Betrothed

by Alyssia Kirkhart

  What if he was going mad with grief? What if he was throwing objects at the wall? Tearing curtains off the windows? She hadn’t heard anything peculiar, but it was thundering rather loudly. Justin could’ve very well strangled the doctor by now, with no one the wiser.

  “Come.” Taking her hand, placing it on his arm, her father smiled. “I shall even permit Mr. Cavanaugh to accompany us.” He stole a slit glance at the aforementioned. “If he can manage to hold his tongue.”

  “I would be honored, Your Grace.” Cav’s gaze slipped to Sara. “Lady Ballivar. I am certain you have knowledge of a room we can put to good use.” Suggestiveness hung in his tone.

  Sara ground her teeth. Cav was never suggestive. Straightforward, yes, and to a fault in most instances. Their conversation by the riverbank came to mind.

  Sitting on his lap, indeed. She should’ve hit him for that, but the purpose of stirring Justin’s jealousy would have been defeated. And heavens above, had she stirred it. Justin looked ready to commit murder that day.

  Lucky for her, ducal composure had won out.

  Cav might have been laid to rest at the bottom of the Severn otherwise.

  “Won’t you lead the way?” Cav’s eyes danced with all the charisma of a snake charmer.

  He was definitely up to something.

  Mediator she was, however, Sara nodded her compliance. Besides, if Cav’s intentions rang dishonorable, if Lana was right about his ambition to woo Sara away from England for an elopement, then she had every faith in Justin’s prompt intervention.

  He simply would not allow it.

  *** *** ***

  At this point, Justin wasn’t sure of anything, let alone what he would and would not allow.

  His father was dead.

  And he was now the seventh Duke of Tethersal.

  Two life-changing occurrences, each bound with the other, for without one, the other would not be, and Justin could not make heads or tails out of either.

  Yet, he could think of nothing else.

  None of it seemed real, for one. And second ...

  Well. He didn’t rightly know if there was a second. Second might have been finding this ridiculous book of global marriage customs on his father’s desk an hour ago. When he’d needed somewhere, anywhere, to retreat from the chaos of his mother’s and Anna’s crying, combined.

  It wasn’t that he did not care; indeed, he did.

  But some matters were better left to women, grieving in each other’s arms being one of them, and Justin was in no mood to offer his comfort.

  He needed to be alone. To think. Grieve his own way, he supposed, which was amusing considering he hadn’t yet shed a tear. Did that make him heartless?

  He took up the book on marriage customs and leaned back in the chair behind his father’s desk. It was his desk now, his chair, his book, his library, his quill and parchment. Everything in this house, around it, down to the stables and the abandoned gamekeeper’s house beyond, to the field of wildflowers and the small church beyond that ... It all belonged to him.

  A castle in Scotland; one in Wicklow, just below Dublin; and another large estate home in Dover, the lawn of which extended to the white cliffs overlooking the Channel; all of them, his. If one squinted hard enough, one could see France from those cliffs.

  Yes, even that view belonged to him now.

  He should’ve been overjoyed. He was a very rich man with a substantial amount of power. He would take up his seat in the House of Lords, as he’d been raised to do. He would ensure Anna had a generous dowry to offer once she took it upon herself to cease her pickiness and choose a husband. He would put someone in charge of the orphanage in Worcester, as he himself was sure to be, at times, too busy to visit.

  And he would marry Lady Sara Ballivar of Dublin.

  That would be priority.

  As Justin opened the book he’d found lying on his father’s desk, atop his father’s Tethersal-crested stationery, a single sheet of paper slipped from the inside cover, and onto his lap.

  “What’s here?” He set the book down, and took up the crisp sheet of fine vellum.

  A letter. Written in his father’s impeccable handwriting, and addressed to him. My Dear Boy, it said. His father had addressed him as so for years, especially when Justin was in for a lengthy bestowment of ducal wisdom.

  He read the date aloud, acknowledged the letter had been written three days prior.

  A sudden stitch of weariness crept into his shoulders.

