Royal's Bride (27 page)

For long moments, she lay slumped over his powerful chest, their bodies still joined. She wasn’t sure how long she stayed there. Perhaps she even slumbered, for when she opened her eyes, she felt his hands smoothing over her hair.

She started to tell him she loved him, but the words remained locked away. There was no future for them. It wouldn’t be fair to Royal and it wouldn’t be fair to her.

Instead, when he rolled her beneath him, his body hard once more, she locked her arms round his neck and began to match the rhythm he set. Her mouth found his and she kissed him. The night belonged to her.

She would pay for her sins on the morrow.

M
usic drifted into the street in front of the Caulfields’ sumptuous three-story brick mansion. Golden light spilled through the windows, and elegantly attired guests formed a line at the entrance to the house. As the big black ducal coach rolled beneath the portico pulled by four matched gray horses, a remnant of the days before his father had lost his fortune, Royal steeled himself.

From this night forward, his life would no longer be his own. Marriage was a duty he had accepted, a price he had agreed to pay, and he would do what was required of him.

He would marry Jocelyn Caulfield and claim her fortune, and in return, she would become the Duchess of Bransford. She would give him heirs and somehow he would find a way for them to build a life together.

It didn’t matter that he was in love with another woman. In the world in which he lived, marriage had nothing to do with love.

And though the fact had been apparent for weeks, he
had only just discovered the depth of the love he felt for Lily Moran.

He straightened at the feel of the carriage wheels rolling to a stop.

“It appears we have arrived.” Aunt Agatha’s fragile voice drifted toward him from the opposite side of the carriage where she sat next to his brother Rule.

“So it would seem,” Rule said dryly as the door swung open and a footman in powder-blue livery and a silver periwig stood rigidly awaiting their descent.

Royal stepped lightly to the ground, turned and helped Aunt Agatha down. Taking her arm, he escorted her slowly along the red carpet toward the ornate, white-painted front doors.

The Caulfields greeted their guests in the high-ceilinged entry. Black-and-white marble floors gleamed beneath their feet.

“A pleasure to see you, Your Grace,” Matilda Caulfield said, her eyes gleaming with an anticipation she made no effort to hide. She smiled at his aunt. “You, as well, Lady Tavistock.”

Though it was difficult to imagine Jocelyn’s rare beauty coming from her slightly rotund mother, the evidence of Matilda’s parentage was there in the arch of her fine dark eyebrows, glossy mahogany hair and the perfect shape of her lips.

“Welcome to Meadowbrook,” Henry Caulfield said to Royal warmly.

“Thank you, sir. I believe you’ve met my brother Rule. He is just returned from university.”

“Of course. Good evening, my lord,” Henry said to Rule, who made a snappy bow.

“Mr. and Mrs. Caulfield, a pleasure to see you again.”

Royal turned his attention to Jo. “Miss Caulfield, you are looking exceptionally lovely tonight.”

“You as well, Your Grace.” She was lavishly gowned in violet silk the same shade as her eyes. Ringlets of thick dark hair nestled against her bare shoulders, gleaming in the light of the gas chandelier. Royal thought she had never looked more stunning.

They spoke a moment. His future wife was friendly, her manner gracious, and yet he sensed a turmoil in her he had never witnessed before. Perhaps it was the result of finding him with Lily in the hat shop, but he didn’t think so. Jocelyn was completely sure of herself and her appeal, and certain of what it was she truly wanted.

He couldn’t imagine her having the slightest doubt of his interest in her or the finalization of their marriage.

Other guests arrived, demanding their hosts’ attention. Royal moved toward the stairs, Aunt Agatha on his arm, her cane in one knobby hand. Giving her the time she needed to handle the double sweeping staircase, they climbed to the floor that housed the magnificent ballroom, Rule close behind them. Finished with his schooling at last, the youngest Dewar appeared to be looking forward to the evening ahead.

Royal just wished it was over.

