The Reluctant Bride Collection Read online

  Marriage was not to be for Honora but she liked being engaged. And she enjoyed her engagements while they lasted because, sometimes sooner and sometimes later, they would all end spectacularly. And always by her fiancé because how else could she force him to pay a modest sum for his breach of promise?

  She could thank the newspapers for the idea. They adored reporting the goings-on of every poor woman forced to sue when her formerly affianced callously broke off their engagement.

  The fact that such a heinous act sentenced the woman to a life of poverty– forevermore unmarried and childless– guaranteed that the courts nearly always gave the woman a nice reward for her suffering.

  Those ladies chose to spend it, Honora imagined, walking sedately in the mornings and practicing needlepoint in the evenings and, perhaps, mourning the life they could have had.

  Children and a husband.

  Honora had already mourned that loss. And no court would ever reward the act that had sentenced her to a life of poverty. Forevermore unmarried and childless.

  Aunt Gertrude said, “Everyone’s talking about Miss Smith and the Earl of Ferrers.”

  Honora nodded. It was the latest, and greatest, breach of promise suit ever brought to the courts because the lady was asking for a ridiculous £20,000 in damages. She would have been lucky to get a tenth of that.

  Uncle Hubert said, “She should have settled out of court. £1000 and she could have had a very comfortable income. In the country.”

  Honora smiled. “Do you think she could have even got that without taking him to court?”

  He nodded. “£100 for a haberdasher or a clerk. £1000 for an earl.”

  Since they’d got £100 from a haberdasher and £100 from a clerk themselves, Honora had to believe him.

  Aunt Gertrude sighed. “Oh, for an earl. One fell swoop and we would be done.”

  Uncle Hubert fingered his cravat. “And one short misstep and we’d shorten our lives by the length of a rope. Better to stay away from the landed gentry.”

  Honora agreed with him. She had no desire to pit herself against the resources of the upper class and no reason to.

  It wasn’t an earl who’d stolen her life. It wasn’t a married man of the landed gentry who had preyed on a young girl’s loneliness, naivete, and stupidity, and then left her alone to bear the consequences.

  It wasn’t the upper classes she would reclaim her life from, one by one, man by man, until she once again had the future she’d been born to.

  George St. Clair had taken an interest in steam courtesy of his new-found love of cigars.

  Steam ships sailed daily to the west bringing back the fragrantly rolled leaves. His father had sniffed snuff; George smoked cigars.

  He and every gentleman he was acquainted with had caught the craze, the papers announcing that this year more than 250,000 pounds of cigars were imported into England. The number continued to rise incredibly not because there were more ships sailing, but because they were faster.

  Steam.

  His father had watched masted ships head out to cross the ocean, their sails flapping in the winds; George watched coal-powered puffs rising from stacks.

  He had no doubt that in a few years they would find a way to send steam-powered ships eastward, cutting the trip to India from six months to a mere six weeks.

  He might see his friend again before another eight years was gone, and St. Clair thought he would enjoy the look on the widow’s face should he track them down.

  But today, St. Clair was still in England, sitting in the back row of a large lecture hall, listening to the first in a series on the power of steam. At the heat contained in fractured coal that ran like ribbons down the backbone of England.

  The only distraction to his thorough enjoyment of the lecture was the sporadic snores emanating from the gentleman asleep in the row in front of him.

  St. Clair shifted, grabbing the attention of the woman sitting beside the snorer.

  She turned her head just enough so that he could see muddy brown eyes sitting beneath a hideous hat and she whispered, “My uncle. Some of us do not find heat and water so very intriguing.”

  St. Clair muttered, “Then some of us should leave.”

  She whispered to her uncle, “Awake thou that sleepest,” and then to St. Clair, “Ephesians 5:14.”

  But the man continued to sleep, and to snore, and she merely shrugged and turned her head forward again.

  When the lecture was over, St. Clair stood impatiently and jostled the man into waking before stalking off.