  Three days ago his father had been well enough to put pen and ink to parchment.

  Three days ago Justin and Sara, Anna and Sebastian had left for Worcester, with naught a care in the world but two weeks of relaxation under Caroline’s lackadaisical graces.

  Three days ago his father was alive.

  Shaking his head as if to ward off the panging guilt that if only he had stayed in Mayfair, if only he had been, could have been at his father’s side, things may have been different, Justin began to read his father’s letter.

  My Dear Boy ... If you are reading this letter, then it is an accurate assumption that you, my dearest son, are now Tethersal, and that my very existence has at last come to an end. I left it inside this book in good faith that you, ever the curious lad of the strange and outré, would at some point find and read it. May I say, without straying from my intended focus, that the book in which you found my letter, which is now your letter, is an amiable read, despite its less than appealing title. The chapter on the Igbo people and their practice of polygamous courtships is most fascinating.

  Justin chuckled. Indeed he and his father had shared an avid interest in books of bizarre subjects. Hence the shelves upon shelves--he looked around at all of them, towering grandly around the room--of books on Middle-Eastern literature, Egyptian mummification, the dialects of the Pygmy tribes, and how cows think, to name a few. Sure, one could find the complete collection of Mrs. Radcliffe’s gothic novels, as well as Donne’s poetry and Shakespeare’s plays. Yet, sandwiched in between Radcliffe and Shakespeare were Yodeling, A History and The Evolution of the Crane, both written by Dr. Albert Regulus.

  Justin often wondered how many libraries in London claimed those particularly inimitable pieces. And written in Dutch, at that.

  A lingering smile curving his lips, he read on.

  Firstly, and without knowledge of the state in which this letter will find you, it is my wish for you to know how extremely happy you, as my most beloved son, have made me, as your father. No man could have been better blessed than I. To have a son who is both intelligent and wise--yes, a vast amount of difference exists between the two--and who realizes the love of one’s country, above all things, is the greatest love one shall ever know, has made me the proudest father and happiest man I could ever aspire to be.

  Remember, Dear Boy, vigilance is crucial. Laws are not made without perseverance, and change will never be without constant determination.

  In closing, I will leave you with this: “To love is to risk not being loved in return. To hope is to risk pain. To try is to risk failure. But risk must be taken because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing.”

  Find your way, Tethersal, and when your path should cross with opposition, and cross paths, you shall, stand firm. Fight for what you what you desire, what is in your heart and soul, what is rightfully yours. Remember, that which is worth fighting for, is worth dying for.

  I love you, my son, my heir. By my troth, I leave you my legacy.

  Yours in unadulterated devotion,

  Phillip

  Emotion pushed in Justin’s chest. His vision blurred. The room stilled, shrunk around him, leaving only the sound of the persistent rain, pelting like warheads against the house, and the tick-tock of the rosewood grandfather clock in the far left corner.

  He knew.

  The duke, dying for years, in and out of sickness and health, knew this was the end. Obviously he’d prepared himself, as was to be expected. The duke never approached any task
, great or small, unprepared. But then, how did one prepare oneself for death?

  Justin read the letter again. And again, wondering if he should give up his obstinacy toward drinking. Brandy, a stout glass of it, would serve as a nice anesthetic to these blasted tears burning behind his eyes.

  A knock boomed at the door, followed by, “Justin ... err, um ... Your Grace,” followed by Sebastian raising his voice at someone.

  “Deuce take it.” Justin folded his father’s letter, and slid it inside the pocket of his waistcoat.

  “Your Grace? Are you in there?” Raised voices again, then, “Your Grace?”

  Justin grumbled a curse. “For pity’s sake, Sebastian. Come in.”

  The door opened, and through it came Sebastian and a man Justin hadn’t seen in at least years. Simmons, the family solicitor.

  “Your Grace,” Simmons proclaimed, bowing. His waist had thickened, and it mushroomed from under his yellow brocade waistcoat, over his gleaming white jodhpurs. His whiskers, black with shots of silver, were surprisingly thick considering he was as bald as a coot.

