Here Comes the Bride

by Alexandra Ivy

How could he forget? He had paid a small fortune to ensure the blackguard had gone from the magistrate straight to a boat headed for the West Indies.

  “And you presume that he is the only villain in all of England?”

  “These woods are hardly crawling with desperate criminals,” she retorted.

  His expression hardened. “It takes only one.“

  Something flashed deep in her eyes before her chin was tilting even higher.

  “Fine. You have made your point, my lord. Now, you must excuse me.”

  She expected him to step aside and meekly allow her to continue on her way?

  “Why are you so bloody stubborn?”

  “Me?” Her mouth dropped in disbelief. “I am not the one constantly meddling in others’ lives.“

  “Only those too bacon-brained to keep themselves out of danger.”

  “I do not need your help, Lord Challmond.”

  “I will not allow you to wander through the countryside alone.” .

  “Allow me?” Her voice rose in outrage. “May I remind you, sir, that you have no right to decide whether or not I wander the countryside alone?”

  The realization that she was absolutely right did nothing to ease his temper. What did he care of rights? She was fortunate he did not toss her over his shoulder and carry her off to be locked in his wine cellar.

  “Someone needs to take charge of you,” he retorted. “You are like an unruly child with no nanny to keep you from tumbling into disaster.”

  She was nearly trembling with fury. “I am a grown woman who has been taking care of myself for a good many years.”

  He snorted his lack of approval. “More luck than skill, I wager.“

  “That is enough.“ She slapped her hands onto her hips. “I will not have you treat me as if I am some half-witted child. “.

  “Then stop behaving as one.”

  Their gazes clashed in open battle.

  “Stand aside, Lord Challmond.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I am escorting you back to Blakewell Manor.”

  “No, you are not,” she denied in fierce tones. “I may have endured your companionship in an absurd attempt to fool my father, but that does not give you the right to order me about. Indeed, from this moment on I have no desire to see you again.”

  Simon was struck by a savage stab of pain he had not experienced since the day they had taken him from his mother’s arms.

  Shocked and disturbed by his reaction, Simon discovered himself striking out like a wounded child.

  “Why, you ungrateful vixen.“

  Her lips quivered before she thinned them to determined lines.

  “Ungrateful because I am not groveling with delight at the notion of being bullied by the notorious Lord Challmond?”

  All at once Simon had endured enough. This woman had tangled him into knots since his arrival in Devonshire. She had used him for her‘ devious games, stirred his passions with her kisses, and driven him nearly to Bedlam with her thorough lack of regard for her own safety. And worse of all, she had managed to creep into his every thought.

  No woman had ever disrupted his life in such a fashion.

  “Very well. You wish to place yourself at the mercy of every cutpurse in the area, then so be it. Do not expect sympathy from me when your throat is slit.”

  “I have never asked for your sympathy. Indeed, all I wish from you is that you would return to London, where you clearly belong.“

  Simon stilled at the brittle words.

  “You wish me to leave Westwood Park?”

  There was a pause as the blue eyes appeared to darken with what might have been pain. But even as the thought crossed his mind, her expression tightened.

  “Yes. That is precisely what I wish.”

  “Very well. Let it never be said that I did not do whatever necessary to please a lady,“ he gritted out with a mocking bow. “I will leave on the morrow. Good day.”

  With his head held high he stepped around her frozen frame and continued on the path to the orphanage.

  Why should he not return to London? There was nothing -to keep him here. And God alone knew that he would travel to India if it would take him away from Miss Blakewell.

  He would go to London, and Claire Blakewell be damned.

  * * *

  As expected, the streets of London were uncomfortably crowded. Deftly avoiding a lumbering carriage and the several dirty urchins who darted dangerously between the horses, Simon pulled to a halt in front of Boodles. He signaled to his groom, and leaping onto the pavement, he left the Tilbury in his servant’s capable hands.

