The Prince's Bride

by Victoria Alexander

  For a moment no one said a word. Then all three sisters burst into laughter.

  “Thank you, Becky.” Jocelyn laughed. “No one quite puts me in my place the way you do.”

  “Now then,” Marianne said with a smile. “Do I have your word? That you will at least try to be an acceptable wife.” Jocelyn opened her mouth to protest but Marianne cut her off. “Within reason, of course.”

  “Very well. I promise. I will do my best to be rather less insufferable and to be an acceptable wife and a better person as well, I suppose.” Jocelyn sighed. “And I will try to remember he is in very much the same boat I am. But not tonight.” She smiled weakly. “Tonight I want to feel sorry for myself. And I want my sisters to be terribly sympathetic and I want you”—she looked at Becky—“to see if you can find any sweets in the kitchen that we can all share.”

  “Now that’s the best idea I’ve heard tonight.” Becky started for the door, then stopped and turned back. “You know, Beaumont might have had the solution all along.”

  “Oh?” Jocelyn raised a brow.

  “Well, while there is a certain stigma to annulment or divorce there’s none to being a widow.” Becky’s voice carried a feigned note of innocence. “And didn’t Beaumont say the best you could hope for was to be a young widow?”

  “Becky!” Marianne groaned. “Don’t give her any ideas.”

  “I’ve had that one already, thank you.” Jocelyn wrinkled her nose. “It didn’t seem particularly practical.”

  “Oh well.” Becky shrugged. “At least he’s handsome.”

  With eyes that seemed to see into her very soul.

  “And amusing,” Marianne said.

  And arms that promised comfort and security.

  “And wonderfully mysterious.” Becky nodded.

  And a kiss that warmed her toes.

  “It would be rather a shame to waste all that,” Jocelyn murmured. “I suppose I’m not spoiled enough to want Beaumont dead just so I can be his widow.

  “Pity, I can’t see myself being his wife either.”

  Chapter 5

  “We’re here.” Beaumont’s voice jerked Jocelyn awake.

  “Here where?” Jocelyn pulled herself upright and shook her head in an effort to wake up.

  How long had she been on that blasted horse anyway? She’d never particularly envied men the freedom to ride astride, she’d never ridden much herself, but it would be infinitely easier for an endless ride like this than her sidesaddle. Every muscle and joint in her body ached.

  It was dark, obviously late in the night. The second night of their journey. At least she thought it was the second night. She’d long since lost any real sense of time.

  The last twenty-four-plus hours were a blur of high emotion and deep exhaustion. Immediately after their brief but nonetheless awkward wedding ceremony, her sisters, her aunt, and Thomas had started off for Effington Hall in a coach Jocelyn would have gladly killed for, accompanied by a raft of servants. Jocelyn and Beaumont had slipped away on horseback, alone, in an opposite direction.

  They’d ridden through the night, stopping at daybreak only to exchange horses. Beaumont would allow them to pause now and then to share the surprisingly tasty bread, cheese, and wine he’d brought with him and take care of personal needs. From what she could tell, they traveled on little-used roads. Beaumont was unfailingly polite and really rather considerate. Still, his sense of urgency communicated itself to her, and she refused to complain. Or at least not too often.

  She dozed off and on, amazed anyone could rest on a horse at all but finding a bit of refuge in sleep. Fortunately her mount followed his without any particular effort on her part. Good. The last thing she wanted to admit to him was that she’d never been a more than adequate rider. It was difficult to ride with confidence when one couldn’t see where one was going.

  Their positions made it impossible to talk. She was grateful for that too. Jocelyn had decided to stop feeling sorry for herself and to accept her fate but had no idea how to go about getting to know this man. Her husband.

  Somehow the flirtatious banter she’d perfected during the season did not seem particularly appropriate to her current circumstances. Fluttering her fan and gazing in a wide-eyed, adoring manner while commenting on something of no substance whatsoever didn’t equate to fleeing for her life, newly married to a virtual stranger. Besides, she’d spent most of the journey being far too weary to do more than struggle to stay on the blasted creature beneath her.

