcoming. Reluctantly, he executed a slight bow, acknowledged the dubious apology, and sheathed his blade.
“I have no such memories, Philippe.” Juliet spoke in French. “Nor do I want anything else from you except to be left alone.”
“C’est impossible, chérie. We are man and wife. I will not leave you alone in the care of another man. I insist you accompany me back to my inn.” St. Cyr dove for her hand.
With a strangled cry, Juliet spun around to hide behind Amiable.
“By God, that is enough.” He’d make an end to the wretch this time. “There are laws in England that prevent men from forcing women to marry them.”
“The law says Juliet is already married to me,” St. Cyr said softly and drew a sheaf of papers from his jacket. He waved them at Amiable. “And only to me.”
Chapter 2
Blood roared in Amiable’s ears, as though he stood in the heat of battle. He drew his sword and lunged, aiming to skewer the Frenchman through the stomach. “The law will matter not at all if you are dead, St. Cyr.”
St. Cyr grasped the knob of his walking stick and pulled a thin blade free just in time to parry the thrust, then scampered for the door, calling out in English, “This is not the end of this, Juliet. I will return with the authorities and make you see reason.”
As the viscount fled the room, Amiable scrambled after him.
“Let him go.” Juliet tugged his arm.
Amiable stopped and the front door slammed shut. “I wish I’d run the blackguard through.”
“No, that would have been a disaster. We’ve had scandals enough of that sort.” Juliet dropped his arm and backed away, her face pasty white. “Thank you so much for your assistance, sir. I am truly in your debt.” She burst into tears and crumpled on the rose and cream sofa, shaking hard enough to make the legs skitter against the wood floor.
Duty still called, it seemed. He eased down beside her, fished a clean handkerchief from his pocket, and handed it to her, then urged her head onto his shoulder. More than one woman had used it as a crying post.
He slid his arm around her shoulders then gazed about the room. Rose chairs and a dainty writing desk bespoke it as the lady’s receiving room. It suited her. However, was this indeed her house? Not if she had married Manning. And where the devil was Katarina? She should be in the midst of this ruckus, yet Juliet had said she was alone.
Her crying lessened into little broken sobs and she sat up abruptly and scooted away. “Oh, I beg your pardon, sir.”
He smiled to reassure her. “Not at all, my lady. It is ‘my lady,’ I
assume?”
“Oh, yes. Of course, you don’t know who I am, do you?” She smiled, wiping her tears. “Lady Juliet Ferrers, Mr…er…Lord?”
“Captain Amiable Dawson, at your service.” He inclined his head. “Then you are not married to Jack Fitzwilliam, the Earl of Manning?”
“Oh, no, Captain Dawson. Jack is my brother-in-law. I used his name merely as a ruse to throw Philippe off balance. I am so grateful you came to my rescue just now.” She squeezed his arm. “Just like a knight in shining armor, don’t you think? Only not really in armor. Except for the sword. Would you really have called Philippe out?”
“Do you doubt it, my lady?” He stared into her dark, sinful, intoxicating eyes.
“I suppose not. I certainly wanted to kill him when he brought up the Christmas ball.” She flushed and hastily rose, bringing Amiable to his feet.
“I should have enjoyed removing his tongue after that little indiscretion. However, what he said, Lady Juliet, about being married to him. Is it true?” He should at least find out that much. Then he must ask for Katarina—the damsel in distress he had come to rescue.
“Absolutely not, Captain Dawson. I am convinced Philippe is lying about our marriage. He would never go against the wishes of his father, and his father no longer wished us to wed. Philippe would have cut out his own tongue before he disobeyed the Count de Mallain.” She sighed and paced to the window. “I pray that is still true.”
“Did St. Cyr ask why you still lived at your brother’s house if you were now married?” Such a slip might very well bring the villain running after the lady.