To Catch a Bride

by Anne Gracie

  Through the crack in the door, she heard her grandmother say, “If she didn’t tell you that, what else might she be hiding from you? She’s convinced you she’s led a life of virtue, but how do you know it’s true? She could have been with dozens of men—”

  “Ayisha was a virgin when I met her.”

  “How do you know?”

  Rafe said nothing.

  “Ahh, you’ve had her already. I understand now.” Her grandmother sounded very tired, Ayisha thought, worn out and sad, as if it was all too much for her. She wished she could see her face . . .

  The old lady went on, “In that case, I suppose you’ll set her up in some house in St. John’s Wood. It’s where gentlemen keep their mistresses, I gather,” she said bitterly.

  “I’ll do nothing of the sort!” Rafe snapped. “I’ve promised to wed her and I will.”

  Yes, thought Ayisha miserably, because he prided himself on keeping his promises. Even when those promises had been based on false information . . .

  “Wed her? What about the succession?” Lady Cleeve asked.

  Ayisha frowned. What succession? What did she mean? She pressed closer to the door.

  “What does the Earl of Axebridge have to say about this proposed marriage?”

  “My brother has no say in the matter.”

  His brother was the Earl of Axebridge? Ayisha was stunned.

  Lady Cleeve said, “Once he learns his heir is proposing to marry the illegitimate daughter of a foreign slave I expect he’ll have a great deal to say about it. Especially since it looks very much like the son of your marriage will, eventually, inherit the earldom.”

  The old lady’s words fell on Ayisha like a crushing weight. She had no idea Rafe came from such an important family. She knew he was a gentleman, but his lack of title had deceived her into imagining a marriage between them might be possible. But he was the heir to an earldom . . .

  Ayisha, Countess of Axebridge? It was unimaginable.

  She heard Rafe say, “I marry who I choose. And I have chosen Ayisha.”

  Oh, how stubborn he was. And all because he felt honor-bound to marry her, because in saving his life she’d been compromised. And because he’d taken her virginity. And desired her. And because there might be a child . . .

  There would be no child, she knew; her monthly time had come in the week before they’d arrived in England. So there was no actual necessity to marry.

  Another thing she hadn’t told him.

  Gratitude and honor and desire were not enough, she thought in sick despair. Not when he would lose so much by marrying her.

  Lady Cleeve continued, “And what of your fiancée, Lady Lavinia Fettiplace—what does she have—what does her family have to say about her being jilted in favor of the illegitimate daughter of a slave? A charming gel, from one of the finest families in England—and an heiress to a fortune, I believe.” She snorted. “What a scandal that will make. Will your brother have nothing to say about that, either?”

  A heavy coldness settled in the pit of her stomach as she heard the words. He was already betrothed to Lavinia? And she was Lady Lavinia, not Miss Fettiplace? Beautiful and rich, he’d said. He’d left off that she was titled as well.

  And therefore the perfect consort for an earl-to-be.

  It was the final straw. She could not let him do it. She loved him too much to let him ruin himself for the sake of gratitude and honor. And stubbornness. And kindness.

  She heard footsteps coming from down the hall and stumbled into the next room. Her legs folded beneath her and she sank onto the thick, rich carpet, bent double in pain and misery. Tears blinded her.

  Next door she heard the clink of china. They were serving tea. Her palms rested on the soft pile of the carpet. She glanced down and choked on a bitter half laugh. This was exactly the sort of rug he’d threatened to roll her in and carry her off.

  The bittersweet humor calmed her. She sat up and wiped her face with the hem of her skirt. Weeping would mend nothing. There was nothing, in fact, to mend. It had all been a dream, based on half-truths and lies of omission and pathetic wishful thinking on her part.

  As she’d learned as a child on the streets of Cairo, dreams filled no stomachs. They might give enough hope to carry you through the darkest nights, but they were no foundation for a life.

  You needed something more solid for a foundation: honesty. And love.

