Wedding of the Year

by VICTORIA MALVEY

  At Papa's nod, Elizabeth leaned across the seat to press a kiss upon his cheek before following Catherine from the carriage. Undoubtedly he would consider her words, see the wisdom in her argument, and release her from attending these foolish events . . . and suffering the presence of foolish men.

  He'd never felt more . . . defeated.

  Douglas slumped onto his bed, feeling ancient and completely, unbearably alone. And to think that this was what Elizabeth desired. To come up to her lonely bedchamber every night, to never know the passion of marriage, the companionship of a spouse. He shook his head.

  “Difficult evening?”

  Sighing, Douglas turned his head to see his wife . . . or rather her ghost . . . sitting in a chair near the fire. “Lord, Margaret, I miss you so damn much,” he said, his voice breaking on the last word.

  Sadness shifted over her face. “I know,” she murmured softly. “That's why I'm still here with you.”

  He wanted to go to her, to sweep her up into his arms and take comfort in her softness, but he knew from experience that she would simply fade away. On the eve of her death, she'd come to him, looking strong and healthy, and he'd rushed to hold her—only to find his arms unable to close around her ethereal form. Still, he was glad for her company every night, and if the price was this ache to touch her once more, he could easily live with it rather than live without her at all.

  “I don't know what to do with our girls,” he admitted as he moved to sit across from Margaret. “While Catherine enjoys collecting proposals, Elizabeth wants nothing to do with the gentlemen of the ton.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “She told me this evening that she didn't care if she ever married.”

  “Oh, dear,” murmured Margaret. “That would not be good for our Elizabeth.”

  Resting his elbows upon his knees, Douglas leaned forward. “No, it wouldn't. She would continue to lose herself in her books, growing ever more distant.” He shook his head. “Even now, I find it difficult to reach her.”

  Margaret's eyes darkened. “But you were always close.”

  “I know,” Douglas admitted softly. “After your death, I spent hours in my room, talking to you, and though I am loathe to admit it, I failed to help our girls with their grief. And when I finally roused myself to regain an interest in their lives, I'd discovered I was no longer needed.” Our girls turned to each other, becoming much closer than before. And while that is wonderful, I now feel as if I'm outside of them, an observer looking into their lives.” He sighed heavily. “While Catherine seems open and affectionate, I sometimes wonder if her flitting from one gentleman to the next is a way to avoid becoming too attached to any one gentleman. And as for Elizabeth, well, she simply stopped wishing to interact with anyone.”

  Nodding, Margaret remained silent for a moment before replying. “Then you must help Elizabeth to find a way to overcome her shyness, and help Catherine settle her affections upon a special gentleman.”

  “How?” he asked, feeling helpless.

  A soft smile brightened her features. “With the right incentive, you can inspire the girls to try to find their perfect match.”

  “Like I found with you.”

  Tears glittered in Margaret's eyes. “Yes, like we found with each other.”

  At that moment, Douglas swore he would have sold his soul for one more kiss with his wife. Struggling his way past the intense emotions flooding him, he refocused his thoughts onto his daughters. “Now all we need to do is figure out how to inspire them.”

  Margaret's angelic smile tipped upward with devilish intent. “I do believe I have just the thing.”

  With a laugh, Douglas settled back in his chair. “Do tell.”

  3

  “Excuse the interruption, Master Richard, but the shipment of flour just arrived.”

  Setting down his pen upon the open ledger, Richard rose from his chair to glance out the window at the dozens of people bustling about the wharf despite the early hour. “Excellent. Fifty boxes, right?”

  “All nice and tight,” agreed Mr. Perth, the head foreman for Richard's business.

  “Tell the captain I shall be right down to settle the account.” After Mr. Perth nodded and hurried from the room, Richard returned his attention to the busy wharf. Satisfaction settled deep into his gut as he realized he'd made his mark upon this place. Little had he known, when he'd won this pretzel business in a card game, that it would come to mean so much to him.

