The Wedding of the Century & Other Stories (21 page)

June 1874
North Yorkshire Moors

“D
AMN IT, HE'S WON AGAIN!”

Jase Markham slammed his cards down on the makeshift table and smiled in triumph. “That's a hundred quid from you, Trevere.”

The duke frowned and lifted his tankard of ale as he cast his gaze out the grime-covered window. “It's early yet, let's have another hand.”

“We've been at this all night,” Maxime Carrington grumbled. “Why are you avoiding your bed, and its lovely occupant?”

Trevere scowled and motioned to the deck. “Will someone deal?”

The cards were picked up, shuffled, and Merrick Carrington, the Marquis of Winterborne, began to toss out cards as he shared a smile with his twin, who sat opposite him. “Are you certain Her Grace won't mind?” he teased, sending the proper Trevere frowning once again. “You have been gone all night. No doubt Her Grace will want an explanation for this behavior. Wives are like that, or so I've been told.”

“What do you know of wives, Winterborne?”

“That they generally become rather miffed when their husband spends the night away, consumed by ale and deep play.”

“Don't remind me,” Trevere said with a forlorn glance at the tally of winnings. “I'm nearly five hundred pounds lighter than when I arrived.”

“I told you when you decided to flee your house that nothing good would come of it.”

“Sod off,” the duke snapped at Winterborne, sending the table laughing.

Evan Westlake, the head of the notorious Westlake clan, was hiding out in a stable instead of facing his wife after a row. Jase found that fact rather ridiculous. The imposing duke cowed to no one, but one little, dark-haired woman with large brown eyes sent him running. Strange how the man who was once known as the wicked and wanton Westlake had changed so much.

“Five years,” Maxime murmured as he glanced at his cards and shared a looked with his brother, Merrick, “and you've never had a row before now? Remarkable.”

“I prefer not to talk about wives at the present,” the duke grumbled. “I want more ale, and to win back some of my money.”

Maxime snorted and leaned toward Jase. “What do you think of this business of wives and holy matrimony, Raeburn?”

Swallowing a long draft of warm ale, Jase contemplated his answer. He wasn't opposed to marriage per se. His parents enjoyed a long and glorious union. They were as passionately in love to this day as they were on their wedding day. One could not be surrounded by such bliss and not ache but for a measure of the same happiness. But marriage for him was out of the question. So was discussing it.

“Ha!” Winterborne said with glee. “His expression says it all. You look like you've swallowed sour milk, Raeburn.”

Jase placed his pewter tankard down on the wooden
pallet that acted as their card table. Behind them, the soft whinnies of horses could be heard. Before him were three of his closest friends—all school chums from Eton and Cambridge.

He didn't want to dwell on Edward, because thoughts of him lead to other, more dangerous thoughts. Mainly a raven-haired temptress with large, dark blue eyes and curves that made a man mad with desire.

“Come, let's play,” he muttered as he reached for his hand. “We've been at this all night, and if we don't get His Grace home, he'll have a devil of a time explaining things to his wife. And I, for one, have no wish to be cornered by her and interrogated. I fear she could make the Spanish Inquisition look like child's play.”

Everyone laughed, except the duke, of course, who had been irritable and distracted all night. After five years of marriage, and repulsive displays of matrimonial bliss, all was not as it once was. Despite not wanting to marry himself, Jase didn't want to see his friend suffer. Jase knew how much his friend adored his duchess, just as Trevere knew his sordid secret.

“Your brother is for the noose later this month, is he not?” Winterborne asked. “The Duke of Torrington's delightful daughter. Gorgeous girl.”

Trevere shot him a look over the tops of his cards. Jase cleared his throat.

“Yes, as a matter of fact he is.”

And that was all he intended to say on the subject. But Winterborne was in his cups, and he wanted to talk, not play cards.

“I danced with her once, at Lady Steepes's musicale—delightful armful. I was dashed disappointed to discover that she was intended for someone else.”

He was, as well, but there it was. Blossom was engaged to marry his brother. It was a love match. And he
would be forced to bear witness to the happy union in three weeks, one day and—he glanced down at his pocket watch—five hours.

“I've never seen her. Is she pretty?” Maxime asked. “I adore pretty girls. Especially intended ones,” he teased.

Jase ground his teeth together and reminded himself that these were his friends. He liked his friends. He didn't want to murder them, but if they kept on about marriage and Blossom, he was going to have to bash them both.

