The Wedding of the Century & Other Stories

by Kristin James; Charlotte Featherstone Mary Jo Putney

  “You will always have that.” Tipping her face up to look at him, he smiled, and brushed his thumb across her kiss-swollen mouth. “You’re so lovely, and some man is going to come by and sweep you off your feet and love you with such a passion it will take your breath away.”

  She smiled then. Truly, honestly smiled, and threw her arms around him. “Will you promise me that, Samuel?”

  “I will more than promise. I will vow it, on my honor as a gentleman, that there is a man out there who will love you as well and as thoroughly as any woman could ever desire.”

  “And as passionately?”

  “Yes, Blossom. Passion will be yours.”

  Separating, their hands lingered, entwined, as they stared at each other.

  “You would have married me, wouldn’t you? Despite loving another.”

  Glancing away, he shrugged. “You mean so much to me, and I would have gone through with it, if you hadn’t released me. But I felt I needed to tell you the truth. That you would only have part of me.”

  “Thank you for that. For not robbing both of us of a life of love and desire.”

  “I will see you happy, Blossom. I swear it.”

  Already she could see the change in him. He was different. Love had made him this way. Passion had changed him. And she wanted that, too. To experience what he had. To learn the difference between a congenial love and a fierce, consuming love.

  “Shall I go with you to tell your parents?”

  Nodding, she placed her hand on his coat sleeve and glanced around the garden, which suddenly looked so very different to her. She saw possibilities where none had been before. Life, where only snow and ice had resided.

  The spring was not far off, and her future called, beckoning her excitement. Tears welled in her eyes, but it was not from what had transpired between her and Samuel, but what was happening now. Her future was unfolding. And somewhere, out there, was a man waiting to fall hopelessly, ardently and most passionately in love with her.

  CHAPTER ONE

  June 1874

  North Yorkshire Moors

  “DAMN IT, HE’S WON AGAIN!”

  Jase Markham slammed his cards down on the makeshift table and smiled in triumph. “That’s a hundred quid from you, Trevere.”

  The duke frowned and lifted his tankard of ale as he cast his gaze out the grime-covered window. “It’s early yet, let’s have another hand.”

  “We’ve been at this all night,” Maxime Carrington grumbled. “Why are you avoiding your bed, and its lovely occupant?”

  Trevere scowled and motioned to the deck. “Will someone deal?”

  The cards were picked up, shuffled, and Merrick Carrington, the Marquis of Winterborne, began to toss out cards as he shared a smile with his twin, who sat opposite him. “Are you certain Her Grace won’t mind?” he teased, sending the proper Trevere frowning once again. “You have been gone all night. No doubt Her Grace will want an explanation for this behavior. Wives are like that, or so I’ve been told.”

  “What do you know of wives, Winterborne?”

  “That they generally become rather miffed when their husband spends the night away, consumed by ale and deep play.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Trevere said with a forlorn glance at the tally of winnings. “I’m nearly five hundred pounds lighter than when I arrived.”

  “I told you when you decided to flee your house that nothing good would come of it.”

  “Sod off,” the duke snapped at Winterborne, sending the table laughing.

  Evan Westlake, the head of the notorious Westlake clan, was hiding out in a stable instead of facing his wife after a row. Jase found that fact rather ridiculous. The imposing duke cowed to no one, but one little, dark-haired woman with large brown eyes sent him running. Strange how the man who was once known as the wicked and wanton Westlake had changed so much.

  “Five years,” Maxime murmured as he glanced at his cards and shared a looked with his brother, Merrick, “and you’ve never had a row before now? Remarkable.”

  “I prefer not to talk about wives at the present,” the duke grumbled. “I want more ale, and to win back some of my money.”

  Maxime snorted and leaned toward Jase. “What do you think of this business of wives and holy matrimony, Raeburn?”

  Swallowing a long draft of warm ale, Jase contemplated his answer. He wasn’t opposed to marriage per se. His parents enjoyed a long and glorious union. They were as passionately in love to this day as they were on their wedding day. One could not be surrounded by such bliss and not ache but for a measure of the same happiness. But marriage for him was out of the question. So was discussing it.