  There was a desk in the corner with writing paper and pens. She quickly penned a note. It was cowardly, she knew, but when Rafe was in one of his stubborn, gallant moods, there was no gainsaying him. If she argued, she knew full well he was just as likely to carry her off to the nearest church and marry her out of hand.

  And she did not know if she would have the strength to resist him, face-to-face. Not when she wanted everything he was offering and more.

  But she would not be the cause of his ruin.

  She folded the note in three, addressed it to Rafe, and sealed it with red wax; she didn’t want anyone else reading it.

  When the servants had gone, she tiptoed back out into the hall and tucked the note into the handle of Rafe’s valise. Then she picked up Cleo’s basket and her own smaller valise and followed the maid’s directions to the servant’s rear exit.

  Outside she saw two paths, one leading toward a walled kitchen garden, and the other leading away from the rear of the house toward what looked like a village. She hurried along it.

  She had no idea where she was going. She had a little money—Rafe had given her some English money to spend in the shop where he’d bought her the cloak. It was more than she’d had when she’d left her father’s house the night the slavers had hunted her.

  She was a child then, and she’d managed. She was older now and much wiser. And she was in England, where she’d always wanted to be. A plaintive yowl interrupted her thoughts and she smiled at Cleo, whose paw was poking through the slats in the basket. And she had a small, imperious furry friend for company and to love. It would be—it would have to be—enough.

  Rafe was furious. He wanted to strangle Lady Cleeve. How dare she speak of Ayisha like that. How dare she not come out to meet her—he knew how hurt Ayisha had been by that; she’d tried not to show it but he’d seen the pain in her eyes, the dignity with which she’d walked down the hall with the maidservant.

  He looked at the tea things the butler had brought in. Two cups, not three. A curt order had sent the butler hurrying from the room to fetch another cup.

  “When you meet Ayisha, you’ll see how mistaken you are about her, Lady Cleeve,” he said.

  The old lady didn’t respond. Her lower lip was trembling. She saw him notice and with dignity turned her head away to hide her distress. The gesture was pure Ayisha.

  A little of his anger drained away. Ignoring the teapot, he rose and poured her a sherry from the decanter on the sideboard. He handed it to her saying, “Drink. It will make you feel better.”

  She took it with a trembling hand and drank it down in one gulp. She shuddered as it went down, then handed it to him with a whispered thanks.

  “Does she—does she look like Henry?” she asked after a moment.

  “You’re worried you’ll like her, aren’t you?” Rafe said gently. “No, she doesn’t look like Henry.”

  She sighed.

  “She looks just like that painting,” he finished.

  Her eyes widened. “That’s me, when I was a girl.”

  Rafe said, “It’s Ayisha, now. Only the hair and clothes are different. She’s your granddaughter; nobody could doubt it. And from everything I’ve learned, Sir Henry loved her—and her mother—very much.”

  “I’ve been told otherwise,” Lady Cleeve said wearily.

  Rafe frowned. “By whom?”

  “A woman who knew Henry in Cairo—one of his friends.”

  Rafe poured them both another sherry. “Go on,” he said. “How did you meet this woman?”

  “A month ago one of my friends was taking a cure
in Bath. In the Pump Room she met a lady who had lived in Cairo for some years. Naturally the story of my long-lost granddaughter came up—I suppose half of England knows the story by now—so when the lady, Mrs. Whittacker, told my friend she’d actually known Henry in Cairo, of course my friend put us in contact and we arranged to meet.” She sighed and gave Rafe a rueful glance. “I almost wish I hadn’t. If I’d been left in ignorance, this day would have been very different . . .”

  “Tell me,” Rafe prompted.

  “Mrs. Whittacker told me all about Ayisha and her mother. She was a great friend of my son’s, apparently. She told me how this slave woman got her claws into Henry and that Henry was entrapped and unhappy.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Rafe said bluntly. “It’s obvious from the way Ayisha speaks of them that her mother and father were very much in love.”

  Lady Cleeve gave him a troubled look. “Is it not in her interest to say so?”

