My Brother's Bride

by Rachael Anderson

  This is what Heaven must feel like.

  “How did you convince the duke to come?” she asked.

  “He owed me a favor. I once saved him from making a drunken wager that would have cost him a tidy sum.”

  Abby knew her mind was befuddled, but… “All you asked in return was for him to please Lady Fernside by attending her ball? Goodness, if that is all the repayment you require, I should like to exchange a few favors with you myself.”

  “Don’t be such a nodcock,” he said. “The favor had nothing to do with pleasing Lady Fernside and everything to do with pleasing myself. I am now waltzing with you, am I not? And at the home of the most notorious stickler alive, no less. I feel more than compensated.”

  Abby stared at him. Was he saying he’d orchestrated this waltz so that he might dance it with her?

  No, that couldn’t possibly be it. But why was he holding her so close and looking at her in that way? Perhaps he’d invented the story to make up for his unflattering compliment before. He did say he’d pepper her with pretty words.

  “Abby, are you quite all right? You look pale.”

  “Just a trifle dizzy is all.” After this, she would need to escape to the balcony for several deep breaths of fresh air, not that London air could be described as fresh.

  He appeared worried. “Should we sit the rest of the dance out?”

  “No,” she said a little too quickly and a little too forcefully. Oh dear, she was making a mull of this. Perhaps she should simply be honest with him.

  It used to come easier.

  “You caught me off guard, Brigston. I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight—or waltz with you, for that matter. I’m just a little shaken.”

  He looked at her with tenderness. “There’s the Abby I have missed. It wasn’t my intention to unsettle you.”

  “Well, you did. But at least you have not trod on my slippers as of yet.”

  “Yet?” He grinned. “Are you expecting me to?”

  “If your dancing skills are anything like your shuttlecock skills… well, you did lose to a woman during her confinement, after all.”

  He laughed. “I might remind you of the tally before you invented a ridiculous rule and declared yourself champion, but that would be ungentlemanly of me.”

  “Yes, it would,” she agreed, and he laughed again. How she’d missed that laugh. How she’d missed him.

  “Come riding with me tomorrow,” he said, his eyes earnest and pleading.

  “Why?” she pressed, wanting him to be as honest with her as she’d been with him.

  “I’ve missed you.”

  His words thrilled and frightened her at the same time. It felt dangerous, somehow, like standing too close to the edge of a cliff. “I’ve missed you as well, but… would it be wise?”

  “What’s unwise about an innocent ride through Hyde Park? I have a delightful mare you can borrow, you’re no longer with child, and I can’t think of a better way for you to tell me what you’ve been up to these past months. Please say you’ll come.”

  “I suppose when you put it that way…” It did sound safer than circling a ballroom in his arms.

  “Then it’s agreed. I shall collect you at eight tomorrow morning.”

  She nearly missed a step. “Eight!”

  “The park is virtually empty at that hour,” he explained. “We can talk without interruption or having to shout.”

  He made a good point, but it still felt precarious to Abby.

  “I don’t know,” she said. Spending time alone with him would only make it harder to move on with her life. But wasn’t this precisely what she’d yearned for? Hadn’t she come to London with the hope of seeing him again?

  Why did people yearn for things that would only hurt them in the end?

  The waltz concluded, but Brigston kept hold of her. “Say you’ll ride with me, Abby.”

  Weak-willed. That’s what she was. “I’ll ride with you.”

  He rewarded her with a smile before escorting her back to Prudence. Then he bowed, said his goodbyes, and promptly left the ball. As far as Abby knew, he hadn’t danced with anyone else, and judging by the whispers and curious looks cast her way, she wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.

  An excited Mrs. Gifford rushed up to say, “You’ll never guess who’s in the card room. The Duke of Honeywell! Can you believe it? He hasn’t been to a ball since he married his daughter off over a decade ago, at which point he swore he’d never attend one again. I cannot imagine what prompted him to come tonight. Lady Fernside must be beside herself with glee. What a triumph! People are saying he arrived with Lord Brigston. Do you know anything about it, Abby?”

