His Brother's Bride (Historical Regency Romance)

by Rose Gordon

  Laura released her hold on Henry's arm and walked around the little building. Azaleas. Carnations. Roses. Violets. Hyacinths. Even tulips. All the types of flowers she'd ever seen in the different places she'd traveled all in one room. The only one she didn't see was hepatica. A flower she hadn't seen since leaving Georgia. A small pang of sadness filled her heart.

  “Find something you like?”

  She nodded, not trusting her voice.

  He reached forward, plucked a tulip bloom and added it to some other flowers he'd already plucked, including a few violets and a spray of some little flower she didn't recognize.

  “Are those for me?” she asked with a pointed glance to the flowers in his large hands.

  He kept his eyes trained on where he was wrapping a long skinny green stem around the rest of the thicker stems. “No. I thought to give them to Mrs. Morgan.”

  “The housekeeper?”

  He nodded.

  “What was it you said about me being peculiar yesterday?”

  He flashed a grin at her. “You are, and gullible, too.” He extended the small cluster of flowers toward her.

  “For me?”

  “No. I want you to give them to Mrs. Morgan for me—but be sure to let her know they're from her secret admirer, please.” He shook his head. “Of course they're for you.”

  She closed her fingers around the stems. Not sure what to say. She'd never been given flowers before. “Er...thank you.”

  “Er...you're welcome,” he said with the same tone she'd used.

  Her fingers tightened around the stems. “Are you mocking me?”

  ***

  Her voice was but a whisper but it had the brute strength of a thousand Crusaders. “I'm sorry,” he said, as evenly as he could. “I was.”

  The hint of a smile that had touched her lips when he'd handed her the flowers disappeared and she swallowed audibly, making him feel like the biggest cad who'd ever made her acquaintance.

  He raked his hand through his hair, a trait he shared with his brothers, father and uncle. “As I said, I'm sorry. I didn't intend...” Didn't intend what, to mock her? He'd certainly intended that. It was as if she couldn't decide whether to thank him or slap him with the flowers he'd given her.

  “It's all right. I just never expected—”

  “For me to mock you,” he finished for her, “though you'd probably have expected it from Henry.” He hated that those words sounded as bitter to his ears as they'd tasted rolling off his tongue. But it was no less than he deserved. Her disdain for him was quite apparent, as it should be. He'd just carelessly mocked her, belying any positive esteem she might have built for him after giving her the flowers.

  “Do you make it a habit of interrupting people when they speak?”

  Her question brought him up short—and straight from his wandering thoughts. “No.”

  “Are you sure? You've done it no less than a dozen times since I arrived yesterday.”

  “You've been counting?”

  “It's hard not to when you do it so frequently.”

  He scoffed. “You'll fit right in with Sir Wallace.”

  “Who?”

  He flicked his wrist. “My brother-in-law; he likes to count.”

  “I don't think that's such a bad thing,” she said, idly toying with the long stems of the flowers he'd given her.

  “And neither does he; nor Weenie.”

  She knit her brows. “Who?”

  “Weenie, my sister.”

  “And you English folk think we Americans choose unusual names.”

  “It's not her real name,” he said, scowling. Why was he even bothering to explain this? “Her real name, and the one she'd probably prefer you use, is Edwina. We brothers just call her Weenie because it annoys her.”

  “How endearing.”

  He grinned. “Aren't we though?”

  “No.”

  “Do you not have any brothers to tease you?”

  She pushed a fallen tendril of her chestnut brown hair behind her ear. “No, only a stepmother.” She abruptly closed her mouth as if she realized she'd just revealed too much about herself.

  “Ah, so you are the daughter of a jester, too.”

  “Or a taunter,” she muttered.

  Henry's lips thinned. “My apologies, I misunderstood.” He led her to a little bench along the wall and helped her get comfortable. “My father was one who couldn't let an opportunity for a jest pass. You wouldn't know it to look at him, because he looked just as innocent as me, but he was always scheming up something.”