  It had been less than two weeks since his return to London, and already he wearied of the noise, the smells, and endless visitors who filled his elegant town house.

  Over and over his thoughts turned back to Devonshire. Was his steward repairing Mrs. Foley’s cottage? Was Harry minding his studies? Was Locky, who had remained behind, assisting Mr. Davis as he prepared to start the greenhouse?

  And, of course, the inevitable thoughts of Claire Blakewell.

  Blast the woman.

  He had never before worried over the plight of his estate. He paid others to deal with such troubles. His only concern should be whether Weston had finished his coat or if he should choose the opera dancer or the exquisite widow to warm his bed that evening.

  Instead, he had ignored his numerous invitations to the vast array of entertainments and the more personal invitation from his one-time mistress and chosen the gentlemen’s club. He wished only for a good brandy, a quiet corner, and time to brood on his ill fortunes.

  Stepping forward, he allowed the silverhaired servant to pull open the door.

  “My lord, what a delightful surprise.”

  “Thank you, Huber. I wish a comfortable seat, a large quantity of brandy, and no distractions.”

  “Of course.”

  There was something in the servant’s expression that made Simon’s brow rise.

  “Yes, Huber?”

  Huber cleared his throat. “I thought you would wish to know that Lord Brasleigh has been gracious enough to join us this evening.”

  “Damn.” Despite his close bonds to Philip, Simon was in no mood for companionship. Still, he could hardly insult him by ignoring his presence. “I suppose I should make my bow.”

  “As you say, my lord.”

  Simon heaved a sigh. “Lead the way.”

  “Very good.”

  With a nod of his head Huber entered the club and led Simon toward the distant corner of the large room, where a tall, dark-haired gentleman with silver eyes sat staring into the fireplace with a decidedly grim expression. Simon was startled to discover his friend appeared as weary and ill used as he felt.

  At his approach, Philip abruptly lifted his head to regard him with a fierce scowl. The scowl was only mildly tempered by the realization of who was intruding upon his privacy.

  “Good God, Simon,” he said. “What the devil are you doing here? I thought you were in the wilds of Devonshire?”

  “I was,” Simon retorted with a grimace. “And I must warn you that my travels have left me in a foul mood.“

  “It cannot be any more foul than my own.” He waved a slender hand toward the wing chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. “Have a seat.”

  Giving up hope for the solitude he had craved, Simon settled his tall frame into the supple leather and motioned for the hovering servant.

  “Your best brandy,” he commanded. “And plenty of it.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The uniformed man bowed and walked toward a heavy side table. In a blink of an eye he returned with a crystal-cut decanter and glass.

  “Devonshire not all that you wished?” Philip demanded as Simon poured himself a healthy measure of the amber liquid and tossed it down his throat.

  “Devonshire was fine. It was my ill-tempered, shrew of a neighbor that was impossibre.”

  Philip’s elegantly handsome features tightened. “A female, I presume?”
>
  Simon poured another measure of brandy. “Claire, the bloody cat.”

  Philip gave a startled blink. “Pardon me?”

  “Miss Blakewell,” Simon explained, the image of a pale countenance and impossibly blue eyes making his heart ache in the strangest manner. “An unruly, ungrateful spitfire with the manners of a street urchin.”

  “Did I not warn you that it was safer to battle Napoleon than to battle the wiles of a cunning female?”

  “I will certainly drink to that.” Simon polished off his glass, hoping to drown the memory of Claire Blakewell. Why the devil could she not leave him in peace? “What of you? How could your mood be foul, when you have been surrounded by the comforts of London and the lovely charm of Miss Ravel?”

  “Unfortunately I just returned to London. I was called away.”

  “Called away to where?” .

  “Surrey.”

  Simon didn’t bother to hide his surprise. “Good God, why?”

  Philip’s expression grew bleak. “My ward.”

  “Ah.” Simon recalled Philip’s occasional reference to Miss Lowe. “I thought she resided in Bath?”