  “I do not, Mrs. Gifford.” It was true enough. Abby hadn’t known they’d come together or that the duke had come at all. In her mind, it had been an outrageous tale meant only to flatter her.

  A strange feeling settled in Abby’s stomach, not queasy but not friendly either. She was back on that ledge, looking down and wondering where she’d land if she fell.

  Prudence sidled up to her and lowered her voice. “I believe you’ve been keeping something from me, my friend, and I’m not sure how I feel about it.”

  Oh no, not this as well. Abby didn’t know how much more she could tolerate. “Please, Pru,” she begged, “do not meddle in this.”

  The obvious distress in her voice seemed to have a sobering effect on her friend. Prudence laid a gentle hand on her arm and softened her voice. “Where there’s a will there’s a way, you know.”

  Not always, Abby thought. It had been Prudence’s experience that if two people truly loved each other, nothing could keep them apart. That had been the case with her and Knave, as well as the characters in the stories she wrote. But sometimes love came in second to other things, and that was something Prudence didn’t understand.

  Abby swallowed. “In this, there isn’t a way.”

  That seemed to quiet Prudence, but that was all it did. The music, laughter, voices, and tinkling of crystal that had cheered her earlier now sounded like deafening noise.

  HYDE PARK WAS remarkably beautiful for late March in London. The skies were only partially covered in clouds, and a soft breeze stirred the leaves of the oak and cypress trees near Abby. Although she still didn’t know what to make of Brigston, her head felt clearer out here in the open. The horse he’d provided her with was a spirited one, and Abby had always loved to ride. It felt like ages since she’d last sat atop a horse.

  “Shall we race to that tree yonder?” he asked.

  Abby looked to where he pointed at the top of a small rise in the distance. A thrill swept through her at the thought of galloping across the expanse, feeling the wind on her face and the freedom that came from riding fast. It was a sensation one did not usually experience in London.

  She fiddled with the pins holding her gray bonnet in place and made sure they were secure.

  “If I should win?” she asked.

  “That won’t happen,” he replied. “Swindler has never beat Storm before.”

  “Swindler? Who decided on such a name? This creature is far too genteel to be called Swindler.” She rubbed her gloved hand along the mare’s neck.

  “You won’t say that once you come to know her better,” said Brigston. “Now about that race.”

  “Why should I agree when you’ve already informed me that my horse cannot outrun your own?”

  “Because you’re determined to beat me in spite of Swindler’s impediments.”

  “What impediments?” She leaned over to pat her horse once more. “I see nothing wrong with her.”

  “Good. Then a race it is?”

  She studied him suspiciously, noting how splendid he looked in his dark blue coat, buff trousers, and black hessians. She felt a flicker of envy that he no longer had to wear mourning colors while she still had months to go. At least the gray habit she wore didn’t make her look as pale.

  “Have you taken to cheating to best me, my lord?”

&nbs
p; “If I’ve taken to cheating, and I’m not saying I have, I did it only to even the score, lest you forget about our shuttlecock game.”

  “How could I when you feel the need to mention it every time we meet? One would think you are a sore loser.”

  “I am,” he agreed. “So let’s agree to race once and for all so I can win and feel better about myself.” Not many people would describe his speech as charming, but Abby was charmed.

  “If you insist,” she said. “On the count of three then?”

  He gestured for her to continue.

  “One…” She leaned forward and gripped her whip tightly in her hand. “Two…” She snapped the whip against the backside of her horse and smiled when it sprang forward, carrying her across the meadow. If Brigston could openly cheat, so could she.

  “Three,” she shouted into the wind.

  The ground flew past her, and she was halfway across the clearing before she heard Brigston approach from behind.