Jocelyn stood next to her mother, a smile pasted on her lips. Her chest ached. She felt like crying. It was ridiculous. Tonight should be the happiest night of her life. In a couple of hours, her engagement to the Duke of Bransford would be announced and she would be crowned the future queen of society.

Her mother was already beaming, imagining her own moment of triumph, the elevated social position that being the mother-in-law of a duke would bring her. Her father was laughing and smiling, so proud of her, thrilled she would soon become the duchess he was certain she was born to be.

Everyone was happy.

Everyone but Jo.

And all because Christopher Barclay had rejected her.

Only days ago, she would have been furious at the thought that a lowly barrister with no money and little social position would have the gall to refuse her offer of marriage. She would have been livid, as she had been the day she had stormed out of the Parkland Hotel.

Since then, the anger had faded and the pain had set in. It was deep and abiding, an ache so fierce she could barely sleep, barely eat. Her mother thought she’d been beset by nerves, worry about her upcoming engagement.

Thank God, she would never know the truth.

In the past few days, Jocelyn had thought of Christopher a thousand times. She had tried to convince herself it was impossible that she could have fallen in love with him. She didn’t even believe in love.

But the pain in her heart was real and her feelings for Christopher had only deepened since that day. She respected him, she realized, for being man enough to stand up to her. Man enough to turn down an offer that told him nothing of her feelings. An offer he believed was little more than a whim.

Perhaps at the time, it had been.

Since his refusal, she had thought of him constantly. She had listened for any thread of gossip about him,
scoured the newspapers for articles that mentioned his name. In a discussion of a case he had won, the
London Times
praised him for his abilities as a barrister and predicted he would go far. Christopher was smart and strong and yet she knew he could be tender.

Her heart hurt. She had spent hours telling herself she only wanted him because she could not have him. Now she knew she wanted so much more. She wanted Christopher to love her. As deeply as she was in love with him.

Her throat tightened. It was all just so unfair!

She felt trapped and confused. Part of her wanted to call off the wedding. Another part warned that if she did, she would be left with no one. Christopher had laughed at her offer of marriage, and should she repeat that offer, would likely do so again.

The evening slipped past. She danced with Royal three times, danced with his darkly handsome younger brother, Rule, danced with half the eligible bachelors in London, smiling all the while, pretending to be happy, working to look gay and sophisticated. She tried not to glance at the door, tried not to wish that Christopher would appear. She tried not to hope he would rush in and demand she cry off with Royal, tell her he had changed his mind. Tell her that he loved her and truly wanted to marry her.

Instead, she saw her father and mother approaching from the opposite side of the ballroom. From another direction, Royal walked toward her. It was time to announce their engagement.

“The hour has come,” the duke said softly, offering her his arm. “I believe your parents have something of importance they wish to announce.”

For a single, mad moment, she wanted to bolt for the door. She wanted to run away, hide until this nightmare was over.

Then she spotted her archenemy, Serafina Maitlin, standing near the platform where the musicians were playing and the announcement would be made. Her eyes were saucer-round as she watched the duke escorting Jocelyn and her parents toward the platform and realized exactly what it meant.

Anger turned Serafina’s face bright red. Her mouth thinned into a brittle line and her eyes seemed to glitter. Jocelyn’s doubt slipped away at the sight of her rival’s jealousy.

By heaven, she would do it! She would become a duchess! She would show them! She would show all of them!

And especially Christopher Barclay!

Standing near the mirrored wall at the end of the ballroom, Preston Loomis spotted the old woman he had come there to see. Next to the Dowager Countess of Tavistock, Hortense Crowley was a gnarly old woman, wrinkled and slightly hunched over. More importantly, her mind was as old and fading as the rest of her.

He made his way in the old woman’s direction, setting his empty punch cup down on a passing waiter’s tray.

Around him, the crowd was murmuring, discussing the formal announcement that had just been made—the Duke of Bransford’s engagement to the wealthy heiress Jocelyn Caulfield. It came as little surprise to anyone. The betting books were full of wagers. The duke was
nearly bankrupt. The Caulfield girl came with a fortune. Royal Dewar had no real choice.

