Here Comes the Bride

by Alexandra Ivy

  Knowing that he would be occupied, Simon acknowledged wryly.

  “She is improved?”

  “You know that she is, my lord.”

  “I have also ordered repairs at once on the cottages. “

  “Your tenants will be very pleased.“

  Barely aware that they were standing in a room filled with curious onlookers, Simon leaned even closer, inhaling deeply of the faint scent of lilacs.

  “And what of you, Miss Blakewell?”

  She eyed him in puzzlement. “Me?”

  “Are you pleased?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Good.” Allowing his gaze to deliberately drop to the full softness of her mouth, Simon reluctantly stepped away. As much as he would have liked to devote the evening to the tantalizing Miss Blakewell, he had a duty to his guests. “I believe dinner is about to be served. Excuse me.”

  Four

  Blast, blast, and blast.

  With a rising sense of exasperation Claire glanced about the drawing room. Who would have thought that carrying out her secret campaign would be so difficult?

  Had she not taken special care to choose her most elegant gown and even had allowed her maid to smooth her hair into a tidy knot with delicate curls left to frame her face? And had she not tossed aside all reason and determinedly set about charming the numerous eligible gentlemen in attendance?

  But oddly she had discovered her efforts had produced precious few results. Indeed, every gentleman whom she approached regarded her with varying degrees of suspicion and even downright apprehension. For goodness’ sake, one would think they were actually terrified of her, she thought with a flare of disgust.

  Her restless gaze eventually halted on the thin, pasty-faced gentleman currently attempting to hide behind a large marble urn. A twinge of reluctance tugged at her heart.

  Mr. Limpet was a timid, awkward young man who devoted his life to his overbearing mother. He rarely spoke a word in company and never to an unmarried female. It would be a difficult task to lure him into a flirtation.

  For a moment she hesitated, then, turning her head, she caught a glimpse of Mrs. Mayer clasped onto her father’s arm with a relentless determination. Claire’s gaze narrowed at the plunging neckline and sheer material of the brilliant scarlet gown. The woman was barely decent, she seethed. Not that her smitten father appeared to mind her lack of modesty. He had not taken his eyes off those overly exposed charms all evening.

  There seemed nothing for it, she acknowledged. It would have to be Mr. Limpet.

  With an expression that sent guests scurrying out of her determined path, Claire made her way across the drawing room to her unknowing prey. As she neared, Mr. Limpet hastily turned to gape at the fine watercolor hanging on the wall. He clearly hoped she

  would walk on past. Corning to a halt, she summoned what she hoped was a seductive smile.

  “A beautiful painting, do you not agree, Mr. Limpet?” she inquired sweetly.

  With a tiny jolt Mr. Limpet turned to blink at her in a nervous manner.

  “Oh . . . I . . .” He cleared his throat. “Yes, if you think it is lovely, Miss Blakewell.”

  Claire firmly attempted to ignore the pale, protruding eyes and rather unfortunate stench of an unwashed body.

  “I fear I haven’t much artistic talent.” She paused, then, when it was obvious Mr. Limpet was merely going to blink at her, she continued. “Do you paint?”

  “Oh . . . no, I fear not.”

  “But you must have other talents?”

  He paused as if he were considering bolting for freedom, then, clearly realizing she had him cornered, he nervously shifted his feet.

  “I . . . collect things.“

  “Indeed?” Claire forced a note of interest in her voice. “And what things do you collect?”

  “Insects.”

  Claire frowned, quite certain she must have misunderstood.

  “Insects?”

  “Dead ones, you know. I put them in pots and jars to study.”

  “How . . . intriguing.” Claire suppressed a shudder. Dead bugs? Good God. Still, bugs, dead or not, were preferable to Lizzy. “I have never seen an insect collection. Perhaps you would show them to me?”

  “You wish to see them?” he stuttered.

  “Certainly.”

  “Oh. I do not know—”

  “Surely you wish to share your collection with others?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Perhaps you could come to dinner one evening? I am certain Father would wish to see your bugs as well.”

  “Dinner?” he squeaked.

  “You do eat, do you not?”

