British Brides Collection

by Hake, Kelly Eileen

  The butler appeared with a tray of cakes and two dessert plates along with tea. Matthew watched as his friend piled several cakes on his plate and bit into one with a look of exaltation on his face. “Stands to reason she’s doing it on behalf of Snell,” he mumbled around a mouthful. “If you don’t marry and produce a son, he inherits.”

  Matthew sank down onto the edge of the chair, unwilling to allow such a thought to flourish. “I cannot believe such a gothic scheme, Perry. Been reading Mrs. Radcliff’s novels, have you?”

  Perry set down his teacup after taking a noisy drink. “Don’t need to. Watching you and Miss Sinclair is more novel than anything I could read.”

  “Droll, my friend. Very droll.”

  “Well, what if it’s true? Snell doesn’t want you to marry. Say he tells the Thorpe female to drip poison in your fiancées ear so she’ll break off the engagement.”

  Matthew eased back against the chair, surveying his friend from under heavy lids. “And how do you come up with such a Banbury tale?”

  “Just popped into my head. After your groom told me that the thorn must’ve been placed under the blanket of the horse deliberate-like, well, it just adds up.”

  “My groom said that?” he asked faintly.

  “You were still wobbly from being thrown. Must not have heard.”

  Matthew closed his eyes, unwilling to acknowledge such madness. Dear Lord, it cannot be true! Please help me find out the truth.

  “Yes,” Perry said after demolishing the last of the cake, “looks like your cousin has murder on his mind!”

  Amaryllis gazed out the window down to the street below, watching the carriages fly over the cobblestones. Would Lord Leighton call today? She longed to look in his eyes again and ascertain if he spoke the truth.

  Could the viscount truly be a Christian? And if he was, was he the man God intended for her? She blew out a breath and smoothed the folds of her morning gown trimmed with Valenciennes lace.

  “You are not attending, child!”

  Amaryllis jumped at the gruff sound of her aunt’s voice. The dog wheezed in agreement. “Yes, my lady?”

  “You must help me address these invitations.”

  She moved across the room to where her aunt sat at the escritoire. “Invitations to what? Are you to have a rout?”

  “Don’t be silly. These are for your wedding.”

  “My wedding,” she said in a colorless voice. “Has a date been set?”

  Lady Dreggins harrumphed. “Not yet, but I’ll pin Leighton down next time I see him. Regardless, there is much to be done. No one will say Agatha Dreggins does not do right by her charges!”

  Amaryllis wondered at the anxiety mixed with longing that filled her. Will I really marry Lord Leighton? A delicious shiver went over her until she remembered his strange behavior.

  She glanced at her aunt. “What is the viscount’s Christian name?”

  Lady Dreggins peered at her with her small eyes. “His Christian name? Why, it’s Matthew, I believe.” She looked up as the butler entered the room with a letter on a salver.

  “Yes, Biggs?”

  “The post has arrived, my lady.”

  Amaryllis retrieved it for her aunt and watched as she broke the seal and read the contents.

  “Make haste, Amaryllis. Leighton is to call at five. You are to join him for a carriage ride at the fashionable hour.”

  A dizzying assortment of feelings swirled within Amaryllis—excitement, fear, and a suffocating longing for the unknown. As she hurried up to her bedchamber to change into riding dress, she thought of the viscount’s Christian name.

  Matthew. His name is Matthew.

  Matthew helped Miss Sinclair up onto his curricle. He’d forgotten what a fetching creature she was. She wore a scarlet velvet spencer over a fine muslin gown, and a dashing shako hat was perched atop her golden curls. The cool afternoon air lent color to her cheeks.

  With an effort, he forced himself to remember she might not be all she seemed. As he climbed up next to her, he sent her what he hoped was a charming smile. He planned to test her, to test Perry’s assumption that the girl was religious.

  Matthew nodded to the boy who held the horses’ reins. “Stand away, Jimmy!” He snapped his whip above the team of matched bays, and the curricle lurched forward as Jimmy hopped onto the back.

  They headed for the ring, where many of the nobility drove at this hour, and he wondered how to broach the subject and discern a genuine response from his fiancée.

