Wedded Bliss

by Celeste Bradley

  “We’ve brought you a new weskit! For the duel!”

  If he answered, he would be rescued, but found himself in flagrante delicto—albeit as an innocent victim. If he did not answer he would remain tied up and helpless for an unknowable period of time. There was only one thing to be done. “Up here! I could use some help!”

  “Captain Pryce? Are you quite well? We’re coming straightaway!”

  Morgan heard footsteps on the stairs, then the landing.

  “Whatever is the—?”

  Button and Cabot came to a sudden halt. They stared. Their mouths fell open. Then they spun about on their heels in perfect unison, eyes toward the hallway.

  Morgan cleared his throat. “I do apologize.”

  “Oh, sweet sugar-covered bonbons! Cover that man before I faint!”

  Cabot obeyed Button’s desperate plea and managed to run into the bedchamber, grab the dressing gown Morgan had thrown over a chair, and toss it across Morgan’s most private attributes—all while staring at the wall.

  Morgan grimaced in relief. “I thank you, Cabot.”

  “No need.” Cabot still did not look at him.

  At least one thought comforted Morgan. This embarrassing event was not likely to become the hottest bit of gossip in all of London. Dressmakers were akin to physicians in that their clients must trust them absolutely. Surely Button and Cabot would not benefit from speaking of this.

  Button dared peek into the bedchamber. In his arms was the oddly ugly weskit. Button dropped it with a thud upon the chair. And set his fists on his hips. “I daresay you do need help.”

  He and Cabot began untying the ropes that held Morgan’s wrists to the bedposts. As soon as his hands were free, he grabbed his dressing gown and covered himself from chin to knee.

  “Well, now.” Button’s voice was overly cheerful as he and Cabot released his feet. “I won’t ask how this happened to you, Captain.”

  “Perhaps that would be best.”

  Button’s laughter exploded from his lips, which was too much for the more serious Cabot, who actually smiled as well.

  The instant Morgan’s feet were free, he sat on the side of the bed. “May I have a moment to dress?”

  “Of course! We’ll be right outside.”

  Good God. Morgan pulled on his shirt and breeches while being serenaded by sounds of chuckling.

  “All right.” He flung open his door to find Button nearly falling over Cabot in amusement. “You have my most sincere gratitude, but if you will excuse me . . .”

  “Oh! But you must try on the weskit.” Button pushed past Morgan and retrieved the item from the chair. “A proper fit is of the utmost importance. Cabot, could you assist me?”

  “Of course.”

  It took both men to hoist the weskit upon Morgan’s shoulders.

  Morgan was stunned. “This thing must weigh five stone!”

  “Just a hair over four, actually.” Button straightened the seams while Cabot tugged it tight and buttoned it. “Inside the waistcoat we’ve sewn quite a bit of chain mail from an old suit of armor.”

  “Seventeenth century,” Cabot added.

  Morgan stared at them. “Why would you do such a thing for me? Aren’t you on the Worthington side?”

  “Oh yes, I will be,” Button assured him blandly. “As soon as I figure out which side that is.”

  Cabot nodded. “When it comes to Worthingtons and love, it’s always wise to hedge one’s bets.”

  Love? If only. Morgan frowned at his reflection in the dressing table mirror. He’d developed a barrel chest. “I suppose this thing will protect some of my vital organs—if it doesn’t cut off my blood supply first.”

  “At least the vitals above the waist,” Cabot said.

  The snickering began again, and Morgan insisted his visitors leave. Sunrise was but an hour away. He thanked them again for their kindness and watched as they descended the stairs.

  “That was ever so clever, lining the weskit that way,” Cabot said.

  Button shrugged modestly. “I suppose it’s a bit mad, really.”

  “You aren’t mad. You are the most brilliant person I have ever known. It only appears mad to those on the outside.”

  Button smiled angelically. “I suppose I can live with that.”

  Morgan looked at himself in the mirror. He was on his way to be shot by Neville. Indeed, madness was in ample supply on this day.