  Jocelyn slid off the saddle and into Beaumont’s arms. “I can walk, thank you.” She pushed out of his embrace and took a step. Her knees collapsed beneath her.

  “Apparently you can’t.” Amusement sounded in his voice. He hoisted her into his arms and started toward the door.

  “Annoying man,” she murmured and snuggled against him. He was infinitely more comfortable than the horse. “I am so tired.” She rested her head against his chest.

  He shifted her weight and hammered with his fist on a great wooden door. At once she was fully awake. “Where are we?”

  “Worthington Castle.” He pounded again.

  “A castle? Really?” Her mood lightened. How bad could exile be if she were to spend it in a real castle?

  “Really.” He glanced down at her. The light of the moon shadowed the planes of his face and she could see his grin. She had the strangest desire to feel the warmth of his skin. What would he think if she rested her palm against his cheek? “However, it might not be exactly—”

  Without warning the door creaked open a wide crack. A suspicious face peered out at them. “Stop making that bloody racket! It’s the middle of the—my lord!”

  “Good evening, Nick.”

  At once the door swung fully open. A short, plump gentleman, somewhere between forty and ancient, clad in a dressing gown that had seen better days and a brightly colored nightcap, beamed at them. “My lord, we had no idea ... That is, we were not expecting ...” He turned and bellowed into the depths of the building, “Flora!” then stepped aside and urged them in. “What are you waiting for? Come in, come in.”

  Beaumont stepped over the threshold into the dim light. Sconces mounted on stone walls cast flickering light over a huge entry area. Arched stonework soared upward into a blurry darkness. Their voices echoed hollowly in the distance.

  “It’s good to see you again so soon, my lord.” Nick peered out the door, then looked at Beaumont. “No carriage?”

  “No. Just the two horses.”

  In spite of the familiarity of his address, the servant was obviously too aware of his position to say anything further. But curiosity colored his face.

  “Beaumont,” Jocelyn said under her breath.

  He set her on her feet but kept his arm around her. Before she could protest the intimate gesture, she swayed slightly. His arm tightened and she was thankful for the support. And his thoughtfulness in providing it.

  “This is Nick—Nicholas Harper. He is the house steward and his wife, Flora, is the head housekeeper, but in truth”—Beaumont lowered his head in a confidential manner—“they rule the castle.”

  Nick chuckled. “Go on with ye, lad.”

  “Nick, I’d like you to meet”—he paused slightly and she wondered if it was difficult for him to say the words—“Lady Beaumont.”

  “Lady Beaumont?” Nick’s bushy brows drew together under the nightcap, then his eyes widened with realization. “Lady Beaumont!”

  “My wife.”

  “It’s lovely to meet you,” Jocelyn said cautiously.

  “Married.” Nick grinned and shook his head. “I never thought I’d live to see—”

  “Nicholas Harper, what on earth is going on out here?” A female version of Nick hurried into sight. She was precisely his height and build, and in the faint light Jocelyn couldn’t be entirely sure, but it looked like her dressing gown matched his. “Who would be—” She pulled up short at the sight of Beaumont.

  “Good evening, Flora.” Beaum
ont turned toward the housekeeper and lifted her hand to his lips. “You are as beautiful as ever.”

  “Watch yourself or you’ll be turning my head with your fancy words, Your Lordship.” Flora giggled and Jocelyn could have sworn a blush accompanied it.

  “And this, Flora,” Nick said significantly, “is Lady Beaumont.”

  “Lady...” Flora’s mouth dropped open and she stared unabashedly.

  “Good evening,” Jocelyn said.

  “As I live and breathe. Lady Beaumont.” Flora shook her finger at Beaumont. “Shame on you, my lord, you never said a word.”

  “There wasn’t a word to say when I left. It all happened”—he glanced at Jocelyn, and laughter sparked in his eyes—“rather quickly.”

  “Love is like that. Sneaks up on you when you least expect it.” Nick nudged Flora. “Don’t it, my sweet?”