  At the next week’s lecture, St. Clair stopped as soon as he entered the hall. As soon as he saw a hideous hat placed jauntily over muddy brown eyes. His eyes flicked to the matron sitting beside the woman and he stalked up to say uncharitably, “Is this one going to stay awake?”

  The younger woman didn’t tip her head up to look at him but nonetheless said conversationally, “Most likely. She’s married, therefore has extensive experience staying awake while a man pontificates about a subject she has no interest in.”

  St. Clair found he had no reply to that.

  He stood there looking down at bare twigs sticking out of her hat, then grunted and took his now customary spot.

  The older woman did stay awake, taking out her knitting halfway through and click, click, clicking through the lecture.

  St. Clair did not miss that the longer the clicking continued the wider the younger woman’s mouth smiled.

  St. Clair glared at the back of her head.

  When the lecture was over, and he’d missed one word out of every four, he stood with a huff and left.

  He nearly made it out the door before turning around and stomping back to the pair of women.

  He growled, “I assume you will be here next week?”

  The younger woman looked up then, a demure smile stuck on her face but her eyes jabbing.

  “Yes.”

  “Would you be ever so kind as to sit in the front.”

  “I don’t think so. I like to see the crowd as well as the speaker.”

  “Well, so do I.”

  “Oh, good. Then we will see you next week.”

  The next week, she was indeed sitting right in front of his spot, but this time she’d brought a maid.

  St. Clair debated with himself, but then, finally, moved to sit in his accustomed place. He would not be chased off.

  Especially not by a woman who murmured bravo condescendingly into her leaflet.

  George made himself comfortable and said to the back of her hat, “I will not be mocked by a woman I have not been introduced to.”

  “Very good.” She turned slightly in her seat to look at her maid and said, “And since we cannot be introduced, you are protected from my scathing wit. Perhaps I will bring my uncle again next week and we can dispense with the niceties.”

  St. Clair could only think Dear God and Please, don’t so he said nothing.

  The harpy did not heed his silence.

  “It doesn’t really work, does it? Introductions and societal standing, not when there are too many new people one must interact with. Not when we must decide on appearance alone how we should act toward each other instead of comparing our familial connections.”

  “Appearance alone is enough. I can tell all I need to about you by those barren twigs sticking haphazardly out of your bonnet. You are a bluestocking from a good enough family.”

  Her lips tipped up. “Bluestocking? I suppose I can tell all I need to about you from that term. But then I remember you’ve come to learn about the wonders of steam so you must not be so out-of-date and old-fashioned as I imagine.”

  The lecturer moved toward the dais, shuffling his papers, and George leaned forward quickly. “And I would enjoy being able to actually hear all about steam today. Your maid did not bring her knitting, did she?”

  The woman turned her head away from him and back toward the dais. “She will refrain.”

  “If she snores, I will jab her with my walki
ng stick.”

  She looked down at her leaflet again. “Put up again thy sword into his place: for all they that take the sword, shall perish with the sword. Matthew 26:52.”

  The surly gentleman sitting behind Honora did not use his walking stick on her poor maid but only because he’d been too narrow in his threat. The maid didn’t knit or snore; she fidgeted. And with every fidget came a creak and a moan from her chair.

  With every creak and moan came a loud sigh behind her.

  Honora was hardly able to hear the lecture with all the moaning and sighing, and she sighed quietly herself.

  She really did want to hear all about the wonders of steam, and she was running out of companions. Uncle Hubert and Aunt Gertrude refused to come again and Honora could hardly blame them. The wonders of steam– pistons and water and coal– were a bit dry.

  Honora wouldn’t bring her maid again and there was only one other person she could ask to attend with her.

  She didn’t want to.

  She wanted to keep him far away from anything pertaining to Honora Kempe, and Miss Letitia Blackstock would have no reason to be excited about a lecture, about steam.

  But she wouldn’t be run off by a sour-tempered man.

