by Barbara Metzger, Connie Brockway, Casey Claybourne; Catherine Anderson
“No, that is just the gown talking.”
He raised one eyebrow. “Strange, my garments have never spoken to me.”
“No, you do not understand. I barely do. The gown is so pretty, it makes you think of fairy princesses and happy endings. Life is not like that.”
He brushed away a shimmering teardrop from her cheek. “It can be, my Katie, it can be. I need you to make me a whole man, to make my son the man I want him to be. I need you to bring the music to my soul.”
She shook her head. “I cannot be your lover.”
“Who said anything about being lovers? Although that is part of the bargain, saints be praised.” He kissed her, to prove his eagerness. Both of them felt the warmth spread until their bodies flowed together of their own volition, a perfect fit. His hands stroked, his tongue explored, his voice whispered words of encouragement.
Katie would have followed him anywhere, even to a love nest in Richmond or Kensington.
He only led her to the sofa. His kiss turned into a caress, an embrace, an eternity. The roar of blood in their ears was deafening, the pounding of their hearts—the shouts of “Unhand my daughter, you cad!”
Eighteen years had gone by. The angry gentleman was thinner, grayer, with lines etched in his face. He was still tall and proud.
“Papa?”
“I was invited to a wedding, and by Zeus, I mean to have one. Not a moment too soon, either, from what Lady Martindale wrote your mother.”
“Lady Martindale wrote to Mama? But Susannah is in London. Surely you have seen her. The wedding has been postponed.”
“Faugh.” He waved her concerns aside, with the pistol in his hand. “The chit is well enough. She’ll do. Can’t hold a candle to you for looks, not even after all these years, but I’d say she has a wiser head on her shoulders. And take yours off Forde’s, dammit!”
Katie’s legs could barely hold her, but she did move away from Forde’s sheltering arms.
“At least you’ve picked a better man this time, so I suppose you ain’t an entire ninnyhammer. And button your gown.” He waved the gun in Forde’s direction. “As for you, sir, I demand to know your intentions. Of course, your choices after this bit of work are a ring on my girl’s finger or a pistol ball between your legs.”
“Papa! You cannot threaten a viscount. Besides, I am too old to worry about my reputation, which was destroyed ages ago any—”
Forde stopped her with a finger laid gently across her lips, which were red and swollen from his kisses. He told the earl, “I was just trying to convince your daughter to make me the happiest of men.”
“You were trying to seduce me!”
He shrugged. “That, too. I intend to be very happy in this marriage.”
“Good,” Lord Bainbridge said. “I’ll send for the special license. And your mother and daughter. And the rest of those connections of yours, Forde, who are underfoot at my house. But hear me, both of you. I am not taking any chances this time. I am not going to take my eyes off you until the deed is done.”
Katie stamped her foot. “The deed will not be done! No one has said they love me!”
“Deuce take it, girl, why else would I fly halfway across the country to make sure you get hitched all right and tight this time?”
Forde smiled. “I do not think she means you, my lord.”
“What, the gal is half out of her wedding gown, and you haven’t said you love her?”
“I was getting to it.”
Katie looked over at him. “You were?”
“And will if we can have some privacy. That means you, too, Crispin, so you do not have to hide in the hall. Take Lord Bainbridge to see the chickens, the ones his daughter raises to make ends meet.”
“Ten minutes,” the earl said, ignoring the slur. He took an ecstatic Crispin by the collar and led him out, too. “Come on, boy. I always wanted a grandson, you know. I say, do you play chess?”
“Father has been teaching me this week.”
“Good. That means I can still win.”
When the door shut behind them, Forde took Katie back into his arms, but not to kiss her, only to look into her eyes and swear, “I love you, my Katie. And I will love you forever and ever, and have since I fell at your feet.”
“And I love you, and have since you landed in the mud.”
Now he kissed her. “There, do you hear the music of our hearts beating together? It is a symphony. And do not say it’s the gown.”
No, it was the goats. It was feeding time.
