Wedded Bliss

by Celeste Bradley

  Neville had been devastated by their father’s death. Of course, he’d only been sixteen to Morgan’s twenty-two, so perhaps that was why. Morgan had gone back to sea and Neville had turned to Oliver to help him step into his new role as Duke of Camberton.

  Oliver had readily obliged. Morgan knew his uncle was competitive in business and was driven to win, and he’d admired Oliver for his willingness to sully his noble hands with actual effort. But it was Oliver’s devotion to Neville’s welfare that had won Morgan’s loyalty. Yes, His Lordship was a snob, as was usual for his rank, and he could be calculating and ambitious, but it was always for the good of Camberton and, by extension, for Neville.

  Try explaining that to Neville now.

  “If you can bring yourself to understand, I believe that in time—”

  “In time? The way you arrived home just in time to help me?” Neville took a swig of the amber liquid in his glass. He shuddered slightly and wiped the back of his hand over his lips, then turned his burning gaze back on Morgan. “I cannot believe you have the gall to face me at this moment. And when I think that I was so relieved when you came home in time to help me—that I sat there last night and begged—” He passed a shaking hand over his pale face.

  Morgan wasn’t sure if it was thwarted love or if it was the morning after a drinking binge that had taken the gentle, playful light from his younger brother’s eyes. Instead, they blazed like twin blue fires of fury in reddened whites.

  Morgan had predicted that Neville would be upset, but he hadn’t truly believed that this act of sacrifice on his part would sever their brotherhood entirely.

  He didn’t want to believe it. He wanted to believe Uncle Oliver’s claim that Neville would come round, that he might even be relieved to be free of the temptress. Morgan wanted to believe it so he could take Oliver up on his offer of the Selkie Maid.

  I betrayed my only family for a ship.

  No. He had to believe that ruining Neville’s little infatuation was the right thing to do. And, truly, so far the incandescent beauty had failed to prove anything to Morgan other than she was rather handy with a blade. Not exactly a recommendation of demure maidenhood!

  He tried once more. “Neville, she isn’t who she seems to be—”

  This time, Neville didn’t hesitate to fling his glass into the fire. It erupted violently into a thousand shards that hissed and popped on the coals, the remaining gloss of whiskey burning off with a brilliant blue hue.

  Neville turned on Morgan. “Get out of my house. In fact, stay out of Camberton entire. I do not wish to see you ever again, do you hear me?”

  Morgan stared at his half brother’s face. Then he turned and left. His last thought as he quietly shut the door on Neville’s misery was that his sibling had never looked more like him than at that very moment.

  He’ll see me every time he looks in the mirror. I did that. I broke my half brother’s gentle heart.

  Morgan strode past Regis and passed through the grand entry hall, his gaze intent on the door, ignoring the gilded spiraling stair and the priceless statuary. Faster. His boot heels rang on the marble. Without waiting for the butler to catch up to him, he yanked the front door open and fled the house.

  “Morgan! Blast it, boy! Wait!”

  Morgan slowed at Lord Oliver’s preemptory tones. Only a lifetime of respect kept him on those gracious steps as he waited for his uncle to catch up to him.

  “Stay out of Camberton entire.”

  Morgan’s vision blurred slightly as he gazed down at the marble doorsteps. He had never been much impressed by the grandeur of his father’s holdings—at least, he’d never allowed himself to be. In fact, he’d played with an India rubber ball on these very steps as a boy. They were wide and high, surely intended to be imposing and to make it difficult for callers to climb—as if to imply that an audience with a man of the duke’s stature must be earned.

  As a child, Morgan had used them for a playground. One day they might have formed a tropical volcano, another day a frozen slope, and of course, most days a grand sailing vessel, like the stories told to him by his great-grand-da, his mother’s grandfather, the original Captain Pryce.

  He’d never wanted Camberton. He’d never envied the weight of responsibility Neville had to bear. He liked his freedom. He loved the sea. The threat of banishment from Camberton should mean little or nothing to him.

  Yet it did.

