by Amy Field
“I heard the news. Is there anything I can do for you?” Arielle asked, taking a seat beside her on the soft pile of leaves and grass.
Melanie slowly shook her head. “What is there that can be done? Nothing! I have no choice, no say—nothing! I am to wed a man I do not know and be forced to go live among strangers!” The exclamation provided the catalyst for a fresh spate of tears. Arielle stuffed a handkerchief trimmed with lace into her sister’s hand.
“Perhaps, I could go with you?” Arielle suggested, fiddling with a few strands of grass at her feet.
Melanie looked at her sister and nodded vigorously at the idea. Arielle smiled broadly at her, her fat braid hanging over her shoulder, flecks of grass and fallen leaves stuck in its masses, surely from her various romps and adventures earlier in the day. A smudge of dirt marked her cheek, just beneath her crystal clear, blue eyes. Despite her haphazard appearance, which might prove to be a bit embarrassing, having Arielle accompany her to Pelham House would provide much comfort.
“We’ll have to persuade Father to agree,” Arielle mused, staring at the pond as a handful of ducks landed with a splash.
“After my desperate plea to end this agreement, surely he shall take some pity on me and allow my dear, younger sister to accompany me during such an arduous undertaking,” Melanie replied, sniffling.
“Melanie, you aren’t going to war—you must simply marry a man you are yet to meet. Perhaps, the Earl is dashing, handsome and clever. Truly, he could be all those things and more,” Arielle encouraged.
“Or, he could be spoiled, fat and pompous, which is much more likely to be the case,” Melanie complained, tears threatening to fall once more.
Arielle stood from her seat on the damp ground and reached for Melanie’s hands to assist her to her feet. “There’s no need in worrying over matters that cannot be changed. We must simply make the best of it.”
“I am sure that it is easy for you to say such flippant things, Arielle. You are not the one marrying the Earl.”
“True, but you said yourself--you have no choice in the matter. We can still choose to make the best of it. Together,” she said, smiling as she hooked her arm through Melanie’s and turned back toward the house.
The faintest hint of a smile crept to the corners of Melanie’s mouth as she glanced at her precocious younger sister. Though only sixteen months her junior, Arielle was a free spirit and given to random, spontaneous, and occasionally unladylike behavior.
“If you are to accompany me to Pelham House, I suppose I shall be able to endure my trial with a smidge more vigor,” Melanie surmised valiantly as they made their way back to the manor, mostly following the neat path through the gardens.
“Might I suggest you cease referring to your impending marriage as a trial? It may be a good place to start,” Arielle said, nudging her sister with her elbow.
Melanie laughed aloud. “I shall try,” she promised.
Weeks passed by swiftly since Wes had replied to Lord Seabourn’s letter. Arrangements were made for his arrival in Northumberland at the end of June, the perfect time for a pleasant, morning wedding at the stone church bordering Havenwood Manor’s property, and the ceremony would be followed by a summer garden brunch to celebrate the happy union.
Wes whistled cheerfully throughout his daily affairs, pleased that a marriage had been arranged with little effort on his part. It was exactly what he had needed, and he’d only had to lift a pen.
“You will accompany me to Northumberland?” He asked James as he sliced his mutton at dinner one evening.
“For your marriage to a woman you have yet to meet?” James asked, buttering his bread.
Wes ignored the intended dig. “We shall leave Tuesday. The wedding is to take place on Friday, and though the journey is but two days, I desire a moment or two with my betrothed prior to the ceremony taking place,” he explained his travel plans.
“So you may seek sanctuary if she proves to be ugly or dull?” James asked frankly, taking a bite of his heavily buttered roll.
“I have already agreed to the marriage, James. I only wish to make her acquaintance before we wed.” Wes sighed as he forked a small, red potato.
“Most people do believe that to be a grand notion.”
“Your sarcasm borders insolence.”
“Tis good to be your brother, then, and not your subject.”
Wes shook his head and took a long sip of claret. James needed a good throttling. Could he not see that he was doing just as he had suggested himself?