  “The day is very fine,” he ventured. “Even here in London, one can see the beauty of God’s creation.”

  She gazed up at him, her searching look seeming to divine the secrets of his soul. “Yes, my lord.”

  Matthew cleared his throat, determined not to become befuddled by a mere slip of a girl. He was the one doing the investigating.

  They entered the gate to the ring and joined the queue of carriages making the circuit around the loop. Quizzing glasses were raised, and people craned their necks to see who was with whom. Matthew nodded to a few acquaintances before turning his attention to Miss Sinclair.

  “I’ve been thinking about our conversation. The one where we discussed Lady Thorpe telling you some untruths about me.”

  She glanced at him and blushed.

  “Do you have any idea why she would do such a thing?”

  Miss Sinclair furrowed her brows for a moment. “If she did lie, then it must be that she wants to thwart our marriage.” Her face turned an even deeper shade of red. She looked away.

  Matthew considered her words, which echoed Perry’s. If they were true, then just about everyone was attempting to thwart his marriage to Amaryllis—including himself.

  “Hmm. An interesting perspective. Here’s something else to consider. The other day I was thrown from my horse.”

  “My lord!” Miss Sinclair put her gloved hand on his arm, her eyes wide. “Were you harmed? Was the war wound in your, um, nether limb, aggravated?”

  Matthew bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing as his defensiveness eased. Surely he wasn’t misreading the concern in her eyes. If she was acting, she’d be fit for Drury Lane.

  “I was unharmed, Miss Sinclair. But a large thorn was found under the saddle blanket, giving rise to the notion that it was no accident.”

  She gasped. “Who could do such a thing and why?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to discern.”

  Matthew guided the horses to a nearby park and stopped under a stand of oak trees. “As a matter of fact, I thought we could work together to solve the mystery, and I hoped we could begin by beseeching the Almighty for His aid.”

  Amaryllis stared at the viscount, wondering wildly if he was mocking her. She gazed into his eyes, longing to discern the truth in their dark depths.

  Deciding that prayer was the best option regardless, she swallowed and nodded her head. When he took her hand in his and smiled, her heart fluttered like a trapped bird. Suddenly his lashes swept downward, and it took a moment for her to realize he’d begun to pray.

  Amaryllis caught her breath and closed her eyes, striving to focus on the Lord instead of the viscount’s deep voice.

  “… We ask for Thy favor to discover any plot intended to harm me or Miss Sinclair. And help my cousin and Lady Thorpe to seek Thee in all their ways. Amen.”

  “Amen,” breathed Amaryllis. She looked up at Lord Leighton, astonished that a simple moment of prayer could establish a sweet intimacy with a man she longed to trust but still feared. Would she ever learn the whole truth about him?

  Chapter 9

  Amaryllis was no nearer to the truth a week later. Lord Leighton, back to his mode of a dandy, sat at the long dining table crowded with guests, wearing a black- and yellow-striped coat and yellow silk breeches that made him look absurdly like a wasp. His dark hair was teased to a ridiculous height, and he spoke in that high, mincing voice that so grated on her nerves.

  What had happened to the seemingly
godly man who sought the Lord on her behalf?

  She frowned at him from where she sat down at the lower end of the table, away from the higher ranks that included Lord Leighton’s cousin and Lady Thorpe. He caught her glance and his cheeks darkened as if he’d been caught doing something unseemly.

  Amaryllis looked away and scowled down at her turtle soup, wishing something made sense about this season. Had she really been silly enough to indulge in dreams of romance and marriage to a good man? At this rate, she worried she was well on her way to becoming just another cynic who filled the salons and ballrooms of London.

  She glanced at the footmen who stood at attention along the back of the room. One of them, a tall and broad-shouldered Adonis, placed a second bowl of turtle soup in front of Lord Leighton, who continued sipping spoonfuls and talking a great rate, interspersed with dreadful shrieks and giggles.

  Just above her, Mr. Haddon also frowned at his friend. Was he thinking the same thing? Next to her sat Fanny, who was attempting to get Mr. Haddon’s attention with the vigorous application of her fan. Amaryllis sighed. It seemed everyone’s hopes this eve were destined to be thwarted.