  “Stop that kind of talk right now.” Flora’s tone was reproving but there was affection in her glance.

  “I haven’t heard from you so I assume my uncle is still doing well?” Beaumont looked from Flora to Nick.

  “Better even than when you left.” Flora nodded.

  “Excellent,” Beaumont said. “I assume he’s asleep?”

  “Oh my, yes, has been for ...”

  The conversation swirled around her about this heretofore unmentioned uncle and their travels and a dozen other things but Jocelyn’s tired mind couldn’t grasp the words. She had any number of questions but was too weary for any attempt at making sense. The warmth of the room seeped into her bones and she wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep. She tried not to yawn and failed.

  “Oh dear, you must both be exhausted. Imagine coming all the way from London on horseback. Whatever possessed you?” Flora clucked. “It will take far too long to wake a maid; I’ll make up your room myself right now.” She started off, her voice trailing behind her. “No carriage. Tsk, tsk. Isn’t that the silliest thing you’ve ever heard ...”

  Beaumont directed Nick to get their luggage, such as it was.

  “Two rooms,” Jocelyn murmured and sagged against her husband.

  He chuckled and picked her up once again, and once again she didn’t protest. Regardless of whatever she might not like about this man, she did rather like being in his arms.

  He carried her up the stairs and she had a vague impression of vast space. In some part of her mind not fogged with fatigue she wondered exactly where he was taking her, and more to the point, what he would do when they got there. She knew it was an important question but couldn’t seem to remember why.

  He laid her gently on a bed that might well have been the softest thing she’d ever felt. Perhaps it was only soft in comparison to the horse, but its warmth enfolded her. She struggled to remember what it was that was so important—something she had to say to Beaumont. Something she needed to make clear.

  Whatever it was it paled in comparison to the enticing lure of clean linen and the seductive comfort of a soft mattress. And in the last moment before blissful sleep claimed her she wondered where Beaumont, where her husband, was going to sleep.

  ———

  “Jocelyn?” Rand said softly, staring down at the exhausted figure on the bed.

  She murmured something unintelligible and was obviously deeply asleep. Rand was nearly as weary as she. He had pushed them hard, driven by the urgent need for speed and the possibility of pursuit.

  He’d seen nothing to indicate that and had caught only occasional glimpses of the handful of men he’d arranged to follow them at a discreet distance. They would patrol the castle grounds, as unobtrusively as possible, until Rand received word from London that any possible threat was at an end. Even so, Rand did not completely let down his guard until their arrival at the castle. His constant vigilance took as much a toll on him as the grueling ride itself.

  Before leaving town he had turned over the information he’d gathered to his superior and was essentially no longer involved in the investigation. If, at some point, Jocelyn admitted she could indeed identify the man he’d sought, he would deal with it. He suspected her inability to do so had more to do with fear than anything else. Still, it was of no consequence at the moment. He was out of it now and his only job was to keep Jocelyn safe.

  And here he could do just that. Worthington Castle was as much home to him as the Abbey and every bit a sanctuary. Now he could relax in the bed that had always been his whenever he’d visited Worthington.

  However, said bed was already occupied.

  They hadn’t discussed it but he was fairly certain she would not wish to share. Not that it mattered right now. Even the attractive picture presented by the lovely Lady Jocelyn could not overcome the weariness that engulfed him. And he was not about to sleep on the floor or a less than appealing chair.

  He pulled off his coat and tossed it aside, then considered her. There was no determining how long she’d sleep. At least through the night and possibly well into the next day. He was certainly tired enough for that. Well, he couldn’t allow her to sleep fully clothed. She’d toss and turn and no doubt disturb his rest to boot. She still wore her cloak as well as her clothes. There was only one thing to do. She wouldn’t like it one bit but he hoped she was too deeply asleep to notice.

  He drew a deep breath and pulled off one shoe, then the next. Rand sat on the bed beside her and propped her up against him. Somehow he managed to remove her cloak and her pelisse. She murmured occasionally but did not awaken. Pity. It would have been so much easier if she had.

