The Reluctant Bride Collection - The Complete Box Set

by Megan Bryce

  India meant no children, for either of them.

  “Let him in.”

  “He won’t come inside. He is waiting for you outside.”

  She nodded, and didn’t get up.

  She hadn’t stopped crying. Her daughter’s grave, and then her brother and Retribution, and now George leaving.

  She’d thought that it would have been worse to lose him to Miss Westin than to India, but now she knew. She’d been wrong.

  She finally pushed herself to her feet slowly and shuffled to the door. An old woman. A widow, finally. A woman who’d lost everything dear to her.

  Jones gently draped a shawl around her shoulders and opened the door for her.

  George stood down on the pavement, Anala tucked in one arm. His greatcoat once again sitting stiffly on his shoulders, his hat covering his hair. He didn’t say a word, simply met her eyes and waited.

  Waited for her to leave everything for him.

  She looked at him through the tears, painted a picture of him in her mind, just like this.

  “I won’t come.”

  He looked up. “The sky is a different color in India. I don’t know why.”

  Elinor whispered, “I won’t let you give up everything for me. And I can’t give it up for you. It is not in me. Not for only a chance at happiness.”

  He kept looking at the sky and petting Anala.

  He said, and he sounded like he was still talking about the color of the sky, “It’s not a chance. It is happiness.” He sighed. “But if you don’t want to see it.”

  His eyes met Elinor’s and he came up the stairs, holding Anala out. “She’ll be lonely. And two dogs is not a pack.”

  Elinor’s hands went up reflexively, taking the little dog and holding it to her chest. The dog licked and licked and squirmed and yapped.

  And Elinor cried more tears.

  George kissed her cheek lightly, right there in front of her townhouse.

  “Elinor, my love,” he whispered. “I am going with or without you. I am going home, and I will be so lonely without you.”

  He waited. Waited for her to say she would go with him.

  She wouldn’t, and then she watched him walk away.

  The sky lightened slowly and with it the room Elinor sat in.

  No maid came to light the fire. No Mrs. Potts asking about breakfast.

  Jones pushed the door in slowly. “My lady?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is your last chance. The ship leaves in less than an hour.”

  “The ship left a few husbands ago, Jones.”

  A few lifetimes ago.

  They called her scandalous, but she only was in the confines of her society.

  Here she knew the rules; here she knew how, and how much, to flaunt them. She knew the costs should she go too far.

  Jones sat down in the chair across from her and she raised her eyebrows at him.

  Mrs. Potts came in with tea and then sat down next to Elinor on the sofa and began pouring.

  She handed Jones a cup and then settled back with a cup herself.

  “The maid and I have loaded as much as I could into your chest. We’ll send the rest on the next ship. Though I don’t doubt that Mr. Sinclair will enjoy taking you shopping in the meantime, the way he goes on about the markets.”

  Elinor looked between Jones and Mrs. Potts, and then shrugged and poured herself a cup.

  “Did he put you up to this?”

  “Oh, no. But I was sure he’d talk you into going. Never met a man who could talk himself into the kitchen before.”

  Elinor couldn’t stop her laugh in time. “No. I doubt anyone has.”

  Mrs. Potts took a long, satisfied sip. “There is a certain something about Mr. Sinclair.”

  Jones nodded. “A certain something.”

  “Why, he brightens a room when he walks into it, makes everyone at ease, and makes lonely women fall in love with him.”

  Elinor flicked her eyes to Mrs. Potts but refused to say anything.

  “Even when those lonely women are too stubborn to admit it.”

  “I’ve admitted it. Not much else I can do about it.”

  Mrs. Potts poured more tea for Jones and whispered loudly, “Love’s scared her stupid.”

  “Aye.”

  “That is really enough from the two of you.”

  Jones said, “Won’t be enough until you get off your duff and go after him.”

  Elinor sat back and stared at her two servants. They’d been with her far longer than any husband. They’d been her confidantes, had nursed her through ill times, and had tried to protect her from danger.

  She’d never sat down to tea with them before but she couldn’t count how many times she’d gone looking for George in the last few months only to find him down in the kitchen chatting with Mrs. Potts. Or discussing something with Jones in the hallway.

  “I’m not scared. I’m simply refusing to be stupid.”

  And suddenly, she remembered. Stupid was romantic.

  Romance was doing what you knew was stupid, what you knew would hurt, what you knew would destroy, and doing it anyway. Just for the chance at happiness.

  It’s not a chance. It is happiness.

  Elinor put her cup down before it started shaking.

  “I can’t go. I can’t bring the dogs.”

  “I’m sure he’s considered them. And arranged for them.”

  Elinor looked around her cold and empty and boring and lifeless drawing room. Thought of her brother, and one missing dog.

  It’s not a chance.

  “I’m just going to run away, like a coward?”

  “Is that what you’re doing? I thought you were running to India. Running to a new adventure and leaving all this tired nonsense behind.”

  Running to life.

  It is happiness.