  Two hours later, the dinner came to an end. The hostess stood and nodded her head for the ladies to retire to the drawing room and await the gentlemen.

  Lord Leighton jumped up. “Let us dispense with ceremony and join the ladies, shall we?” He waved his fan in Amaryllis’s direction. “I positively pine to be with my ravishing fiancée.”

  Amaryllis flushed. His tone made the words sound like an insult.

  The other gentlemen looked resigned. Since the viscount was of the highest rank, they couldn’t refuse and appeared to acquiesce with bad nature.

  Once they were all settled into a large drawing room painted a pale green with frescoes on the ceiling, Amaryllis found a quiet corner out of the glare of the flaming branches of candles. She played with the sticks of her fan, wishing the evening were at an end so she could lie down in her bedchamber with a cool handkerchief on her forehead.

  “My cousin and Lady Thorpe acquit themselves well, wouldn’t you say?”

  She looked up into the glittering, dark eyes of her fiancé. “My lord! I didn’t hear you approach.”

  Lord Leighton flicked up the tails of his coat and settled beside her on the sofa. “No doubt you were lost in dreams of planning our wedding?”

  Amaryllis clenched her fists, longing to box his ears. Despite his occasional attractive manners, how could she for even a moment consider opening her heart to such a hardened fribble—especially one who played fast and loose with his faith? She shook her head, too angry to speak.

  He waggled his fingers at her. “Tol rol. Mayhap you should, since I have reconsidered a long engagement. A love like ours must not be made to wait, so I shall acquire a special license from the bishop that we may marry with haste.”

  “You shall do no such thing,” Amaryllis said in a quavering voice. She swallowed, finally realizing what she must do. A glance at her aunt, who would go into histrionics at the broken betrothal, made her shudder. But she could not, would not marry such a man!

  “My lord, I fear I must inform you of a sudden change of circumstances.” She glanced up at him to see if he ascertained the direction of her words.

  The viscount blinked several times and pulled at his neck cloth. “Faith, ’tis hot in here.”

  Amaryllis bit her lip as her courage ebbed. She took a deep breath and stiffened her posture, resolved to follow through on what was right. “I’m sure you would agree with me that we would not suit—”

  The viscount stared at her, his eyes taking on an odd, glazed aspect. Suddenly, he subsided to one side of the sofa and slid onto the floor.

  “Lord Leighton!” Amaryllis fell to her knees next to him and chafed his wrists, half-furious that he might be playing a prank to shame her, half-terrified he was truly ill.

  Her shout had roused the other guests, who rushed to her side as she cradled his head in her lap. One of the ladies waved a vinaigrette under his nose. The viscount blinked once, turned sheet white, and passed into unconsciousness. Mr. Haddon lightly slapped his friend’s face to no avail, then yelled for a doctor.

  Some of the men laid bets as to when he’d recover, several ladies fainted, and still the viscount lay unnaturally still in her lap. Amaryllis began to pray.

  “My lord is resting now.”

  Amaryllis twisted around when she heard the doctor’s words. She jumped up and hurried to where Mr. Haddon stood next to the small man who wore a bag wig, an old-fashioned frock coat, and buckled shoes.

  “I have given him a purge,” he said in a low voice, “and in time the fever will most likely abate.”

  “Fever?” she asked, clasping her hands together, not caring if she appeared rude to the guests still assembled in the drawing room an hour later.

  The doctor peered at her through his spectacles. Mr. Haddon intervened. “This here is the viscount’s betrothed.”

  The doctor nodded. “Ah, yes, you must not worry, young lady. Men home from the battlefield are often beset by fevers.”

  “Who is with my lord now?”

  “A chambermaid of the house, I presume.”

  Amaryllis stood trembling, engulfed by a fear she could not identify. Without waiting to speak to her aunt, she rushed from the room and ran out to the hall.

  “The viscount!” she said to the butler. “Where is he?”

  The butler raised his brows and swept her with a disapproving look. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  She stamped her slippered foot. “I am his fiancée, and I demand to see him!”

  “Very well,” he said frostily. “Follow me.”

