Page 62 of Souvenir of Love

Andre and the other men around the table nodded.

“I may not be able to wrap Elizabeth Harcrest around my finger”—James smiled without a trace of humor—“but I intend to do my best to keep her under my thumb.”

Twenty-Two

They’d been riding in the carriage for nearly an hour when Marcus broke the silence. Writing desk balanced on his knees, quill in hand, he looked from James to Elizabeth, and then back to James. “Your wedding license—shall I draw up a simple license or a special one?”

“Sorry?” James said.

Elizabeth stared at the man as if he’d sprouted a second head.

“I’ve always wanted to try my hand at an archbishop’s signature, but I suppose a special license might raise some questions as to how you managed to acquire it so quickly and without anyone hearing of it. Unless you’ve some special connections of which I’m unaware, Dinsmore?”

“No.”

“It’s unfortunate we’re not closer to Scotland. The paperwork for Gretna Green would be quite simple.”

“Heading in the opposite direction, I’m afraid.”

“A small wedding it is, then, with the fewest possible witnesses. Easier that way, fewer signatures to create.” Marcus lifted his quill, but stopped short of writing. “It just occurred to me you might be married on shipboard; even less paperworkthere. Of course”—he tapped the tip of the quill feather on his lip—“you might marry in France.”

Elizabeth couldn’t decide which was more bizarre, the man’s references to marriage licenses and forging, or the fact that this was the longest speech she’d heard from him since they’d met three days ago. “Since we are only pretending to elope, I fail to see why Lord Dinsmore and I should need any sort of documents, forged or otherwise.”

“Paperwork, licenses, contracts, certificates, they are the key to our modern society. You’d be surprised how many doors open to a few flourished signatures and an official-looking stamp or two.”

“It wouldn’t be binding, would it?” She slid a glance at James. “I shouldn’t want to find myself unintentionally bound to Lord Dinsmore.”

“So young and innocent,” Marcus said dryly, “to think that a document, particularly one such as a marriage license, could ever be binding. People are bound only if they wish it so, not simply because some fancy bit of scrollwork says they are.”

What a peculiar secretary James has chosen, Elizabeth thought. “Is that why you became a forger, because you’ve such contempt for legal institutions?”

Marcus shrugged, his expression making it clear he had no intention of answering her question. “A marriage license will make it easier for you to travel with Dinsmore, raise fewer questions—not to mention eyebrows. A married woman traveling with her husband is subject to far less…how shall I put this? Discourtesies.”

Discourtesies.She wondered if James’s secretary was aware of the many cuts she’d suffered in London, the slights that had followed her to the countryside, driving her to this moment. “Still, if people suppose us to be eloping and not yet married, itwill be easier for Lord Dinsmore and me to explain our need for separate lodgings.”

“That matter has been settled,” James cut in sharply. “I have no interest in paying the cost of extra rooms, even if they should be available, which is unlikely considering where we are headed. And I have enough on my mind without wondering, every moment, what trouble you might have gotten yourself into, left unattended in a public inn.”

Elizabeth ignored the latter part of his answer. “I’ve been thinking I should send word to my brother asking him to send me some additional funds. I’ll tell him that the Norcrofts have the cleverest seamstress visiting and that I’d like to have some dresses made.”

James arched an inquisitive brow. “And where will you have this money sent, and how do you propose it might reach us once we begin traveling in France?”

She frowned.

“Of course, if your sensibilities have been distressed after only one night together,” he volunteered, “it’s not too late to have you delivered safely home.”

“That will not be necessary,” she snapped.

“It was worth a try.” He smiled, a curve that was thrown off center by the scar. “So, what shall it be; shall we tell anyone who might be curious that we were married in a quiet country church, sheep grazing in the cemetery outside, while we pledged our troth at an old wooden altar? Shall we say that you wore fluttering ribbons and I sober silks?”

She looked at him as if she were considering his suggestion. “You know, I’m not certain which part of your story people will have the most difficulty believing, that you have gotten married or that you were actually in a church.”

Marcus smothered a cough that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

She continued, aping his casual tone. “If we must pretend to have married, let us tell people it was on shipboard, crossing the channel. I wore a sensible navy traveling gown; you were in brown serge and puce.”

“Puce? I never wear puce.”

“The ceremony was unremarkable, the words spoken hurriedly so that the captain could get back to the business of sailing.”