At the Bride Hunt Ball

by Olivia Parker

  Madelyn glanced about. The long-limbed blonde was nowhere to be seen. “Don’t tell me he got rid of her too?”

  “As a matter of fact he did. She left this morning during breakfast…in a fit of tears.”

  “But why would she leave?” Madelyn asked, knowing the woman had set her bull’s-eye mark on Gabriel’s heart instead.

  “You might have too if he told you that your skirts were so long that he fancied he could use the material to drape one of the towering columns in the ballroom.”

  “Oh dear,” Madelyn exclaimed, regretting now that she had arrived at the breakfast table after just about everyone had finished.

  “It didn’t end there. He went on to say that he’d prefer to have a bride whose feet wouldn’t hang off the end of the bed.”

  Madelyn’s mouth dropped open again.

  “She was mortified,” Charlotte continued in a whisper. “Called him a libertine and dumped an entire pitcher of cold milk from the side table onto his lap.”

  “Good Lord. What did he do?”

  “Well,” Charlotte said, blinking, “jumped up, of course. I couldn’t quite make out the look on his face—no spectacles, you know—but I think…I think he was laughing.”

  “No doubt the coxcomb thought he was being droll.”

  “I’m not certain. It was sort of…oh…I shouldn’t say.”

  “Go on,” Madelyn urged. “He’s almost done handing up Harriet.” She looked over her shoulder and spied three riders approaching through a clinging cloud of mist on the crest of a hill. The party looked to include Gabriel, Lord Fairbourne, and Lord Rothbury. This jaunt to the falls seemed less appealing with every passing second. Her heart lurched as Gabriel touched the rim of his beaver topper in apparent greeting to her, though the affable gesture was outshadowed by his scowl.

  The memory of their kiss in the dark corridor spurred a shiver of awareness to skip down her spine. She cleared her throat, suddenly burdened with the predicament of how one was supposed to behave in the light of a new day following such a scandalous encounter. She’d kissed him, for heaven’s sake! Not that he was an unwilling participant, but still, never in her life would she have dreamed that she would be found in this situation. Perhaps pretending nothing happened at all was the easiest approach, if not the most cowardly.

  “Do tell me what you had meant,” Madelyn pressed, pretending she hadn’t noticed the duke at all.

  “Well, it isn’t at all very cordial of me to say, but…Julienne Campbell constantly proclaimed she was most definitely the greatest beauty in all of England, and Laura Ellis often reminded all of us that men preferred long, sleek limbs. So, Lord Tristan’s remarks almost felt…” She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll just say their reactions to his criticisms were interesting.”

  Madelyn shook her head in disapproval. “He certainly isn’t a gentleman. Surely you now see how low the man can stoop, how callous and insensitive? Again, I beg you to see his true character, Lottie. Why set your cap for a man so well equipped to inflict pain?”

  But her query went unanswered as the man in question settled his gaze on her friend, crooking his finger at her while the breeze ruffled his dark auburn locks. “You’re next, Miss Greene,” he said.

  Madelyn stayed her with a gentle nudge of her elbow. “About the slouching,” she said quickly. “You’re forgetting a most important detail.”

  “And that would be…”

  “You, dear, are as short as I am.”

  Charlotte took a deep breath, apparently contemplating the benefits—if there were any—of continuing to pretend to be something she was not. She nodded her reluctant agreement and cast Madelyn a small thankful smile. “I have been silly, haven’t I?” Bending forward, she feigned dusting off her skirts, straightened to her full height, then flounced over to a patient Lord Tristan, who made a great show of handing her up the steps and into the wagon.

  “I say, Miss Greene,” he whispered into Charlotte’s ear, and Madelyn strained to hear his softly spoken words over the twitter of the other girls in the wagon. “After dinner this evening, would you care to accompany me to my private library?” His blue gaze, falsely innocent in appearance, dipped to Charlotte’s mouth as he waited patiently for her response. “I’m afraid disappointment haunts me ever since we missed our chance after the musicale the other evening.”

