Forever Mine (The Forever Series #2)

by Cheryl Holt

  “What’s it to be, Miss Markham?” he asked. “Will you elope with me to Scotland? Will you wed me when we arrive? Please—please!—don’t be stupid about this. Think carefully and respond carefully. If you give me an incorrect reply, I will depart without you, and I won’t come back. I don’t like making a fool of myself, and I won’t do it twice.” He grinned. “Not even for you.”

  She inhaled a deep breath, feeling as if she was running toward a high cliff and about to jump off.

  “I believe I’d like to marry you, Mr. Turner. I believe I would like it very much.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it, Miss Markham. Go pack your things. Let’s get you out of here.”

  She stood, and she clasped his hand and squeezed it.

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “You’re welcome.”

  She grinned too and started for the door. “I’ll hurry.”

  “Good. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  * * * *

  “It irks me that Kit wouldn’t remain in town.”

  “He’s a busy man who has a life that’s separate from yours, Priscilla.”

  Priscilla glared at her father. “Not for much longer. Very soon, he will be my husband, and I’ll demand he act like it.”

  “Many matters at his estate occupy his time,” Herbert said. “He can’t loaf with you when he’s needed at home.”

  “Pah!” Priscilla spat. “Stanton Manor is a pigsty that’s barely fit for pigs. When can I begin shopping for a house, Father? You promised I could have one as a wedding gift.”

  “Sorry, I don’t recall.”

  “You can’t have forgotten. You promised. Have you thought about the area where you’d like me to purchase or what my budget is to be? I’d like to search for an appropriate place so Kit and I can move in after our honeymoon. That way, I won’t have to stay at Stanton Manor a single minute.”

  Herbert looked up from his newspaper and raised a brow. “You’re going on a honeymoon? I wasn’t aware Kit planned on it.”

  “Well, he hasn’t planned it, but of course we’ll go.”

  “Have you asked him?”

  “No”

  “Then why would you assume he’d take you?”

  “It’s what newlyweds do, Father. It’s expected. If we don’t have one, I’ll be a laughingstock.”

  “Heaven forbid,” Herbert muttered.

  “We could travel to Italy,” Priscilla said, “but the south coast of France would be nice too. I can’t decide which I’d prefer.”

  “Yes,” Herbert mused, “I’m sure Kit is eager to spend six months with you on the coast of France.”

  Gertrude bit down a snort, and Priscilla glanced over at her. Had the idiotic child noted the sarcasm in her father’s voice? Kit would never take Priscilla on a honeymoon. In fact, it was highly probable he would never spend much time with her at all.

  Gertrude would relish some peace and quiet, and she hoped he didn’t send Priscilla back after he’d had enough of her. Or that Priscilla wouldn’t slink back—enraged and offended—after she found out she would never be the center of his world.

  It was Saturday morning, and Herbert was home for once although he was about to leave for the office. The three of them were eating breakfast together. Priscilla had errands to run, and she’d been using a housemaid for a chaperone, but Gertrude really had to speak to Mrs. Ford about hiring a companion.

  The housemaid often wept in the kitchen after enduring hours of being browbeaten by Priscilla. The girl’s inability to deal with Priscilla’s vitriol certainly painted Miss Barrington in a better light. Catherine had been a veritable saint, and it wasn’t likely Mrs. Ford would have another candidate with her same patience.

  “Priscilla,” Gertrude said, “why don’t you fetch your shawl and bonnet? Your father is trying to read the newspaper, and you keep interrupting him.”

  “Well, if he would pay attention to me and carry on a conversation like a normal human being I wouldn’t have to interrupt.”

  Herbert lowered the paper. “Did you say something, Priscilla?”

  “When can I start house hunting?”

  “Oh.”

  “Kit and I should have a brand new house where we’ll begin our brand new life. I’d like a fancy manor with space for dozens of servants and five carriages. It’s the minimum of what I’ll need.”

  “Will five vehicles be enough?” Herbert was oozing sarcasm again.

