The Reluctant Bride Collection

by Megan Bryce

  “I’m not scared. I’m simply refusing to be stupid.”

  And suddenly, she remembered. Stupid was romantic.

  Romance was doing what you knew was stupid, what you knew would hurt, what you knew would destroy, and doing it anyway. Just for the chance at happiness.

  It’s not a chance. It is happiness.

  Elinor put her cup down before it started shaking.

  “I can’t go. I can’t bring the dogs.”

  “I’m sure he’s considered them. And arranged for them.”

  Elinor looked around her cold and empty and boring and lifeless drawing room. Thought of her brother, and one missing dog.

  It’s not a chance.

  “I’m just going to run away, like a coward?”

  “Is that what you’re doing? I thought you were running to India. Running to a new adventure and leaving all this tired nonsense behind.”

  Running to life.

  It is happiness.

  “That’s what he would do, isn’t it? Leave all this behind and find something new. Make something that was all his.”

  “It’s what he is doing. The question is whether you’re going to do the same.”

  “The question is whether I’ll follow him like some lovesick ninny. The question is whether I will once again throw my future, my fortune, into the hands of a man. Simply trust that it will all work out when it never has before.”

  Mrs. Potts sipped. “You’ll have to trust. And hope.”

  “Only lovesick ninnies rely on hope.”

  “That’s what you are, Elinor.”

  That’s what she was. A woman who was in love with a man who could give her everything she needed.

  “Mrs. Potts?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “I’m afraid you will need to find a new position.”

  Mrs. Potts smiled. “Excellent.”

  “Jones.”

  “I’ve always wanted to see India, my lady.”

  “Oh? Has he arranged for you as well?”

  “We have come to an understanding, my lady. I am almost entirely certain that it was my idea.”

  She laughed again. Thought of India, felt the dried tears on her cheeks. And laughed.

  “Damn him. He is much better at getting what he wants than I am.”

  Mrs. Potts stood briskly. “You can damn him all you like once you’re on board the ship.”

  The tea cups clattered as Mrs. Potts threw them down, Jones hopped to his feet as swiftly as he could, and Elinor took a deep breath.

  Mrs. Potts helped her into her coat by the door, and Elinor took one last look of everything she was going to give up for love. Everything she would leave for a chance at something new.

  It wasn’t a lot.

  She grabbed for Mrs. Potts hand. “Go to the countess and ask her for a reference. Her good opinion will mean far more than mine.”

  “You don’t think she’ll be a might miffed that you’re making off with her brother-in-law?”

  “No. But stay away from the earl.”

  “I stay away from all earls as a matter of principle. Their brothers are another matter. Now go before you miss this particular one, my lady. There won’t be another along anytime soon.”

  Elinor didn’t think there would be one like George ever again and she rushed out the door and down the stairs.

  Jones opened the carriage door to help her inside and there were her two Mastiffs laying on the floor and Anala sitting on George’s lap yipping excitedly.

  Elinor hardly paused before climbing in and saying, “I should have known.”

  He scooted over on the seat to make room for her. “You should have.”

  She settled next to him, trying to calm her racing heart. The driver shouted at the horses and the carriage jolted, taking off at a clip.

  Elinor held on to the seat. “We still might not make it.”

  “We will.”

  “I’m not going to marry you.”

  George laughed. “You think I’ll change my mind and find myself enamored of some foolish virgin?”

  She shrugged. “At least you’ll have the option. And I do believe I will make a very good mistress.”

  He said, “I would never dare argue with a lady.”

  No, he never argued but simply went on his merry way.

  He pulled a small packet from his pocket and handed it to her. She opened it to find an ornate hair comb inside, a large dog balanced beautifully on top.

  He said softly, “I couldn’t find a Mastiff. When we get to India, I’ll have one commissioned.”

  He took it back from her and slid it securely into her hair. He studied it and her and said, “A wager. I’ll change your mind before we land.”

  “About marrying you?”

  When he nodded, she lifted her chin. “And what are we wagering?”

  “Solicitors. You’ll marry me, and you’ll sign the contract my solicitors draw up without reading it first.”

  “Because on this long journey across the ocean I will lose the use of all my faculties?”

  He pulled her into his arms, playing with the comb in her hair and smiling at her. And Elinor thought that if he could talk her into going to India, into marrying him once they got there, there was no question about solicitors.

  He said, “No. Because you’ll marry me only because you love me. And I’ll marry you only because I love you. And you’ll trust that there will be no other reason.”

  Trust. And hope.

  She said, “I hope it is a very long voyage.”

  He nodded. “A very long voyage. And at the end of it, a land of sun and steam. A life of love and laughter.”

  She grabbed his shirt, twisting her fists tightly into it and pulling him even closer.

  “I won’t make it if you leave me, George. Not you.”

  He wrapped his warm arms around her tight. He kissed her temple and murmured sacred words against her golden hair.

  “Never, Elinor. I’ll never leave you. And I promise you’ll never be cold again.”