  The smooth wretch! Madelyn’s eyes narrowed as she itched to march over and yank him away from her fragile friend by the tops of his ears. Alas, such a display would surely mark her as a madwoman, not to mention prove to the pompous scoundrel just what her mission was—to keep Charlotte safe from his lecherous advances. And then he’d probably want Charlotte all the more.

  Snorts from the mighty horse hitched up to the wagon as the beast shook its heavy head and jangled the harness barred Madelyn from hearing Charlotte’s reply.

  Frustrated, Madelyn pressed her lips together tightly and looked over her shoulder. She nearly started in surprise when she found the duke staring down at her from atop his shiny black mount.

  To her mortification, Gabriel nudged his horse closer to her, and after dismounting in one fluid movement, surprised her further by taking her left arm and threading it with his right. With a rushed, almost angry pace, he guided her to the wagon. She had no choice but to go along—it was either that or let him drag her.

  “You’re too kind,” she remarked with a touch of sarcasm, nearly tripping on a stone. Only the unflinching anchor of his arm kept her from falling face first into the gravel drive. Was this how he treated a woman he’d kissed passionately only the day before? Perhaps he wasn’t marrying because of the simple fact that no one would have him. He possessed all the charm and gentleness of a wild boar startled from a nap. “You’re creating quite the stir by your attendance on me,” she said, noting Bernadette’s pout, Belinda’s gaping, affronted mouth, and Harriet’s squinty-eyed glare. “Pray, I wonder why you singled me out?”

  “As do I,” he said dryly.

  His casual remark stung. “What makes you think I prefer your escort to that of your brother’s?”

  He looked down at her, raising a dubious brow. “Feeling guilty already? You’ll not sway my opinion now.”

  They reached the steps placed by the wagon, stopping abruptly. Madelyn studied his gaze with confusion. She’d be damned if he thought she should feel guilt over protecting her friend. Was this the sort of confession he wanted? Was this the “dangerous game” of which he spoke?

  He smiled down at her and she nearly shrank back. Gone was the half-adoring, half-captivated predatory gleam that he managed to fix on her since their first meeting. In its place sparked something altogether different, a curious mix of emotions. In his sparkling blue depths she spied a dash of discontent, a restrained resentment, and a darkly sensuous promise. Somehow she knew, without a doubt, that had she been alone with him at this moment, her virtue would be sorely threatened.

  Madelyn pulled her arm from his, despising the shiver rippling through her. Standing between both Devine brothers was a disconcerting sensation. Their tall forms and solid, board chests deftly blocked the wind. And Gabriel’s body heat seemed to sear through the fabric of her cloak.

  Through some unspoken language, Lord Tristan only offered her a crooked grin, then strode to his mount—his actions allowing his elder brother the opportunity to guide her.

  Heat permeated through Gabriel’s gloved hand to her own as he took her hand in his and led her up the steps. The sensation was not a new one, and she foolishly thought that was all of his touch she would have to endure, and then he placed his other hand at the small of her back. She kept her head down, scooted next to Charlotte—the pointed stares of Harriet and the twins burning holes in her already flushed face.

  “Once Miss Haywood is settled, we’ll be off,” Lord Tristan exclaimed, mounting his horse. He acknowledged the other men choosing to accompany them, then turned to his flock in the wagon with a wide grin. “I apologize for the cramped quarte
rs, my fair creatures. But the view, I promise, is worth the jostled ride.”

  Wedging herself between two overstuffed faded red pillows, Madelyn tried to relax. If these were the same falls she visited as a child, there were certainly more ways to get there than in a padded wagon through the mud.

  The footman put the step under his seat in the front of the wagon and hopped aboard. As the wagon lurched forward, Madelyn turned to watch Gabriel hoist himself atop his horse with an easy swoop, his movements sinuous, mesmerizing. Taking up the reins, he urged his mount into a gallop, slowing his pace once he pulled far enough ahead, taking the lead with an air of confidence. Tall in the saddle, his elegant riding clothes were tailored to his sleek-muscled form with strict precision. His long black cape whipped behind him, exposing his chocolate-colored riding breeches, which fit snuggly, hugging his thighs and displaying the flexing muscles rippling beneath.