  Pretzels. Lord, who would have ever guessed that there was so much money to be made in little bits of baked dough? Richard laughed out loud. When he'd first won the business, he'd scoffed at it, thinking that the only value the business might have would be in the building and machines. After all, who in their right mind would want to be a bloody pretzel maker? Indeed, he'd had every intention of simply selling it off to replenish all the monies he'd lost at the gaming tables, but when he'd come to tour the place, to get an idea of its value, something about the busy workroom had appealed to him. Richard smiled at the memory. Even Mr. Perth had looked at him with resignation, viewing him as a dandy with far too much time on his idle hands. Worst thing was, Mr. Perth had been right.

  In an impulsive act, Richard had decided to try and make a go of the business. Much to his surprise, the merchant next door, Aaron Burnbaum, had taken him under his wing and taught him the fundamentals of running a business. On the advice of his new friend, Richard had approached the local pubs, given them a few samples to try, and had, in the end, signed most of them on as customers. Then he'd expanded his business to the continent. Who would have guessed that the Germans, who created the pretzel after all, would consider an imported English pretzel a delicacy?

  He didn't know why the Germans craved his pretzels, nor did he care. All he knew was that he'd expanded this business until it had begun to thrive and had been making money, hand over fist, ever since. His success in this venture had long since replenished his accounts, and while he now had the financial security he'd desired, he had no wish to walk away from the business. Indeed not.

  This was his.

  It was a pity he couldn't tell anyone from the ton of his foray into a common business venture. Hell, even he had considered the factory a grand farce . . . only the jest turned out to be on him. He could only imagine the reaction if he looked at a pompous bluestocking and told her he was running a pretzel factory. Not only would he become the laughingstock of town, but he'd also be ostracized from society.

  And even though John was thrilled that he was no longer consumed with rakish pursuits, Richard knew his brother would prefer if he sold the business and reinvested the profits into a more gentlemanly venture. Something where he kept his hands clean. Glancing down at his ink-stained hands, Richard smiled, remembering how dirty he'd felt from his past debaucheries when he would think nothing of drinking himself into a stupor and falling into a strumpet's bed. He'd never imagined that by dirtying his hands with good honest toil from a hard day's work he'd finally feel clean.

  Richard shook his head. Lord, he didn't have time to be caught up in such self-indulgent thoughts. After all, he had a business to run.

  Pounding the nail into place to secure the arm of the catapult, Elizabeth lost herself in her new experiment. When a hand touched her shoulder, she yelped in surprise, dropped the hammer, and spun around, pressing a hand to her chest. “Catherine,” she rasped, trying to get her pounding heart to slow. “I didn't hear you come in.”

  “Obviously.” She smiled sheepishly. “Sorry about scaring you, Elizabeth. I tried knocking, but you didn't hear me over your hammering.” Peering over Elizabeth's shoulder, Catherine gazed down at the table. “What are you working on now?”

  Elizabeth gestured toward her half-completed catapult. “I'm trying to recreate a miniature version of da Vinci's catapult, but shifting the measurements and keeping the weight in alignment is proving difficult. So, I'm trying to secure . . .”

  “Please, Elizabeth,” interrupted Catherine, holding up her
hands. “Simply stating that you're building a small catapult would have sufficed.”

  “Sorry.” Lifting one shoulder, Elizabeth tucked her hands into the pockets of her leather work apron. “I tend to get carried away whenever I talk about my experiments.”

  “I know you love it.” Catherine wrinkled her nose as she looked around the small shed. “I don't understand why though. Look at this place, Elizabeth. Every corner is crammed with old bits of rubbish. It is beyond me how you can spend so much time in here.”

  “Then we're even, for I can't begin to fathom why you enjoy spending so much time at parties,” Elizabeth countered.

  Catherine smiled at that point. “Yes, I suppose we are even.”

  Retrieving her hammer, Elizabeth hung it from a nail on the wall. “Did you come to visit me or did I forget another soiree?” she asked, knowing how often she lost track of time here in her workshop . . . and how often Catherine needed to pull her out of this haven and direct her to dress for a social outing. “I hope I don't have another dull obligation, because I'm really making strides on this machine and I'd like to spend more time on it.”

