The Reluctant Bride Collection Read online

  “That’s not how it goes, Uncle George. All the world’s a stage.”

  George sat up in his seat, stymied. “You know As You Like It? You’re nine!”

  “Her last governess had a love of Shakespeare, God knows why–”

  George gasped and Sebastian talked over him.

  “The girls recited play after play. Dorothea became quite fond of draping herself over any article of furniture, her red scarf clutched to her chest, and dying à la Juliet.”

  Camilla proved she knew the words just as well as her younger sister when she said, “O happy dagger! This is thy sheath; rust there, and let me die.”

  George clapped at her, delighted.

  Sebastian said, “Unfortunately, the woman got herself married and we had to replace her. This governess prefers the Greeks.”

  George choked. “Oh, yes. Much better fare for children. Has Dorothea begun jabbing her eyes out with pins yet?”

  Camilla dipped her head so her father couldn’t see her smile and George decided he had no worries about his second oldest niece.

  He had slightly fewer worries about Camilla if she could quote Shakespeare.

  Sebastian only said, “Camilla, do not marry a rogue like your uncle here.”

  Camilla looked at her uncle and said, “Yes, Papa.”

  George laughed at them as they pulled to a stop, reaching through the window to open the hack door. He helped Camilla down, keeping her hand in his and grimacing when a man began shouting obscenities at the box that had fallen on his foot.

  “That,” George pointed his finger at her, “was a word never to be repeated, Lady Camilla. Especially around your mother.”

  Sebastian poked his head out the carriage. “Especially around anyone. I can not believe I let you and Flora talk me into this harebrained scheme.”

  “You can hardly blame Flora. She’s never been to the docks before.”

  “Trust me, George. I do not blame Flora.”

  George grinned as his brother descended and clapped him on the back. “Come. Let’s go see if there’s a ship unloading before we find my frippery.”

  They each grabbed one of Camilla’s hands, keeping her tight between them, and made their way along the tall brick wall leading to the arched main gate of the East India Docks.

  Camilla’s head tilted back as she looked up at the clock at the top of the entrance and then, as they passed through, at the tall masts of the East Indiamen berthed inside.

  There were over a hundred ships, some indeed being unloaded, and men shouted and cursed as chests of tea, bales of jute, and barrels of oil were hauled between ships and warehouses and waiting wagons.

  George sucked in the chaos.

  Sebastian never wavered as they made their way to the office and then down the quay to the warehouse. Men pushing sack trucks parted around them and George shook his head in wonder. If it had been him alone, he would have danced and been jostled about like a buoy on the waves, but the earl plowed ahead, expecting the waves to make way.

  Two brothers, nothing alike.

  Camilla stared as sailors climbed rigging and shouted to each other, all employing language that would stain any young girl’s cheeks red.

  Sebastian merely sighed and said, “I will have to remind Flora that this was her idea.”

  George flinched at a particularly nasty expression and said, “Oh, good. For a minute there I thought you were going to remind me.”

  As they entered the warehouse, George hailed the man of affairs he’d hired years ago to oversee his London affairs. Here to collect this last shipment, and George couldn’t have stayed away on pain of death.

  Chests were counted and loaded, and when the contents were signed for and transferred, George had one opened up and he pulled a hair comb gently from the straw padding.

  He handed it to Camilla. “Not another butterfly. But perhaps a flower is a perfect match. Will you wear yours now that you have a replacement?”

  Her eyes shone and she took it gingerly, nodding.

  Sebastian pulled one from the box. “These are. . .”

  “Exquisite. Yes, I know.”

  Sebastian shook his head, smiling slightly. “I was going to say beautiful. Exquisite will work.”

  George thought that a man was indeed fortunate when he could support himself by being good at something. When he could love what he was good at.

  More fortunate than any man could hope to deserve.

  More cursed when it was taken from him.

  When Sebastian made to put it back, George said, “Keep it for Flora. If Camilla has taught me anything, it is that a woman can never have too many trinkets.”

  “Frippery, Uncle George.”

  George laughed, thinking he wouldn’t mind having a few children of his own. And though one adventure had been taken from him, perhaps there would be some recompense after all.

  “Take three more for your sisters. And when they break theirs, you can surprise them with a replacement.”

  She nodded solemnly, taking three more combs from the chest and clutching them in her hands.

  The chest was closed and secured and George sighed as they followed the wagon down the quay and out the gate. Happy to have seen this part of it, at least one time.

  Sebastian patted his shoulder. “It could still keep you in pin money. You don’t have to stop if you love it this much.”

  George shook his head. “No one on the other end. No one who can see the one exotic hair comb among hundreds that will cause an English girl’s heart to skip a beat. No one that I could find anyway.”

  Sebastian said softly, “I’m sorry, George.”

  George nodded, then covered Camilla’s ears with his hands and said, “What poxy whore did you swive to curse us with this fate, Sebastian? To take everything away from the both of us?”

  Sebastian ran his thumb over the tines of the comb and murmured, “A Greek tragedy.”

  George’s lip curled and he said, “Only if it was Mother who was the whore.”

