The Wedding of the Century & Other Stories

by Kristin James; Charlotte Featherstone Mary Jo Putney

  “Very well, I shall send them all away, desolate and brokenhearted.”

  Snorting, she dabbed the tip of her brush once more into the ink. “I have a feeling that if you offered them a couple hundred pounds their desolation would evaporate and their broken hearts would miraculously mend.”

  “Such a cynic,” her father teased. “I wonder from whom you inherited that flaw?”

  Laughing, she looked up. “I think we both know the answer to that. Now, if we are done here, talking about bloodthirsty suitors, would you close the curtains, Papa? The sun is causing a glare on the canvas.”

  “Enough for now, Blossom. Mama wishes you to come to the salon.”

  “So you’ve turned traitor, have you?”

  “No, I have not. But your mother has gone to a lot of work planning this party, and you will partake of it—at least some of it. Besides, I of all people know that one cannot shut one’s self up forever. It’s good for you to get out and meet new people. I’m certain that there is at least one gentleman present who can come up to scratch.”

  “I’m not—”

  “You’re avoiding the male guests, my dear. Understandable, of course, but you’re doing yourself a disservice. You know your mother and I would never force you to wed where your heart didn’t lie. But we never promised to not encourage it along. Come, your mother wishes to see you.”

  Mama… Sighing, Blossom dropped her paintbrush in the jar of turpentine and wiped her hands on the white cloth that lay beside her. Mama had not accepted the news of her aborted wedding quite as well as Papa had. Oh, she had supported her decision not to marry where she did not love. But her mother, being a woman madly in love these past twenty-odd years, could not stand idly back and allow love to find her daughter. No, Mama sought out love with a vengeance. Hence, the enormous house party that was under way, and the dozens of single gentlemen milling about the estate.

  “Lord Halston has spoken with me. He asked for the honor of taking tea with us this afternoon. Naturally I agreed.”

  Blossom quirked a perturbed brow in her father’s direction. “Naturally. He’s Mama’s choice.”

  Halston. He was a kind fellow, and handsome, too. He was a sporting man, and one of good spirits and jovial conversation and one of her more attentive and genuine admirers. Many of the single ladies grew tongue-tied in his presence, and more than once, Blossom had heard girls gossiping behind their fluttering fans about Halston, and the fact he was this Season’s catch.

  Glancing at her gown, and the stained apron she wore, Blossom sighed and held up a white flag of surrender. “I will just change.”

  Her father uncrossed his arms and reached for her hand. “You’ll do no such thing. Besides, we’ve seen you in stained aprons for years.”

  Oh, good Lord, her mother was going to be perturbed. But her father was right. She had no plans to give up her painting after marriage. Best to set out the ground rules now.

  With the duke’s boots ringing a commanding tattoo on the marble floor, Blossom walked beside her father, down the private wing of the family’s residence, to the yellow salon that belonged to her mother. It smelled of her—soap and orange blossoms—and she smiled, thinking of how many days she had spent there, listening to her mother’s stories.

  “My dear, I have dragged our daughter out of her studio for a spot of tea.”

  In the process of pouring, her mother glanced up, then took in her state of dress. With a knowing smile, she nodded, and indicated the chair beside her.

  “Come, Blossom. You can pour.”

  Bounding up from his chair, the Earl of Halston turned to greet her. His smile was bright and charming, until his gaze, which lingered a trifle too long on her face and bosom, descended—to the white apron splotched with oil paint.

  “Forgive me,” she said in a hurry as she untied the strings to the apron. Tossing it aside, she placed it on a small table and headed for Halston, where she dropped into an elegant curtsy before him.

  “Good day, my lord.”

  He cleared his throat as he reached for her. Taking her bare hand in his, he helped her up. Blossom could not help but noticed how her fingertips—stained black—stood out against Halston’s perfectly manicured ones.

  “You look lovely today, Lady Blossom,” he murmured, and she thought she heard her father’s deep chuckle.