  “Simmons.” Justin inclined his head. “Sebastian.”

  Sebastian bent stiffly at the waist. “Your Grace.” His face was red, his eyes iced with anger. A patch of sweat beaded his forehead.

  A rare state in which to see Lord Beaufort, indeed. Even when he fought with Anna, he remained oddly collected.

  This was different.

  “Something amiss?” asked Justin.

  Sebastian said nothing but turned expectantly to Simmons.

  Simmons blotted his forehead with his embroidered handkerchief and leaned forward, both pudgy hands planted firmly on the head of his cane. “Indeed, Your Grace. I have taken the liberty of reading your marriage contract to Lady Ballivar of Dublin.”

  Without me? Without Sara? Justin cleared his throat and stood, fingers fanned wide on the desk. “Be of sound mind, Simmons. I do not wish the reading of any document that includes my name or the name of my affianced to transpire without my presence. Is that clear?”

  “Of course, Your Grace. My mistake. It won’t happen again.”

  “See that it doesn’t--for pity’s sake, Beaufort. Sit down, won’t you?”

  Sebastian stopped pacing and shoved a hand through the shock of blond curls atop his head. “I prefer to stand.”

  “I prefer you to sit,” Justin countered, and Sebastian did so, dropping into one of the velvet upholstered chairs positioned in front of Justin’s desk. “Now, Simmons.”

  Simmons snapped to attention. “Your Grace?”

  Justin leveled the solicitor his most daunting gaze. “What is this about my marriage contract? All should be in order for the two of us to be married directly. Of course, we will be in need of a special license, but I trust you to take care of that. And, naturally, all that I must do in order to claim my seat in the Lords, etcetera, etcetera.”

  “Yes, of course, Your Grace. But, you see, therein lies the issue at hand. You are now the Duke of Tethersal. According to your betrothal contract to Lady Ballivar, the succession has given you certain rights.”

  “I do not understand,” Justin said skeptically. “What do you mean by ‘certain rights’?”

  “Perhaps freedom would be the better term.” Simmons took a step forward.

  “Freedom?”

  Sebastian chose that moment to stand again, his words spilling so fast, Justin could hardly make heads or tails out of any of it. “Your Grace, I insist upon telling you this myself. Simmons may have misread the contract. These things do happen all the time, you know. The verbiage in old documents such as your marriage contract to Lady Ballivar is completely outdated. Perhaps we should hire someone for a second opinion, as I do not believe that--”

  “You are in no need of a second opinion,” said Simmons. “Forgive my bluntness, Lord Beaufort, but I am the solicitor for this family, not yours. I did not misread the contract. The words on that piece of parchment are as plain as day, signed by the Regent himself.”

  Sebastian’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He looked to Justin for mediation.

  “Please,” said Justin. “Sit and rest awhile, my friend. There will be no need for a second opinion, as I am sure Simmons has read and interpreted the contract to the very best of his ability. My father trusted him, and so shall I.”

  Though his objection couldn’t have been clearer, Sebastian sat and continued chewing his thumbnail.

  “Simmons,” Justin murmured. “Tell me what it says, and be quick about it. I have much to do.”

  The solicitor squared his shoulders. “Your betrothal contract is null and void, Your Grace.”

  Justin’s heart sank. His hands clammed up. A wave of frigid panic swept through his chest, washed through his stomach and down into his legs. Sickness. Wretched aching.

  Dear God.

  Simmons wasn’t finished. “So ...” He hesitated, apparently seeing the shock on his employer’s face. Then carefully, yet clearly, “Congratulations, Your Grace. You are free to marry whomever you choose.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  “I need a drink.” Justin stalked past Simmons and yanked the bell pull. He needed his coat, needed to get out of this godforsaken house. White’s wasn’t far, about three blocks or so. Maybe the old droopy-eyed bartender could whip him up something along the lines of an amnesia draught.

  Because he needed to forget Sara. To wipe his mind of her smile, her touch, her laughter. The way she felt in his arms. The way her body softened in quiet response beneath his hands. She didn’t belong to him. Had never ... ah, God, but the thought of it made his stomach turn over as if he’d swallowed something disgustingly foul.