  • • •

  LORD OLIVER NUDGED Neville’s shoulder with a cut crystal glass. “Go on, boy. Just a sip or two for courage. You don’t want to have the shakes standing in the middle of Sutton Meadow.”

  Neville shrugged off the glass and then returned to his preferred position before the fireplace mantel, head between extended arms, eyes on the floor.

  Katarina could not tell whether the duke was troubled about the approaching duel or on the brink of being ill—or both.

  “You know you carry a heavy responsibility, my boy. It is up to you to defend the Danton honor. Your father would expect nothing less from you.”

  Neville ignored him.

  Lord Oliver nudged his arm again with the whiskey glass.

  Katarina could remain silent no longer. “Perhaps for his safety Neville should remain as sober as possible, my lord.”

  Oliver raised an eyebrow at her, clearly irritated by her interference. “And what are you, Miss Beckham? His nursery maid? His physician? His mama?”

  “I am his friend.”

  “Oh? Well, I shouldn’t be getting too comfortable in that role if I were you, since you and your idiotic mother will be on a boat bound for the West Indies before—”

  “Enough!” Neville straightened, snatched the glass from Lord Oliver’s grip, and hurled it across the room. Katarina flinched at the sound of crystal shattering against the far wall.

  “My, my.” Oliver took a step back. “I shall leave you to your foul temper, then. Allow me to wish you the best of luck.”

  Neville reeled on him, his face purple with fury. “How dare you wish me anything, Uncle? This duel is your doing. You intentionally exposed Bliss to ridicule! You lied to Morgan about her and bribed him into that criminal marriage. You lied to me! All you’ve done is spew lies and hate! And now you’ve cornered me in an impossible position!”

  Neville gasped for air. He pointed toward the parlor door, his arm straight and his finger trembling. “Get out of my sight!”

  Oliver’s eyelids grew drowsy, as if he had only the barest interest in the conversation. He smirked. “Very well. But mark me, Neville. You may be the duke, but I am still—”

  “Leave! Now!”

  Oliver exited the room without another word and closed the door behind him. Katarina watched Neville reach out for the parlor chair, then collapse upon it. He cradled his face in his hand.

  She approached in silence. She knelt at the side of the chair and waited for a sign—any indication, any hint—of what she could do to help him. She wished she knew all that he struggled with.

  Neville groaned. “Why did I challenge Morgan? Why?”

  Katarina straightened. “Because you’d had too much to drink. You were angry and you were shocked—everyone was. You felt betrayed and you lashed out from a place of reckless pride.”

  Neville’s fingers parted just enough to expose one blue eye. That eye stared at her, unblinking.

  “Well, you asked. I answered truthfully.”

  “It was a rhetorical question.”

  Katarina shook her head. “This no time for rhetoric, Neville. This is time for a clear head and a calm demeanor.”

  “You don’t say?” Neville sat upright, propping his elbows upon his knees. His mouth was pulled in a straight line, and his eyes were focused on hers. “Tell me, wise Katarina. How am I to be clearheaded and of calm demeanor when I’m about to shoo
t my own brother? A man I have always loved, always held in the highest esteem?”

  Katarina listened.

  “How am I to make Bliss a widow after only a week of marriage? I—I think she has come to love him. I saw it in her eyes. She did nothing to deserve this. What will become of her?”

  Katarina said nothing.

  “But how can I call it off at this hour? It is simply not done! Gentlemen do not issue a challenge and then retract it. I would rather die than be thought of as a spineless coward, a man who dishonored his family name!”

  “You are making a terrible mistake, Neville.”

  He twitched at the sound of her voice, as if he had forgotten she was there. “What?”

  “Calling off this duel would be a mark of strength, not cowardice.”

  He smiled sadly. “You do not understand, Kat.”

  “I understand that your uncle has manipulated you and Morgan in equal measure, appealed to the worst in each of you, and thrown you both to the wolves of alleged honor and propriety. Perhaps you should ask yourself why he would do such a thing.”