  He could have called Flora to help, of course, but it would have seemed an odd request for a newly wed husband. He didn’t want either Flora or Nick to question his relationship with his new wife. They were as dear to him as family and he didn’t want them to know his marriage was not what it appeared. Whether Jocelyn liked it or not, they were indeed man and wife. It was imperative they behave accordingly, for his pride as much as for her safety. He’d married a woman out of necessity rather than choice and he preferred to keep that fact private.

  Still, when he’d thought of his wedding night, or more accurately the second night of his marriage, he really rather hoped the lady in question would be conscious.

  Rand struggled with the tapes and ties of her gown. Blast it all. He’d undressed any number of women in his life, but never without their willing assistance, and with Jocelyn he was battling a dead weight. Finally he removed her dress, leaving her in her chemise and stockings. That would do.

  He got to his feet and studied her. Damnation, but she was lovely. Especially now with her mouth shut and her features relaxed in sleep. Her form was tall and slender, her hips nicely curved, her breasts firm and full. Her long lashes rested dark against her cheek and her blond hair was tousled on the pillow about her head like a cloud of gold. If he had to marry a bride not of his choosing, well, he certainly could have done worse.

  She’d been remarkably decent on the ride here as well. A few minor complaints, but all in all she’d seemed determined to make the best of it. Had she too realized they could well spend the rest of their lives together? She’d been polite and even pleasant during their rare breaks on the road. Admittedly he was surprised by her demeanor and during their long silent hours together wondered if he was mistaken about her after all. It was a hard ride for him and no doubt even more difficult for her. He had to admire her resolve and even her courage.

  With a start he realized he was not at all averse to this marriage. And realized as well Thomas’s suggestion of seduction would be most pleasant. His stomach tightened at the thought. Most pleasant indeed.

  Still, this was not the time. He wanted her fully awake and, more, wanted her to want him. Just as he wanted her.

  He wanted her? Rand laughed softly and shook his head. When had that happened? Perhaps it was when he’d accepted the fact that she could very well be his wife for the rest of his days. Or maybe it was the way she’d instinctively snuggled against him when he’d carried her in his arms. Or possibly
he had wanted her from the moment he’d pressed his lips to hers to stifle her scream.

  He rubbed a weary hand across his eyes. It really didn’t matter, he supposed. The difficulty would lie in making her want him. It might well take a while, but then they had a great deal of time together ahead of them.

  He grabbed the coverlet folded at the foot of the bed and tossed it over her. She sighed and burrowed beneath it. An exceedingly pleasant task. He pushed aside the thought, disrobed, and circled to the other side of the bed. Rand blew out the candle, pulled back the sheets, and slid between them. There were layers of linens and blankets between the two of them. Jocelyn could scarcely complain about sharing the bed, although Rand was confident she would do so anyway.

  He didn’t really care. His body was tired, his mind was muddled, and he wanted nothing more than to fall into the welcome arms of oblivion.

  He closed his eyes and waited for sleep. Instead he found himself listening to the gentle breathing of the woman beside him. Alert to the rustling of covers when she shifted position. Cognizant of how easy it would be to reach out and pull her into his arms and forever into his life.

  And wondered if she dreamed of princes and palaces.

  And wondered as well what it would take to make her dream of him.

  ———

  Lord, she’d had the oddest dreams.

  Jocelyn shifted and burrowed more deeply beneath the covers. She’d dreamed she’d been riding on a horse forever and was cold and tired and ... married.

  Her eyes snapped open and she stared into the sleeping face of Randall, Lord Beaumont.

  She opened her mouth to scream, then clamped her lips shut tight. No. Screaming would only wake him up and she preferred him asleep right now. At least until she gathered her wits about her. Besides, the last time she had screamed, or tried to scream, he had quieted her with a kiss and she didn’t want that to happen again. At least she didn’t think she wanted that to happen again. No, she definitely didn’t want that here and now. Perhaps later ... Oh dear, it was all so confusing.