“Shall you come or not?” He prompted, fork in mid-air.
James took several bites of mutton and vegetable, chewing each slowly before answering at last. “I shall attend you.”
“Good.” Wes resumed his dinner, pleased that his brother would be present at his wedding.
***
On Tuesday morning, just as Wes had risen for the day, the Pelham House butler, Henson, knocked urgently on his bedchamber door.
“What is it, man?” Wes asked, yawning but concerned at the aging butler’s agitated appearance.
“A man from the docks at Plymouth is here and is most vexed.”
“Plymouth? My shipments?” Wes asked, alarmed.
“He did not state his specific business, only that he needed to speak urgently with you, my lord.”
Wes rushed from his bedchamber, still in his dressing gown as he rushed to his study where the man from Plymouth waited.
“What is the matter, sir?” Wes asked, skipping introductions.
“My lord,” the man bowed, “I am Harvey Wallace, and I am here to inform you that there has been a mix-up with the shipments, and the wheat is still sitting on the docks, sure to ruin.”
“What? How can this be? I have made diligent arrangements and ensured passage for the cargo through to Spain and onward to Italy,” Wes replied in shock.
Mr. Wallace shook his head. “Your steward, Mr. Chadwick, hired me to make certain the cargo arrived safely. Somehow, the wrong packets and barrels were loaded onto the ship meant to carry the grain. Now, the grain sits on the dock, surely spoiling in the summer heat. I rushed here to speak with you post-haste, as the matter acquires immediate attention.”
Wes rubbed his temples. Clearly, his presence was needed to settle the matter in Plymouth, and would more than likely require him accompanying the grain to Spain, ensuring its proper passage through the following port. It could take several days, maybe even a week, to handle the mishap or much would end up being lost.
“Henson! Summon James for me immediately.” Wes paced back and forth in his study after he’d dismissed Mr. Wallace, still in his dressing gown as he thought through his limited options.
“You rang?” James asked, the sardonic smile on his face falling when he saw the serious and agitated state of his brother. “What is wrong, Wes?”
“The vast grain shipment and deal I have been working on for months has now gone amuck. I am needed in Plymouth post-haste.”
“Shall we send word to Northumberland to postpone the wedding then?” James folded his arms as he studied his brother.
“No, we must go on as planned. I have an idea though that I believe will work—you shall marry Melanie by proxy. It can be done, I am sure.”
James stared at Wes incredulously. “You shall have me marry your bride?” The idea seemed preposterous.
“Only in name, in my stead, James. The ceremony is just a formality. Then, she and her sister shall accompany you back here to Pelham House. I shall have my wife, and you shall have to endure the ceremony and feast I’d dreaded anyway. I think you shall manage just fine.”
“You cannot be serious, Wes. Marriage by proxy is an antiquated custom that isn’t truly used anymore. I cannot imagine that your dear Miss Seabourn would be willing to go along with such an arrangement.”
“She shall have to be if she should like to become the Countess of Winchester. I simply must handle the shipment. Much shall be lost for not only the estate but the
workers, as well. Surely, she would understand.”
James sighed, knowing what he had to do. “Very well. If you must go to the port, go. I shall see what I can do in Northumberland, though you will owe me dearly.”
Wes grinned at him, despite his tense predicament. “My best hunter if all goes according to plan.”
“You know, I will hold you to that.”
Within the hour, the brothers had both departed on their prospective courses. Wes, a half day’s journey to the south, and James to the north and the fair Seabourn ladies residing at Havenwood Manor. James rode his favorite horse, Rialto, alongside the Pendleton carriage, unable to believe that on his return journey three days hence, two ladies he had yet to meet would accompany him to Pelham House, one as his sister-in-law.
Despite being early summer, the further north they traveled and as the sun sank lower in the sky, the breeze grew chilly, making James wish he had donned his overcoat for the night’s travels. Soon though, they arrived at a coaching inn situated just outside of Northampton to spend the night. James, however, slept hardly at all on the scratchy mattress, his stomach unsettled from the questionable stew served to him by a barmaid.