  “Impediments indeed,” she said, urging the animal to quicken its pace. But instead of lurching forward as she expected, the mare began to slow, allowing Storm to break into the lead. By the time Abby arrived at the tree, Swindler had dropped to a pace no faster than a trot. Brigston waited for her, grinning in triumph.

  So much for thinking her animal spirited.

  “Feel better?” she asked him dryly.

  “Much.” His horse danced beneath him as though antsy to race again. Abby’s mare, on the other hand, was content to munch on some tall grass that had grown through a hedge.

  She examined Swindler with a frown. “What did you do, put laudanum in her water? Should I be worried she’ll lie down for a nap?”

  Brigston laughed. “We purchased her because she had a spirited energy about her. Her name was originally Tempest, you see. But after our groom attempted to exercise her a handful of times, we realized our mistake. She always starts out fast and slows within a minute or two, and no amount of coercion has had any effect on her.”

  “Hence the name Swindler.”

  “Now you understand.” He was grinning like a fool, and she had the strongest urge to throw something at him. Her whip, perhaps? Followed by her hat and even a boot?

  “How kind of you to see me outfitted with a mount who’s been properly trained to lose,” said Abby.

  “I thought you’d be more entertained.”

  “You overestimated me.”

  He chuckled and swung down from his horse, signaling to a groom to collect Storm. Then he held out his hand to Abby. “Walk with me?”

  He’d asked that exact question months before. Only then they were alone on a long stretch of beach adjacent to the Solent. Now, they were in Hyde Park near the Serpentine. A few others were out and about, but other than that, they were as alone as two people could feel in London.

  The moment Brigston took her by the waist to help her down, she knew she would never be able to put her feelings for him aside. Even the most innocent touch stirred a myriad of sensations within her. She tried not to smell, feel, or respond to him, but the aromas of leather, citrus, and spice invaded her senses so much that she lingered with her hands on his shoulders, desperately wanting more.

  It was he who finally released her and took a step back, a cold reminder of his place in her life. It wrenched her heart. Why had she agreed to come this morning? Why had she come to London at all? She had yearned to see him again, but now that he stood before her, just out of reach—always out of reach—she felt only torment.

  He tucked his hands behind his back and began walking at her side. “I can almost imagine we are back at Oakley, strolling along the beach, although the Serpentine smells nothing like the Solent.”

  “No,” said Abby.

  “Do you remember the day I caught you riding and insisted you not do so any longer?”

  “I remember thinking you a curmudgeon.”

  “I’ve always felt sorry about that—not sorry enough to allow you to ride again, obviously—but you were so happy one moment and so annoyed with me the next. I promised myself I would make it up to you someday.”

  “I see,” said Abby. “So this morning’s outing was a way for you to assuage a guilty conscience.”

  “And my pride.”

  She chuckled and ran her free hand along the top of a recently pruned yew hedge. The needles pricked at her gloves, but she didn’t mind. She liked the texture. “You needn’t have worried about making it up to me. You were right to stop me from riding. I should not have put Anne in danger like that.”

  “Tell me about her and your time with Lord and Lady Knave.” Brigston sounded genuinely interested, so Abby happily obliged. She told him about her constantly increasing midsection, how she’d misjudge narrow spaces, spill soup or drip preserves down the front of her dresses, and how she’d constantly bump into things. It wasn’t a ladylike thing to talk about, but with him it didn’t matter. She could talk about anything.

  She told him how little Anne had been and how adept she was about expressing her opinions. “I can already tell she’s going to be a stubborn thing,” said Abby fondly. “I would love for you to meet her at some point. Your mother drops by almost daily now.”

  “So I’ve heard.” He stopped walking to peer across the Serpentine, and a breeze lifted his hair from his forehead. Abby desperately wanted him to turn to her, take her in his arms, hold her close, and tell her he couldn’t live without her. She wished she could tell him the same, but that was one thing she couldn’t say.

  He released her arm and crouched to pick up a rock that he threw across the Serpentine. It skipped once, twice, three times, before plopping into the wide river.