“Oh, aye, gorgeous,” Winterborne said as he finished off his ale. “Striking, to say the least. Dark exotic features with a rather—” he cast a glance to Jase “—desirable form.”

That description of her was bland and uninspiring. Jase much preferred his own—that of an angelic succubus, created to tempt men like him. Her hair was black and thick, her eyes blue and innocent. Her lips red and succulent, the kind you could kiss and suck at for hours. Her skin was pale, unblemished, and her body was full and voluptuous and made for the dreams—and desires—of men. Innocence and sensuality. He wanted to ravish her, just as much as he wanted to protect her.
That
was the fitting description of Blossom.

“What do you think of her, Raeburn?” Maxime questioned.

Jase didn't dare glance at Trevere when he replied, “Tolerable.”

“Tolerable?” Maxime laughed. “Does that mean you will be able to abide her company during the Christmas holidays? Or does it mean she's an inch away from your scathing regard?”

Hell, no! He could hardly stand to be in the same county as she. How would he ever be able to bear seeing the woman he desired with his brother? Witnessing their
conjugal bliss was going to be soul-shattering, just as it had been to watch their love grow.

“What of you? Will you be next?” Winterborne taunted. “You can hardly stand to be outdone by your younger brother.”

Jase frowned and tossed a card out. Hearts were trump and he lead with a measly ten of hearts. His mind was not on the hand, but rather on the image of a very delicious raven-haired nymph. Which really was rather disturbing seeing that she was going to be his sister-in-law.

“Come now, Raeburn, you've got a title to be conscious of. What of the proverbial heir and a spare?”

He glared at Winterborne. “What of you, old boy? You've got a title, as well, and as far as I know, the only women you get close to have long snouts and tails.”

Maxime laughed and tipped his head back. “True enough. But my brother does put in all sorts of effort in breeding—it's just the wrong sort of species.”

As if on cue, a pretty brown filly snorted and stomped in her stall.

“Come now, this is putting a depressing shade on our game,” Winterborne snapped. “I've got a winning hand here, and I intend to make good use of it.”

“Agreed. I'm not risking the wrath of my wife for talk of horses or marriage and women,” Trevere grumbled. Tossing the ace of hearts on the pile, he signaled Jase to pick up the trick. “Cease this prattle and let's play.”

Grumbling, the Carrington brothers focused their attentions on the cards. But damn them, after all this talk of marriage Jase could not think of anything other than Blossom and how he would have to return home to Bewdley in a few weeks and watch the one woman he yearned for above all others marry his brother.

Damn the Fates! He wanted to curse and rail, and yes…
abduct her from her home and ravish her so thoroughly she would be ruined for any other man but him.

Oh, he'd thought of it—thousands of times—what it would be like to have those lovely blue eyes on him, or those luscious red lips beneath his, and on other parts, as well. He'd debauched her in his mind, and craved her from afar, for so long that he almost felt wedded to her. He'd never met with another woman who made his body feel like Blossom's did. One glance from her was like watching fireworks.

Melodramatic fool
. It was unhealthy, this obsession with her. Nothing could come out of it. Passion was all well and good, and he was certain he could tempt her with seduction if he truly desired to. All young women could be persuaded to succumb to a kiss and a caress. But there was the undeniable and infuriating fact that Blossom loved his brother. And Samuel loved her. Passion was never a replacement for love. He of all people knew that. So, he had stepped back and allowed his brother to love Blossom, while he had tried—most unsuccessfully—to bury his feelings.

“Pray, excuse me, milord, but a telegraph has just arrived for Lord Raeburn.”

Four sets of eyes peered up from the cards. Winterborne's footman was standing in the stable opening, the early-morning sun outlining his tall figure.

“A telegraph,” he found himself saying. “When did you decide to avail yourself of modern convenience?”

Winterborne waved the footman in. “Since I found it necessary to expand my breeding business after I inherited this deuced indebted estate up in the north, where there is nothing but sheep and cattle and little of anything that is convenient.”

Ignoring Winterborn's rant, Jase reached for the missive and glanced around. His friends, the nosy blighters,
watched as he opened the paper. Who could it be from? he wondered. He'd been nomadic these past months, restless as the impending wedding came closer. He'd felt out of sorts, and he'd left Bewdley for the north where he and his father bred Arabian horses. After a few months there, he'd been lonely and isolated. He'd come to North Yorkshire to search out his friends. He'd been here ever since, but he hadn't written home to tell his family. His mother, who knew of his affliction, would only wish him back. No doubt, she would have a gaggle of young ladies for him to meet. To his mother, there was nothing better than to ease a broken heart with the promise of new love.

