At the Duke's Wedding (A romance anthology)

by Caroline Linden

  “Two years before your mother died, I made some investments,” the earl said, thrusting up his square jaw and broadening his stance as though expressing any lingering grief over his beloved wife’s death was unmanly. “I wanted to finally restore the estate’s fortunes that your grandfather had depleted, for your sake, as your mother always wished. I invested her dowry in a shipping company that supplied our soldiers abroad with munitions—as a silent partner only. Within two years, four ships were taken by French privateers.”

  “And all along your partner, Sir Richard Howell, was selling the ships’ manifests and itineraries to the French, then collecting insurance on the sunken vessels on this end.”

  The earl nodded, his attention again straying to the lawn where Trent knew he’d rather be now. Damn it, even he’d rather be out there playing cricket, and that was certainly a lifetime first.

  “But that was years ago. Why did you wait until now to tell me this, Father?”

  “Sir Richard will arrive to join the festivities here tomorrow. He expects to finalize plans with me.”

  “He’s bluffing. You refused his offer to partner in opening a mine on our land and he’s trying to threaten you into doing it anyway.”

  The earl shook his head. “He has documents that implicate me. Documents I signed. I’ve seen them.”

  “Father, tell me now: were you knowingly guilty of the crimes of which he is threatening to accuse you? I would rather know now than be surprised with the truth later.”

  “I had no idea of it, Trenton. I only regretted the investments in those ships and cargos and railed at my poor luck. I thought it all of a piece with the disasters of those years.”

  “Disasters,” Trent repeated. The death of his mother in childbirth, a year later the loss of the infant to fever, then two years after that Trent’s own accident that left him crippled for months.

  “Truth be told,” his father said, “a few ships seemed as nothing in comparison to losing my wife and little Edward. Then your accident. To imagine that my son might never walk again ...”

  “Father,” Trent said, going to him. “Forgive me.” His father was a bull-headed son of a bitch, but he’d always taken great pride in his family, and he cared for them in his way.

  The earl put a heavy hand on his shoulder. “You are a good man, son. I’ve always been proud of you. You wouldn’t have mixed yourself up in this sort of thing.”

  He wouldn’t have. Trent made certain never to take chances or stir up trouble. Long ago, he’d learned that fulfilling his father’s expectations in public was the only way to be able to do what he truly wished in private. Only his mother had ever understood.

  “What do you intend to do, Father?”

  “I will do as he bids me, to save the honor of this family and your inheritance.”

  “But what about the tenant farmers? Those families have been on our land for centuries.”

  “They will have to become miners.” His father shook his head. “Howell is no fool. There’s enough iron ore in the ground to make Ware the richest estate in Devonshire.”

  “I don’t like it.” Trent sank down on the edge of a chair and lowered his brow to his hand. “Blackmail. Good God.”

  “There’s more, son.”

  “What more could there be?”

  “He insists that I make the partnership secure by ...” He turned again to the cricket match.

  “Father?”

  “Sir Richard wants you to marry his daughter.”

  Trent’s head snapped up. “Marry his daughter?” But he understood. “The mine would be established in her name too, as part of the marriage settlement, wouldn’t it? Sir Richard wishes to bind himself to it legally.”

  The earl nodded.

  “Will she also attend Wessex’s wedding?” Trent’s neck cloth was choking him. “Is this to be settled immediately?”

  “She arrives tomorrow with her father.”

  Trent shot to his feet. “I need air.” He headed to the library door. The collection at Kingstag included a two-volume set of original drawings depicting the wildflowers of the Americas. But Trent didn’t have the heart for that now. He had to get away from his father.

  Half of the duke’s male guests were at cricket. As Trent exited the house, Frank Newnham shouted at him to join the game. “Crash, old chum! We could use a top batsman like you over here!”

  Trent waved and strode into the park. He could go to the stables where the rest of the gentlemen were using the excuse of ogling Jack Willoughby’s new carriage to spend time there playing cards and drinking. He could get himself disguised beyond memory. Then he’d be too miserable tomorrow to even care if Sir Richard Howell’s daughter was the sort of girl he’d like to be blackmailed into marrying.