  “Perhaps later.” Catherine reached down and untied Elizabeth's apron. “Papa wishes to speak with us in his study.”

  “He does?” Surprise filled Elizabeth as she lifted her apron over her head and hung it on a nearby peg. “Is something the matter?”

  Catherine shrugged her shoulders. “I don't know; he wouldn't say a word other than to ask me to fetch you.”

  “Do you think we might be going back to the country?” Elizabeth asked hopefully.

  “Not unless you plan on leaving me behind in town.”

  Tipping her head to the side, Elizabeth pretended to be considering the idea.

  With a laugh, Catherine clasped Elizabeth's hand and they walked out of the workshop.

  As soon as they entered their father's study, he rose to his feet, greeted them, and asked them to sit in the two chairs across from his wide desk before resuming his seat behind his desk. The formal seating arrangements struck Elizabeth as odd. In the past, whenever their father wished to speak to them, they would sit in the cushioned chairs near the fireplace.

  “Thank you for fetching Elizabeth,” he said to Catherine.

  “You're welcome, Papa.” Folding her hands in her lap, Catherine asked quietly, “What did you wish to speak with us about?”

  “Your futures.” Their father took a deep breath, as if bracing himself. “I think it's time I helped . . . guide you.”

  Elizabeth blinked in surprise. “Guide us?”

  Nodding, their father placed his elbows on his desk and leaned forward. “Let's discuss your future first, Catherine. You wish to marry, don't you?”

  “Of course,” she replied automatically.

  “Then why have you failed to settle upon one gentleman?”

  Having wondered the same thing herself, Elizabeth waited for her sister's reply.

  “Because this is my first season and I wished to enjoy it unfettered,” Catherine explained. “I will, however, decide upon a husband before the end of the season.”

  “Very good.” Their father's gaze shifted onto Elizabeth. “And what of you, Elizabeth?”

  She shifted in her chair. “What of me, Papa? I don't seem to attract many gentlemen,” she pointed out.

  “Because you aren't trying.”

  Stiffening, Elizabeth shook her head. “That's not true. I do try. It's just that I can't converse with Catherine's ease.”

  Papa's expression softened. “Then you need to try harder, Elizabeth. Despite your assertions that you would be perfectly fine living as an old maid in the country, I don't wish that for you . . . which is why I've devised my plan.”

  “Plan?” Elizabeth asked apprehensively. “What plan?”

  “Your greatest strength, Elizabeth, is your love for your family, so I'm going to help you tap into that strength to help you overcome your shyness.” Clearing his throat, their father continued. “I will not allow Catherine to marry before you, so if you wish to grant your sister's dearest wish, you will indeed begin to exert yourself at social affairs and settle upon someone to wed.”

  A gasp broke from both Elizabeth and Catherine.

  “You can't be . . .”

  “Surely you don't mean . . .”

  Papa raised both of his hands, cutting off their simultaneous protests. “My mind is made up on this matter. Catherine, you will only marry after your sister does.”

  “But what if she never marries?” Catherine wailed. “It's not fair.”

  “Don't worry, poppet,” reassured Papa. “Elizabeth loves you and she will do anything . . . even marry . . . to ensure your happiness.” He gave Elizabeth a challenging stare. “Isn't that right?”

  A fierce denial was on the tip of her tongue, ready to fly, when Elizabeth glanced over at her sister's anxious expression. Her father had neatly set the trap in place, and now she was caught. “How can you do this to us, Papa?”

  “As someone who loves you and is concerned for your future, I feel I have no other choice.” He laced his fingers together. “I'm doing this for your own good, Elizabeth.”

  “My own good?” Thrusting back her chair, Elizabeth stood, forcing herself not to sway beneath the weight of her crushing disappointment. Her beloved father had unexpectedly become her adversary. “Please, Papa,” she whispered brokenly. “Please don't do this to me.”