His darling mother. He did adore her, but sometimes he wished he had not unburdened himself when she had come across him after Samuel had announced his engagement. He still cringed at the memory, and at the way he had allowed himself to be comforted in her arms.

Barely breathing, Jase stared at the telegraph and the name of the sender. Samuel. He'd met a ballet dancer and eloped to Gretna Green? Was this some sort of jest? Or had his brother finally lost his mind in prewedding nerves?

The ramifications of such an act ran through his thoughts—so, too, did the possibilities. Blossom was free. Brokenhearted, no doubt, and shamed by his brother's rash actions, but free nonetheless.

“What is it?” Trevere asked.

The paper flitted from his trembling fingers down to the table, and Trevere reached for it. Their gazes collided
and then his friend, who had been so taciturn and utterly miserable all night long, smiled.

“I have a cottage in the Lakes. Lovely old place. Secluded. Romantic. A most excellent location. And it can be had on short notice. Just let me know when you want it, and it's yours.”

Jase looked between his friends—Trevere, who was still smiling, and the Carrington twins, whose mouths were hung open in question. And then, despite the lack of sleep, and too many cups of ale, Jase jumped up from his chair and snatched the missive out of Trevere's hand. “I'll be taking you up on that offer, Your Grace! Just you wait and see.”

T
WO LARGE HANDS PLANTED
themselves palms down on either side of her. “Another masterpiece, sweetheart.”

Brushing the black paint in fine strokes, Blossom smoothed the lines with the tip of her brush, blending it until it looked soft and feathery.

“The shadowing is perfect. You have a gift in that regard. Masterpiece,” he said again.

Smiling, she couldn't help but let out a little laugh. “Papa, you think everything I paint is a masterpiece. Why, you still have the portrait of our family framed on your desk—the one where we're all stick people with big heads and frighteningly large smiles.”

Laughing, he dropped a kiss to the top of her head. “My love, that was your first masterpiece. Everything else only gets better.”

Muttering to herself, she continued to paint, aware of the large presence of her father looming over her, studying her technique. He had taught her to draw and paint. She had been his apprentice, and now she was her own master.

“This is a plate from the commission you took?”

“Yes. A retelling of Lord Tennyson's
The Lady of Shallot.
”

“I like it—it's a balance of colors and shading. The jeweled tones give it a feel and atmosphere—one of substance, and a certain sensuality, I might say. Most striking.
But who is this?” he asked, pointing to the dark-haired character on horseback. “Lancelot.”

“I thought Lancelot was supposed to be a fair and golden knight?”

Lifting her brush from the plate, Blossom studied what she had sketched. Frowning, she suddenly recognized who she had drawn, and prayed her father wouldn't notice—or, heavens above, comment on the resemblance. How unfortunate it was that Jase seemed to be creeping into her thoughts. Subliminal or not, she was most perturbed. Where these thoughts had sprung from she had no idea. She hadn't thought of him in
that
way for years.

“Well?”

“Fair and golden is tired, Papa. Dark and mysterious is far more enticing, don't you think? Art is, after all, open to interpretation.”

He laughed, a deep chuckling sound that made her smile. Her father was her greatest champion. He loved her. Wanted only her happiness. When she and Samuel had broken the news of their canceled wedding, her father had been the first to hug her. To tell her that it was all right to follow her heart.

Her parents had a love match, a most passionate one, even to this day. It was what she had wanted, too. What she had hoped one day might flower between her and Samuel. But it had not, and these past months after her ended engagement had been the most freeing of her life.

“Dark and mysterious, eh?” he asked, once more perusing the portrait. “It is indeed most becoming in art, but not in life.”

She turned and looked at him over her shoulder. “Papa, are you warning me off of a certain type of gentleman?”

“Never! If I did, it would only draw you to that sort of man, wouldn't it? You have too much of me in you, I'm afraid. Headstrong, willful child.”

“I'm no longer a child.”

He sighed and moved away. “Don't I know it. These past few days have disabused me of the thought. Now, about these men who have asked for an audience with me. What do you want me to do?”

Blossom thought of the barrage of male guests who had been invited to her parents' party, and the handful of them that seemed to be her most ardent pursuers. “You may do precisely what you've done with the past four offers for my hand. Politely decline. I have no wish to marry a man who sees me as way to forge a connection with a powerful duke, or worse, a bank note.”