  “Ha!” Winterborne said with glee. “His expression says it all. You look like you’ve swallowed sour milk, Raeburn.”

  Jase placed his pewter tankard down on the wooden pallet that acted as their card table. Behind them, the soft whinnies of horses could be heard. Before him were three of his closest friends—all school chums from Eton and Cambridge.

  He didn’t want to dwell on Edward, because thoughts of him lead to other, more dangerous thoughts. Mainly a raven-haired temptress with large, dark blue eyes and curves that made a man mad with desire.

  “Come, let’s play,” he muttered as he reached for his hand. “We’ve been at this all night, and if we don’t get His Grace home, he’ll have a devil of a time explaining things to his wife. And I, for one, have no wish to be cornered by her and interrogated. I fear she could make the Spanish Inquisition look like child’s play.”

  Everyone laughed, except the duke, of course, who had been irritable and distracted all night. After five years of marriage, and repulsive displays of matrimonial bliss, all was not as it once was. Despite not wanting to marry himself, Jase didn’t want to see his friend suffer. Jase knew how much his friend adored his duchess, just as Trevere knew his sordid secret.

  “Your brother is for the noose later this month, is he not?” Winterborne asked. “The Duke of Torrington’s delightful daughter. Gorgeous girl.”

  Trevere shot him a look over the tops of his cards. Jase cleared his throat.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact he is.”

  And that was all he intended to say on the subject. But Winterborne was in his cups, and he wanted to talk, not play cards.

  “I danced with her once, at Lady Steepes’s musicale—delightful armful. I was dashed disappointed to discover that she was intended for someone else.”

  He was, as well, but there it was. Blossom was engaged to marry his brother. It was a love match. And he would be forced to bear witness to the happy union in three weeks, one day and—he glanced down at his pocket watch—five hours.

  “I’ve never seen her. Is she pretty?” Maxime asked. “I adore pretty girls. Especially intended ones,” he teased.

  Jase ground his teeth together and reminded himself that these were his friends. He liked his friends. He didn’t want to murder them, but if they kept on about marriage and Blossom, he was going to have to bash them both.

  “Oh, aye, gorgeous,” Winterborne said as he finished off his ale. “Striking, to say the least. Dark exotic features with a rather—” he cast a glance to Jase “—desirable form.”

  That description of her was bland and uninspiring. Jase much preferred his own—that of an angelic succubus, created to tempt men like him. Her hair was black and thick, her eyes blue and innocent. Her lips red and succulent, the kind you could kiss and suck at for hours. Her skin was pale, unblemished, and her body was full and voluptuous and made for the dreams—and desires—of men. Innocence and sensuality. He wanted to ravish her, just as much as he wanted to protect her. That was the fitting description of Blossom.

  “What do you think of her, Raeburn?” Maxime questioned.

  Jase didn’t dare glance at Trevere when he replied, “Tolerable.”

  “Tolerable?” Maxime laughed. “Does that mean you will be able to abide her company during the Christmas holidays? Or does it mean she’s an inch
away from your scathing regard?”

  Hell, no! He could hardly stand to be in the same county as she. How would he ever be able to bear seeing the woman he desired with his brother? Witnessing their conjugal bliss was going to be soul-shattering, just as it had been to watch their love grow.

  “What of you? Will you be next?” Winterborne taunted. “You can hardly stand to be outdone by your younger brother.”

  Jase frowned and tossed a card out. Hearts were trump and he lead with a measly ten of hearts. His mind was not on the hand, but rather on the image of a very delicious raven-haired nymph. Which really was rather disturbing seeing that she was going to be his sister-in-law.

  “Come now, Raeburn, you’ve got a title to be conscious of. What of the proverbial heir and a spare?”

  He glared at Winterborne. “What of you, old boy? You’ve got a title, as well, and as far as I know, the only women you get close to have long snouts and tails.”

  Maxime laughed and tipped his head back. “True enough. But my brother does put in all sorts of effort in breeding—it’s just the wrong sort of species.”