  “Not . . . that is . . .”

  “Would Friday suit you?” Claire persisted determinedly.

  “I . . . um . . .” The protruding eyes bulged even farther, then Mr. Limpet’s nerve broke altogether and he stumbled backward. “I believe Mama is in need of me.“

  Knocking over a small table, Mr. Limpet forged a path around Claire and with obvious relief scurried to the safety of his mother’s side. Left on her own, Claire swallowed a sigh of exasperation.

  Really. What was she doing wrong?

  She had seen a dozen ladies who had only to smile to have a bevy of moonstruck gentlemen swarm to their side. But while she had gone out of her way to be charming, all she had received were startled apologies and swift retreats.

  Granted she possessed little experience with gentlemen and flirtations, but she was well enough acquainted with the process to realize that her intended prey should not be fleeing in terror.

  Perhaps she should have taken more time to learn how to emit shrill giggles and bat her eyes in a foolish manner, she told herself dryly.

  Decidedly piqued, Claire was unaware of the gentleman closely regarding her every movement. In truth, it came as a distinct shock when the familiar male cologne warned her that she was no longer alone. Glancing up, she discovered Lord Challmond standing close at her side. Her heart gave a queer jolt of alarm.

  “Miss Blakewell,” he murmured, an odd glint in the emerald eyes.

  “My lord.”

  “Are you enjoying your evening?”

  “It has been . . . pleasant,” she forced herself to lie. She could hardly admit that it had been a dismal failure since she had been unable to lure a susceptible gentleman into her charade.

  “Yes.” His smile held a hint of devilment. “I believe the pheasant was a trifle overdone and the wine a bit young, but overall I am quite pleased.”

  “How fortunate.”

  “I must say, however, that I am somewhat perplexed by one thing, Miss Blakewell.”

  “Oh?” A wary expression settled on her pale countenance. She did not like that smile. “And what is that, my lord?”

  “The reason you are terrifying my gentlemen guests.”

  She felt the color drain from her face in horror. He could not possibly have realized what she was doing.

  Could he?

  “I beg your pardon?”

  His arms folded over the width of his chest, his gaze taking careful note of the tension stiffening her slender body.

  “I have watched, with some enjoyment I might add, as you have stalked and cornered every eligible gentleman available this evening excepting myself and Locky, until you have sent them scurrying in terror.”

  Why the—rat, she seethed in humiliation. He had obviously been spying on her the entire evening.

  “That is preposterous,” she attempted to bluff.

  His smile merely widened. “At first I presumed you were hounding the poor blokes for your latest cause. After all, a young buck cannot wish to share his allowance on orphanages and schools or to fill his estate with stray curs. But then I noted the hint of panic in their eyes. They looked very much like fresh recruits seeing their first battle.” He paused, the emerald eyes dancing. “Or an unfortunate chap being pursued by a marriage-mad female.”

  The color rushed back to her face with a vengeance. The
devil take the annoying lord. Did he not have more important matters beyond herself to occupy his mind?

  “Should you not be tending to your guests, my lord?” she gritted out.

  He leaned closer, the heat and scent of him wrapping about her.

  “Is that it, Miss Blakewell? Are you on the hunt for a husband?”

  “Certainly not.” Her eyes darkened with annoyance. “A lady would have to be without sense to burden herself with a husband. I wish to achieve far more than running a comfortable household and producing heirs.”

  There was no mistaking the sincerity in her tone, and an unreadable expression flickered over his handsome countenance.

  “Indeed? Then, what is your interest in these gentlemen?”

  “I was simply being polite.”

  Intent on each other, neither noticed the large, florid-faced woman bearing down on them with the determination of Wellington’s forces.

  “Ah, Miss Blakewell,” Mrs. Limpet boomed without apology for her intrusion. “My son informs me that you are interested in viewing his insects. I have told him to bring them to you tomorrow.”

  Claire swallowed her instinctive refusal. Had she not wanted her father to believe she was interested in Mr. Limpet? What did it matter if she found Mr. Limpet repulsive and his mother a bully? Or that Lord Challmond was regarding her with open amusement?