  Katarina saw Neville’s jaw clench. The tendons in his neck popped.

  She had gone too far, perhaps, but it had to be said. “I only wish to help.”

  Neville shook his head. He stood, turned his back to her, and stalked out the door.

  Katarina watched him go. It was true that she’d had precious little experience with the male sex, but she already suspected that the masculine temperament would forever remain a mystery to her.

  No more than a few minutes had passed when Katarina heard the front door slam and a carriage depart.

  It was too late to stop him.

  Chapter 33

  BLISS told Mr. Cant to bring the hired hack to a stop well before reaching Camberton House, as she did not want the clatter to attract attention. She pulled her cap low on her head, tucking away a few stray curls, and raced down the street and toward the front steps. The night sky over London was tinged with violet. Sunrise was on its way.

  And so, too, the duel.

  Neville was her last option. She had to speak to him before he departed for the field of honor. She had to find a way to sway him. Neville was a man of reason, she knew, a man driven more by logic than passion. Surely he would put a stop to this farce once she had laid out all the facts for his consideration.

  Neville would be more reasonable than Morgan, she was certain of it.

  Bliss’s thoughts went to her husband, whom she’d left bound to the bed not half an hour before. She had no illusions. Bliss knew Morgan would find a way to free himself. At best, the ropes would delay him. They would not deter him.

  Not far from Camberton House, Bliss watched a lone carriage speed down the dark street. She ran up the drive and skidded to a stop at the foot of the steps, then froze. She glanced down at herself. What now? Her disguise had been hastily constructed, meant only to give her a few extra seconds of inconspicuousness, in the dark, among those who did not know her. Regis would recognize her instantly, forbid her entrance, and alert Lord Oliver.

  Her only hope was to provide a distraction, and pray that fate was with her.

  Bliss shoved her hand down into the pocket of her borrowed waistcoat, seeking the coin she’d brought along in case of an emergency. The single guinea shone in her palm. It was her last coin, her last option. It would have to do.

  She placed the coin in the loose gravel, centered at the base of the front steps. If someone stood in the doorway, they could not help seeing it. It might just give her the time she needed.

  Bliss pounded on the door, then scurried away. She crouched down behind the large boxwood topiary, curling herself into the smallest ball possible. She held her breath.

  It did not take long.

  “Who’s there? Show yerself!”

  Bliss almost melted with relief. It was a young under-footman, not the vigilant Regis. But the man shook his head in annoyance and was about to shut the door again.

  No!

  Bliss reached down next to her shoe and grabbed the nearest pebble, tossing it in front of the steps. The rustle was enough to make the under-footman squint in the dimness.

  He saw the coin. He looked around him to be sure he had no witnesses, then scurried down the steps to claim his prize.

  It was enough time for Bliss to slip in behind him, enter the house, and make a run for the nearest open doorway. It happened to be the Dantons’ informal parlor.

  “Oh!” Katarina Beckham pressed her palm to her chest and gasped at Bliss’s unexpected arrival. “Who . . . ?” She examined Bliss from head to toe, her face expanding in wonder. “Mrs. Pryce?”

  “Shh!”

  Bliss shut the doors behind her and rushed to where Katarina stood in the center of the room. Miss Beckham took a few wary steps backward. Bliss couldn’t blame her. “I must speak to Neville. He cannot go through with the duel. I have to stop him.”

  “I have tried. He would not listen.”

  “Has he already left?”

  Katarina nodded. “I believe so.”

  “Oh no.” Bliss shook off her despair. “Did you see him depart?”

  “No. I heard a carriage.”

  Bliss felt a surge of hope. “Then let us be certain. We’ll go to his chamber—he might still be here!”

  Katarina placed her hand on Bliss’s sleeve. “He believes it his duty to uphold the family honor. He has convinced himself this is more than silly male pride.”

  Bliss began pacing the room, twisting her fingers before her. “Morgan would not listen to me, either.”

  “There is something else I must tell you, Bliss.”