  As if on cue, a pretty brown filly snorted and stomped in her stall.

  “Come now, this is putting a depressing shade on our game,” Winterborne snapped. “I’ve got a winning hand here, and I intend to make good use of it.”

  “Agreed. I’m not risking the wrath of my wife for talk of horses or marriage and women,” Trevere grumbled. Tossing the ace of hearts on the pile, he signaled Jase to pick up the trick. “Cease this prattle and let’s play.”

  Grumbling, the Carrington brothers focused their attentions on the cards. But damn them, after all this talk of marriage Jase could not think of anything other than Blossom and how he would have to return home to Bewdley in a few weeks and watch the one woman he yearned for above all others marry his brother.

  Damn the Fates! He wanted to curse and rail, and yes… abduct her from her home and ravish her so thoroughly she would be ruined for any other man but him.

  Oh, he’d thought of it—thousands of times—what it would be like to have those lovely blue eyes on him, or those luscious red lips beneath his, and on other parts, as well. He’d debauched her in his mind, and craved her from afar, for so long that he almost felt wedded to her. He’d never met with another woman who made his body feel like Blossom’s did. One glance from her was like watching fireworks.

  Melodramatic fool. It was unhealthy, this obsession with her. Nothing could come out of it. Passion was all well and good, and he was certain he could tempt her with seduction if he truly desired to. All young women could be persuaded to succumb to a kiss and a caress. But there was the undeniable and infuriating fact that Blossom loved his brother. And Samuel loved her. Passion was never a replacement for love. He of all people knew that. So, he had stepped back and allowed his brother to love Blossom, while he had tried—most unsuccessfully—to bury his feelings.

  “Pray, excuse me, milord, but a telegraph has just arrived for Lord Raeburn.”

  Four sets of eyes peered up from the cards. Winterborne’s footman was standing in the stable opening, the early-morning sun outlining his tall figure.

  “A telegraph,” he found himself saying. “When did you decide to avail yourself of modern convenience?”

  Winterborne waved the footman in. “Since I found it necessary to expand my breeding business after I inherited this deuced indebted estate up in the north, where there is nothing but sheep and cattle and little of anything that is convenient.”

  Ignoring Winterborn’s rant, Jase reached for the missive and glanced around. His friends, the nosy blighters, watched as he opened the paper. Who could it be from? he wondered. He’d been nomadic these past months, restless as the impending wedding came closer. He’d felt out of sorts, and he’d left Bewdley for the north where he and his father bred Arabian horses. After a few months there, he’d been lonely and isolated. He’d come to North Yorkshire to search out his friends. He’d been here ever since, but he hadn’t written home to tell his family. His mother, who knew of his affliction, would only wish him back. No doubt, she would have a gaggle of young ladies for him to meet. To his mother, there was nothing better than to ease a broken heart with the promise of new love.

  His darling mother. He did adore her, but sometimes he wished he had not unburdened himself when she had come across him after Samuel had announced his engagement. He still cringed at the memory, and at the way he had allowed himself to be comforted in her arms.

  Met a lovely girl—a ballet dancer. Stop. Ran off to Gretna Green and am now blissfully married. Stop. Come home. Stop. Mum is worried sick about you. Stop.

  Barely breathing, Jase stared at the telegraph and the name of the sender. Samuel. He’d met a ballet dancer and eloped to Gretna Green? Was this some sort of jest? Or had his brother finally lost his mind in prewedding nerves?

  The ramifications of such an act ran through his thoughts—so, too, did the possibilities. Blossom was free. Brokenhearted, no doubt, and shamed by his brother’s rash actions, but free nonetheless.

  “What is it?” Trevere asked.

  The paper flitted from his trembling fingers down to the table, and Trevere reached for it. Their gazes collided and then his friend, who had been so taciturn and utterly miserable all night long, smiled.

  “I have a cottage in the Lakes. Lovely old place. Secluded. Romantic. A most excellent location. And it can be had on short notice. Just let me know when you want it, and it’s yours.”