  He yanked the bell pull again, harder this time.

  “Damnation.” He slammed his hand against the door jam. “Where is everyone?”

  “More than likely attending to ...” Simmons cut himself short when Justin shot him a furious glare.

  “I’ve heard enough for today,” Justin snapped. He didn’t want answers. He wanted silence.

  And a drink.

  Where the hell were all the servants?

  A footman appeared. Bowed. “You rang, Your Grace?”

  “My coat.” Justin looked over his shoulder at Sebastian, who was leaning forward, elbows on knees. Head in his hands. “Lord Beaufort’s as well.”

  “Very good, Your Grace.” The servant whisked away.

  Justin rubbed his brow, addressed his solicitor. “I have no need for anything further today. Do whatever it is you do and--I just have one question.”

  “Yes, of course. Anything, Your Grace.”

  “What exactly did the contract with Lady Ballivar entail?”

  “Entail, Your Grace?”

  “The stipulations which have now made it null and void.” He hated that phrase, null and void. But it was exactly how he felt at the moment. Empty.

  “Ah. Well, as it happens, Your Grace, the contract was of the common variety. It clearly states that in ten years’ time, you are to wed Lady Sara Ballivar of Ireland, which according to the day the contract was signed, would have been approximately June 30 of this year, or there about. However, it also states that in the event you were to take over the dukedom within those ten years, the contract shall be null and void.”

  There it was again.

  “That you, as the duke, should be of sound authority to choose your own bride at that time. I believe both your father and the Duke of Kilkenny wanted the contract to be fair to the both of you.”

  “Fair?” Justin snorted. “Fair would have been not creating the contract in the first place.” How could they have done this? Prepare a contract, have it practically set in stone to the point of sending Sara all the way to England on an early arrival, and to what purpose? So they could become better acquainted? So they could ... what? Fall in love?

  No one should have that much authority. Now he had no choice but to pay the price for allowing himself to fall in love with a woman who would doubtless book
a passage on the first ship back to Dublin once she discovered herself free. She didn’t have to marry him. She could marry any man she chose.

  He, on the other hand, would learn to live alone. Because he didn’t want anyone else.

  If he couldn’t have Sara, he’d never marry.

  “Be that as it may, Your Grace,” Simmons tentatively began, but Sebastian interrupted him with a loud, “That is quite enough, Mr. Simmons,” which echoed throughout the room with so much authority, Simmons tottered back a few steps.

  Justin met Sebastian’s gaze from across the room, nodded. Sebastian would take over as he always did when Justin was all worded out. Or in this case, ready to throw the family solicitor out on the sidewalk, flat on his fat arse.

  “Mr. Simmons,” Sebastian said, all curtness now he had the stout man’s undivided attention, “we find ourselves no longer in need of your services, at least not for today. I’ll take it upon good authority that you can show yourself out? I’m afraid the servants of this household are preoccupied with other matters.”

  “Y-yes, of course,” said Simmons, clearly unaccustomed to being wheedled by anyone other than his employer.

  “You are too kind. We shall see you at the funeral.”

  “Which will be ...?”

  “Whenever we send word.” Sebastian coaxed Simmons to the door. “Now, be a good man, and leave His Grace to mourn the loss of his father, if you please. There you go. That way. Ah, you see? That kind footman is willing to escort you out. On your way. Shoo, now.”

  Justin heaved a watery chuckle.

  Sebastian turned, brows raised. “What?”

  “Did you just ‘shoo’ my solicitor?”

  “That man tries my nerves.”

  “Mine as well,” Justin admitted. “Thought it wasn’t as if he was telling me anything I did not need to know.” He just didn’t want to know. That was the problem.

  “By the by.” Sebastian took his coat from the footman who appeared at the door. “Much as I am fond of drowning myself in a decanter of fine brandy at White’s, Jus ... er, that is, Your Grace, I believe drinking at this point will do you more harm than good.”