  Lord Oliver came even with Morgan. He ignored Morgan’s icy expression and clapped him on the shoulder as if they were enjoying a jaunt in the park.

  “Well done, lad! I must express my appreciation for your heroic salvation of the duke. At least you understand how important family is. Women come and go, but the family is forever.”

  Morgan looked at Lord Oliver in disbelief, but his uncle only gazed into the distance with a slight smile on his narrow features, as if passing acerbic approval upon the beautiful day. Then he slid his gaze sideways to look Morgan in the eye. “And how is your bride? Did you bed her properly?”

  Not much in the world could render Morgan speechless, but this blunt question from his uncle did. He could only blink at the man for a moment.

  Lord Oliver smirked. “What an unsavory creature, that female. She probably wasn’t even a virgin, was she?”

  Morgan narrowed his eyes. What was Oliver up to? “I wouldn’t know. I hardly expected her to succumb to my charms when she’d only known me an hour.”

  Lord Oliver snorted in disappointment. “Really? I’d expected better of you. You know you cannot give that woman the slightest opportunity to obtain an annulment. You must bed her, and soon!” He turned fully to Morgan and raised an eyebrow. “That is, if you still wish to win the Selkie Maid for your own.”

  “I am not a rapist, my lord.”

  Oliver lifted a lip in a supercilious derision. “You’re a bastard, not a gentleman. No one cares what you do.”

  Cold fury swept Morgan. He could not take a swing at his own uncle. The very urge shocked him. So he merely growled something noncommittal and left, taking the steps two at a time and leaving his uncle and his half brother—and Camberton—behind him.

  Morgan could only pray that someday Bliss would prove herself so entirely unworthy that Neville would see the truth.

  Morgan had not betrayed him. He had saved him.

  • • •

  LORD OLIVER NOTED the rigid set of Morgan’s shoulders as he descended the steps and marched off toward the hired cab. Once seated, he slammed the door.

  Aha. Oliver smiled to himself. Had the evil little vixen managed to get her claws into Pryce? No matter. The boy’s personal affairs were of no interest to him. Oliver’s sole concern was whether the bastard captain held up his end of their bargain, and thus far, Morgan had done so with aplomb.

  The hack kicked up a cloud of dust as it raced down the circular drive. Oliver turned toward the doorway, stopped, then spun back around, stunned by a completely unexpected sight. Another hired cab was making its way up the drive just as Morgan’s exited. What was the meaning of this sudden rush of carriage traffic? Had Camberton House become the new Rotten Row?

  He blinked in disbelief as yet another hired cab followed, this one weighed down with teetering stacks of travel trunks and boot lockers!

  Who the devil . . . ?

  Anger constricted Oliver’s throat. This kind of intrusion was utterly unacceptable. He waited until the hacks neared the front steps, then waved them on.

  “Turn around and be quick about it! This is the home of Lord Neville Danton, fourteenth Duke of Camberton. Clearly, you have the wrong—”

  A woman’s pale countenance appeared, framed in the carriage window. She offered him a weak nod by way of greeting. Then a second woman’s face popped into view, younger and plainer, but equally wan.

  Slowly, Lord Oliver’s thoughts began to find purchase. Before
him was a weary pair, likely a mother and daughter, who had brought with them enough travel chests to outfit a small army. He felt his shoulders sag with the burden of acquiescence.

  Oh hell. The Beckhams had arrived from Barbados.

  He had houseguests, whether he wanted them or not. And he did not. However, it was the price he had agreed to pay, and a gentlemen made good on his promises.

  Oliver pasted a pleasant smile on his countenance, reminding himself that the Beckhams’ arrival was more of an investment than inconvenience. In exchange for hosting the sugar plantation widow and her backward daughter for the London Season, the White Rose Line would be awarded an exclusive contract to ship Sunbury Plantation sugar to every corner of the English Empire.

  And that would be only the beginning. He was certain of it. The pieces would fall into place easily. First, Lord Oliver would provide the Beckham girl an introduction to the ton, single-handedly saving the unfortunate child from social obscurity. Second, Mrs. Beckham would undoubtedly feel indebted to him for his kindness. Therefore, she would accept Oliver’s offer to take the plantation off her hands, even at a greatly reduced price.