Laughing, her father moved away to gaze out the window. Blossom knew that below, on the grass, was a group of gentlemen playing lawn bowling. They were the same gentlemen who would not leave her be. The ones who spoke of her beauty, ad nauseam. They didn't even know her, and not one of them had ever truly tried to. They thought her a frivolous, featherbrained female who wished her vanity to be stroked. Little did they comprehend that she despised vanity and empty compliments. What she wanted was a man who was truthful, honorable—and passionate. The men her father was currently watching were only ardent about advancing their reputations and estates—with her dowry.

“Very well, I shall send them all away, desolate and brokenhearted.”

Snorting, she dabbed the tip of her brush once more into the ink. “I have a feeling that if you offered them a couple hundred pounds their desolation would evaporate and their broken hearts would miraculously mend.”

“Such a cynic,” her father teased. “I wonder from whom you inherited that flaw?”

Laughing, she looked up. “I think we both know the answer to that. Now, if we are done here, talking about bloodthirsty suitors, would you close the curtains, Papa? The sun is causing a glare on the canvas.”

“Enough for now, Blossom. Mama wishes you to come to the salon.”

“So you've turned traitor, have you?”

“No, I have not. But your mother has gone to a lot of work planning this party, and you will partake of it—at least some of it. Besides, I of all people know that one cannot shut one's self up forever. It's good for you to get out and meet new people. I'm certain that there is at least one gentleman present who can come up to scratch.”

“I'm not—”

“You're avoiding the male guests, my dear. Understandable, of course, but you're doing yourself a disservice. You know your mother and I would never force you to wed where your heart didn't lie. But we never promised to not encourage it along. Come, your mother wishes to see you.”

Mama…
Sighing, Blossom dropped her paintbrush in the jar of turpentine and wiped her hands on the white cloth that lay beside her. Mama had not accepted the news of her aborted wedding quite as well as Papa had. Oh, she had supported her decision not to marry where she did not love. But her mother, being a woman madly in love these past twenty-odd years, could not stand idly back and allow love to find her daughter. No, Mama sought out love with a vengeance. Hence, the enormous house party that was under way, and the dozens of single gentlemen milling about the estate.

“Lord Halston has spoken with me. He asked for the
honor of taking tea with us this afternoon. Naturally I agreed.”

Blossom quirked a perturbed brow in her father's direction. “Naturally. He's Mama's choice.”

Halston. He was a kind fellow, and handsome, too. He was a sporting man, and one of good spirits and jovial conversation and one of her more attentive and genuine admirers. Many of the single ladies grew tongue-tied in his presence, and more than once, Blossom had heard girls gossiping behind their fluttering fans about Halston, and the fact he was this Season's catch.

Glancing at her gown, and the stained apron she wore, Blossom sighed and held up a white flag of surrender. “I will just change.”

Her father uncrossed his arms and reached for her hand. “You'll do no such thing. Besides, we've seen you in stained aprons for years.”

Oh, good Lord, her mother was going to be perturbed. But her father was right. She had no plans to give up her painting after marriage. Best to set out the ground rules now.

With the duke's boots ringing a commanding tattoo on the marble floor, Blossom walked beside her father, down the private wing of the family's residence, to the yellow salon that belonged to her mother. It smelled of her—soap and orange blossoms—and she smiled, thinking of how many days she had spent there, listening to her mother's stories.

“My dear, I have dragged our daughter out of her studio for a spot of tea.”

In the process of pouring, her mother glanced up, then took in her state of dress. With a knowing smile, she nodded, and indicated the chair beside her.

“Come, Blossom. You can pour.”

Bounding up from his chair, the Earl of Halston turned
to greet her. His smile was bright and charming, until his gaze, which lingered a trifle too long on her face and bosom, descended—to the white apron splotched with oil paint.

“Forgive me,” she said in a hurry as she untied the strings to the apron. Tossing it aside, she placed it on a small table and headed for Halston, where she dropped into an elegant curtsy before him.

“Good day, my lord.”

He cleared his throat as he reached for her. Taking her bare hand in his, he helped her up. Blossom could not help but noticed how her fingertips—stained black—stood out against Halston's perfectly manicured ones.

“You look lovely today, Lady Blossom,” he murmured, and she thought she heard her father's deep chuckle.

“I've been painting,” she admitted as he released her hand and took the seat next to her mother.

“Do you do that often?” the earl asked as he sat down beside her.

“Oh, yes, every day.”