  Especially one who grumbled and sighed and cleared his throat impatiently at her when he rose to leave.

  I can tell all I need to about you by those barren twigs sticking haphazardly out of your bonnet.

  Honora watched as he stalked out the doors and thought, No, you don’t.

  Halfway through the next week, Miss Letitia Blackstock had her first ever mental excitement. It surprised everyone involved, but Honora the most. Perhaps she had underestimated the girl.

  In any event, one morning when the quietly charming and acceptably solicitous Mr. Moffat came to visit, he found her weeping prettily into a handkerchief and fell promptly to his knees.

  “Miss Blackstock! You are unwell! Let me call for your aunt at once.”

  “Oh, Mr. Moffat! I must look a fright.”

  Miss Blackstock’s eyes sparkled from her unshed tears and her nose was nowhere near red since she’d been careful to pat it gently.

  Mr. Moffat, ever the courteous gentlemen, said, “You look radiant as always. Please tell me what the matter is.”

  “It’s uncle. He’s so tired of hearing about the wedding and the flowers and the trousseau that he says my aunt and I have lost all reason. That we are both too, too silly.”

  “What else is an engaged woman supposed to talk of but flowers and her trousseau?”

  “Steam.”

  Mr. Moffat sat back on his heels. “Steam?”

  “My uncle thinks I should be interested in. . .science. And progress.”

  “Science? Progress?”

  Letitia nodded. “To be well-rounded. You know how he feels about being well-rounded. The heart of the prudent getteth knowledge; and the ear of the wise seeketh knowledge. Proverbs 18:15.”

  Mr. Moffat closed his eyes tightly, the scripture quoting the least favorite feature of his future wife. Miss Blackstock did try to remember but Honora had little hope she would be able to stop.

  She said, “There is a series of lectures about steam that he began taking me to but this week he’s cried off.” Letitia sniffed and stamped her foot. “He thinks I’m silly! I will finish this series to prove that I am not. Do you think I’m silly, Mr. Moffat?”

  “Of course not. I will take you.”

  “To the lecture?” she cried, and he preened at her.

  “Of course.”

  She leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially, “It is terribly dull. And the company is. . .objectionable.”

  He smiled, obviously relieved to hear that she did not actually find steam an invigorating subject. And then he frowned.

  “I am sure your uncle would never have let you go in the first place if the company was not respectable.”

  “Oh, it’s respectable. Just. . . sour. But you’ll see, when you take me.”

  And she beamed at him.

  They arrived at the lecture hall early and Miss Blackstock gossiped about the attendees, making up stories about them to make Mr. Moffat laugh.

  Her maid, to both women’s relief, waited outside.

  They made their way to their seats, Honora’s eyes meeting the surly gentleman’s in the next row back long enough for him to say, “Let me guess. Your brother, or a cousin. Is there any hope he will be quiet for the duration of the lecture or will you two be chattering away the entire time?”

  Mr. Moffat stopped and turned at the rude intrusion. “Not her brother or her cousin. Her fiancé. Mr. Anthony Moffat of Cheapside. And you are, sir?”

  Sourpuss looked completely taken aback and Honora tried not to roll her eyes at him. A woman wears a twig in her hat and the man thinks she’s an open book.

  Pfft.

  He finally said, “Mr. George St. Clair. Of Lancashire.”

  “And this is Miss Letitia Blackstock. At least for a little while longer.”

  Mr. Moffat beamed down at her and Miss Blackstock beamed back.

  Mr. George St. Clair of Lancashire looked like he wanted to vomit.

  She nodded her head at him and said sweetly, “So good to finally meet you, Mr. St. Clair.”

  He looked even more taken back at her sweet tone and then the skin between his eyes puckered and he narrowed his eyes.

  Honora quickly bade Mr. Moffat to sit down and when he did, leaned in to whisper, “Sour.”