  Epilogue

  When the very Honorable George Sinclair arrived in India for the second time in his life, he very nearly kissed the ground when he took his first step.

  He was too worried and distracted about Elinor though to do more than shout for a chair to be brought for her.

  Halfway through their long voyage they’d hit a horrible storm, and how they’d made it through, he still wasn’t sure.

  He would learn later that a ship that had left but a week after them hadn’t made it. He would learn much later that Alan Rusbridge had been on that ship, tracking his sister and what was due him across an ocean.

  But at the moment, George Sinclair was too worried about Elinor. She had come down with the worst case of maladie de mer during the storm, as had nearly everyone else on board. But while they had recovered, she had not, and she’d been casting up her accounts ever since.

  George thought for sure that after a day or two on land it would subside, but when it didn’t, he called for a physician. He refused to leave the room, choosing to sit helplessly next to her and hold her hand while the physician poked and prodded, and the Indian woman they’d hired to care for her wrung out another cool cloth to place gently on Elinor’s forehead.

  The physician said, “Not maladie de mer.”

  George blanched, thinking of a hundred things worse.

  The physician said, “I call it bébé de mer. You’re the third case I’ve seen this week.”

  “Bébé de mer? I’ve never heard–”

  George stopped. And blinked.

  “Baby?”

  “It’s a long, boring voyage. Cards and books quickly lose their allure.”

  George said, “But. . .”

  Elinor pulled the cloth away from her eyes and pushed herself onto her elbow. “But. . .”

  They sat stupefied until George finally said, “Are you sure?”

  “Sure enough that I recommend you call for the vicar if you are so i
nclined.”

  George smiled. “Yes. What a splendid idea.”

  Elinor frowned. “I was not ill at all with my first child.”

  The physician packed his bag. “Your body is most likely still recovering from the voyage. You’ve no doubt lost some weight and have not been eating. And not to be indelicate, my lady, but how many years ago was that? This pregnancy will be different.”

  Elinor repeated him, whispering like a prayer, “This pregnancy will be different.”

  George smiled into her eyes. “This pregnancy will be different.”

  Not a prayer, a promise.

  She smiled at him, tears filling her eyes, and then her face blanched and she groaned, lying back on the bed. The Indian woman placed the cloth back over Elinor’s eyes and murmured to her soothingly.

  George had been dealing with Indian suppliers for years and he cocked his head at what she was saying.

  “Two?”

  The physician frowned at the woman. “A silly superstition. More sickness does not mean more babies. It is most likely residual illness from the voyage.”

  George said, “Two.”

  A son; an heir. And a daughter.

  He wondered briefly what the odds were that they would have a little Camilla. A daughter who was perfect and careful.

  Elinor squeezed his hand and said softly, “We don’t know that. We don’t know if even one will survive the birth.”

  “You weren’t this sick before, were you?”

  “. . .No.”

  He said again, “Two.”

  Not a prayer, a promise.

  “And if it’s not two, we’ll just have to sail back to England to try for another.”

  Elinor held a fist to her mouth and said tightly, “I am not getting back on board for a very long time.”

  He laughed, pulling her fist from her lips and kissing it lightly. “I told you I would make you change your mind before we landed.”

  Her lips tipped up and then they opened to say, “I had hoped you would.”

  He kissed her, softly, sweetly.

  He pulled the cloth from her eyes to see the icy blues shimmering with happy tears, and he shouted, “Jones! Call for the vicar!”

  Before the next Michaelmas, George Sinclair wrote to his brother, the Earl of Ashmore, informing him of the birth of a son.

  Requesting direction as to how one was supposed to raise a boy to be staid and steady and responsible. How one raised an earl.

  Sebastian wrote back saying not to worry about the boy. His twin sister– the widow’s daughter, George’s namesake– couldn’t be anything but wild and contrary, and George’s son would learn all he needed to by trying to keep her out of trouble.

  George’s reply was short and curt.

  And was followed by another, longer, missive when Georgiana started walking. And then running. And then climbing.

  Florian, all the while, chasing after her and shouting, “No, Gigi. No!”

  George’s missive began,

  Damn you, Sebastian, for always being right. . .

  * * *

  About To Tempt The Saint

  Many years ago, George St. Clair loved and lost– his heart, his faith, his future. Now, he is content to watch not-so-silently as life happens to his friends, secure in the knowledge that no woman could tempt him again. Absolutely certain that no woman is worth the risk. Confident that he is protected from the pain. . .

  Honora Kempe lost everything after her fall from grace– her family, her life, a future. Now, Hell hath no fury like a disgraced vicar’s daughter and she is determined to get back what was hers. By hook or by crook. Man by man. Lie by lie. Until one man makes her wonder if love really can heal all pain. And if too late really is too late. . .

  Table of Contents

  About

  London

  One

  Two

  Three

  Manchester

  Four

  Five

  Six

  York

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  One

  George St. Clair sat smoking his cigar quietly and gazing into the fire. He worried the crumpled letter in his hand back and forth, back and forth.

  He’d thought about tossing it into the fire but knew it wouldn’t do any good. Not for anybody.