  She twirled the flowers in her hands. “Scheming?”

  A bittersweet smile took his lips. “He hated things to be mundane and couldn't stand for a room to be absent of laughter. So, he'd find some way to create it where it didn't exist already.”

  “And tease people?”

  Her blunt statement tore at his heart. “When said that way, it doesn't sound so flattering; but I assure you, it was always done in good fun. Very few ever took offense, and if they did, it was because they had a stick up— er...very few were offended,” he repeated, unable to meet her eyes.

  “If you say so.”

  He steepled his hands in front of himself and tapped his index fingers together. How did one explain a man as unusual as Edward Banks to someone who didn't understand a lighthearted jest? “It's like this: when Alex and Caroline got married, he...” Henry cleared his throat. Perhaps that wasn't the best example. “All right, when I was about eight or so, my father came inside with this large wooden box and told us boys to meet him in the drawing room; he had a surprise for us.

  “Like two eager lads, we complied and were speechless when he pried off the front of the box to reveal six greylag geese. In a matter of only a few seconds, the geese started walking and flying around the drawing room. It was only then that I realized we'd left the door open and the geese were getting away! Father grinned at us and told us we'd better go catch our pets. A little while later, as I was chasing one down the hall, I saw him pull my mother into his bedroom. She murmured some sort of protest about needing to look after us for the afternoon because our governess had the day off; and he told her not to worry; we wouldn't need her for a while; he'd sent us boys on a wild goose chase.”

  Her face lit with laughter. “While it's not the same type of jesting I thought you'd meant, that is truly comical.”

  “It was. He was.” He slapped his hands on his knees. “That wasn't the best example, grant you, but that's how he was: he said or did unusual things just to be humorous. No harm was really done.”

  “So earlier, when you...”

  “Yes,” he confirmed, doing his best to smile. “I was only jesting with you. I didn't mean any harm by it. I was just surprised at your expression of thanks.”

  “Why? Do you think I'm ungrateful?”

  “Of course not, but my brother does.”

  She dropped her head to her palms, but not before he saw the giant grin splitting her face. At least he could make her laugh, even if it was at his own expense. “Just so both you and your brother know,” she began, straightening. “I am not ungrateful. I was just caught unawares, that's all.”

  He brushed away a lock of her hair that was hanging across her forehead. “Just how does one get caught unawares when she sees the flowers before they're given to her?”

  “Well, you said they were for Mrs. Morgan.”

  “And you believed me.” His sentence was more a statement than a question.

  “Of course I did. You even called me gullible for it.”

  He nodded. “Indeed.”

  Silence hung between them, choking them, until he felt compelled to ask, “Why would you think I truly intended to give the flowers to the housekeeper?”

  “I don't know. You'd mentioned that you were her secret admirer.”

  Henry didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so he settled for an ill-timed coughing fit accompanied by banging his palm against his chest to dislodge the bubble of
air that had formed in his windpipe. “She has at least sixty years in her dish. I couldn't possibly be any more attracted to her than you could be to our butler.”

  “How was I supposed to know that?” Her cheeks reddened. “I don't know everything about everyone who has caught your fancy.”

  “You're right,” he said softly. “You couldn't have known. I apologize.”

  “You don't need to apologize. I clearly have a difficult time knowing when you're serious and when you're not.”

  Instinctively, he reached for her hand. “It's all right.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “I'll try to be more careful of what I say and how I say it in the future.” He caught her eye. “And I'll be sure to remind my brother of the same thing, lest he says something beastly.”

  ~Chapter Eight~

  Laura was speechless. Utterly speechless. Henry Banks being sweet? It was odd. It was strange. It was unthinkable. It wasn't done!

  She eased her hand from his. “Thank you, but that won't be necessary.”

  “Sure it is. As you've said yourself, Henry has a tendency to be less than polite. I'll just remind him to mind his manners.”

  She almost laughed. Now that he was talking about himself and not Elijah, he could use his name and not skirt around it by referring to him as his brother. “It's of no account. I'm sure he doesn't desire to spend any time in my presence.”