Chapter Eleven
The Brookville wedding took place a mere month late. Everyone agreed the bride was the most beautiful they had ever seen. Susannah got to wear blue velvet, but all eyes, especially the groom’s, were on Katie in her ivory lace and silk. Later the villagers agreed she glowed with happiness like they’d never seen, but then the viscount did, too.
And later that day, on their way to his country seat for their honeymoon, Lord and Lady Forde finally had the privacy to express that happiness. Her father was not watching, and Crispin was on his way back to school. With the shades of the carriage windows pulled across and the driver pretending deafness, they consecrated their love in perfect harmony, sealing their vows for all time.
So rapt were they that they never noticed when a trunk fell off the back of the coach . . . the trunk with her finally and finely worn, perfectly fitting, wedding gown.
The author of more than two dozen Regency romances, Barbara Metzger is the proud recipient of a RITA and two Romantic Times Career Achievement Awards for Regencies. When not writing Regencies or reading them, she paints, gardens, volunteers at the local library, and goes beachcombing on the beautiful Long Island shore with her little dog, Hero. She loves to hear from her readers, care of Signet or through her Web site, www.BarbaraMetzger.com.
Glad Rags
Connie Brockway
Chapter One
St. John’s Wood, ten miles outside of London The Height of the Season, June 1856
“Even if you did win your wager, how in God’s name do you expect me to fulfill the requirements?” Alexander, Viscount Thorpe, asked in disgust.
“My great-aunt’s attic is a warren filled to overflowing with my ancestors’ detritus.” Across the gaming table Hugh St. James lifted eyes as dark blue as his sister’s to meet Alex’s. Hugh was drunk, disastrously drunk, yet he still managed to invest his slurred words with a jeer. “I’m sure we’ll find something suitable.”
Marcus Penworthy and Tom Davidson, having long since bowed out of the current game, traded anxious glances. Even the servant, whose sole duty was to keep their glasses filled with their host’s best claret, could not keep the concern from his expression.
This was not going to end well. The viscount had always been constitutionally incapable of backing down from a challenge, and Hugh St. James kept hurling taunts at him.
It was a shame, as not long ago these two men had been boon companions, raised on neighboring estates. They had even gone to Oxford together. It was there Penworthy had met and befriended both.
“What will it be, Thorpe?” asked Hugh. Once, the handsome young man had been as well known for his easygoing nature as his boldness. Though he was no longer so easygoing, he was still bold, though the word “foolish” came more easily to mind this night.
Certainly it was foolish to bait someone as formidable as the viscount Thorpe. All six feet four inches of his powerful frame vibrated with rigidity, and the scar he’d won in the Battle of Balaklava showed red against his lean cheek before snaking beneath the hard angle of a square jaw.
No one had ever accused Alexander Thorpe of being easygoing, but he had been capable of laughter. Now his expression was always stern, his wide mouth having forgotten what it was to smile. Though he had always been frank, now his manner was blunt to the point of rudeness.
Some thought the Crimean War had made Alex aloof and abrupt. But Penworthy thought the same thing that divided Alex from St. James was also responsibl
e for his stern, unyielding demeanor—St. James’s sister, Lucy.
“Bless me, I can scarce countenance it! The great, the mighty, the infallible Viscount Thorpe is uncertain ?” Hugh asked as the moment grew longer and Alex still hadn’t answered. “I swear, what next? Are the heavens to fall?”
The viscount drummed his well-manicured fingertips against his overturned cards. They hadn’t come here with a mind to gamble, but upon entering the ballroom Penworthy had noted the moment Alex’s gaze had found Lucy’s on the dance floor below. He’d nodded in curt acknowledgment, and she had angled up a dark brow in mocking reply.
They should have left then. And, indeed, for half a minute Alex had hesitated at the top of the stairs before swinging around and gruffly stating his intention of finding himself a game of cards. Penworthy, who’d been rather looking forward to dancing with a few of the Season’s beauties, had reluctantly followed.
Unfortunately, an hour later her brother had found the same companions. And still Alex hadn’t taken Fate’s prodigious hint and departed. No, he must stay and play and drink.