Preston managed to keep a satisfied smile off his face. His own coffers were overflowing, thanks to the most successful confidence scheme he had ever managed to accomplish. With the size of his fortune, he never had to work another day.

But the thrill of success came as much from the challenge a mark presented as it did the money. He focused his attention on old lady Crowley, who had moved a little away from the countess and now stood unsteadily next to a potted palm. Preston fixed a smile on his face and moved toward her.

“Mrs. Crowley, a pleasure to see you again.”

She frowned, drawing her busy, dull gray eyebrows together. “Do I know you?”

A trickle of annoyance filtered through him. He wasn’t used to being forgotten. “Why, yes. We’ve met on several occasions. My name is Preston Loomis. You may recall, I remind you of your late husband.”

She looked up at him and her eyes brightened. “Indeed! Mr. Loomis, of course. Why, you’re a dead ringer for my Freddy when he was your age.”

They talked for a while, saying nothing of importance, just giving her time to relax in his company and get things moving in the direction he wanted.

“Do you follow the newspapers, Mrs. Crowley?”

She shook her head. “Never had much use for them. My Freddy did, though.”

“I understand your husband was in the business of making armaments, among other things.”

“Guns, you mean?”

“Why, yes.”

She nodded, moving gray strands of hair that had escaped her silk cap. “Now that you mention it. Built rifles, he did. Foreigners are interested in rifles these days.”

“I have an interest in weaponry, myself, at least as an investment. Would there be a chance I might participate in some way in the ownership of the plant?”

She stared off into the distance, said nothing for the longest time. Then she blinked and seemed to refocus. “You want to buy some stock?”

“I might consider it, yes. Though I would need to see the facility, of course.”

She nodded sagely. “Of course. My Freddy always said never buy a pig in a poke. Why don’t I have my solicitor pay you a call? Stevens is his name. Good man is Stevens.”

Preston handed her an embossed white card with his address printed on it. He hoped the old bat would stay lucid long enough to remember why she had it.

“What’s this for?” She waved the card around as if she were trying to dry the ink, and his hopes sank.

“You were going to give it to your solicitor, Mr. Stevens. Tell him I am interested in buying stock in your armaments factory.”

“Guns, you mean?”

He barely hung on to his temper. “I would appreciate it if your Mr. Stevens got in touch.” Once he did—if he did—Preston would take care of the rest.

The old woman tucked the card into the velvet reticule hanging from her arm, turned and ambled away without so much as a by-your-leave.

Preston blew out a frustrated breath. Perhaps he would never hear from her man.

Then again, the Gypsy had never been wrong.

An image of her appeared in his mind, lovely and exotic, her pale skin and light eyes a delicate contrast to her black hair and midnight eyebrows. An unexpected trickle of desire slipped through him. It was a rare thing these days. Perhaps along with their business dealings, they might make another sort of bargain.

Inwardly, he smiled. Then he brushed the thought away. At present, it was money he wanted, not the girl.

All in due time
, he told himself.

All in due time
.

Royal was finally able to escape his fiancée and their well-wishers and make his way to the safe haven of his friends.

“Congratulations,” Nightingale said, the heavy gold and ruby ring on his right hand gleaming as he took a drink of champagne. “You will soon be one of us married folk.”

Royal just nodded. He would be married, but Night had been fortunate enough to marry for love.

“Cheer up, old man,” Quent said, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “You would have had to wed sooner or later. A man needs an heir and all that.” This from a man who had just entered the marriage mart. Royal wondered how he would feel a few months from now.

“She’s a lovely little piece,” drawled Savage. “You’re wedding the toast of London. Bedding her should be entertaining. That is some consolation.”

Royal turned and looked back at his future bride. In her violet silk gown, her glorious mahogany hair gleaming, she was impossibly beautiful. She stood there
like the duchess she would soon become, surrounded by a sea of admirers: envious young women, and men who thought that somewhere down the road there was a chance she might take one of them as a lover. For clearly her marriage was one of convenience.