  “It’s the least of what I’ll require to be happy. Don’t you want me to be happy, Father?”

  “Yes, I want you to be very happy.”

  “A new house will make me happy.”

  “Fine, a house it shall be.”

  Priscilla viewed the comment as proof that Herbert would buy her the residence of her dreams, but she was so spoiled it hadn’t occurred to her that he might not mean it.

  “You got him to promise,” Gertrude said. “Would you let us finish our meal?”

  Priscilla nodded like a princess and flounced out. Her footsteps faded, and Gertrude turned to Herbert. “You’re not actually buying her a house, are you?”

  “No.”

  “I doubt Kit would allow it. He’s quite partial to his family’s estate.”

  “As he should be.”

  “Has there been any word from him?” she asked.

  “No, but I’m positive we’ll hear from him shortly.”

  “It will be so embarrassing if he cries off.”

  “He’s a very sensible boy. He’ll reflect on my advice, and he’ll behave appropriately. I’m not worried in the slightest.”

  “I’ll pray you’re correct.”

  “I am,” Herbert confidently replied. “With his many years in the army, he’s learned a few things about duty.”

  “He was so fond of Miss Barrington though. He might even have been in love with her, and that sort of attachment is difficult to sever. I can’t fathom him setting her aside.”

  “A man doesn’t marry for love, Gertrude. He marries for money or status or position. Kit understands that. And if he’s that besotted, he can keep on with her after the wedding. There’s no law that says he can’t.”

  Gertrude scoffed. “There’s moral law.”

  “How does morality play into it? When he can be content with a mistress or miserable with a shrewish wife, why shouldn’t he choose the mistress and the contentment? After he’s wed, he’ll have the funds to support Miss Barrington in grand style. She’d be a fool not to let him.”

  “I can’t believe we’re having this discussion, and I won’t talk about it with you. He’ll be your son-in-law. Can’t you hope for better conduct?”

  “I know my daughter all too well, Gertrude. She is not a mystery to me. Neither is Kit.” He scowled, then cocked his head. “By the way, have I told you about Libby?”

  “No, what about her?”

  “Bentley Turner asked for her hand.”

  “In marriage?”

  “No, as the main course for his dinner,” Herbert snidely retorted. “Yes, he meant marriage.”

  Gertrude was stunned. “Did you give him your blessing?”

  “I didn’t hesitate. And he’s moving to Massachusetts with her. He’ll manage my business venture there.”

  Gertrude peered over at him, and they shared a conspiratorial smile.

  “We won’t have to fuss with her ever again,” Gertrude said.

  “No. I received a note that they’ve eloped to Scotland, then they’re sailing directly to America. I already purchased the tickets.”

  “Perfect. I don’t even have to bother with planning a reception.” She chuckled. “Sometimes, I think you’re an obtuse dunce, but other times I think you’re brilliant.”

  “I never wanted to have a ward or be a guardian.”

  “She’s Bentley’s problem now.”

  “Yes, poor man.”

  A knock sounded on the front door, but it w
asn’t for her to answer. She sipped her tea, and shortly the butler poked his nose in and said to Herbert, “Mr. Stanton is here, sir.”

  “Kit is here so early?”

  “Yes, he asks if he could see you.”

  “Certainly. Send him to us.”

  A minute later, Kit walked in, and at the sight of him Gertrude blanched.

  He looked terrible—as if he’d been ill. He was pale and seemed to have lost weight. He hadn’t shaved so his cheeks were darkened with stubble. His clothes were wrinkled and unkempt as if he’d been reveling all night or had slept in them.

  Herbert had insisted Kit would do his duty to the family and wed Priscilla, but if that was what he was about to announce it was obvious the decision had been wrenching.

  Word had spread about Priscilla being a spoiled, vicious harpy. If Kit refused to take her off their hands, how would they ever find her a husband? Money could smooth over many issues, but there were some personality traits that couldn’t be hidden or ignored.

  “How have you been, Kit,” Herbert casually said. “How are things at home?”