They had been at this table for nearly three hours, during which time ten thousand pounds had found its way into St. James’s pockets. It should have ended there, with St. James smugly and righteously victorious, but it hadn’t. It had come to this. St. James, flush with the mistaken notion of his luck’s infallibility, had insisted on one last foolhardy bet that all but guaranteed Alex would recoup every last penny he’d lost this evening and then some.
There was a catch, of course. There was always a catch. Thorpe must first agree to St. James’s ridiculous terms should he lose.
Not that he was going to lose. St. James hadn’t a hope in hell of winning.
St. James would need to draw to an inside royal flush in order to beat the ten high straight that had become Alex’s hand on the last flip of the card. The probability of its happening was essentially nonexistent. Even the unnatural luck that had attached itself to St. James all evening could not hold out against such overwhelming odds.
“Well, Thorpe, what’s it to be? Do you accept?”
“Don’t be a fool, Hugh. You only make yourself ridiculous,” Alex answered.
The room went utterly silent except for the susurration of the gaslight in the sconces, hissing like a scold. Davidson’s eyes widened, and Penworthy shook his head. Must Alex always say exactly what he meant?
“Ridiculous?” Hugh’s eyes narrowed. “Too late. You’ve already seen to that.”
At Alex’s stony silence, Hugh’s smile thinned. “Or is it only the females in my family you bother making ridiculous?”
Alex did not answer, but his scar grew pale against the darkening hue of his face.
“Indeed, I would think you would relish an excuse to continue,” Hugh went on, ignoring Penworthy’s silently mouthed admonitions. “Start with my sister, work your way up through me . . . who knows? Next year the opportunity may present itself to make a fool of my great-aunt Sophie.”
“Bring me a piece of paper and a pen,” Alex abruptly barked, lifting his hand and gesturing sharply toward the attendant hovering near the doorway. “I shall give you my vowels for the amount on the table, St. James.”
St. James leaned over the green felt, arms braced on either side of his four upturned cards. A lock of dark auburn hair fell across his forehead. “I don’t want your bloody vowels, Alex.”
“Are you suggesting that my note is not good?” Alex asked in a carefully neutral voice.
At that St. James scoffed. “Good God, man! Do I look ready to shuffle off my mortal coil? No. I am certain your note is worth as much as your name. It is just that I do not want your money, Thorpe. I want you brought low. I want to deal a blow to that overweening pride of yours. I want you to know what it feels like. What Lucy felt like. And I want these gentlemen”—he gestured blindly toward Penworthy and Davidson—“to bear witness.”
“This is absurd,” Alex said, his jaw bunching. It would take a great deal to push him into accepting a wager he could not lose from a man who could not afford the loss. Especially one as drunk as St. James. The amount on the table was formidable even to a man as rich as Alex. To one less wealthy, like St. James, it would represent half a year’s income.
But Alex Thorpe could be pushed too hard.
“In or out?” St. James demanded.
“I refuse to accept such a wager,” Alex answered.
“Coward.” The word echoed in the silent room.
“Hugh!” Penworthy whispered urgently, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Desist!”
St. James shook him off angrily. “Who else but a coward would refuse to allow his victim a chance to settle the score?”
“You are and never were my victim, Hugh,” Alex said tightly.
“I beg to disagree. It was my sister whom you publicly insulted and thus, by extension, myself.”
“It was not well done of me. I concede that now,” Alex ground out, amazing Penworthy. In the two years since it had happened, Alex had never referred to that night.
“No, it was not well done,” Hugh agreed, his face darkening.
“But she danced three times with Desmond Fitzgerald. Three times when it was understood by everyone that . . . that she was my . . .” His betrothed, Penworthy silently finished when Alex’s lips pressed together, refusing to allow another betraying syllable to escape.
Yet . . . Lucy St. James had not been his betrothed. Nor had she ever been. Not officially. Whatever understanding existed between Alex and Lucy had been of a private nature. If it had existed at all. Except that everyone, apparently including Alex, had thought it did. And certainly for several years and through several Seasons before the “incident” Lucy had acted as if it was understood, as well.