  If there was a skill that Abby had picked up during her unconventional upbringing, it was skipping rocks. She crouched down, sorted through a few rocks before finding a suitable one, and walked to the bank of the river. Taking careful aim, she flung it across the river. It skipped nine times before disappearing into the water. Not her best throw ever, but the rock hadn’t been perfectly flat.

  She beamed at Brigston, who was staring in astonishment at the place her rock had landed.

  “I don’t believe we are even any longer, sir,” she said.

  “You never cease to amaze me, woman. Did the cows teach you that skill?”

  “It was the frogs.”

  He scooped up a handful of rocks and made several more attempts at skipping them, but his longest throw included only seven skips.

  He looked back at her with a grimace. “I think you should confess that I’m the real shuttlecock champion.”

  “Never.”

  “Wretch.”

  She giggled. “Do you wish to race the horses again? Would that restore your pride?”

  “No, but a shuttlecock rematch might. Would tomorrow be too soon? The ballroom in our townhouse may not be as large as Oakley’s, but we could manage a tolerable game.”

  It was hard to tell if he was in earnest when his eyes glimmered with humor like that. Shuttlecock on a rainy day in the country had been an entertaining diversion, but here in refined and proper London? He had to be jesting.

  Either way, she was not at liberty to accept.

  “Sophia has asked me to accompany her on a drive with Mr. Rend and Mr. Wallace tomorrow afternoon, and that evening we are attending Mrs. Temple’s card party.”

  He sighed. “It’s just as well. I have something that needs doing tomorrow anyway. It’s a shame though. I would have preferred shuttlecock.”

  “Perhaps another time?”

  “Perhaps.”

  During the ride back to Knave’s townhouse, the skies seemed to grow gloomier. It felt like a sign of things to come.

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Lady Brigston fawned over Anne in the drawing room. Since her first encounter with her grandchild, she’d come most every day Abby was at home, arriving a little before their usual calling hours. Initially, Abby would lead her up to the nursery, but when Lady Brigston continued to come, Abby asked Nu
rse Lovell to bring Anne down to the more comfortable drawing room. When other callers arrived, they cooed over her daughter as well, at least until Anne began to fuss or howl with displeasure. When that happened, Lady Brigston would clutch her to her chest and quit the room, as though she were Anne’s nurse.

  Abby had gone after her once in embarrassment, explaining that she’d take Anne back to the nursery, but Lady Brigston had shooed aside her concerns, saying she could return the baby just as easily, then added with a twinkle in her eye, “There are some pleasures grandmothers ought to have, don’t you think?

  Abby realized then just how much her mother-in-law was coming to care for Anne. Lady Brigston had always been a stickler. It wasn’t like her to exit a room full of visitors without so much as a good day, yet that’s precisely what she’d done. When the end of the season came, and Abby secured her own cottage away from Hampshire, how would that affect Lady Brigston?

  Abby couldn’t help but worry.

  “It’s effortless to coax a smile from her now,” said Lady Brigston as she grinned down at Anne and tickled her chin. A gurgle sounded, and Lady Brigston grinned. “She will laugh soon, I’d wager my hat on it.”

  The hat in question was a deep violet with large ostrich plumes jutting up from one side and towering overtop, the way a palm frond would do. It wasn’t Abby’s style, but the matching violet gown with a gold ribbing was quite pretty.

  “You have an irresistible smile, my darling girl,” Lady Brigston said to Anne. “You must use that to your advantage. No matter how naughty you might behave, only smile, and no one will be able to stay cross with you for long.”

  “I’m not sure I care for that advice, Lady Brigston,” said Abby.

  “Care for it or not, it’s a grandmother’s prerogative to indulge one’s grandchild. I do wish you’d call me Mother. At the very least, Anne, though that could cause some confusion.”

  Abby stared at her mother-in-law in surprise. The request had been spoken in such a casual manner, the way one might mention a bit of gossip or unremarkable news. I should like to invite the Markhams to dine. Do you approve?