  “That’s what he would do, isn’t it? Leave all this behind and find something new. Make something that was all his.”

  “It’s what he is doing. The question is whether you’re going to do the same.”

  “The question is whether I’ll follow him like some lovesick ninny. The question is whether I will once again throw my future, my fortune, into the hands of a man. Simply trust that it will all work out when it never has before.”

  Mrs. Potts sipped. “You’ll have to trust. And hope.”

  “Only lovesick ninnies rely on hope.”

  “That’s what you are, Elinor.”

  That’s what she was. A woman who was in love with a man who could give her everything she needed.

  “Mrs. Potts?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “I’m afraid you will need to find a new position.”

  Mrs. Potts smiled. “Excellent.”

  “Jones.”

  “I’ve always wanted to see India, my lady.”

  “Oh? Has he arranged for you as well?”

  “We have come to an understanding, my lady. I am almost entirely certain that it was my idea.”

  She laughed again. Thought of India, felt the dried tears on her cheeks. And laughed.

  “Damn him. He is much better at getting what he wants than I am.”

  Mrs. Potts stood briskly. “You can damn him all you like once you’re on board the ship.”

  The tea cups clattered as Mrs. Potts threw them down, Jones hopped to his feet as swiftly as he could, and Elinor took a deep breath.

  Mrs. Potts helped her into her coat by the door, and Elinor took one last look of everything she was going to give up for love. Everything she would leave for a chance at something new.

  It wasn’t a lot.

  She grabbed for Mrs. Potts hand. “Go to the countess and ask her for a reference. Her good opinion will mean far more than mine.”

  “You don’t think she’ll be a might miffed that you’re making off with her brother-in-law?”

  “No. But stay away from the earl.”

  “I stay away from all earls as a matter of principle. Their brothers are a
nother matter. Now go before you miss this particular one, my lady. There won’t be another along anytime soon.”

  Elinor didn’t think there would be one like George ever again and she rushed out the door and down the stairs.

  Jones opened the carriage door to help her inside and there were her two Mastiffs laying on the floor and Anala sitting on George’s lap yipping excitedly.

  Elinor hardly paused before climbing in and saying, “I should have known.”

  He scooted over on the seat to make room for her. “You should have.”

  She settled next to him, trying to calm her racing heart. The driver shouted at the horses and the carriage jolted, taking off at a clip.

  Elinor held on to the seat. “We still might not make it.”

  “We will.”

  “I’m not going to marry you.”

  George laughed. “You think I’ll change my mind and find myself enamored of some foolish virgin?”

  She shrugged. “At least you’ll have the option. And I do believe I will make a very good mistress.”

  He said, “I would never dare argue with a lady.”

  No, he never argued but simply went on his merry way.

  He pulled a small packet from his pocket and handed it to her. She opened it to find an ornate hair comb inside, a large dog balanced beautifully on top.

  He said softly, “I couldn’t find a Mastiff. When we get to India, I’ll have one commissioned.”

  He took it back from her and slid it securely into her hair. He studied it and her and said, “A wager. I’ll change your mind before we land.”

  “About marrying you?”

  When he nodded, she lifted her chin. “And what are we wagering?”

  “Solicitors. You’ll marry me, and you’ll sign the contract my solicitors draw up without reading it first.”

  “Because on this long journey across the ocean I will lose the use of all my faculties?”

  He pulled her into his arms, playing with the comb in her hair and smiling at her. And Elinor thought that if he could talk her into going to India, into marrying him once they got there, there was no question about solicitors.

  He said, “No. Because you’ll marry me only because you love me. And I’ll marry you only because I love you. And you’ll trust that there will be no other reason.”

  Trust. And hope.

  She said, “I hope it is a very long voyage.”

  He nodded. “A very long voyage. And at the end of it, a land of sun and steam. A life of love and laughter.”

  She grabbed his shirt, twisting her fists tightly into it and pulling him even closer.

  “I won’t make it if you leave me, George. Not you.”

  He wrapped his warm arms around her tight. He kissed her temple and murmured sacred words against her golden hair.

  “Never, Elinor. I’ll never leave you. And I promise you’ll never be cold again.”

  Megan BryceTo Wed The Widow

  Epilogue

  When the very Honorable George Sinclair arrived in India for the second time in his life, he very nearly kissed the ground when he took his first step.

  He was too worried and distracted about Elinor though to do more than shout for a chair to be brought for her.

  Halfway through their long voyage they’d hit a horrible storm, and how they’d made it through, he still wasn’t sure.

  He would learn later that a ship that had left but a week after them hadn’t made it. He would learn much later that Alan Rusbridge had been on that ship, tracking his sister and what was due him across an ocean.

  But at the moment, George Sinclair was too worried about Elinor. She had come down with the worst case of maladie de mer during the storm, as had nearly everyone else on board. But while they had recovered, she had not, and she’d been casting up her accounts ever since.