  But not yet. Now he needed air and space. The outdoors.

  The far end of the lake stretched beyond a copse. He made for the trees. He always thought more clearly in nature, and he needed to stop the runaway wreck of his anger.

  His father had meant well, but he was an idiot.

  Affection, duty, gratitude—Trent felt these toward the earl in quantity. Respect, no. Not for years. The Earl of Ware’s entire world consisted of tennis, boxing, cricket, riding to hounds, boating, horse racing, and whatever other sports his cronies preferred. For twenty-nine years he’d made it clear to his eldest son that any other pursuit was womanly and foolish. “A man proves his worth in the saddle, on the pitch, or in the ring, son,” he’d said every day of Trent’s boyhood. “Now show me what kind of a man you are. Make me proud.”

  The earl had trusted Richard Howell with his investments simply because in those days Howell was a prize-winning pugilist. He’d signed legal documents without reading them, without even instructing his man of business to read them.

  Fists tight, Trent rounded the path at the edge of the lake and stopped short.

  There was a body in the deep water. Ten yards out. Struggling.

  He didn’t hesitate; he’d won every swimming competition he’d entered since he was ten. He tore off his coat, grabbed at his boots, and dove.

  By the time he reached the spot, the body was entirely submerged, the water around it still. He levered his arms under the form and thrust its head above the surface.

  Small, but not a child. A woman? God almighty, a heavy woman! He pulled and struggled backwards and got her to the bank. She was too heavy. He pushed her against the embankment, leaped out, and hauled her all the way onto the ground.

  Wrapped in thick wool from head to toe, she remained motionless as water pooled around her. Her face was pale and slack, and lovely, like a cool alabaster statue of some ancient goddess and just as lifeless.

  He dropped to his knees, knocked the cap off her head and tore at the muffler circling her neck.

  “Breathe.” Trapped in soaked wool, the coat buttons protested. “Breathe, damn it.” He yanked. A button popped free. He wrenched the lapels apart, flattened his palms on her chest, and pushed.

  She convulsed. He rolled her onto her side, and the coughing and retching began. Hand on her shoulder to steady her, he turned his face away and bowed his head, catching his breath.

  After some time her sputtering subsided. She groaned. “Oh ... my God.”

  With soggy wool gloves, she tried to push herself up to sit. Trent grasped her shoulders and assisted her. She turned her face toward him. Even plastered with dark hair, it was lovely.

  “Thanks,” she croaked. “That ... was ... bad.”

  He released her.

  “Thought I was done for.” She coughed. “You saved me.”

  Sweet intonation, albeit water-logged. Sharp vowels. An American, perhaps.

  “It was my honor. I’m glad I happened along when I did.” He glanced at her heavy coat and gloves and her boots sprawled out before her, the hem of her skirt at her knees. “Enjoying a swim on this fine summer day, were you?” He made his voice light.

  With a dripping glove, she pushed the long, lank strands f
rom before her eyes—beautiful eyes of a rich dark-brown shade, like the feathers on the wings of a male cappercaillie.

  “What—” she said. “It’s January.”

  Addled wits. Common after an accident. He’d been confused for days after the carriage wreck.

  “You’ve had a nasty turn, of course,” he said. “Perhaps you shouldn’t try to speak for a bit. I’ll—”

  “I slipped on the ice and fell into the river.”

  She was delirious. Perhaps her brain had suffered without air. This day could not get worse. First his father’s horrible revelation and now an injured drowning victim.

  An injured drowning victim with the prettiest eyes he’d ever seen—intelligent eyes, despite their befuddlement, above a pert little nose and full lips whose natural pink was deepening every moment as life returned to her.

  “Perhaps you would like to return to the house and ...” How to suggest to a lovely, delirious American with whom he was not acquainted that she must change her clothes? “Get dry.” Oh, that was brilliant. Eloquent, really.