  “I’ve been painting,” she admitted as he released her hand and took the seat next to her mother.

  “Do you do that often?” the earl asked as he sat down beside her.

  “Oh, yes, every day.”

  “Nearly all day,” her mother teased as she slid the china teapot to her. “Always in her studio.”

  Holding out his cup and saucer, Halston smiled at her as she poured. “I think it charming when ladies paint.”

  A chuckle from her father. Their eyes met as Blossom poured her father’s tea. There was mischief in his eyes, and a shared look between her parents.

  Turing back to Halston, Blossom attempted to clarify the earl’s misdirected belief.

  “I’m afraid I’m not a dabbler, my lord. Painting for me is not just another female accomplishment. It is as necessary as breathing. It fulfills me, and gives me purpose.”

  Halston blinked, and tried to prevent choking on his tea.

  “You have heard that I’m a professional artist, my lord? I take commissions.”

  He did choke then. And her father most definitely did nothing to conceal yet another outburst of mirth—a sardonic one at that.

  “You’re a…a…” Halston looked to her father, then to her, floundering for the correct word.

  “A career woman?” She brightened and straightened in her chair. “Indeed, I guess I am. I make a very comfortable living working for commission.”

  “Surely you don’t have to.” He glanced at her father, whose expression turned glacial. “That is to say, you would not need to continue in that vein if you were to say…marry advantageously.”

  “I’d like to meet the man who tries to dissuade her from her painting,” her father muttered. “And no, she need not paint to keep us afloat, Halston. She does it because it is in her soul. Do you know nothing of the arts? An artist, whether they be painter, sculptor, poet or writer, cannot just stop doing what calls to them. It’s in their blood, man. Who they are. Surely you would not wish to change what is in one’s soul?”

  Lord Halston flushed, and notched his chin, as though his necktie were choking him. “Of course not,” he said, smiling weakly. “And if one were truly worthy, they would not force you to abandon your…vocation,” he said in a strangled voice.

  “Do you fish, Lord Halston?” her mother asked as she lowered her cup to the saucer. “The lake is well stocked with trout.”

  “I do,” he said, brightening. “It’s been an age since I’ve done so, however.”

  “Oh, do you fly-fish?” Blossom asked, excited at last.

  “Yes. Perhaps you might come and watch me, if that would be permissible. Your Grace?”

  “Watch?” Blossom snapped at the same moment her father inclined his head, giving the earl permission to take her to the lake. “Whatever would I wish to watch for? No, I fly-fish, too.”

  This time, Halston’s eyes bulged out of his head, and his face turned red. “I…beg your pardon, Lady Blossom… I…”

  “She’s better than her brother,” her father drawled, a faint smile curling his lips. Her father was actually enjoying himself!

  “I suppose you thought I might sit on a blanket, surrounded by a picnic lunch, while you entertain me with your skill.”

  Halston squirmed in his chair. She was being far too forward, and rude, but she could not help it. She had no intention of lingering on the ground watching, idle, while Lord Halston strutted about, showing off his skills. She would never be that sort of wife, one content to sit back and admire. She wanted to participate—as her mother had always done. She wanted a partnership, a truly mutual companion.

  Recovering with ap
lomb, Halston set his saucer atop the table. “I would be delighted to join you, Lady Blossom. Perhaps tomorrow morning, then?”

  Blossom didn’t know what to make of him. Did he legitimately wish to spend time with her, or was he merely placating her? His shock had been so evident, his disdain so transparent. What had made him change his mind? Was it her dowry, which was one of the largest on the Marriage Mart, or was it something else? Genuine affection?

  Blossom could not summon the belief it was the latter. Halston, while handsome and personable, had proved himself a bit too traditional, too…male in his thinking. He could never truly desire to have her as his wife.

  While she desired passion and love in her marriage, she also wanted freedom. Freedom to paint and continue with her commissions. Freedom to be the sort of woman she had always been.