  “I will marry Priscilla,” Kit abruptly declared.

  “I’m delighted to hear it,” Herbert responded.

  “But we’ll have the ceremony this Saturday with a Special License. I don’t want to wait until September.”

  Gertrude wondered why he needed to proceed right away. Perhaps he’d realized—if he didn’t hurry—he’d never muster the courage to go through with it. If he had two months to ponder and debate, no doubt he’d come to his senses.

  “That’s awfully fast, Kit,” Gertrude said. “Are you sure? A fellow only marries once. You should mark the occasion with a bit of merriment and celebration.”

  “I’ll mark it by speaking vows to the vicar.”

  “I understand,” she replied, but she didn’t really.

  He went on, “You had planned a huge event at the cathedral here in town, followed by a slew of parties. I especially don’t want any of that.”

  Gertrude might have objected about the changes or mentioned that Priscilla was a young bride who was counting on a lavish fete, but it wasn’t up to her to argue with him. Why didn’t Herbert comment? Didn’t he have an opinion?

  Kit was staring at him, and Herbert blandly stared back, and it seemed as if an entire conversation passed between them. Ultimately, some sort of male accord was reached.

  “A smaller celebration will be fine,” Herbert agreed. “I’ve never been partial to extravagance myself.”

  “I’d like to hold it in the chapel at Stanton Manor,” Kit said, “where my parents and my brother are buried.”

  “It’s marvelous that you’d like to honor them.”

  Gertrude chimed in with, “Have you considered a honeymoon?”

  “No.” Kit shook his head. “I’m simply eager to receive the money that I’ll be paid for doing this. It’s all that matters to me. When will the funds be mine?”

  “The contracts state you’ll have it the next day,” Herbert said, “which is Sunday so it will have to be transferred on Monday.”

  “Monday will be fine. It’s what I remembered the terms to be, but I had to be positive. Thank you. I’ll see myself out.”

  He marched off, and they tarried in a shocked silence, listening as the door opened and closed with his departure. Gertrude was disturbed by the encounter, but Herbert was bored with the whole affair and already reading his newspaper again.

  “Well, that was…interesting,” she murmured.

  “I should have bet you over whether he’d come up to snuff in the end.”

  “He looks dreadful.”

  “He’s marrying Priscilla, Gertrude. Cut him some slack.”

  “Aren’t you upset? He’s determined to proceed in a secretive, slapdash way.”

  “It’s not slapdash. He’d like to get it over with, and I can’t blame him. If we delayed, he might not be able to bear it. As it is, we’ll have a son-in-law—and Priscilla will be his—on Saturday. In my book, it’s the perfect conclusion.”

  “Who will tell Priscilla?”

  “You, of course.”

  “Of course,” Gertrude muttered.

  Just then, Priscilla rushed in. “Was that Kit? My maid told me Kit was here. Why didn’t you call me down?”

  “He was in a hurry,” Gertrude said.

  “What did he want? I didn’t even realize he was back in town.”

  Gertrude sighed. “Sit down, Priscilla. I have some news, and I don’t think you’ll like it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “I won’t go through with it.” Priscilla glared at her aunt. “You can’t make me.”

  “I can’t,” Gertrude replied, “but your father can.”

  “The vicar will ask if I’ve been pressured or coerced. It’s in the vows, Aunt Gertrude. I’ll claim I’m being forced against my will.”

  “Fine, Priscilla. Embarrass your father. Embarrass Kit. What will happen to you after that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The wedding will be called off. Kit will sever the betrothal, and you’ll be ruined.”

  “Why would I be ruined?”

  “It’s the way of the world, Priscilla. The woman is always blamed. Stories will circulate that Kit discovered a horrid detail about you so he cried off.”

  “He wouldn’t dare!” Priscilla fumed.

  “Ooh, you are such a child,” Gertrude snapped. “He wouldn’t have to say a word. You’d be disparaged no matter what. Who would have you then?”