  “I’d...” She seemed to catch her breath and blinked a few times. “Hot. Heat.” She turned her head and peered at the copse, then the lake, then the park across the lake, then at him again. “Summer?” she said weakly.

  Feeble minded. Or mad. Perhaps she’d been this way before she went into the lake. Why else would she have gone in wearing coat, cap, gloves, and riding boots?

  “Madam. Allow me to—”

  She grabbed his forearm. “Where am I?”

  “Dorset, of course.” He tried to sound casual, as though he weren’t kneeling beside a dripping madwoman, dripping himself and growing doubtful he would be able to return her to the house without a struggle. He tried to draw away, but she held fast.

  “Dorset, England?” she said.

  “The very place. Now, miss, I—”

  “No.” She clutched his arm tight. “I fell in the water in—” Her gaze snapped to his face and she released him abruptly. “Who are you?”

  Apparently Americans did not require an introduction. Brazen, the lot of them.

  “Everett at your service.” He affected a bow. “Now, do allow me to escort you back to the house, where I’ve no doubt your maid will put all to rights again.”

  This time she allowed him to help her to her feet, but then she pulled away and drew off her gloves. He retrieved his coat and boots and came to her side.

  “Give me a minute, will you?” she said, unbuttoning her coat and coughing damply.

  “Of course.”

  She removed the coat. Beneath, she wore a wool pelisse of some sort and a narrow skirt that reached only to her calves. The wet skirt clung to her shapely thighs all the way up to her—

  He averted his gaze. Terribly bad form to get hard staring at a madwoman’s legs.

  “Listen,” she said slowly, “I’m going to need a little help here.”

  “As you require, madam.”

  Angela was having trouble breathing—and not because her lungs were saturated with lake water.

  Lake water.

  She’d fallen into a river. In midwinter. In Michigan.

  She’d think someone was playing a joke on her if the gorgeous, wet man standing before her and speaking with a mouthwateringly decadent English accent weren’t familiar.

  But he was familiar. In comic-book black and white.

  “I’m dreaming,” she said. “I must be dreaming. This is a dream.”

  He tilted his head, his dark golden hair beginning to dry and catching the sun’s glimmer. “You are not dreaming,” he said in a voice like melted chocolate, “but perhaps you should rest. You’ve had quite an ordeal.”

  “Ordeal.” Understatement.

  Comic-book man. Summer. Dorset.

  In the distance, the Duke of Wessex’s massive house, Kingstag Castle, rested on the rise beyond the trees. She knew it was Kingstag Castle because she’d visited it during the summer, seven months ago. The tour hadn’t taken them quite this far into the park, but she’d strolled along the lake at its other end after they’d gone through the public rooms in the house. In fact, recently she’d been planning on writing to request access to the family’s archives when she next returned to England. The seventh Earl of Ware, Sir Richard Howell’s one-time business partner had known the duke well; his eldest son and the duke had gone to school together. Although the earl hadn’t been involved in Sir Richard’s shady dealings with Arnaud Chappelle, you never knew what secrets could be hidden away in family archives. She’d found Arnaud’s unpublished memoir in one of those little archives, after all.

  Her shallow breaths caught painfully, but not from the lake water.

  “Did you say your name is Everett?” It couldn’t be. “As in, for instance, Mr. Everett Smith?”

  He peered at her curiously for a moment. Then the corner of his gorgeous mouth tilted up in quiet chagrin. “I fear my manners are challenged by the Atlantic’s vast expanse, madam.”

  “The Atlantic?”

  He tilted his head. “You are an American, are you not?”

  She nodded.

  “Then forgive my previous arrogance. My given name is Trenton Ascot.”

  She’d been wrong. Early-nineteenth-century English fabric could cling to muscular thighs like Lycra did, at least when the fabric was soaking wet. For the muscular thighs at which she was staring belonged to Trenton Ascot, Viscount Everett, the Earl of Ware’s son.

  Which was not possible. Because he’d lived two hundred years ago. So there must be a modern Trenton Ascot, a descendent of the Trenton Ascot who was the son of the Earl of Ware she knew from her studies of Howell.