  Her mother had reared her to be free thinking, liberal and self-sufficient. She found herself wondering what the old-fashioned Earl of Halston would think if he were to discover she could cook herself a hot pot and scones? Another of her mother’s doings.

  Her mother was a duchess, had been for twenty-five years, but before her marriage to the duke, Jane had been a common woman. A woman forced to work. An independent woman. And despite her title, and the fact that her daughter was born into the nobility, her mother had made it her mantra to raise her daughter in an independent fashion. Blossom had no need, or desire, to be dependent upon a man.

  Would Halston accept her as she was? No, never mind acceptance. Would he love her as she was?

  “Well, this has been a beautiful afternoon,” Halston commented. “And lovely tea. But you will forgive me. I promised Lady Billings that I would take a walk with her and her daughter in your beautiful gardens and I see it is the time that was set for us to meet. Till later, Lady Blossom.”

  Blossom watched Halston retreat as though a pack of hellhounds were hard upon his boots. When the door closed firmly behind him, her mother and father sat back in their chairs, relaxed and reposed, and smiling at each other.

  “Darling Jane, you are the most cunning of women,” her father drawled as he reached for a biscuit. “How I admire you, dearest.”

  “I had a wonderfully gifted tutor,” her mother said with a knowing smile.

  “I thought he’d choke on his tongue.” Her father laughed. “Poor fellow, he was ambushed.”

  “Nonsense,” her mother scoffed. “It was only a little test of his character. And he did surprisingly well, under the circumstances. Perhaps he was a little…off center, but I have not given up all hope yet that he might come up to scratch.”

  “Mama,” Blossom asked, suspicion in her voice, “did you and Papa plan for me to come into this room wearing my apron?”

  “Of course, child,” her mother replied. Her fair complexion was positively beaming, and her green eyes sparkling with mischief behind her spectacles. “You have to be absolutely certain what sort of man you’re getting involved with. While I will agree, Lord Halston is very handsome and his manners impeccable, it is not those two virtues you are marrying. It is the man himself.”

  “And you knew what sort of man Papa was, then?”

  Her mother’s gaze softened; mischief was replaced with a deep and abiding love. “Yes,” she whispered, and Blossom saw her flush as the afternoon sun shone upon her mother’s red hair, which was streaked at the sides with gray. “I knew exactly what sort of man your father was. The very sort worth fighting for. And that, my dear, is the kind of man you want. The sort who will walk through fire to have you. Who will give you everything you want—not baubles and material things,” she clarified, “but the things that mean something. Objects that money cannot buy. That is the sort of man that makes a husband, Blossom. One who loves you for you. Not for what you come from.”

  “Your mother is right. No man who was less than that would ever be worthy of you. And let me tell you, no man is truly content with a wife who is a copy of every other man’s wife. A man wants his own—teeth, claws and all.”

  “Thank you, both. Not many women my age could boast of having such understanding parents.”

  “I should say not. You’ve been positively ruined by your indulgent father and spoiling mother.”

  “Papa.” She laughed as he teased her. She kissed him on the cheek, and then her mother. “Now, then, may I be excused?”

  “Naturally,” her father said. “But do have a care with poor old Halston. His unfortunate showing at tea aside, I quite like the fellow.”

  “I shall keep that in mind, Papa.” Quickly she left the salon. She needed to think, and the best thinking spots were outside by the lake. Before closing the door, she heard her mother’s quiet whisper.

  “Do you think we’ve destroyed all hope for her?”

  “No, my love. He is truly smitten by her, I think. If he wants her bad enough, he’ll find her paint-stained fingers charming, and the fact she fly-fishes better than her brother an intriguing notion.”

  “I want her happiness, Matthew, that is all.”

  “As do I. But what you forget, my love, is that she is very much like us. She has your teeth, and my claws. Blossom will stay true to herself. She will not allow a man to railroad her into marriage. On that, I can promise you.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “LADY BLOSSOM, A LETTER for you.”