  Her admiring gaze raked his strong, long form down to his black riding boots, almost as shiny as his mount’s coat, and back again to his thighs. His waist was trim, his stomach flat, and her hungry gaze didn’t miss the broad expanse of his back, nor the inch or two of tousled black locks resting on his shoulders, his fine—if slightly bristled—jawline…

  Madelyn’s breath caught in her throat as her gaze locked with Gabriel’s. With a knowing grin, he regarded her from over his shoulder, his heated stare letting her know he had witnessed her slow perusal of his body. In response, the prickly hot flush of a blush bloomed like wildfire across her face, spreading to her neck. She swallowed hard as she contemplated the benefits of burrowing into the wealth of blankets heaped in the wagon.

  However, she was saved from further mortification when another rider spurred his mount forward, blocking her view. Rothbury. He smiled at her like a tawny lion, his dark gold locks peeking around the rim of his top hat in a deceptively boyish manner. All of a sudden she fancied she knew exactly how a plump hare felt if surprised by a blood-starved carnivore. He tipped his hat and offered her a slow, conspiring wink, which she suspected had less to do with a rakish, perfunctory greeting and everything to do with the pleasure he found in unsettling her nerves.

  “’Tis a good thing I consumed only a slice of dry toast this morning,” Madelyn replied over the rumbling of the jostled wagon. “We’ve been tossed around so much, had I ate more I’d have surely cast it up long ago.”

  Charlotte laughed, holding onto her bonnet. “It’s kind of fun. I almost feel like a little girl,” she said, then let out a squeal along with all the other occupants. The wagon pitched sharply to the right, nearly dumping them all in a stream of mud left behind by the swollen river. It looked to have receded only an hour or so before.

  Madelyn buried her face in her hands. “This is absurd.” Peeking through her gloved fingers, she spotted Lord Tristan riding alongside them, on the dry side, of course. He wore a suspiciously sheepish grin and covered a laugh with a well-timed cough.

  “He’s done this on purpose. Charlotte, don’t you see? The insufferable man has taken it upon himself to humiliate us for his amusement.”

  “I want to go home,” Bernadette whined from the other side of the wagon, her yellow bonnet sitting at an odd angle atop her head.

  “What I want,” Belinda remarked from next to her sister, “is to know why His Grace helped Maddie into the wagon.”

  “Yes,” Harriet agreed, crossing her arms.

  Madelyn kept her gaze averted, choosing to ignore their taunts. A few moments later the wagon slowed its pace and the ground, thankfully, smoothed.

  To Madelyn’s delight, their rocky trail brought them surprisingly close to the beautiful village she had resided in as a child. After nearly an hour of traversing steep hillsides only to dip into deep valleys and back up again, their party finally rode high above the tree-lined town of her birth, nestled within an expansive moor. She spotted the old hostel, where travelers were promised a hearty meal and ample rest within the gray stone structure, and beyond that Mr. Walden’s farm, his ponies grazing in the field. The sight of the welcoming village brought a pang of remembrance to her heart. The last time she was here, she was an eight-year-old imp, often muddy, always happy, and never far behind her mother’s skirts.

  Just as they passed a tumbled-down abbey, the curious sound of a bubbling stream and the slosh of falling water enchanted the air around them. The horses were tethered to an old post near a copse of trees forming a canopy overhead.

  One by one each of the ladies were brought down from the wagon. Madelyn teetered a bit, her eyes feeling a bit like loose marbles rolling about her head. Lord Tristan led the way into the woods, first passing up a fidgeting Charlotte to ask Harriet if he might be allowed to escort her over the bridge crossing the river. Madelyn inwardly cringed. From her friend’s expression and hasty step forward, it was painfully obvious Charlotte thought Tristan had asked her. She stood wringing her hands, her expression flushed and uncomfortable. Madelyn itched to go to her, but a meandering Lord Fairbourne, a daughter on each arm, stalled her progress.

  A warm hand touched her arm, and she looked back to see Lord Rothbury regarding her much like a panting lion.