  She looked up, startled by the ominous tone of Katarina’s voice.

  “It’s Lord Oliver. He’s behind this. I just know it. Bliss, he was practically forcing whiskey on Neville. He wanted him drunk for the duel! What kind of man wants his only nephew, the duke, to stumble about drunk, on a dark field, with a loaded pistol in his hand?”

  Bliss blinked, a hot warning buzzing through her veins. Who, indeed? She knew the answer—a man who did not want the duke to live.

  Before Bliss could speak, there was a loud clamor in the great hall. They heard Neville’s voice, followed by the slam of the front door. They both ran out into the parlor to catch him, but the carriage was already racing down the drive.

  Regis stood tall and unperturbed, despite their sudden appearance before him. He bowed slightly, a wry smile directed to Bliss and her delivery boy attire. “Ladies,” he said, and then walked away.

  “We must follow him.” Bliss’s heart dropped at the realization that she’d used her last coin to create a diversion. “But I have no way to pay for a hack! I do not even know where they have gone!”

  “I do. Go out front. I shall meet you momentarily.”

  Bliss did as Katarina asked, wondering how it was that the two of them—who began as rivals—were now conspirators. Katarina burst through the front door with several lovely bonnets grasped in her fist.

  “Hurry.” She grabbed Bliss’s hand and they ran.

  They raced down the street until they were able to hail a carriage for hire. Bliss watched in wonder as Katarina attempted to barter one of the fine bonnets for a ride.

  “Sutton Meadow?” The driver shook his head. “That’s in the middle of bloody nowhere!”

  Katarina struck a bargain for two bonnets, and they hopped into the carriage.

  As they bumped along the London streets, Bliss turned toward Katarina Beckham, her new friend, a young woman of imagination and tenacity whom she now greatly admired. Miss Beckham was, indeed, an excellent match for the Duke of Camberton.

  Bliss reached out for Katarina’s hand and squeezed it tightly. As she stared out the window, it occurred to her that if she could just see her two beloved gentlemen through this terri
ble morning, she had no need to worry about Neville’s future without her. He was going to be held in very capable, loving hands.

  • • •

  A MISTY MEADOW appeared in the carriage window, barely discernible in the dim of predawn. The driver had not yet pulled the horses to a full stop, but that did not concern Bliss. She threw open the door and jumped, her boots skidding on the damp grass. Katarina followed immediately after, and they began to run.

  In the foggy first light, Bliss could make out two tall, male figures standing back-to-back. It looked as if they had their pistols at the ready.

  Her heart took a dive to the pit of her stomach. Such insanity! Such mulishness exhibited by two grown men—brothers, no less!

  Bliss ducked her head and ran, grateful for her disguise of breeches and boots. She could barely contain her gasp when she saw that three of her male Worthington cousins were gathered at the edges of the dueling field. They milled about like spectators at a horse race rather than witnesses to senseless bloodshed.

  She called out in their direction, “Do something! Put a stop to this!”

  All heads turned her way. She continued forward, nearly tripping on the uneven ground. “This is lunacy!” She made eye contact with Morgan as she ran, his gaze widening as she came closer to the field. The next cry she directed at him. “You are brothers! Stop this immedia—!”

  Whooomffff! Bliss slammed to a halt. She was now dangling over an outstretched male arm.

  “There’s no need to fret, dear cousin.”

  Her head snapped up. She snarled at Dade. “Are you thoroughly mad? They might very well kill each other!”

  Cas winked and waved away her concern. “No one will suffer bodily injury here today, Cousin Bliss. You two ladies have nothing to fret about.”

  Katarina had somehow circumvented the line of Worthingtons and reached Neville’s side. “You mustn’t go through with this! Please, Neville.” She clutched at his arm. “It is senseless.”

  Bliss’s gaze flew to Morgan once more. His intense blue stare was fixed on her, piercing the first light and searing her flesh. She straightened slowly, pulling away from Dade as she tried to catch her breath. It was then she realized she was trembling from head to toe.