During their years of . . . courtship? dalliance? association? she had danced many more than three times with Thorpe in a single evening. She had gone driving in the park with him. She had visited his townhouse. On several occasions, she’d been seen dining with him at London’s finest restaurants. And she had done all these things without a chaperone, without apology, flaunting Society’s rules, tweaking their collective noses.
Lucy St. James was as spirited and independent as her brother was hot-tempered and bold. It had seemed to all of them that Alex had admired those qualities. But then, it would appear that they had all been wrong about that, too. He certainly had not been appreciative of her independence two years ago.
“And that wasn’t the worst of it. Not in the least. My God, what she put me through!” Alex’s voice was raised, his eyes flashing. The rare display of emotion from so famously a self-controlled man caused Davidson, who did not know either gentleman as well as Penworthy did, to grow slack-jawed with wonder.
“You were jealous,” Hugh sneered.
Alex made a dismissive and impatient sound. “You don’t understand.”
“Not jealous?” Hugh asked bitterly. “Then your pride was offended. An excellent reason to insult a lady.”
Alex ground his teeth together, an involuntary muscle lifting his upper lip in a snarl.
“She had spent the entire Season flirting and dancing and playing the coquette,” Alex said in a cold, terse voice. “She was making a fool of me. You yourself noted it. You even commented on it. You said, ’Best beware, Alex, she intends to lead you a merry dance’!”
Hugh bolted to his feet and leaned over the table, his knuckles braced against the surface. “And you drawled back, ‘Yes. A telling flaw, that. Lucy must always lead, and I find that I no longer have a taste for following.’ ”
“You could not have found a more public venue for your statement—nor more avid ears to hear it than in the crowd gathered that evening. I can still hear their titters! And then, not to leave any doubt as to your opinion of the lady everyone assumed you would make your wife, you left her to find her own way home.”
“So I did!” Alex shouted back. His hands clenched into fists on the tabletop, as though
recalling how they’d wanted to clench about Fitzhugh’s neck. Or had it been Lucy’s neck he had imagined wringing? Penworthy wasn’t certain he could guess.
“She told me you left her there without so much as bidding her a good evening,” St. James thundered.
“I am surprised she mentioned it to you. How kind of her to have noted my leaving,” Alex bit out. “I recall hearing later that she stayed until four in the morning and danced twice more with Fitzhugh.”
For a long moment the two men’s gazes locked, their jaws tight. Then, as though realizing how close he stood to violence, Alex took a deep breath, exhaling through his nose. He spread his palms flat on the table, staring at them as he pushed himself back in his seat.
“You are not the only one with a surplus of pride, Thorpe.” St. James, too, seemed to realize how close they’d come to blows. He sank back down in his chair, his mouth twisting. “What else could she do to save face?”
“Ah, I see. And that accounts for the next day, too, when she was at Carleton House until dawn, and the day after that, when she danced so long at the Monforts’ that she needed to be carried from the room by two ‘strapping footmen’?” His laughter held no amusement. “I fear you took our separation a good deal harder than your sister did, Hugh.”
“How would you know?” St. James asked, upending the rest of his wine into his mouth. “You left for the Crimea within a fortnight. Without even calling on her.”
“I didn’t want to interfere with her social activities.”
“Ever the gentleman. And it was that same gentlemanly restraint that kept you from coming to call when you returned home?”
“Yes.”
No, Penworthy thought. Whether or not Alex wanted the world to think his relationship with Lucy St. James had faded to indifference, Penworthy knew better. He had been there the first time Alex had seen Lucy St. James after his return from Russia. He had heard him catch his breath when she appeared on the other side of the coffee shop where they’d been drinking. He had seen the expression in Alex’s eyes, lost and dazed, when he’d murmured, without taking his eyes from her, “Penworthy, please. No one has written me such, but I find I . . . I really must know. Before I . . . before I speak to her. Did she marry Fitzhugh?”