Free Not Quite Married by Betina Krahn Page B

and town houses, and servants bantered eagerly with one another and with pushcart vendors trolling the streets. Everything seemed so unremarkable and ordinary.
    How could it be?
    The rest of the morning she had reserved a piece of her attention to rehearse what she would say to her father when she delivered the news of her marriage. Now the moment had come. But, in truth, nothing in her mental rehearsals had prepared her for the sight of Raoul sitting casually in a chair by her father’s desk, staring at her as if she were a morsel and he were a mongrel.

    “I am glad to find you both here. I have something to say to you that will not wait.” She tightened her grip on the document she held, and squared her shoulders. “I cannot wed Monsieur Trechaud in ten days’ time. Or ever, for that matter.”
    The earl tossed the ledger he had been studying onto his desk and scowled, clearly having difficulty registering what she had said.
    “You cannot marry?” His voice grew more incredulous with each successive word. “And why is that?”
    “Because I am already married.” Her heart began pounding as she watched Raoul straighten and sit forward in his chair. “I was wedded a day ago in the parish of St. Agrippa of the Apostles, in Cheapside.” She held out the marriage document and was relieved that it didn’t shake visibly.
    “Married? To whom?” The earl snatched the certificate from her and jerked it open to glare at it. What he saw caused some of the color to drain from his face. “Who the devil is Aaron Durham? If this is intended as a jest—”
    “I assure you, it is not. It is a valid and binding certificate of marriage . . . entered into by myself and Mister Durham in front of the vicar of the Church of St. Agrippa. You are welcome to verify the records and the legality of the vows with the vicar himself.”
    “You can bet I will!” the earl roared, thrusting to his feet. “How the devil— Why would you— Who could you possibly have—”
    He glanced at Raoul, who had shoved to his feet and was staring at her as if he could ignite her with his gaze. “Do you have the faintest notion what you’re saying? You cannot just walk into my study and break a betrothal agreement . . . ten days before the wedding! There are contracts—legal ramifications—financial obligations. What the hell’s gotten into you?”
    He rushed around the desk with the document in his hand and seized her by the shoulders. “I don’t know what you think you’re up to, but I’ll not allow you to ruin me and blacken the name of Southwold with some idiocy!” He gave her a fierce squeeze. “I’ll find this church and see these records for myself. And if it’s true, you’ll answer for your treachery!”
    He released her with such force that she staggered, and then stormed out of the study, calling for his carriage.
    She dragged a much needed breath before looking up to find Raoul blocking her way to the door. His eyes burned like black coals and ominous waves of heat rolled from him, buffeting and unsettling her.
    “Is it true?” he demanded, raking her with his gaze.
    “It is.” She raised her chin. “I am truly and legally married.”
    He studied her. “Why?” He stepped closer, biting off every word.
    “I asked for your consent a fortnight ago and you gave it of your own free will.” He lowered his gaze suggestively to her breasts.
    “You were eager enough to have me then.”
    She suppressed a shiver, remembering that first night in the garden: how beguiled she had been by his kisses and caresses.
    Then, she’d had no basis for judgment of a man’s nature or his attentions to her.
    “Then, I did not know what sort of man you are. Now, I do. And I would not marry you if the king himself commanded it.”
    She lifted her skirts, stepped around him, and sailed out the door.
    Raoul turned to watch as she fled up the stairs to her rooms. He peeled his clenched fists open and forced himself to relax. What was done was