  Simply brilliant, if he did not say so himself.

  The cabdriver opened the carriage door and a dainty shoe set down upon the footboard. Being sure to keep his polite smile frozen in place, Lord Oliver took a step toward his guests. He only hoped he could wrap up the terms of the plantation sale early in the Season so he could pawn off this pair of useless females to someone else.

  Surely he could find another host. Any other host.

  He bowed graciously. “Mrs. Beckham. What a pleasure it is to finally—”

  “Oh, Ollie!” Paulette Beckham clutched her breast and nearly tumbled from the carriage. “Those awful, horrid sailors had no sympathy for my severe discomfort! Can you imagine the insensitivity! Barbarians! All of them!”

  Mrs. Beckham staggered, leaning on the driver’s arm as she took a wobbly step onto solid ground. “I am utterly exhausted, darling Ollie! I hope you don’t mind me calling you that, but I feel we have become the dearest of friends during these many months of correspondence. Don’t you agree?”

  Lord Oliver felt his jaw unhinge. Darling Ollie? He tried to recall the last time anyone had addressed him in such a thoroughly inappropriate fashion, let alone a woman known only through an exchange of letters. He drew a blank. “I . . . er . . .”

  “Oh, my dearest, darling Ollie, every mile was unbearable! Every day aboard that ship seemed an eternity!”

  “Mummy, please.” The girl dipped her bonneted head and alighted from the carriage. She was a thin and drab little bird, as weak and worn-looking as her mother but devoid of the older woman’s charms. The girl gazed directly into Lord Oliver’s eyes, her mouth pulled in a tight line. “Forgive us, Your Lordship, but my mother is correct. These past weeks have been exhausting. Perhaps your staff can show us to our rooms?”

  If Oliver recalled correctly, this unattractive waif with the rather arid manner was called Katarina. The name seemed far too regal for one with dull brown hair, a bony figure, and sharp and humorless eyes. He had heard the young Miss Beckham was no beauty, but Oliver was certain he had never met such an unpleasant girl in his life.

  He looked her up and down, noting her plain dress. Clearly, a childhood in the wilds of Barbados had left her woefully unprepared for the social intricacies of the London Season. This inconsequential person would be eaten alive!

  The girl began to herd her mother toward the entrance of the house. “You need to lie down, Mummy.”

  “Oh my, yes!” Paulette patted Oliver’s coat sleeve as she passed by him on her way toward the steps. “I am positively swooning with fatigue, Ollie, my pet. ’Tis a wonder I am able to walk at all!”

  A series of loud grunts made Lord Oliver turn toward the carriages. He saw that both drivers had already begun unloading the bulky trunks. He watched helplessly as one man attempted to drag a particularly cumbersome boot locker backward up the marble steps, the impact of each stair echoing like a cannon blast in his ears.

  “I say!” Oliver looked about, horrified. The entire situation had slipped from his control. Somehow the arrival of two petite ladies had turned his sedate household into a grunting, chaotic, “darling Ollie” madhouse!

  “Your Lordship.”

  Oliver spun around, nearly sighing with relief at the appearance of his butler, Regis.

  “I assume you wish our esteemed guests to have the Lilac and Hyacinth suites, my lord?”

  “Er . . . of course. Quite right.”

  With a subtle wave of his hand, Regis contained the hullabaloo. He dispatched two footmen to escort the ladies inside while a parade of under footmen took the trunks from the drivers, commencing an efficient and orderly unloading distinctly free of cannon fire.

  Lord Oliver raised his chin, pleased that the women were now on their way to their rooms and that calm had returned to Camberton House.

  Unfortunately, he realized that the two hired drivers lingered nearby, waiting. For something.

  He turned toward them, perplexed. “Be off with you, then.”

  One man removed his hat and pressed it to the lapel of his grimy coat. “There be the matter of the fare, sir.”