  Rafe shook his head. “Ayisha believes it utterly, and I believe her.” He leaned forward and touched Lady Cleeve on the knee. “You will believe it, too, when you see the way her eyes light when she talks of them.”

  Lady Cleeve looked uncertain. “Mrs. Whittacker told me Henry’s affair with this woman was the scandal of Cairo. The girl was born a month after my granddaughter, Alicia, was born—and for that I cannot forgive Henry. If he only knew how humiliated his wife must have been—”

  “Ayisha said he was very discreet. She doesn’t believe Lady Cleeve knew anything about her or her mother. It was only after her death and Alicia’s that Henry moved Ayisha and her mother into the house.”

  Lady Cleeve shook her head. “That’s not the story I heard. Mrs. Whittacker said the woman and child simply arrived and foisted herself on Henry while he was still distraught with grief. She said it was common knowledge in Cairo that poor Henry had been taken advantage of, and that everyone believed the child was no more Henry’s than she was.”

  “And yet Ayisha is the image of yourself as a girl,” Rafe observed, indicating the portrait.

  Lady Cleeve sighed and slumped in her chair, looking worn and crumpled. “I don’t know what to think now.”

  “I never met your son, but the impression I have from Ayisha is that he was a very strong-minded, intelligent man who took little heed of what others thought, who was autocratic, self-centered, and somewhat selfish, but was very affectionate in private to Ayisha and her mother.”

  Lady Cleeve stared at him.

  Rafe went on, “I should add that the self-centeredness and selfishness is my own interpretation of what she’s told me. Ayisha adored her father and will not hear a word against him or her mother. Despite the mess he left her in.”

  There was a long silence. Lady Cleeve’s expression was enough. She knew her son, and he was the man Rafe had described, not the one that this Mrs. Whittacker had portrayed.

  “Ayisha did say she thought her father went a little peculiar immediately following the death of Lady Cleeve, for after he’d moved her and her mother into his home, he sometimes referred to her as Alicia in company.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” the old lady said slowly. “The letter he sent saying Alicia and her mother had died was a little strange, too. Hence the confusion.” Her fine papery skin wrinkled in bewilderment. “But why would Mrs. Whittacker try to blacken her name to me?” she asked. “What would she gain by doing such a thing?”

  Rafe shrugged. “What do you think she wanted?”

  Lady Cleeve shook her head. “Nothing. Only my friendship.”

  The friendship of a lonely old lady. A wealthy old lady, the widow of a baronet, Rafe thought, but he didn’t say so. He would let Lady Cleeve work it out. “This woman, does she have a family?”

  Lady Cleeve pursed her lips thoughtfully. “She’s widowed and has been living with relatives. It isn’t comfortable for her, poor woman, in fact, we discussed—” She broke off, as if she’d suddenly realized something.

  “What?”

  “We discussed the possibility of me hiring a companion—and yes, the thought had crossed my mind she might be suitable.” She slumped back in her chair. “Oh dear. Oh dear me. To think I believed her—but she was so very convincing—and she really had lived in Cairo for years and did know Henry, I am convinced of it, though he never mentioned her in his letters. He never mentioned his mistress and daughter, either. But, oh dear me.” She looked at Rafe in distress and he had a sudden glimpse of how Ayisha might look as a troubled old woman.

  She pressed her soft, wrinkled old hands to her cheeks. “To think I might have sent my granddaughter away unseen. On a complete stranger’s say-so.”

  Rafe leaned forward and patted her knee again. “Be assured Ayisha is not after your money. All she wants is a grandmother. She told me once that it was a terrible thing to be without family, to belong to no one.”

  Lady Cleeve swallowed.

  “She was talking about you, not herself. I was trying to persuade her to come with me to England, and her resistance first started to crack when she realized you were all alone in the world.” He added in a gruff voice, “It cost her some heartache to leave, you know. There are people in Cairo who love her very much. She is, you will discover, very lovable.”

  Lady Cleeve’s eyes filled with tears.