Tired and cursing Wes beneath his breath, James mounted Rialto with a stiff neck after a breakfast of stale scones and hard cheese, not looking forward to another full day of traveling for his brother’s bride. She had better be the fairest among women to deserve the lengths he had to go to for his brother.
That night, after a full day in the saddle, he slept dreamlessly at a small, roadside inn in Yorkshire, knowing only a handful of hours upon Rialto’s back would be required the next day before he arrived at Havenwood Manor, the home of his distant relations.
Just after the dinner hour on Thursday, the day before the dreaded wedding, James finally arrived at his destination. The stone home was stately and picturesque, though not much of an estate in comparison to the vast holdings of the English peerage. The tree-lined drive and overflowing wisteria and ivy vines did much to improve the aesthetic of the home’s strong, but basic lines. James surmised that it was a far cry from his ancestral home at Pelham House, but it was a quaint and lovely country home in its own right.
He rode swiftly up the drive, intent on discovering what he could of his brother’s bride as soon as possible. Hopefully, if she was a dastardly sort, he could end this now, before the marriage took place on the morrow.
Chapter Three
“Your husband is here!” Arielle’s singsong voice called out as she bounced excitedly, peering out of their bedchamber’s second story window. Melanie rushed over and slid the drapery in front of her sister’s curious face.
“What if he saw you?” Melanie asked in shock. “It would have been the height of embarrassment!” She turned on her heel, the flounce of her muslin day gown twirling behind her as she cracked the draperies an infinitesimal inch. “But what did he look like? You must tell me!”
“Handsome and dashing on his rider. Dark hair, I think.”
Melanie peered from the window, but the visitor was no longer in sight. He must have made it to the courtyard, his horse and carriage being handled appropriately by the stable lads. Her hand rested on her stomach as a flutter of nervousness coursed through her. She was moments away from meeting her husband. A man to which she would soon vow her undying devotion for the rest of her life. A man who she still did not know in the least.
A sharp knock echoed through the room, and the doorknob rattled. “Ready yourselves and come down the stairs post-haste. Our visitor has arrived!” Mrs. Keaney’s sharp voice carried through the girls’ mahogany paneled door.
Arielle squealed in excitement, jumping about merrily before smoothing down the wayward bow on the front of her pale yellow gown. Her skin positively glowed in contrast to the dress and the gold of her hair.
Melanie took in her appearance in the looking glass. Her mint green dress looked nice enough, and her dark curls were piled most becomingly at the crown of her head with soft tendrils falling to her shoulders. Her ivory silk shawl hung romantically about her shoulders, matching the embroidered slippers that peeked from beneath her gown.
“Hurry, Melanie! Surely, he is most impatient to meet his bride!” Arielle beamed at her, opening their door and motioning for her to match her own urgent pace. Melanie trudged to the door and followed Arielle’s bouncing curls down the staircase trying her best to muster up excitement rather than dread.
“Master Pendleton, might we present to you our beautiful daughters, Melanie and Arielle Seabourn,” her father said excitedly as the door to the drawing room was opened for them. Melanie entered the room first, bowing her head and curtseying low. When she glanced up, interested to see her husband for the first time, she sucked in her breath, caught by surprise at how handsome the stranger was, and how instantly she felt a connection to him. Tall and broad, the dark-haired man exuded masculinity, and his broad smile showing off rows of straight, white teeth was directed at her and her alone.
“My lord,” she said softly, once she had recovered, “I am most pleased to make your acquaintance.”
He stepped across the room and took her hand in his, bringing it to his lips and pressing them against her wrist. “And I, yours, Miss Seabourn.”
“This is our youngest daughter, Miss Arielle Seabourn, a most accomplished young lady in her own right, as well,” Lord Seabourn proclaimed.
“I must explain myself, I’m afraid,” their visitor announced to the room after he’d greeted Arielle also. “I am not the Earl of Winchester, as you were expecting, but I am his younger brother, James Pendleton, or Lord Pendleton if you must, and I have a letter of explanation from the Earl for you, Lord Seabourn.”