  Father closed his eyes as if in pain. Slowly, his lashes lifted, and in the depths of his gaze, Elizabeth saw his rigid determination. “All I'm trying to do to you, Elizabeth, is help you find happiness. I know you so well, darling, and if you are properly motivated, you can apply yourself diligently. You need to consider this my way of motivating you to work on your socializing skills and seek out a partner.”

  Pressing her hands against her rolling stomach, Elizabeth whispered, “And what if I fail?”

  “You won't.”

  Elizabeth wished she had an ounce of her father's conviction. “You would risk Catherine's happiness?”

  Their father shook his head. “I don't believe I'm risking anything. I have faith in you, Elizabeth.”

  “This isn't right, Papa,” protested Catherine, coming to stand beside Elizabeth. “You shouldn't put this pressure upon Elizabeth.”

  “I feel as if I've been left no choice.”

  The firm tone of their father's voice shattered Elizabeth's last whisper of hope, leaving behind a horrid sense of betrayal. “It's no use, Cat,” Elizabeth said slowly. “We have no choice but to accept his dictates, regardless of how unreasonable they might be, and pray that he hasn't destroyed our future happiness in the process.”

  Catherine's brows drew together. “But . . .”

  “There's no use in arguing,” Elizabeth repeated as she straightened her shoulders. “Let's leave Father to his machinations.”

  As soon as the girls left the study, Douglas dropped his face into his trembling hands. Dear God, he prayed he hadn't done anything to harm their chances at happiness. Did he have the right to play God with their lives? Of course, he did. He was their father.

  The queasiness in his stomach settled. It would be all right; it had to be all right.

  The noon hour was only minutes away when Richard stepped down from his carriage. Brushing at his coat, he soon gave up the futile effort to wipe away the flour that had spilled on the fine silk. Still, the money he'd made today alone would purchase more than a few new jackets. Warmed by the thought, he slowly made his way up the front steps.

  Lord, he was exhausted, but then he'd earned the right to be tired. He'd gone from Almack's to his office, where he'd worked through the night in order to make the ship sailing for Germany on the morning tide. And while he'd found the morning's work incredibly satisfying, that feeling did little to alleviate the weariness sinking into his bones.

  A groan broke from him when he spotted John's carriage waiting in front of his townhouse. Wonderful, Richard thought. All
he wanted was his bed; he didn't have enough energy for even a brief conversation with John. But since his brother had already arrived, he'd have to find the strength somewhere. Sighing wearily, he continued to trudge up the steps and into his home.

  “Good day, John,” Richard said, purposely injecting a light note into his greeting as he dragged himself into the parlor. “What brings you by so early?”

  John shot an incredulous look out the window at the bright noon sun. “Hardly early, Richard, but then again, most of us seek our beds sometime during the night.”

  Dropping into a chair, Richard propped his aching feet onto a stool. “Couldn't,” he said. “Had a shipment that needed to go out this morning.”

  A frown darkened John's expression. “Don't you have employees who take care of that for you?”

  “Of course I do, but one of my men was ill.”

  “So you took his place?”

  The incredulous question made Richard smile. “ Precisely.”

  “Good God, man, look at yourself.” Striding over to Richard, John fingered an edge of his flour-coated jacket. “You're filthy, covered in flour, and exhausted.”

  “You forgot to mention satisfied,” Richard added quietly.

  Stepping back, John took a seat across from Richard. “I'm certain you are, Richard. I will be the first one to admit that I'm proud of the way you turned your life around . . . without any help, despite my many offers.”

  A side of his mouth quirked upward. “Just because I didn't accept any of your offers for financial aid doesn't mean I didn't appreciate them.”

  “I know,” John assured him. “And now I can see that it was best that you didn't accept any money from me to replenish your accounts.”

  “True enough, because I wouldn't have appreciated a bloody farthing of it.” No, if he hadn't been so financially desperate to consider running a pretzel company, he might still be mired in debauchery.