  Mr. Moffat snickered, and Mr. St. Clair sat back in his chair and folded his arms, studying the two of them as if they had suddenly sprouted smoke stacks.

  Honora would have enjoyed it more if Mr. Moffat had not then chattered throughout the entire lecture.

  Mr. St. Clair stood at the end of it and said loudly, “These lectures are so very illuminating; I wish I could hear more of them. Mr. Moffat, a pleasure. Miss Blackstock, your hat reminds me of springtime in the country, all these flowers bobbing happily. Almost makes me long for dead twigs.”

  Mr. Moffat watched him walk away with a perplexed look on his face. “He’s an odd fellow.”

  Miss Blackstock nodded, then held her hand out to be helped up. “Yes, very odd. But also well-rounded, wouldn’t you say?”

  George St. Clair was intrigued. And he didn’t like it one bit.

  For seven days, he’d thought of only one thing.

  One woman.

  Two hats. Two smiles.

  Countless barbs and insults delivered with bite. And a sweet hello delivered with none.

  If he hadn’t recognized her muddy brown eyes, he wouldn’t have thought it the same woman.

  Different hat, different mannerisms, different voice. Same woman.

  He arrived early at the lecture hall the next week, then loitered outside until he felt like a fool and forced himself in.

  He wondered who she would be bringing today, and when she finally came in the door, it was no one.

  She met his eyes, then sat without a word.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Mr. St. Clair. You really should have that looked at.”

  “I see you’re back to your twigs today. And alone, as well?” He looked around the room filled with men, and a handful of women, in somber-colored coats. “Do you think that wise?”

  “I brought my maid again, she’s just outside. Should I tell her to come in?”

  He made a face. “No.”

  “It is unfortunate that I have tested and failed all of my acquaintances. I will simply have to hope that my honor is safe among steam enthusiasts.” She shook her head. “I take my very life in my hands in this pursuit of knowledge.”

  His lips twitched. “We are a rowdy bunch.”

  She nodded in total agreement with him and he leaned forward in his seat to say quietly, “Does your Mr. Whoever know he is marrying a woman who wears two hats?”

  “Mr. Moffat. And you must not know very many women if you think my two hats is at all remarkable.�
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  “I’ve known more than a few. And none have had different smiles and different voices underneath those different hats.”

  She paused and George could practically hear the gears turning as she tried to come up with a response. She finally said, “A woman’s hat is a reflection of her mood. When I am with my fiancé, I am happy. When I am here, I am. . . I. . . wish to be left alone.”

  He sat back in his seat. He opened his leaflet.

  She turned to glare at him underneath this hat.

  “It’s only a twig.”

  “And when your Mr. Moffat was here, it was flowers and a bird’s nest.”

  “I do not dictate fashion, Mr. St. Clair, but am merely a slave to it.”

  “Quite the slave. Your entire personality changes with it.”

  He leaned forward in his seat again and her eyes widened, not with wariness but with outrage.

  He murmured, “Tell me it’s nice to meet me while you’re wearing this hat.”

  “So. Good. To. Finally. Meet. You.”

  He smiled. “So good to finally meet you as well, Miss Blackstock. Oh look, the lecture is about to begin.”

  Two

  George didn’t stop smiling, not for a long while.

  Not when the lecture ended and Miss Blackstock leapt from her seat and stuck her nose in the air and walked determinedly away from him without another word.

  Not when he arrived home to find a letter from his father and cheerily tossed it in the fire without reading.

  Should have done that with Sinclair’s letter as well.

  He had the vague impression that some people enjoyed receiving correspondences but George did not. No good news ever came in one.

  He sat down with one of his cigars, closing his eyes to imagine mud-colored eyes.

  Engaged mud-colored eyes.

  Poor fellow. He was in for a rude awakening on the wedding night.

  Or perhaps Miss Blackstock would keep her happy hat on during the honeymoon phase. But one morning, Mr. Moffat would find himself peering underneath that twig hat wondering what had happened to the woman he’d married.