  The second driver rolled his eyes. “Aye, and there’s extra for all the bloody . . . all the ladies’ trunks, guv’nor.”

  A fare? These men expected Lord Oliver to carry coin in his pockets like a commoner? He glanced toward Regis in disgust.

  “I shall arrange payment, Your Lordship.”

  “I should expect so.”

  Oliver cleared his throat and straightened his spine, then began to climb the steps. He waved away a fawning footman he encountered in the great hall, then made his way to his study. Once ensconced, he took refuge in his favorite chair by the hearth, where he set about quieting a lingering sense of unease. It must be the ruckus. Oh, how he hated chaos and clatter!

  A respectful tap on the library door was enough to drive Oliver to distraction. “What the bloody hell is it?”

  Regis poked his unflappable countenance into the room. “Does Your Lordship require anything?”

  “Yes! I require to be left alone! Is that too much to ask?”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “And pour me a brandy before you go.”

  Regis nodded and entered with footfalls as soft as a cat’s.

  Oliver stared at the butler’s back with distrust as the man poured brandy into a crystal goblet. Regis was far too composed. Lord Oliver didn’t trust a man who revealed nothing in his expression.

  With brandy in hand and Regis gone, Oliver stretched out his legs. The first sip delivered a rush of heat that managed to relax his shoulders and settle his worry, and it was not long before he felt a smile spread on his face.

  His plans were progressing quite nicely, despite the commotion. All was going according to plan. He had Sunbury Plantation in his sights. He had gotten rid of Bliss Worthington and the accompanying threat of a Camberton heir. And he had managed to insinuate doubt and distrust between Neville and Morgan, leaving little chance the two would confide in each other enough to ever band together against him.

  It was obvious that Paulette Beckham was just another frivolous and empty-headed female, weakened further by the rigors of travel.

  Extracting the Sunbury Plantation from Lady Beckham’s flitting female hands would be almost too easy, like stealing sweets from an innocent babe or taking advantage of a simpleton. The truth was, the silly woman was no match for Lord Oliver’s savvy business strategy. The whole affair would be embarrassingly simple.

  His smile began to fade. The nagging unease returned, settling heavy upon his chest. He straightened in the chair.

  That woman had just stiffed him for cab fare!

  Chapter 10

  BLISS had to admit that, even
though a certain unnamed ship captain seemed intent upon ruining her life, she found roaming London’s shopping districts as a married woman incredibly liberating.

  She had not brought her reticule along to her wedding, for it didn’t match her gown. Therefore, all she had in the world was the penny in her shoe. All her life, the women she knew—Mama, Old Dally, and even impractical Auntie Iris—had repeated the same lesson. “A woman should never leave the house without a penny in her shoe.”

  In Bliss’s case, since Papa had also taught her that there was no reason to do if one can overdo, that meant a guinea in her shoe. Worth hundreds of pence, the large gold coin was much heavier than a penny, and she’d had to get used to the feeling of it riding along just under her instep, but she’d never been happier about her decision than she was today.

  After an unfortunate incident the previous year with a wide pony cart on a narrow bridge, where she’d taken a brisk dunking and her shoe had been lost entirely, Bliss had begun to carry that guinea inside her stocking. This morning, she had shaken out that stocking and gazed at the gleaming golden coin with great satisfaction.

  Further rummaging in the second bedchamber had unearthed a small leather pouch that would do for a reticule. With her fine white cloak over her outdated and unseemly tight gown and, of course, flawless hair, Bliss felt absolutely ready to face the world.

  A brisk walk took her to the nearest well-traveled road and her piercing country whistle got the attention of a bitter-looking hack driver. He pulled his horse to a stop and looked sourly down upon her.

  Some people were not good conversationalists. Bliss forgave him and bestowed a serene smile upon him. “I’d like to be taken to Bond Street, if you please?”

  It was a fair distance from Captain Pryce’s Shadwell neighborhood. The driver’s expression curdled further. “Ye got fare?”

  Bliss held up her little purse in reply. The driver merely regarded her with suspicion. “Let’s see it, then.”