  Sebastian grimaced and put the comb into his pocket, reaching for the stack Camilla was balancing carefully in her hands.

  “Too far, George. You always take it too far.”

  “You were the one who said it was a Greek tragedy.”

  George took his hands away from his niece’s ears and Sebastian said, “An English tragedy, then.”

  “Everyone ends up dead in the end in those as well.”

  “Is there an alternative? We all end up dead in the end.”

  “The difference is, brother, where the story ends. This story ends with a marriage and the birth of a son. So, a comedy.”

  “Then why am I apologizing to you?”

  George boosted Camilla into the carriage, then stopped his brother from entering with a hand to the chest.

  “It’s not a tragedy, Sebastian. Just a twist we weren’t expecting.” He grabbed Sebastian in a one-armed hug and said softly, “You should go home and hug your wife. Apologize to her. Let her comfort you.”

  Sebastian grunted, though George didn’t think it was in agreement.

  “And I’ll dance my two sets with Miss Westin tonight.”

  Sebastian pulled back. “What about your game?”

  “I have been corrected. It’s not a game, it’s a stage. And I know what my new part is.”

  They settled themselves into the carriage, Sebastian handing Camilla back her comb so she could admire it on the ride home.

  “It’s not a new part, George. You’ve always been a silly rogue.”

  Camilla fingered the petals of the flower one at a time and said, “No, Papa. Now he’s the hero.”

  Eight

  George played his new part well that evening, heading straight for Miss Westin the moment he was able.

  He didn’t plow through the men surrounding her but danced and bobbed. Because he wasn’t the earl yet, or God willing, ever.

  He bowed low to her and when he rose, there was speculation in more than one set of
eyes.

  “I do hope you have a waltz free, Miss Westin.”

  She fluttered her fan. “I’ve been saving one set but I had nearly forgotten why. I am glad you have come to remind me.”

  He smiled when she held out her wrist and he scribbled his name on the dance card dangling from it. He held it a moment longer, noticing no more empty spots, and flicked his eyes up to meet hers.

  “It’s a pity you didn’t save two.”

  Her fan convulsed and she whispered, “A pity.”

  He searched through the chicken scratches again. “I don’t suppose any of the men listed here would be willing to sit one out. I am quite in the mood for dancing tonight.”

  There was a chorus of gasps and insulted well, I nevers behind him but George looked only at the lovely Miss Westin.

  She rallied, clearing her throat. “I’m sure none would care to give up the pleasure.”

  She said it in all seriousness and George thought that if only it had been said with disdain or innuendo, he would have dropped to one knee right then and there.

  He reminded himself that in a few years it would have that bite.

  “Quite sure?”

  She dropped her eyes. Fluttered her fan. And said, “Quite.”

  He found the bite he wanted watching a card game and talking to a gentleman with a half-afraid look on his face. Half-afraid and half-hopeful.

  George circled, waiting, and Lady Haywood waved her fan and smiled and watched him.

  When the hapless gentleman sketched a bow and left her, George brought her a cup. He nodded at the table.

  “Have you played already then? I missed it?”

  Elinor shook her head. “Not in the mood to play tonight.”

  “Not in the moo– Are you ill?”

  She laughed, low in the throat, making one wonder if she was laughing at you or what you said, and George grinned and sipped.

  “Too many other games to enjoy tonight,” she said and George stopped grinning.

  “You’ve spotted your prey.”

  It wasn’t a question, which was just as well since she didn’t deign to answer him.

  She said, “And you?”

  “Two with Miss Westin. If she can persuade some lovesick ninny to give me his dance. We shall see.”

  “That is moving along. Are you testing her ability to lead her men around by the nose or merely playing with her?”

  He grinned into his cup. “Can’t it be both?”

  “As I recall, you do love a good game. What happens if she offers you that second set?”

  The same thing that had happened every other time he’d won in his and Miss Westin’s verbal sparring match.

  He’d get bored. And then soldier on.

  He said, “What would you do in that situation?”

  Elinor didn’t hesitate. “Persuade some lovesick ninny to give me back my dance. And then give it to someone else.”

  He breathed it in. Reveled in it. And wondered just what he would do if Miss Westin played that hand.

  “I can’t decide, Lady Haywood, if I’m glad that I’m not playing you.”

  He could all but hear his good friend George St. Clair whispering in his ear.

  Who says you’re not? You’re still here.

  “You’re not glad. Else you wouldn’t be offering punch.”

  “It’s not all I’m offering.”

  And when her lips began curving up he said, “I’ve come to scribble my name on your dance card. A pity dance for the widow.”

  The curve of her lips opened up into a laugh.

  He said quietly, his mouth close to her ear, “I can’t only dance with Miss Westin. And you can’t refuse tonight, not when you’re wearing those slippers.”

  She lifted the hem of her dress to show him her dancing slippers, proving him right, then said, “I doubtless could.”

  “Could you? Have at it, then. What’s your excuse this time?”

  “I don’t want to dance with you.”

  He cocked his head. “I thought you would be a better liar than that.”

  She sipped, then turned her head to meet his still too-close eyes. “Did you?”