  Blossom reached for the missive the butler was holding out to her. “Thank you, I think I shall read it during my walk. I’ll be going to the Temple and back, Thompson, if my parents should happen to ask after me.”

  “Very good. Ah, I see you have your bonnet. The sun is very hot today, miss.”

  “Thank you, Thompson. I shall take every care.”

  Stepping outside, Blossom heard the door close behind her. Ensuring that no one was around, she raised the hem of her skirt and petticoats and ran down the gravel drive, to the side path that led to the garden. She would walk to the lake, and linger on the bridge for a few moments. There she would find a measure of peace and tranquility, away from her eager suitors and zealous penniless men searching for an heiress.

  In these past few months, she had learned what it was like to be hunted and desired for nothing more than her dowry. It had been a frightening and yet enlightening lesson. Her father had taught her all the tricks that a desperate man might employ to snag himself an heiress. Seduction being the first. As a consequence of those lessons, Blossom strived to never be alone with a man—no matter who he was or how innocent the setting. But she was safe here at the lake. The ladies were upstairs, napping and preparing for the dinner and dance that evening. The gentlemen were sipping port and playing billiards, or lounging in the library, reading the papers. No, she would not encounter anyone out here, except perhaps a few swans.

  Pausing, Blossom closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sky, enjoying the warm sunlight that crept across her face. The sun was hot, but she pulled the strings loose on her bonnet, anyway. Pulling the bonnet off her head, she was aware that a lock of her hair had come loose and was dangling down her back. With a mischievous smile, she tossed the bonnet aside and, letter in hand, she made her way to the bridge.

  Strolling leisurely, she took in the magnificent grounds, and stopped in the middle of the bridge to gaze down upon the dark water. Two swans, one white and one black, swam lazily beneath and she turned to the other side in time to watch them swim from out beneath the arched stone. Swans were everpresent here, a symbol of devotion and love. One always black, the other white. She had often asked her parents about the custom, but they just smiled and sent each other private glances. It was then that Blossom knew the swans somehow symbolized her parents’ union.

  It was romantic. Passionate. And one day she wanted something similar to share with her husband.

  Strolling along, Blossom followed the winding paths that were edged with trees and bushes and flowering perennials while breaking the red wax seal of the Earl of Wallingford, and opened the missive from her brother.

  Dearest Blossom,


  I received your letter, and hope you are well. Your heart mended. I fear you have made too light of things. How angry you must be with the bastard. You should have allowed me to come home and box Samuel Markham into bloody pulp. You always were too kind, sister.

  Smiling, Blossom continued her walk and thought of her brother, his black hair and dark eyes—how they flashed when he was riled. She could just imagine the scene that would have ensued if she had encouraged her brother’s anger at Samuel.

  It was no less than he deserved, Blos. My God, a dancer, when he could have had you, my beautiful sister. Why, the man must be soft in the head to desire any woman above you. How could he have done it, left you for a ballet dancer!

  Because he was in love, she thought. One day, even Edward would succumb to the emotion. One day, her brother would curb his reckless ways and discover what it was to heed the urges of one’s heart. A heart could lead anywhere, and Samuel had simply followed his. She did not resent him, but admired him for it. What courage it took to be true to oneself.

  Mama and Papa have written to me that they are hosting a country house party. You know what it is, Blos. It’s a ruse to have you meet new gentlemen. Don’t fall for it. They’ll have you married and whisked away before you know it. And for heaven’s sake, don’t consider a bloke until you’ve written me and informed me of his name. I know most all of the degenerates and will inform you if you’ve had the unlucky happenstance to engage said degenerate’s interest.

  I’d never want that for you, sister. You deserve something better. As your brother, I demand better!

  Home soon, and remember, do not entertain a thought of a gentlemen before first writing to me. My address follows, and so, too, does a kiss and a buss, and a stiff upper lip, little soldier!