  “With my money? Any decent fellow would be happy to have me. I’ve never understood why we had to settle for Kit. Yes, he’s family, but he’s also spoiled and rude and completely insensitive to my wishes. It’s ridiculous for you and Father to have orchestrated this charade.”

  “You’ve conveniently forgotten that your father spent nearly two years trying to arrange a higher match. Perhaps you ought to think about why no other candidate snatched you up. From my vantage point, Kit was the only one willing to have you. Now I suggest you calm down and shut your mouth.”

  Priscilla gasped with offense and was very close to storming out of the church.

  Her aunt had never been so blunt or callous in her disregard of Priscilla’s opinions. What right had Gertrude to scold or chastise? She was naught but a bitter spinster who served as Herbert Bolton’s glorified housekeeper. What did she know about amour or matrimony?

  The decrepit chapel was cold and dark, candles burning in a candelabra up toward the front. A few neighbors and a handful of Kit’s servants were scattered in the pews. She couldn’t guess how the neighbors had learned of the wedding. Kit certainly hadn’t sent out any invitations.

  It was almost as if he was embarrassed to be marrying her, and the indignities were stacking up so high they were crushing her.

  The stupid event was to have been held in September at the cathedral in London with seven-hundred guests and the organ blaring. Instead, Kit had demanded a small, furtive ceremony. It had been her father’s promise to buy her a lovely estate that had persuaded her to participate. If she’d refused, he’d threatened to refuse too.

  She’d yearned to stand firm and insist on the grand celebration she felt was her due, but to her incredible disgust she’d succumbed to her father’s bribe.

  The great frustration of it was that she hadn’t yet shopped for a property. She would have to begin her marriage in the deteriorating squalor of Stanton Manor. She simply couldn’t deduce how she’d survive the pending humiliations—of which she was convinced there would be many as Kit’s bride.

  No lavish wedding! No fabulous gown! No huge guest list! No days of parties and balls afterward! No honeymoon!

  The lack of a honeymoon was especially disturbing. She’d heard the housemaids whispering that Kit wouldn’t agree to it because he couldn’t bear the notion of being alone with her for months. They’d made it sound as if Kit didn’t
like her.

  The prospect was extremely vexing. Her entire life, she’d been aware of how extraordinary she was. How could Kit not realize that she was? It was infuriating to suppose he didn’t.

  With Priscilla being upset over so many issues, it was galling to have Gertrude speak so derisively, and Priscilla might have lit into her aunt to put her in her place, but it was too late. They were sitting in the rear pew, waiting for Kit and her father to appear up by the altar. Suddenly, a door opened, and they emerged with the vicar.

  “What’s it to be, Priscilla?” her aunt inquired. “Will you proceed or not?”

  “I won’t!”

  “Go tell your father, and I’ll meet you outside.”

  “You tell him!”

  “It’s not up to me,” Gertrude maddeningly responded. She rose as if to leave.

  Priscilla hemmed and hawed, her father staring her down in a manner that was impossible to ignore. He was silently commanding her to act as he was expecting, and it was so difficult to disobey him.

  What if she stomped out? What if she declined to heed him for once?

  She tried to envision the carriage ride to London, with the wedding not held and Priscilla not a bride. She’d be shed of Kit, but would her father find her another betrothed? What if Gertrude was correct and no one would have her? What if she had to live out her life as a spinster like Gertrude?

  “I’ll do it,” she muttered to her aunt.

  “Marvelous.”

  “You’re in my way.”

  She stood, and Gertrude moved to let her out of the pew. She walked down the aisle by herself, her aunt tromping along behind. There was no organist playing a march, and Priscilla didn’t even have a bouquet of flowers. All of it had been so hastily prepared that none of them had thought to pick any.

  “You’re very pretty this morning, Priscilla,” her father said as she arrived next to him.

  “Spare me your false compliments, Father.”

  Her curt comment wasn’t well received. Her father and Kit bristled, and the vicar scowled.

  “Are you ready to begin, Miss Bolton?” he asked her.