  Then why was he wearing period costume?

  A movie. An historical film. Or some sort of reenactment. Yes. That was it. She’d stumbled upon one of those big reenactment events where actors pretended to be real historical people to amuse the tourists.

  Then why was sweat dripping down her neck because she was standing in the full midday sun of high summer? In England.

  “I need to sit down.”

  He dropped his coat and boots and came to her swiftly and wrapped his arm around her waist. This was good. A gentleman of the Regency era wouldn’t put his arm around a strange woman. It just wasn’t done.

  He took her hand firmly in his. “There is a boathouse not fifteen yards away. Do you think you can you walk there?”

  She nodded. He guided her along the edge of the lake.

  She had to ask. He’d think she was a nut case, but she had to.

  “Are you Viscount Everett? The son of Henry Ascot, seventh Earl of Ware?”

  He stiffened. “The very one.” He was frowning. A lock of hair had fallen over his brow. His eyes were like smoky slate, the same color they’d been through the glass door of her apartment building.

  Which was impossible.

  “Dizzy now.” She stumbled. “Very.”

  He cinched her waist tighter and guided her into the little boathouse. He urged her onto a bench beside the door. Everything inside was neat as a pin, including a punt, a two-seater boat for rowing crew, oars, and some rope. It looked like any old boathouse.

  She had not traveled two centuries into the past. Or to England. That happened in books and movies. Not in reality.

  “Now,” he said briskly. “Will you be all right here while I go up to the house to fetch your maid? Or perhaps you would prefer I find your—” He glanced at her left hand. “—family?”

  “Family?” This wasn’t real. How had she gotten here? “My family isn’t here.”

  The frown of concern on his handsome face deepened. “Your maid, then?”

  “I don’t have a maid.” She should just tell him the truth. But if she didn’t believe what she was thinking, he sure as hell wouldn’t. Unless he was pulling her leg—this man who looked exactly like the man in the comic book with her name on it.

  Maybe she should play his game and see where he took it. Yes. Yes, that sounded like a go
od idea. Right? “What I mean is, my maid hasn’t arrived yet.”

  His brow rose. “Have you come to the duke’s wedding alone?”

  “No. No, of course not.” Wedding? Duke. Wessex? Okay, play the game. Be cool. “It’s just that my family sent me ahead, so I wouldn’t miss any of the fun. My father’s trapped in London on business, you see.”

  He nodded. “Forgive me once more, madam, if you will,” he said with that same slight, self-deprecating smile that was too beautiful for a real person. He had to be an actor. “I’m terribly ignorant of all sorts of matters. Not being acquainted with any Americans, I don’t— That is to say, I am not ...” His chocolate voice melted away as his gaze slid down her legs. His smile faded.

  Hot. He was so incredibly hot. And it was at least seventy-five degrees and she was wearing wet wool that was beginning to steam.

  “Um ...” She couldn’t think. “I ...”

  His gaze came up to hers again. “You should change your gown.”

  Something in the way he said the words made her throat close up. Suddenly he looked adamant.

  “I should,” she gurgled. Think, Angela. Think. “But I’m afraid I don’t have a change of clothing. Yet. My luggage is coming with my maid.” Oh, great. Why not just tell him you’re an orphan waif and you were thrown into the lake by your evil guardian? Sounds kind of authentic, in a Dickensian sort of way.

  He crossed his arms. The damp linen clung to his biceps and triceps. The responding heat in Angela’s panties was entirely authentic.

  “You’ll catch a chill if you remain in those garments,” he said like he was trying to sound casual. His crossed arms tightened. He didn’t seem to be used to chatting with soaked women in private.

  There was no way in hell that a man this gorgeous from the twenty-first century would not be used to chatting with women in private. No. Way. Either he was a really great actor, or ...

  She couldn’t think it.

  “My sister is about your height,” he said. “She will have suitable clothing for you.” He went to the door. “I will return shortly. Will you be all right? Alone?”