“Nearly all day,” her mother teased as she slid the china teapot to her. “Always in her studio.”

Holding out his cup and saucer, Halston smiled at her as she poured. “I think it charming when ladies paint.”

A chuckle from her father. Their eyes met as Blossom poured her father's tea. There was mischief in his eyes, and a shared look between her parents.

Turing back to Halston, Blossom attempted to clarify the earl's misdirected belief.

“I'm afraid I'm not a dabbler, my lord. Painting for me is not just another female accomplishment. It is as necessary as breathing. It fulfills me, and gives me purpose.”

Halston blinked, and tried to prevent choking on his tea.

“You have heard that I'm a professional artist, my lord? I take commissions.”

He did choke then. And her father most definitely did nothing to conceal yet another outburst of mirth—a sardonic one at that.

“You're a…a…” Halston looked to her father, then to her, floundering for the correct word.

“A career woman?” She brightened and straightened in her chair. “Indeed, I guess I am. I make a very comfortable living working for commission.”

“Surely you don't have to.” He glanced at her father, whose expression turned glacial. “That is to say, you would not need to continue in that vein if you were to say…marry advantageously.”

“I'd like to meet the man who tries to dissuade her from her painting,” her father muttered. “And no, she need not paint to keep us afloat, Halston. She does it because it is in her soul. Do you know nothing of the arts? An artist, whether they be painter, sculptor, poet or writer, cannot just stop doing what calls to them. It's in their blood, man. Who they are. Surely you would not wish to change what is in one's soul?”

Lord Halston flushed, and notched his chin, as though his necktie were choking him. “Of course not,” he said, smiling weakly. “And if one were truly worthy, they would not force you to abandon your…vocation,” he said in a strangled voice.

“Do you fish, Lord Halston?” her mother asked as she lowered her cup to the saucer. “The lake is well stocked with trout.”

“I do,” he said, brightening. “It's been an age since I've done so, however.”

“Oh, do you fly-fish?” Blossom asked, excited at last.

“Yes. Perhaps you might come and watch me, if that would be permissible. Your Grace?”

“Watch?” Blossom snapped at the same moment her father inclined his head, giving the earl permission to take her to the lake. “Whatever would I wish to watch for? No, I fly-fish, too.”

This time, Halston's eyes bulged out of his head, and his face turned red. “I…beg your pardon, Lady Blossom… I…”

“She's better than her brother,” her father drawled, a faint smile curling his lips. Her father was actually enjoying himself!

“I suppose you thought I might sit on a blanket, surrounded by a picnic lunch, while you entertain me with your skill.”

Halston squirmed in his chair. She was being far too forward, and rude, but she could not help it. She had no intention of lingering on the ground watching, idle, while Lord Halston strutted about, showing off his skills. She would never be that sort of wife, one content to sit back and admire. She wanted to participate—as her mother had always done. She wanted a partnership, a truly mutual companion.

Recovering with aplomb, Halston set his saucer atop the table. “I would be delighted to join you, Lady Blossom. Perhaps tomorrow morning, then?”

Blossom didn't know what to make of him. Did he legitimately wish to spend time with her, or was he merely placating her? His shock had been so evident, his disdain so transparent. What had made him change his mind? Was it her dowry, which was one of the largest on the Marriage Mart, or was it something else? Genuine affection?

Blossom could not summon the belief it was the latter. Halston, while handsome and personable, had proved himself a bit too traditional, too…male in his thinking. He could never truly desire to have her as his wife.

While she desired passion and love in her marriage,
she also wanted freedom. Freedom to paint and continue with her commissions. Freedom to be the sort of woman she had always been.

Her mother had reared her to be free thinking, liberal and self-sufficient. She found herself wondering what the old-fashioned Earl of Halston would think if he were to discover she could cook herself a hot pot and scones? Another of her mother's doings.

Her mother was a duchess, had been for twenty-five years, but before her marriage to the duke, Jane had been a common woman. A woman forced to work. An independent woman. And despite her title, and the fact that her daughter was born into the nobility, her mother had made it her mantra to raise her daughter in an independent fashion. Blossom had no need, or desire, to be dependent upon a man.

Would Halston accept her as she was? No, never mind acceptance. Would he
love
her as she was?

“Well, this has been a beautiful afternoon,” Halston commented. “And lovely tea. But you will forgive me. I promised Lady Billings that I would take a walk with her and her daughter in your beautiful gardens and I see it is the time that was set for us to meet. Till later, Lady Blossom.”