  “Thank you, Mrs. Limpet. I shall look forward to viewing his collection.”

  With a regal nod of her head Mrs. Limpet swept back toward her cringing son. Once again alone with Lord Challmond, Claire lifted her reluctant gaze to meet his amused expression.

  “What?” she challenged.

  “Insects?”

  “Mr. Limpet collects them.”

  “And you are interested in insects?” he mocked.

  “They can be quite fascinating.”

  “Oh, I am certain.” His low chuckle seemed to tingle down her spine. “But not nearly as fascinating as you, Miss Blakewell.”

  He intently studied her upturned countenance, as if seeking the answer to her odd behavior. Claire discovered herself struggling to maintain her composure beneath his scrutiny.

  “I should find my father. He will be wishing to leave soon.”

  With a deliberate motion Lord Challmond turned to where Mr. Blakewell was chatting in an intimate fashion with Mrs. Mayer.

  “Your father appears quite content.”

  Claire grimaced. “He is clearly unaware of the time.”

  “What is time to a gentleman enjoying the delights of a beautiful woman?”

  “That is not amusing, my lord. Please excuse me.”

  Having endured enough of Mrs. Mayer, Mr. Limpet, and certainly Lord Challmond, Claire flashed Simon a warning frown before sweeping around his towering form and toward her father. This disastrous evening was entirely Henry Blakewell’s fault, she thought with a flare of annoyance. Him and his absurd notion to remarry. Coming to a halt at his side, Claire regarded him in a stern manner.

  “Father, should we not be on our way?”

  Henry frowned at her abrupt tone. “Claire, you have not even greeted Mrs. Mayer.”

  With reluctance Claire shifted to meet the simpering smile of the widow Mayer.

  “Lizzy.”

  “Sweet Claire,” the woman cooed. “How charming you look this evening. I never ncr ticed how closely you resemble your handsome father.”

  “Fustian.” Claire gave a loud snort. “As everyone knows, I have always resembled my mother.“

  “Claire,” her father chastised in disapproving tones, “perhaps you are correct, we should be on our way.”

  Indifferent to Claire’s obvious dislike, Lizzy laid a hand upon Henry’s arm.

  “I will see you tomorrow?”

  “Certainly,” Henry promised, ignoring his daughter’s narrowed gaze.

  With a bow Henry made his way to Lord Challmond to make their farewells, then, returning to Claire, he led her to the foyer. There was a brief wait as their carriage was called, and in silence they allowed the footman to hand them into the leather seats. Only when they were traveling down the path to Blakewell Manor did her father bring her to task for her ill-mannered behavior.

  “There is no need to be rude to Mrs. Mayer.”

  Claire shivered at the chilled night air. “Was I rude?”

  “You know quite well that you were.”

  “I merely pointed out my resemblance to my mother. You are always commenting on how like her I am.”

  “You were attempting to make her feel uncomfortable. “

  “Trust me, Father, nothing could make that woman feel uncomfortable.”

  There was a slight pause before her father shifted the conversation to a more pleasant subject.

  “Well, at least you managed to be charming to one person this evening.“

  Claire felt a faint flare of hope. So her father had noticed her efforts after all.

  “Yes?”

  “I must say the gentleman was very, very taken with you. He could not take his gaze off you the entire evening.”

  Claire could only presume it was a father’s hope that made him exaggerate in such a fashion. Mr. Limpet had devoted the better part of the evening staring at his own toes.

  “Indeed?”

  “I should not at all be surprised if you can number him among your admirers quite soon.”

  “Well, Mr. Limpet is very kind,” she murmured.

  “Mr. Limpet? I was not referring to Mr. Limpet.”

  “No?”

  Her father gave a click of his tongue. “I am not so birdwitted as to presume you would be interested in that looby. I was speaking of Lord Challmond.”

  Claire’s heart gave a queer flop that had nothing to do with the sudden curve they were rounding.

  “Lord Challmond?”

  “A most eligible gentleman.”

  “Lord Challmond?” she repeated in disbelief.