  “Miss Haywood,” he said, his finger making a little circle on the sensitive skin on the inside of her arm. Reflexively, she snatched her arm away. The sensation might have been distracting, not to mention troubling, had her mind been able to focus on anything other than getting to Charlotte. “If you would allow me…” And without waiting for an answer he took her hand and placed it on his sleeve.

  The Fairbournes finally stepped to the side, choosing to admire the stream lapping at the sandy bank instead of crossing the bridge stretching across the tumbling, crashing river. And then she finally caught a glimpse of Charlotte, her face flushed, only not with embarrassment, but with laughter as Gabriel mumbled and pointed to the great wall of rock at the north end of the falls.

  “He came to her rescue,” Madelyn whispered.

  “Who, sweetmeat?” Rothbury asked.

  Sweetmeat? She turned to the earl, a brow raised.

  “What’s the matter? You don’t like being referred to as an edible treat?”

  She could do nothing but shake her head.

  “Well, it did snare your attention from that tedious prig, anyway,” he said casually as they crossed the bridge.

  The last thing she wanted to do was converse with Rothbury—he might take it as encouragement on her part—but the disdain she identified in his reproach sparked her curiosity. “You don’t like Gabri—His Grace?”

  He shrugged. “Just bores me, ’tis all. That, and the fact when I asked permission to court his sister, he stalwartly refused.”

  “Surely you cannot fault him for responding negatively. You asked a question. It would be presumptuous of you to believe you should not be denied. As her guardian, he has every right to govern those who seek her company.”

  “Miss Haywood,” he said forcefully. “He threw me out of the house by the scruff of my neck.”

  The animated remark on his otherwise serious face influenced a chirp of a giggle from Madelyn.

  “It’s not at all funny,” Rothbury said, wounded. “My neck was sore for a week.” He rubbed his aforementioned body part for emphasis. “Not to mention the effects his boorish reaction had on my pride.”

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” she managed through her wobbly grin.

  Rothbury smiled suddenly, instantly putting Madelyn on her guard. “See, sweetmeat? I make you laugh. What say you and I give it another go?”

  The thought of being courted by Rothbury made her stomach tighten into a stubborn knot. If that was what he meant by “giving it another go”…She shook her head, unable to suppress her smile at his unwavering tenacity. “Let us instead admire the scenery surrounding us, my lord. I have not seen such a beautiful sight since I was a wee one.”

  He sighed, too dramatically for it to be genuine. “You’ve ice in you veins, you know.”

  Because of the recent
steady rains, the river was a torrent of water, rushing over rock slabs of incredible proportions. The swirling, frothy water tumbled down the ledges like giant, flooded steps with a roar of sound that muted their party’s spoken observations. Farther down, the rushing of the falls eventually settled to a placid stream as the river widened at the base, trees reaching over the water like the sheltering arms of a parent soothing a wound-up child.

  It was there that their group dispersed. Some poked about the trees, exploring their naked, exposed roots, which twisted and crawled about the ground. Others, mostly the men, gathered farther down to talk of fish and game. Madelyn stayed close to the water’s edge, squatting as she hunted the ground for bits of flat rocks to skip across the water. Despite its impropriety, she had taken off one of her gloves so as not to soil it as she picked through the sandy pebbles on the bank. Besides, everyone else seemed preoccupied. There were no society matrons patrolling the area, ready to box her ears for removing a glove.

  The crunch of gravel caught her attention. Without standing, she pivoted on her heels and found herself staring at Gabriel’s muscular thighs as he squatted next to her. Blinking, she raised her head, meeting his blue stare, which sparkled with a light of their own as the water reflected within them.

  She watched the play of muscles in his throat as he spoke. “These should do,” he said.

  She looked down, noting he held three smooth, flat stones of various size and shape. “Thank you.” She reached into his palm to take them, noting too late he had removed his glove as well. Their bare skin touched and a zing of sensation skittered through her. Tenderly, he captured her hand in his by curling his long, bare fingers over hers.

  “You have to dig for them, as the children from the village come here often and find the best stones,” he said.

  She nodded. “I know. I used to be one of those children.”

  This seemed to intrigue him and he arched one coal black eyebrow. “Born and bred in Yorkshire? Then you’re made of hardy stuff. You lived in the village?”