  Henry shrugged. “His loss.” He abruptly stood and extended his hand down. “I'd wager dinner is almost ready. Would you be agreeable to joining me?”

  She bit her lip in mock contemplation. “That would depend.”

  “On?”

  “If dinner will be just as agreeable with my stomach as breakfast was.”

  Henry slapped both of his palms against his chest and his jaw went slack. “Why, Mrs. Swift, I am scandalized!”

  Now this, with the overdramatics, she knew to be jesting. His three cousins had the same tendencies, if memory served correctly, though it had been quite some time since she'd seen any of them.

  He twisted his lips into an overdone frown and shook his head. “I just cannot believe you'd say such a vulgar sentence, with an even more vulgar implication, in the presence of your betrothed—”

  Silence. Roaring, deafening silence filled the conservatory.

  Laura stared at him, her mind racing to make sense of his slip. Had he said it because he was trying to perpetuate the lie they were already living, or did he truly think of himself as her betrothed and intend to marry her?

  He dropped his hands, then straightened his coat and cleared his throat. “May I escort you to dinner now?”

  ***

  Dinner was horrible. And not just the coagulated gruel he was shoveling into his mouth—actually, that was the better part of dinner. The horrible, almost to the point of unbearable part came in the form of a wisp of a woman named Laura Swift.

  If he didn't know any better, he'd practically confirmed their betrothal and subsequent marriage earlier in the conservatory.

  That wouldn't do.

  Laura, he was learning, didn't have the scathing tongue he'd once thought. Well, she did; but it was becoming quite clear, she used it more as a defense weapon and not for the pure joy of slaying a man. The way she'd trembled at his touch last night and didn't understand his jest today said more about her than he'd have ever guessed. She'd apparently not had an easy life; and unfortunately, if he did in fact marry her, they'd never get along well. She'd hate him for lying to her, and rightfully so. Not that an innocent lie, such as not giving her his true identity until he could get things sorted out, would be enough to make her hate him forever. It wasn't. She seemed sensible enough to him. Or was she? Was it sense and wisdom that would allow her to forgive him or fear?

  Fear. That simple four-letter word was the crux of it. She seemed to fear him. Whether it was his true self or himself acting as Elijah, she seemed to have a fear engrained in her, for whatever reason, that would always put them at arm's length with each other.

  She needed a fellow who didn't jest and was soft spoken. One who wouldn't frighten her by just being in her presence, perhaps someone who was quiet and bookish. He snorted. Sir Wallace would have been an excellent catch for Laura. Too bad his sister had found him first. Not that it was a grave concern or disappointment for him that Edwina had already snapped him up. She loved him and he undoubtedly returned the feeling. For them, it was a good match. But that still left Laura.

  An idea formed in his head.

  Now, he just had to wait for Beth, the maid he'd sent over to attend Laura, to come down so he could go upstairs and talk to her before he left for the night.

  “She's ready, Master Henry,” Beth whispered, coming into the room.

  Henry twisted his lips at the way Beth had her eyes lowered and wouldn't meet his. Likely she thought Henry was keeping Laura without the benefit of marriage. He scowled and then shoved to his feet. He didn't owe her an explanation. Not so long ago, she'd been bold enough to offer herself to him and had taken it as a personal offense when he'd declined. He'd done so graciously, of course. He apologized if he'd given her the impression that he enjoyed tupping maids but explained that even a dog knows not to mess in his own den. A bit indelicate, perhaps, but to the point. There was not the slightest chance she could have misunderstood. Since then, she'd taken a real dislike for waiting upon him, and he supposed he could understand that; but with the only other female servant in residence being the nearly blind housekeeper, Mrs. Morgan, he hadn't had much of a choice.

  “Thank you, Beth. She'll require you once again in the morning.”

  Beth bobbed her head in understanding and then quit the room.

  “There you are,” Henry said, grinning at a stunned Laura who was grabbing for a pillow to hold in front of herself.

  “What do you want?”