  Amaryllis followed him, longing to scream in frustration at the slow pace as they traversed long corridors toward the guest wing.

  A movement to her left caught her eye. She turned to see what it was. Down a short hall, ending in a shadowed alcove, she saw Bertie Snell drop several guineas into the hand of the footman who’d served the viscount’s turtle soup.

  What are they doing in this part of the house?

  The butler gave a discreet cough. “We have arrived, miss.”

  Amaryllis glanced at the butler, dismissed both him and the consequences of her actions from her mind, and entered the bedchamber. She found a chambermaid sprinkling rose water in the room, who stopped at her entrance.

  “Would you please bring me several strips of cloth and a basin of water? I shall now sit with my lord.”

  The chambermaid bobbed a curtsy and quit the room. Amaryllis looked at her surroundings. A branch of candles on a toilet table flickered in the gloom, casting eerie shadows. The red bed curtains were closed. Stepping quietly to the bedside, she pulled them back.

  She put her hand to her mouth. Lord Leighton looked so pale, she feared for his life. The frilly nightshirt he wore lay open revealing the strong column of his throat, but the white color of the garment heightened his waxy pallor. All her angst fled before a rush of unexpected affection.

  She dragged a chair over to the bed and sat, taking his icy hand in her own in an attempt to warm it.

  “Heavenly Father,” she whispered, “I beseech Thee to make my lord well. Bring him comfort and healing.”

  The maid returned with the requested items. Amaryllis released the viscount’s hand and turned to the toilet table. From her reticule, she produced a small flask of cologne, which she emptied into the basin of water. She placed the strips of cloth into the water and, when they were soaked, took one, gently wrung it out, and bathed the viscount’s forehead.

  Matthew opened his eyes, and he took her hand in a weak grip. His sleepy gaze held hers for a long moment. “You look like an angel, Amaryllis, with the candlelight glowing on your hair.”

  A blush heated her cheeks at the compliment combined with the use of her Christian name, making her wonder if she had a fever herself. And yet his skin is not warm but cool. She forced her features into a smile.
“Flirting even from your sickbed, I see.”

  He gave a little tug to her hand. “Not flirting, but proud to be affianced to one as beautiful as you.”

  She swallowed, longing to believe his loverlike words were genuine but fearing he was playing with her emotions despite his illness.

  Voices echoed up the hall. Amaryllis eased her hand from his and went out into the hall, closing the door behind her. Mr. Haddon, with Fanny on his arm, and Lady Thorpe accompanied by Bertie Snell approached the chamber. Lady Dreggins brought up the rear.

  “How’s the fellow?” Bertie drawled. “Turtle soup is too rich for some, eh what?”

  “The doctor said he had a fever,” Amaryllis said quietly. “But his hands are like ice.”

  “Tut tut, Miss Sinclair,” Lady Thorpe said. “The fact is you should not be in a man’s bedchamber at all. Leave the viscount to the servants, and he shall do very well.”

  Amaryllis regarded Lady Thorpe, knowing she was right, then directed her gaze to Bertie, who fidgeted with his snuffbox. The memory of him paying the servant lent a suspicious air to his actions. She remembered what Lord Leighton had said about the thorn hurting his horse and about Lady Thorpe’s lies. What if there had been something put into the viscount’s soup? She suppressed a stab of alarm.

  Fanny sent a small smile, and Mr. Haddon’s expression revealed worry for his friend. Lady Agatha harrumphed that it was all a rum do.

  Amaryllis firmed her lips. “Nevertheless,” she said clearly. “I will sit with my fiancé until he is quite recovered.”

  Matthew slowly opened his eyes and for the longest time didn’t have any idea where he was. Candlelight wavered on red bed curtains, but otherwise the room was shrouded in darkness.

  Images flickered through his mind—images of Amaryllis glaring at him, then seeing her mouth go slack with distress. He remembered many voices and a lot of fuss, and now he was here—but here wasn’t his home.

  Matthew turned his head slightly toward the candlelight and was rewarded with a breathtaking pounding in his skull. He closed his eyes, waited for the pain to subside, then risked moving his head a little more. After a sensation of dizziness faded, he saw someone else in the room.