  Jase looked between his friends—Trevere, who was still smiling, and the Carrington twins, whose mouths were hung open in question. And then, despite the lack of sleep, and too many cups of ale, Jase jumped up from his chair and snatched the missive out of Trevere’s hand. “I’ll be taking you up on that offer, Your Grace! Just you wait and see.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  TWO LARGE HANDS PLANTED themselves palms down on either side of her. “Another masterpiece, sweetheart.”

  Brushing the black paint in fine strokes, Blossom smoothed the lines with the tip of her brush, blending it until it looked soft and feathery.

  “The shadowing is perfect. You have a gift in that regard. Masterpiece,” he said again.

  Smiling, she couldn’t help but let out a little laugh. “Papa, you think everything I paint is a masterpiece. Why, you still have the portrait of our family framed on your desk—the one where we’re all stick people with big heads and frighteningly large smiles.”

  Laughing, he dropped a kiss to the top of her head. “My love, that was your first masterpiece. Everything else only gets better.”

  Muttering to herself, she continued to paint, aware of the large presence of her father looming over her, studying her technique. He had taught her to draw and paint. She had been his apprentice, and now she was her own master.

  “This is a plate from the commission you took?”

  “Yes. A retelling of Lord Tennyson’s The Lady of Shallot.”

  “I like it—it’s a balance of colors and shading. The jeweled tones give it a feel and atmosphere—one of substance, and a certain sensuality, I might say. Most striking. But who is this?” he asked, pointing to the dark-haired character on horseback. “Lancelot.”

  “I thought Lancelot was supposed to be a fair and golden knight?”

  Lifting her brush from the plate, Blossom studied what she had sketched. Frowning, she suddenly recognized who she had drawn, and prayed her father wouldn’t notice—or, heavens above, comment on the resemblance. How unfortunate it was that Jase seemed to be creeping into her thoughts. Subliminal or not, she was most perturbed. Where these thoughts had sprung from she had no idea. She hadn’t thought of him in that way for years.

  “Well?”

  “Fair and golden is tired, Papa. Dark and mysterious is far more enticing, don’t you think? Art is, after all, open to interpretation.”

  He laughed, a deep chuckling sound that made her smile. Her father was her greatest champion. He loved her
. Wanted only her happiness. When she and Samuel had broken the news of their canceled wedding, her father had been the first to hug her. To tell her that it was all right to follow her heart.

  Her parents had a love match, a most passionate one, even to this day. It was what she had wanted, too. What she had hoped one day might flower between her and Samuel. But it had not, and these past months after her ended engagement had been the most freeing of her life.

  “Dark and mysterious, eh?” he asked, once more perusing the portrait. “It is indeed most becoming in art, but not in life.”

  She turned and looked at him over her shoulder. “Papa, are you warning me off of a certain type of gentleman?”

  “Never! If I did, it would only draw you to that sort of man, wouldn’t it? You have too much of me in you, I’m afraid. Headstrong, willful child.”

  “I’m no longer a child.”

  He sighed and moved away. “Don’t I know it. These past few days have disabused me of the thought. Now, about these men who have asked for an audience with me. What do you want me to do?”

  Blossom thought of the barrage of male guests who had been invited to her parents’ party, and the handful of them that seemed to be her most ardent pursuers. “You may do precisely what you’ve done with the past four offers for my hand. Politely decline. I have no wish to marry a man who sees me as way to forge a connection with a powerful duke, or worse, a bank note.”

  Laughing, her father moved away to gaze out the window. Blossom knew that below, on the grass, was a group of gentlemen playing lawn bowling. They were the same gentlemen who would not leave her be. The ones who spoke of her beauty, ad nauseam. They didn’t even know her, and not one of them had ever truly tried to. They thought her a frivolous, featherbrained female who wished her vanity to be stroked. Little did they comprehend that she despised vanity and empty compliments. What she wanted was a man who was truthful, honorable—and passionate. The men her father was currently watching were only ardent about advancing their reputations and estates—with her dowry.