Melanie held her mouth closed. Though in shock, her jaw was threatening to drop. This was not the man she was to wed tomorrow? She felt vaguely disappointed when Lord Pendleton produced a sealed envelope from the pocket of his waistcoat and handed it to her father, who promptly opened it and read its contents.
“What he says is true. A private word with you in my study, Lord Pendleton?” Her father asked, excusing them from the ladies’ presence.
Melanie watched them leave, unable to decipher the hidden meaning behind her father’s need for a private audience with James Pendleton. And where was the Earl? Her mind was reeling. Making her way to a side chair, she took a seat on the blue velvet cushion and pulled out her fan. Even indoors in the northern country, the June weather was quickly growing unbearable.
“Tea, Melanie?” Her mother asked, pulling the bell for Mrs. Keaney. Melanie offered a slight nod, fanning herself with her best lace fan—the one with pastel pink rosettes hanging from its handle in a bountiful cascade.
Arielle plopped onto the settee across from her, most unladylike, her eyes bright. “What do you think that could be about? Quite strange that the Earl has sent his brother, is it not?” She picked up a lemon biscuit from a tray and took small bites, peppering Melanie with unanswerable questions until Melanie’s eyes were crossed with the possibilities.
When at last, over an hour later, the door to the drawing-room opened, and the two men entered once more, the ladies’ heads snapped to attention, abandoning needlework and cards where they lay.
“Lord Pendleton, upon his brother, the Earl’s, request, shall marry Melanie by proxy tomorrow morning. We shall proceed with the festivities, but James will escort Melanie and Arielle to Pelham House in Hampshire tomorrow after the garden party in Melanie and the Earl’s honor.”
“I am to marry . . . him?” Melanie swallowed, as she gestured toward the handsome stranger.
“You are still marrying my brother; I am here only to take his place during the ceremony and escort you to Hampshire,” Lord Pendleton explained.
Melanie stared at the edge of the Aubusson rug where it had begun to fray. Mrs. Keaney hadn’t noticed yet, or it would have already been mended. She felt dizzy. How had she become involved in such an unusual marriage arrangement?
“My lord, we do appreciate your willingness to allow the marriage to continue as planned, but perhaps we might wait for the earl to arrive instead?” Her mother suggested.
“I would love nothing more, Lady Seabourn, but the Earl wishes the marriage to take place as scheduled, and I am here to do his bidding. Miss Seabourn, perhaps you could show me the gardens where the wedding party shall take place tomorrow?”
Melanie's eyes darted to him in surprise, but she collected herself quickly enough. “Of course, my lord.” She rose from her seat, folded her hands primly in front of her as she walked to the door. “Right this way.”
He followed her from the drawing room and out the back doors, into Havenwood’s prizewinning gardens. The scent of roses hung sweet and heady in the warm air, and a gentle breeze from the not too far off coast rustled the ivy and wisteria vines.
“It is quite lovely here,” Lord Pendleton remarked as they walked down the cobblestoned path that wound through rose bushes, boxed rhododendrons, and delphinium in vibrant shades of pink, purple and blue.
“Yes, it is,” she agreed before stopping where she stood and turning her troubled face to him. “Lord Pendleton, I must know. Will your brother and I be a fitting match?” She lightly touched his sleeve, not caring that she was exhibiting questionable propriety. Too much was at stake.
He studied her. “You seem to be rather amenable, and more beautiful than the fairest flower that blooms in this garden.”
She blushed, her cheeks growing as pink as the apothecaries rose in full bloom at the center of the garden. “Thank you, my Lord, but you did not answer my question.”
Lord Pendleton offered her his arm, which she took, hesitating but a brief moment before hand. “Miss Seabourn, I shall have to think on this a bit more before I answer your question. Mind you, my brother is a good man. He will be a kind husband, too be sure.”
She nodded, relieved. “I do appreciate your thoughts on the matter.”
“For now, let us enjoy the afternoon sun and the beauty of this most glorious place. I should never choose to leave, were the choice mine.” He smiled down at her, and she swallowed. Her future husband’s brother was far too handsome.