  Rafe handed her his handkerchief and as she applied it to her eyes, she said in a shamed voice, “I’m sorry for what I said about St. John’s Wood. I am . . . I have a tendency to be bitter about mistresses and their offspring, you see. My husband . . . well, you don’t need to hear about that.”

  Rafe had no interest in ancient history. He needed to get one thing clear: “I will marry Ayisha. Nobody—not you, not my brother, not the entire ton—not even Lord Wellington could stop me.”

  “But why didn’t she tell you her mother was a slave?”

  Rafe acknowledged the validity of the question, but it didn’t worry him. “She will have her reasons,” was all he said.

  “You take it on trust?” she said incredulously. “You have that much faith in her?”

  “I have complete faith in her,” Rafe said softly. “And when you meet her, you will know why. You are quite right to be cautious about meeting her.”

  The thin, arched brows came together. “Why would you say such a thing?”

  Rafe smiled. “Because you won’t be able to help loving her. Everybody does.” It was true. She’d charmed an entire shipload of people, even sour old Mrs. Ferris in the end.

  “You love her very much, don’t you?”

  Rafe stilled. The question echoed in his mind. The answer echoed even louder, shaking him to his foundations.

  He stood abruptly. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and see what’s keeping her.”

  “I told Adams to serve her tea in the kitchen,” Lady Cleeve confessed. “I hoped she would understand from that that there was nothing for her here.”

  Rafe swore under his breath. “I’ll find her.” He yanked open the drawing room door.

  The butler, Adams, stepped back, startled. Listening at doors, Rafe thought.

  “Where is Miss Cleeve?” he snapped.

  The butler looked puzzled. “I don’t know, sir. I thought she might be in here.” He glanced past Rafe to Lady Cleeve and said, “She was supposed to come to the kitchen, but she never did. We thought she might be in the garden with her cat, but she’s not there, either.”

  Rafe whirled and looked at the pile of luggage still standing in the hall. The cat basket was gone. So was Ayisha’s valise and her new warm cloak. Threaded through the handle of his own valise was a folded piece of paper. He snatched it, broke the seal, and read:My dearest Rafe,

  I am sorry to leave you like this, without saying good-bye in person, but I can do it no other way.

  You never told me you were the heir to an earldom, never told me that there was any possibility I might become a countess. And you never said you were already betrothed to a titled, rich lady of distinguished family. You sp
oke on the ship of ruining me, but it’s clear from what Lady Cleeve said just now that if you married me, I would be your ruin, and that I cannot do.

  You are kind and gallant and noble of heart, but I love you too much—

  Rafe stopped reading for a moment, his heart pounding, his breath frozen in his chest. She loved him? Yes, there it was, in dark blue ink on elegant white paper. She loved him. Too much.

  I love you too much to let your feelings of obligation and gratitude bring you to social ruin.

  Obligation and gratitude, Rafe thought. What rubbish! But he’d never told her what he felt. It was as much his fault as anyone’s that she’d rushed off.

  It is very difficult to leave you, but I must. I could not bear to live as a mistress in St. John’s Wood.

  Rafe swore as he read that. She must have heard everything.

  Do not worry about me. I have the money you gave me in Portsmouth and I will be all right. I survived Cairo, and I will certainly manage in England. My father always said he would bring me to England, so in a way he has, and I am glad of it.

  Do not worry about me, dear Rafe. Just take care of yourself and have a wonderful life.

  With all my love, yours ever, Ayisha

  PS. Please convey my best wishes to Lady Cleeve and explain to her that I never had any expectations of her. You know it’s true. I would not want her to think ill of me.

  Rafe felt the kind of hollowness that he used to feel before a battle. He couldn’t lose her, not now. He crumpled the letter in his fist. “She’s run off,” he said. “I’m going after her.”

  “If she doesn’t want to be here—” Lady Cleeve began.

  “Not another word, madam,” Rafe snapped. “Or I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

  Shocked, Lady Cleeve took two steps back. “I only meant that she has chosen—”