  His grin didn't falter; at least he hoped it didn't. Her tone was fierce and full of starch. He lifted his hands into the air as if he were a man caught doing wrong and was asked to show his hands, in order to prove he meant no further harm. Inwardly, he cringed at the thought. “I just wanted to talk to you for a minute. Is that all right?”

  She swallowed. “I suppose.”

  He pointed to the chair in the corner. When she nodded, he crossed the room and took a seat. “You're welcome to make yourself more comfortable.”

  Her fingers grew white from clutching the pillow in front of her, but she didn't release it.

  She was very unusual, to be sure. He'd helped her undress last night. Surely if he'd planned to force himself upon her, he'd have done it then.

  “Do I have the words ‘for unlawful carnal knowledge’ tattooed on my forehead?” he asked, reaching up and running his fingers over his forehead.

  She shook her head. “No. You just startled me; that's all.”

  “I seem to do that a lot,” he commented, more for himself than for her benefit. But that's why he was in here, wasn't it? He brought his left ankle up to rest on his right knee. “Tomorrow night I'd like to take you to a local assembly.”

  Her jaw dropped and her eyes widened. “A what?”

  “A country assembly.” He tried not to laugh at the way her mouth opened and closed without a single coherent sound escaping and continued on. “If you could be sure to have out your fanciest gown when Beth comes in tomorrow to help you dress, it will be most helpful.”

  “Must I wear it all day?”

  He shrugged. “If you want to, you can. I was actually thinking you might like her to press it and get it ready for tomorrow night.”

  She crossed her arms, causing the left strap of her chemise to slip off of her shoulder and expose a beautiful expanse of skin. “And where will you be during all of this time?”

  Hiding from you and the temptation you bear. He started at the traitorous thought. She wasn't a temptation, at least not one he could in good conscience think about. “I have a few matters around the estate I need to see to while Alex is away. Then I'll meet you
when it's time to leave.”

  “And what time will that be?”

  “Whenever you're ready to leave for Bath.”

  She ground her teeth and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. He normally didn't find being annoying a role he enjoyed playing, but her reactions were too tempting. He just had to remember not to take it too far. “So whenever the scullery maid, or whatever her normal post is, sees fit to help me into my 'fanciest gown', you'll grace me with your presence and we'll leave for Bath?”

  “I'm agreeable to that,” he said, poking his bottom lip out and nodding. “But please keep in mind, Bath is only a forty minute ride away, and there won't be anything for us to do until the assembly starts. You might not wish to put it on too soon.”

  Laura closed her eyes. “Do you enjoy being annoying?”

  Impressive, she was also a mind reader. He lifted his thumb and forefinger and put them about an inch apart; “Just a bit.”

  “You're a difficult one to pinpoint,” she said, wagging her finger at him, the corners of her hazel eyes, crinkling.

  He shrugged casually, “'Tis what I do best.” He stood and walked toward the door, commanding himself to stop staring at the tops of her bare breasts now that she'd inadvertently exposed them to his gaze by wagging her finger at him. “It might not take much to make me this hard to pinpoint, not to mention charming, but I do require an adequate amount of sleep to maintain my handsome looks.” He gave an exaggerated yawn. “So if you don't mind, I must be off to bed now.”

  ~Chapter Nine~

  The arrogant, insufferable, self-important, cocky man!

  He thought to ignore her all day, did he?

  Well, he might find her to be an unwelcome guest, but she had a piece of paper that stated just the opposite and had no intention of being cooped up in that little cottage until Henry decided it was time to go to Bath. No, she was going to find him and demand he spend the day with her in order to move this charade of a courtship right along. She had a life to live and duties to complete, and this loitering and courting nonsense was growing ridiculous. Especially since he was making a mockery of it by stunning her with flowers, something nobody had ever done for her before, then grunting his responses all during dinner, and then letting himself into her room while she wore nothing more than a tattered, dirty, and, dare-she-admit, threadbare shift to insist she fancy herself up for a night in Bath with him.