  He couldn’t unread it. Couldn’t undo the actions of his friend.

  George could only pray, and since he hadn’t done any kind of praying in years, he wasn’t about to start on a scab like his friend George Sinclair.

  St. Clair choked, not sure whether it was the smoke tickling or the tears threatening or the laughter bubbling.

  Only George Sinclair would run off to India with the widow.

  Only George Sinclair could do it expecting to arrive at the very end a happily married man with no consequences to pay.

  St. Clair thought again about praying. Just a quick, quiet entreaty to keep his friend safe. And whole. And, God, happy.

  Someone, somewhere, should be happy.

  But God had never answered any prayer of his, so St. Clair stared into the red and yellow flames licking at his boots and went through the quickly memorized letter again.

  St. Clair,

  Hold tight to your breeches because your worst fear has come true. I am going home to India, Elinor by my side.

  Perhaps it wasn’t St. Clair’s worst fear. Being forced to watch a pack of rabid dogs tear the skin from his friend’s flesh sounded just as bad.

  I’d apologize for leaving without telling you but there was little time and. . .I know you. You would have locked me away to stop me from doing something so foolish.

  He would have.

  She’s worth any price. Love is.

  Love wasn’t.

  May you find a love worth losing.

  Or if you can’t manage that, come visit us in India and we’ll find one for you.

  Your never dutiful friend,

  Sinclair

  And if the thought of Sinclair and the widow picking out St. Clair’s bride for him didn’t make him shudder, nothing ever would.

  St. Clair tossed the letter into the fire, and then his cigar because the letter hadn’t been enough.

  He’d found love already.

  He’d found a woman who promised to be steady and true. A woman to give him children and a happy home.

  A woman with a demure smile and shy eyes. A woman proper and good.

  And then she’d been given to someone else.

  His only comfort was that she and her husband stayed in the country and he didn’t have to see them.

  His only comfort was that he’d been young and foolish when he’d given his heart away and could, almost, forgive himself.

  His only comfort was that he refused to be comforted.

  St. Clair stood, straightening his coat. He watched as the paper curled and turned to ash, watched as the cigar smoked and burned.

  When he turned away, he did it with no prayer on his lips, but a curse.

  For the widow; for a woman with a demure smile and shy eyes; for every woman who could bring misery to man.

  A pox on them all.

  Miss Letitia Blackstock did not exist.

  Oh, somewhere she surely did. Somewhere she spent her mornings walking sedately and her evenings with her needlework and she was good and kind and proper.

  The kind of young woman who always obeyed her father and listened to her mother and was kind to her younger sisters.

  Honora Kempe had met one or two or a dozen Miss Blackstocks in her lifetime, and though Honora had found them all boring, had chosen to become one this time. For this endeavor.

  Next time she would pick someone with a little more spirit and spunk.

  But, she was Miss Letitia Blackstock for a little while longer so she simpered a smile and batted her eyelashes and quoted the bible as if Miss Blackstock’s father was a vicar instead of the tea dealer she imagined him to b
e.

  Some parts of her were harder to hide than others and Honora found bible quoting to be one of those things. Inappropriate bible quoting, at that.

  Honora had decided that Miss Letitia Blackstock might be a bit simple-minded because she just didn’t have the spite that went with taking scripture out of context on purpose.

  Honora Kempe had spite aplenty. Spite and intelligence.

  And a forgettable appearance that let her wield that spite and intelligence against the sons of the middle class again and again.

  Miss Blackstock, tonight, waved her fan and listened rapturously to a bookseller’s youngest son as he pontificated.

  He liked to think he was getting somewhere with her, and he might have been if he hadn’t kept interrupting her conversation with his practiced diatribes.

  No woman liked to be interrupted when she was speaking. Especially when she had a particularly useful scripture to wield.

  Blessed are the meek; for they shall inherit the earth. Matthew 5:5.

  But she had no opportunity to share it and when the bookseller’s youngest son delivered Miss Blackstock back to her aunt and uncle, she curtsied and smiled at him, then forgot about him completely.

  Uncle “Hubert” said, “I can’t take much more of this.”

  Aunt “Gertrude” agreed. “I think we should go back to Edinburgh.”

  Honora waved her fan and kept her Miss Blackstock smile on her face. “We can’t go back to Edinburgh, not yet. Not unless you want me married to Mr. Scote in truth.”

  Aunt Gertrude made a very un-Gertrude-like face, then rallied. “Bath?”

  Honora loved Bath. But, again, it would be too soon and she shook her head.

  “It will have to be London, I’m afraid.”

  “I hate London.” And it didn’t matter which one of them had said it. They both hated London.

  Honora didn’t enjoy it all that much either.

  But the perfect city was impossible. The perfect city was too small and too cloistered and there was nowhere to hide.

  But perhaps when Honora grew too old to continue collecting suitors, and when they’d saved enough money that her majesty’s five percent gave them a respectable living, perhaps then they could return home again. Return to live near her young siblings and not under her father’s thumb and live out her days as a too-odd spinster.