  There was a sharp, humorless laugh. “It is a long, unfortunate tale. Let it just be said that at the moment I would like nothing better than to lock her in a cellar and toss away the key.”

  “Here. Here.“ Simon poured another glass of brandy and lifted it in a mocking toast. “To deep cellars with thick doors and-”

  A sudden disruption across the room brought Simon’s words to a halt, and he turned to discover Huber discreetly attempting to turn away a large, decidedly bosky lord. Simon rose to his feet at the same moment as Philip as they both recognized the chestnut hair and hazel eyes of Lord Wickton.

  “Stand aside, Huber,” Lord Wickton commanded in loud tones.

  The servant held up his hands ina pleading motion. “My lord, please.”

  Barth swayed unsteadily. “Stand aside or be prepared to defend yourself.”

  “Good God,” Philip muttered as he hurried across the floor to place an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “Wickton, come along.”

  Barth Juston, Earl of Wickton, allowed himself to be led across the room, not even protesting as Simon pressed him into the wing chair.

  “Challmond? Brasleigh?” He blinked in muddled surprise. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  “Clearly the same thing you have been doing for quite some time,” Simon retorted in dry tones.

  Barth turned toward him, his fuzzy gaze landing on the decanter beside the chair.

  “Ah . . . brandy. Just what I need.”

  “Coffee,” Philip said as he whisked the spirits out of the reach of the foxed nobleman and handed it to the hovering Huber. “Now, why are you not in Kent with your new bride?”

  An unnaturally bitter expression twisted Barth’s countenance.

  “There is no bride.”

  Simon regarded his friend in surprise. “I thought the marriage was arranged?”

  “As did I.” Barth’s head flopped onto the soft leather, his lids fluttering shut in weary pain. “Unfortunately the bride has decided that she prefers another. And I must say, I do not blame her. He is an absolutely brilliant gentleman without a fault to be discovered. And believe me, I have tried.”

  Simon and Philip shared a knowing glance, both recalling Barth’s fervent distaste in being forced up the aisle by necessity.

  “That is rather a bad break, but she is not the only maiden in England. You will soon find another bride,” Philip drawled.

  Barth slowly raised his gaze and Simon felt a stab of unease. There was something barren and desolate in those hazel eyes. As if he had lost something priceless. Was that the same barren pain that haunted him in the late hours of the night?

  “Oh, yes, there are no doubt any number of maidens willing to become the Countess of Wickton.” He grimaced. “A pity I do not bloody well want them.”

  Philip gave another humorless laugh. “Well, are we not a sad trio? What happened to the Casanova Club? Love them, and leave them wishing for more?”

  “It is all that Gypsy’s fault,” Barth muttered. “Her and her devil’s curse.”

  “Absurd.” Simon gave a shake of his head.

  Barth stabbed him with a jaundiced glare. “Then, you have not tumbled into the stormy seas of love?”

  “Love?” Simon grimaced even as his stomach clenched with a sickening sense of dread.

  No.

  He couldn’t be in love.

  For God’s sake, he didn’t even believe in the ludicrous emotion. And if he did,-surely love was a gentle, warm emotion that brought pleasure to a person, not this burning ache that gnawed at his guts?

  Still, what other explanation could there be?

  He could not sleep, he had no interest in his usual pursuits, in his friends, or even his mistress. His thoughts refused to turn from Miss Blakewell. And even when he was miles away he had only to close his eyes to recall the scent of her skin and the feel of her satin mouth.

  Most telling of all was the knowledge that he had not left Devonshire because he wished to be in London, but because he could no longer be at Westwood Park without Claire at his side..

  Lord, what a fool he had been. A blind, bloody fooL

  He had been running for years to postpone the duty that awaited him like a noose of inevitability. He had never considered the possibility that duty could be so amazingly delightful. That he could care so deeply for his tenants and neighbors. That he could love the woman who would become Countess of Challmond.

  That he could at last find . . . home.

  “My lord.”