  He could very well imagine Miss Westin saying the same thing to him. Coquettish and playfully hurt. Accusing him of calling her a liar.

  Elinor said it as if she was agreeing with him. Oh, I do lie better than that, and therefore keeping the advantage to herself.

  She leaned against his arm, tilting her lips up to meet his ear and whispered hotly, “I. Don’t. Want. To.”

  George caught his shiver a moment too late and she pulled back to smile at him.

  Now there was bite. A lie and truth, all rolled into one.

  She handed him her empty punch cup. “Thank you for the refreshment, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “Thank you, Lady Haywood.”

  She walked away, the sway of her gown attracting his attention now that he wasn’t looking at her lips or dodging her barbs.

  He hadn’t even noticed the dress. Hadn’t noticed that she was wearing gray instead of black.

  Another week, another step away from her mourning.

  He looked around the room, looked down at the cup in his hand, and wondered.

  Just who was her prey?

  Hours of dancing later, George sat in front of a crackling fire in a brightly colored drawing room and rested his head against the back of a winged chair and willed himself not to fall asleep.

  Three large dogs sat at attention at his feet, which was why he was so comfortable. He wasn’t moving, was fairly certain he wouldn’t be allowed to move, until their mistress arrived home.

  Mrs. Potts had brought him tea. Jones had inquired if he was comfortable, and George had wondered if the fellow had been making a joke. He would have been more comfortable down in the kitchen being watched over by a well-trained cook rather than these well-trained dogs.

  The kitchen, however, had been quashed.

  The lady of the house, though, eventually arrived home. Eventually came into the drawing room to stare at him in disbelief.

  “You followed me home.”

  “I can’t have. I was here first. Been here, in this exact spot, for ages.”

  “Jones says an hour.”

  “Ages.”

  She shook her head, giving one of the dogs a quick pat on the head, then dismissing them.

  “Is your dog in your pocket?”

  “I’ve stopped carrying her around specifically to avoid that question. It is the first thing anyone asks of me.”

  “I can’t imagine why. Have you trained her not to bark ferociously anytime she sees the light of day?”

  He shook his head. “Perhaps you can give me a few tips. You seem to know what you are doing with your dogs.”

  “I could, if you really wanted her to stop. But you don’t. You like the fuss she causes.”

  He laughed because he did.

  “Sometimes. And when I don’t, I leave her home with my valet. The best of both worlds.”

  She nodded. “Is there any other reason you could be sitting in my home waiting for me to arrive, again, in the wee hours of the morning? Perhaps you came to tell me about your two with Miss Westin.”

  “Mm. They were about what you would expect.”

  She sat in a chair far away from him and he took that as the encouragement it was meant. And he thought she might welcome what he craved as well. Conversation and camaraderie.

  With a possibility of canoodling.

  Elinor said, “It was the dance heard ‘round the ballroom. Did she even threaten you with giving it to someone else?”

  He shook his head and she said, “Ah, well. She’s still young.”

  “It’s what I keep telling myself.”

  “And in the mean time, you’ll amuse yourself with me.”

  He’d like to.

  To make a mistress of the widow seemed to be exactly what an earl’s heir would do.

  “You are, indeed, amusing.” He made himself mo
re comfortable. “But I’ve come to ask who it is you’re chasing.”

  One blond eyebrow went up.

  He said, “You know who I’m chasing. It’s only fair.”

  “The whole world knows who you’re chasing. You’ve made your intentions clear.”

  He rested his head back again. “Miss Westin will make a wonderful countess.”

  “Depends on what you think a countess is supposed to do.”

  He closed his eyes, smiling, wondering what Elinor thought a countess was supposed to do.

  He imagined her vision differed from Miss Westin’s. From everyone’s.

  The silence grew between them. He wouldn’t ask.

  She wouldn’t tell.

  His smile grew wider, his eyes still closed. He rested his linked fingers on his belly, prepared to outlast her. Prepared for a siege, for a battle between equal players.

  His eyes popped open when he heard the drawing room door snick shut and he sat up sharply. His breath rushed out when he saw she was still in the room, her hand on the doorknob.

  “You think it’s you. Who I’m chasing.”

  “I admit I’m a bit late to the table but I’ve finally arrived. St. Clair was right; you’re playing the same game with a different opening.”

  “I wasn’t. At first. You are too well-protected.”

  “But something changed your mind?”

  She turned around to look at him and said, “If changed my mind.”

  “If? If what?”

  “If everyone could have what they wanted.”

  “The only thing I can imagine giving everyone what they wanted was if the countess delivered an heir.”

  She walked away from the door, toward George, and he blinked.

  “Are you privy to some information the rest of us aren’t?”

  “No.”

  He sat up a little. “And you’re still relying on this mythical if.”

  “Yes.”

  His heart beat faster. The countess wasn’t breeding. Surely they would have told him if she was. Surely they wouldn’t withhold any sliver of hope if they could offer it to him.

  And just how would the widow know anyway?

  She stopped in front of him, her blue eyes watching. “What would you do with if?”

  He didn’t even want to imagine it. Didn’t want hope to spring free from the cage he’d trapped it in.