  George thought for sure that after a day or two on land it would subside, but when it didn’t, he called for a physician. He refused to leave the room, choosing to sit helplessly next to her and hold her hand while the physician poked and prodded, and the Indian woman they’d hired to care for her wrung out another cool cloth to place gently on Elinor’s forehead.

  The physician said, “Not maladie de mer.”

  George blanched, thinking of a hundred things worse.

  The physician said, “I call it bébé de mer. You’re the third case I’ve seen this week.”

  “Bébé de mer? I’ve never heard–”

  George stopped. And blinked.

  “Baby?”

  “It’s a long, boring voyage. Cards and books quickly lose their allure.”

  George said, “But…”

  Elinor pulled the cloth away from her eyes and pushed herself onto her elbow. “But…”

  They sat stupefied until George finally said, “Are you sure?”

  “Sure enough that I recommend you call for the vicar if you are so inclined.”

  George smiled. “Yes. What a splendid idea.”

  Elinor frowned. “I was not ill at all with my first child.”

  The physician packed his bag. “Your body is most likely still recovering from the voyage. You’ve no doubt lost some weight and have not been eating. And not to be indelicate, my lady, but how many years ago was that? This pregnancy will be different.”

  Elinor repeated him, whispering like a prayer, “This pregnancy will be different.”

  George smiled into her eyes. “This pregnancy will be different.”

  Not a prayer, a promise.

  She smiled at him, tears filling her eyes, and then her face blanched and she groaned, lying back on the bed. The Indian woman placed the cloth back over Elinor’s eyes and murmured to her soothingly.

  George had been dealing with Indian suppliers for years and he cocked his head at what she was saying.

  “Two?”

  The physician frowned at the woman. “A silly superstition. More sickness does not mean more babies. It is most likely residual illness from the voyage.”

  George said, “Two.”

  A son; an heir. And a daughter.

  He wondered briefly what the odds were that they would have a little Camilla. A daughter who was perfect and careful.

  Elinor squeezed his hand and said softly, “We don’t know that. We don’t know if even one will survive the birth.”

  “You weren’t this sick before, were you?”

  “…no.”

  He said again, “Two.”

  Not a prayer, a promise.

  “And if it’s not two, we’ll just have to sail back to England to try for another.”

  Elinor held a fist to her mouth and said tightly, “I am not getting back on board for a very long time.”

  He laughed, pulling her fist from her lips and kissing it lightly. “I told you I would make you change your mind before we landed.”

  Her lips tipped up and then they opened to say, “I had hoped you would.”

  He kissed her, softly, sweetly.

  He pulled the cloth from her eyes to see the icy blues shimmering with happy tears, and he shouted, “Jones! Call for the vicar!”

  Before the next Michaelmas, George Sinclair wrote to his brother, the Earl of Ashmore, informing him of the birth of a son.

  Requesting direction as to how one was supposed to raise a boy to be staid and steady and responsible. How one raised an earl.

  Sebastian wrote back saying not to worry about the boy. His twin sister– the widow’s daughter, George’s namesake– couldn’t be anything but wild and contrary, and George’s son would learn all he needed to by trying to keep her out of trouble.

  George’s reply was short and curt.

  And was followed by another, longer, missive when Georgiana started walking. And then running. And then climbing.

  Florian, all the while, chasing after her and shouting, “No, Gigi. No!”

  George’s missive began,

  Damn you, Sebastian, for always being right…

  * * *


  About To Tempt The Saint

  Many years ago, George St. Clair loved and lost– his heart, his faith, his future. Now, he is content to watch not-so-silently as life happens to his friends, secure in the knowledge that no woman could tempt him again. Absolutely certain that no woman is worth the risk. Confident that he is protected from the pain…

  Honora Kempe lost everything after her fall from grace– her family, her life, a future. Now, Hell hath no fury like a disgraced vicar’s daughter and she is determined to get back what was hers. By hook or by crook. Man by man. Lie by lie. Until one man makes her wonder if love really can heal all pain. And if too late really is too late…

  Table of Contents

  About

  London

  One

  Two

  Three

  Manchester

  Four

  Five

  Six

  York

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Megan BryceTo Tempt The Saint

  One

  George St. Clair sat smoking his cigar quietly and gazing into the fire. He worried the crumpled letter in his hand back and forth, back and forth.

  He’d thought about tossing it into the fire but knew it wouldn’t do any good. Not for anybody.

  He couldn’t unread it. Couldn’t undo the actions of his friend.

  George could only pray, and since he hadn’t done any kind of praying in years, he wasn’t about to start on a scab like his friend George Sinclair.

  St. Clair choked, not sure whether it was the smoke tickling or the tears threatening or the laughter bubbling.

  Only George Sinclair would run off to India with the widow.

  Only George Sinclair could do it expecting to arrive at the very end a happily married man with no consequences to pay.

  St. Clair thought again about praying. Just a quick, quiet entreaty to keep his friend safe. And whole. And, God, happy.

  Someone, somewhere, should be happy.

  But God had never answered any prayer of his, so St. Clair stared into the red and yellow flames licking at his boots and went through the quickly memorized letter again.