  With a startled blink Simon turned to discover a servant hovering at his side with an anxious expression.

  “Yes?”

  “A message has been delivered for you.”

  “Thank you.” Simon accepted the sealed note and broke it open with a faint frown.

  Simon,

  Thought you should know that Miss Stewart will be leaving for Wiltshire within the month. Miss Blakewell will no doubt join her unless someone halts her from leaving Devonshire.

  Locky

  Scanning the neatly scrawled message, Simon abruptly crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the fire.

  “Damnation.”

  “Troubles?” Philip demanded in concern.

  “It is from Locky.”

  “Locky?” Barth hiccuped. “Where the devil is he?” “Devonshire.” Simon clenched his fists. “I have to leave.”

  “Wait.” Philip placed a hand on his shoulder, his expression somber. “Is there something we can do to help?”

  Simon met the silver gaze with a determined smile. “As a matter of fact, you can wish me luck,” he said, as he came to a sudden decision. “I am off to win the heart of the woman I love.”

  Fifteen

  It was one of those rare, perfect spring days. A flood of sunlight warmed the wide terrace, spreading through the tidy garden and dancing off the fountains. Overhead the sky was a vast canvas of blue, unspoiled by even a hint of clouds.

  Unfortunately, Claire possessed little appreciation for the fine weather. Instead, she paced across the terrace with a restless sense of dissatisfaction.

  Blast, Lord Challmond. Blast, blast, blast.

  His return to London was-supposed to have ended her torment. With him gone, her life could return to normal, and he would be no more than a distant memory.

  But instead of the peace she had expected, she had discovered herself plagued with regrets.

  Why had she told him that she wished him to leave Devonshire? That she wished never to see him again?

  Because she had been afraid, she acknowledged with a flare of disgust. She had been utterly henhearted and unable to face the truth.

  Even now she found herself unable to thoroughly accept the vast jumble of emotions that battled within her. How did one comprehend the terrible sense of loss? The feeling that a part of one’s heart was dying?
And yet harbor a queer tingle of delight at having been kissed by the only man she would ever love.

  Yes, love, she had reluctantly conceded. That giddy, foolish emotion she had intended to avoid at all cost. How it had happened she did not know; she was not sure she even cared. She was only certain that as the days had slowly passed, she had been forced to search her heart and discover the truth.

  She loved Simon Townsled, seventh Earl of Challmond.

  She loved his swift sense of the ridiculous, his intelligence, his kind heart and inner strength.

  She loved how he smiled deep into her eyes, as if they shared a secret only they understood. And she loved how he made her shiver with the heat of his desire.

  But in her fear she had struck out to push him away. She did not want to be in love. And certainly not with a gentleman who considered her an ill-tempered, unmanageable shrew.

  Not until too late did she discover that no amount of distance, no amount of denial, and no amount of wishing things had been different could change her emotions. She might not want to be in love. She might long to pattern her life after Ann Stewart, but there was no avoiding the truth. It did not even matter that Simon in no way returned her feelings.

  It was all a horrible, horrible muddle.

  Hearing the sound of approaching footsteps, Claire hurriedly composed her features. She was well aware that her subdued manner and drawn countenance had been noted by those around. She only hoped to divert the questions she could detect glinting in their eyes.

  Slowly turning, Claire watched as Ann stepped through the open French windows and swept toward her with a warm smile.

  “Claire . . . there you are.”

  “Ann.”

  Not surprisingly the dark gaze lingered on the shadows beneath Claire’s eyes and the noticeable droop of her soft mouth.

  “Are you not feeling well?”

  “I am fine.”

  Ann lifted her brows in disbelief. “You look terrible.”

  “Thank you,” Claire retorted in dry tones.

  “Are you certain that you do not wish for me to call for a surgeon?”

  “I am fine,” Claire insisted with a sigh. Unless the surgeon possessed the means of removing her heart, there was no cure for her ills. “Is there something you need?”