  “Charming, intelligent, and of impeccable birth,” her father continued, a note of satisfaction laced though his voice, almost as if he were listing the merits of a favorite stallion. “Yes, a young lady would be extremely fortunate to capture the attentions of Lord Challmond.”

  “She would be dicked in the nob if you ask me,” Claire muttered beneath her breath.

  “What, my dear?”

  Claire leaned her weary head against the leather squabs.

  “Nothing, Father.”

  * * *

  “As you see, this is the common roach.”

  Claire’s stomach rolled in protest as Mr. Limpet held out a small bottle emitting a peculiar odor. Although she had never considered herself particularly squeamish, Claire found it increasingly difficult to maintain an air of polite interest as her guest pulled out one bottle after another.

  Who would have imagined one person could have collected so many bugs?

  “Ah . . . fascinating,” she forced herself to murmur.

  Blast, she had been a fool to pretend an interest in such a distasteful hobby.

  Mr. Limpet waved the bottle beneath her nose. “Would you like to hold it?”

  “No.” She struggled to temper her sharp tone. “No, thank you.”

  “Come, Miss Blakewell,” a dark voice drawled from the open French windows. “I thought you found insects fascinating?”

  Claire felt her heart clench in dismay as she abruptly turned to view the tall, auburn-haired gentleman nonchalantly stepping into the room. Drat the man. How did he always manage to appear when he was least welcome?

  “Lord Challmond,’ she acknowledged.

  Lord Challmond offered a graceful leg. “Good morning, Limpet. Miss Blakewell.”

  “Lord Challmond.” Mr. Limpet awkwardly rose to his feet.

  “I see that you are sharing your collection with Miss Blakewell.”

  Limpet coughed, pulling at his cravat. “I . . . ah . . . yes.“

  Lord Challmond turned to Claire with a bland smile. “You are fortunate, indeed, Miss Blak
ewell.”

  She narrowed her gaze in frustration. Did the gentleman have nothing better to do than annoy her?

  “Yes, we were quite enjoying our morning,” she retorted pointedly.

  His smile widened. “What lady would not enjoy being tutored in the mysteries of insects?”

  Thoroughly unaware of the amusement smoldering just below Lord Challmond’s smooth composure, Mr. Limpet gave a startled blink.

  “Are you interested in insects, my lord?”

  “Unfortunately my knowledge of insects is sadly lacking.”

  “That is unfortunate.” Claire flashed a sudden smile. “I am certain that Mr. Limpet would be pleased to instruct you, my lord. Would you not, Mr. Limpet? Perhaps later this afternoon?”

  “Oh, yes . . . delighted.“ Mr. Limpet beamed in a pleased fashion.

  Lord Challmond flashed Claire a wryly appreciative glance. “Perhaps at a later date.”

  “Certainly.” Mr. Limpet gave a startled exclamation as he caught sight of the gilt-bronze mantel clock. With hurried movements he set about returning the bottles to his leather case. “I fear I must return to Mother.”

  “So soon?” Claire demanded, conveniently forgetting her earlier wish for Mr. Limpet to go far, far away and take his nasty bugs with him. Bugs were a small price to pay not to be left on her own with Lord Challmond.

  Mr. Limpet did not even pause as he buckled the case shut.

  “Mother does not wish me to leave her beyond an hour. Her nerves are not at all well.”

  “She is fortunate to possess such a dedicated son,” Lord Challmond congratulated Mr. Limpet, his gaze never leaving Claire’s pale countenance.

  “Yes.” Mr. Limpet offered a swift bow. “Good day.”

  Claire watched in silence as Mr. Limpet hurried from the room, bumping into a chair and nearly upsetting a French oval table prettily inset with a Sevres porcelain plaque. How had she ever thought to fool her father into believing she could be interested in such a man? she wondered with a sigh. Then, turning to her unwelcome intruder, she eyed him squarely.

  “Is there something that you need, my lord?”

  He shrugged, appearing absurdly handsome in his avocado coat and buff breeches.

  “I had thought since you have developed such a fascination with insects, you might enjoy a ride. We can find any number of roaches and spiders in the far meadows.“