A Lady's Code of Misconduct (Rules for the Reckless #5)(15)

“It’s a strange kind of torture,” he said quietly. “To be caged by the lowest expectations. A humiliation of the soul.”

She took a sharp breath. He could not read her mind. It was only a coincidence. But the look on his face . . . it was pity. As though he had suddenly decided to be human.

“Do we have time for this?” She did not want him to pretend to be humane. His heart was as black as her uncle’s, and she wouldn’t forget it. He would not cozen her into doing his work for him.

“No,” he said calmly. “You don’t. Three months? A trifle. You made a mistake by allowing the Masons to announce your engagement. No gentleman will look twice at you now that you’ve been publicly claimed. You won’t find a husband in a ballroom, Jane. And you say they won’t let you wander elsewhere.”

Her nails were cutting into her palms. “And how was I meant to prevent the announcement?”

“That is what friends are for,” he said. “I might have helped. But you failed to ask.”

The last thing she wished was to cast herself deeper into his web! “It makes no difference. I’ll find a way. I don’t want a man bred to this world anyway.” She knew how Burke’s circle of friends looked upon her uncle—and her, too. Her fortune was dirty, the product of honest labor. “I want a husband who’s grateful to wed me, not one who condescends to it.”

“Good sense,” Burke murmured. “But then, commoners pose a different problem. MPs, peers of the realm—such men can procure a special license to wed. Ordinary folk must register their intentions publicly, and wait to be granted permission. That leaves a window of opportunity for your uncle to discover your plans. A very large window, in fact.”

She had thought of all this. “We’ll run away first.”

“And risk being caught? Besides, you cannot be married in a parish to which you don’t belong. It will take three weeks of waiting, wherever you go.”

“Or a—on a ship,” she said. “A British captain can marry subjects at sea.”

“You won’t have any money,” he said gently. “And you don’t mean to marry a gentleman. So who will buy your passage? Three months to find a man, woo him, persuade him to take an expensive gamble, with an uncle whose name is well known and feared besides?”

“Enough.” She could not listen to this. “I will do what I must.” Somehow she would make it work.

“Better,” he said, “to find a way to marry instantly—by special license, or something even quicker.”

“Perhaps you can marry me,” she bit out. “MP that you are.”

His gaze narrowed on her. “You joke. But I could do a great deal with your money. Why, I might even afford to have ideals.”

Horror iced through her. He was the last man on earth she would marry. “Not in a thousand years, Mr. Burke.”

He offered her a dark smile. “How flattering. And yet you made free with my mouth two months ago.”

How shameless he was to speak of it. “I was only returning the favor,” she said. “To teach you a lesson.”

“Oh?” He leaned forward, his voice turning silken. “And what lesson was that? For it seems I didn’t learn it.” Very slowly, he reached across the space between them and cupped her face. His thumb traced her cheekbone.

Awareness prickled over her skin. He had not risen from his seat. He posed no immediate threat. That was the only reason she did not leap away.

But the rhythm of his caress . . . the intent look in his eyes . . . it was hypnotic, oddly riveting.

“Perhaps you should teach me that lesson again,” he whispered. “I promise to prove a better student.”

The notion punctured his spell. She leaned away, out of reach. “Go learn from Lady Farnsworth.”

He sat back, his face darkening. “I need that letter.”

“I’m sorry for it.”

He blew out a breath, raked his hand through his hair. “Six years,” he said. “That is how long you’ve been at Marylebigh. I expect I am the first person, in all that time, to see you for what you are. To recognize that you are capable. Is that so?”

The remark struck her like a fist. What a pathetic ruin her life had become. “Am I meant to be grateful to you?”

“No,” he said. “But by God, I hope I am right about you. I know a man,” he said curtly. “Ordained, to my amazement. But of very flexible morals. He has been known to produce marriage lines when required.”

Astonishment prickled through her. He could not be suggesting . . . “Go on.”

“Some of these marriages did take place, but too late. Others never happened at all. But this man’s records document them, regardless. Pick a name, pick a date: it often proves very useful in matters of inheritance.”

“A . . . forger of marriage records?”

“Indeed. Although he prefers to be addressed as his grace the archbishop.”

An archbishop? “Does he also provide the groom?”

His laugh was husky. “That falls to you, I’m afraid. But with this gentleman’s aid, you can be sure that no court in the land will dispute the validity of your union. A prince, a pauper, the czar of Russia—take your pick, so long as you feel sure the groom will not object. All the archbishop requires is a name. You’ll be able to present the marriage to your uncle as a fait accompli.”