“Over my dead body.” Edmund snapped around and marched down the front steps. There was no time to spare for starched cravats and polished boots. He had to stop a wedding.
“Where is your carriage?” Daphne called after him. “Do you mean to summon a hack?”
Damn it. Edmund’s fists tightened at his powerlessness. In the long months it had taken to finally return home, he had never felt his lack of coin as keenly as he did right now.
“I arrived on foot,” he admitted through clenched teeth. He would not let that prevent him from stopping the wedding. “If I hurry—”
“You’ll never get there in time.” Daphne’s face brightened. “Bartholomew left in his curricle. You can take the landau.”
“Too slow.” Edmund shot a glance over his shoulder at the waning sunlight. “I’ll get there faster if you just loan me a horse.”
“Done.” She turned toward the butler. “Crabtree?”
The butler had resumed his hallmark bored expression. “Already sent a footman to the stables, ma’am.”
Horse hooves clopped against the cobblestone road as a stableboy raced a black stallion straight toward them.
Edmund’s blood raced. The moment the stableboy slid onto the ground, Edmund launched himself up and into the saddle.
“Wait!” Daphne called out, her voice urgent. “You should know why Sarah is marrying the duke. She—”
“She’s not marrying him,” Edmund shouted back as he pointed the stallion toward Ravenwood House. “She’s marrying me.”
Chapter 3
Edmund flew across the cobblestone streets as fast as the stallion could carry him. Sweat raced down his back despite the bitter March wind. Devil take it. If he was too late… If the woman who’d haunted his dreams ended up someone else’s wife…
He lowered his head against the wind and urged the stallion as fast as he dared. ’Twas wretched out. The streets were slippery with icy pockets of snow. Teeming with carriages and pedestrians. The stench of horse manure and dirt. Edmund hated it all. The clamor, the crowds, the chaos. London was repellant.
It was too much like war. Like being lost. Like the endless nightmares of chasing after his brother, running toward the other soldiers, and always being left behind. He’d woken in cold sweats then. No wonder he was reliving it now.
But a wedding was underway, and he had to stop it.
Sarah was the one bright light in the darkness of his world. Pure and sweet and beautiful, she was everything he desired. Everything he’d longed for all those lonely nights. The heat of her skin. The scent of her hair. The feel of her body as he lifted her slender form above him and—
Ravenwood House rose against the blinding sunset like a dragon unfurling its wings. It was not a small part of a crescent of row houses. Its three floors and two annexes were the crescent.
Edmund’s jaw tightened. The stallion reared at the sight as if it, too, sensed danger lurking within those elegant walls.
There were no longer pedestrians crowding the pristine road. No life of any kind. Any visiting carriages had already been tucked out of sight inside the mews. And of course, nothing so gauche as a hired hackney dared sit idle before the grand ducal estate.
Tough. Edmund tucked his head and raced his horse right over the manicured grass of the front lawn. If Ravenwood’s perfect garden got mussed, so be it. There was no time to waste.
As Edmund neared the front door, servants streamed out of the estate in alarm. He leapt from the stallion and tossed the reins to the closest gaping footman before shouldering his way inside the mansion.
Of course the servants wouldn’t invite him to enter. He hadn’t been to Ravenwood House since he’d purchased his commission four years ago, so the staff was unlikely to recognize him.
He also knew he looked a fright. Tattered, mismatched clothing. Scarred face covered by a five-week beard. A scowl fierce enough to terrify the devil himself—and with good reason. If Edmund was too late to stop the ceremony…
“Where’s the wedding?” he snarled to the housemaids.
One of them keeled into the others in a dead faint.
A male voice broke in. “Sir, I’m afraid you’ll have to…”
Edmund whirled to face Ravenwood’s butler, whose jaw dropped with the shock of recognition. “Master Blackpool?”
“Where are they?” Edmund demanded, his voice hoarse. “I have to stop the wedding.”
“Master Blackpool, it is splendid to see you alive and… well, alive, sir, but I cannot in good conscience allow you to thwart His Grace’s wishes, particularly on this day of—”
“The alcove of the back parlor,” gasped one of the maids. “The blue one, next to the billiards room.”
“Agnes.” One of the other servants grabbed the maid’s arm. “You’ll be sacked for this!”
“But it’s all so romantic…”
Edmund missed whatever else was said because he was already tearing down the corridor toward the rear of the mansion.
He hadn’t forgotten the way. As a young man, he, his twin brother, and their three best friends—Xavier Grey, Oliver York, and the Duke of Ravenwood—had spent many a lazy evening drinking the duke’s port and battling for temporary dominance over the billiards table. It had all seemed terribly important and worldly when Edmund was but a young buck of seventeen years.
He was now six-and-twenty and this particular battle for dominance would determine the fate of the rest of his life.
His breath quickened. On the ride over, he hadn’t let himself think of anything except getting back to Sarah. No good would come of wondering how she’d wound up in the arms of Edmund’s (better looking, better moneyed, better mannered) lifelong friend. It didn’t matter. She was his.
The fact that Edmund’s own brother had apparently come along to witness the unholy event also did not bear contemplating. There was no room in Edmund’s atrophied heart to feel betrayed or wounded, when he was so bloody thrilled to discover his brother was even alive. The rest would come later. He and Bartholomew were twins. The best of friends. Inseparable and indistinguishable. Edmund had dreamed of being reunited with his brother almost as often as he’d dreamed of being reunited with Sarah.
And he would not let the Duke of Ravenwood stop him.
Edmund flung open the parlor door and charged forward bellowing, “Stop!” as he raced up the makeshift aisle.
The first thing he saw was her hair. Thick and chestnut and familiar, the long tresses had been gathered up in a shiny mass and pinned to the back of her head, just as it had been in Bruges. She was his siren. He could already smell her soap and feel the softness of her dark brown curls as he plucked the pins free one by one.
As if responding to the force of his thoughts, the power of his love, Sarah turned to face him.
Edmund pulled up short. His stomach dropped, his jaw dropped, his bloody heart dropped because Sarah was… pregnant.
Not just pregnant: hugely pregnant. His slender, innocent, doe-eyed bride had doubled in size since last he’d seen her. His stomach dropped. No wonder there was a wedding.
He cut a furious glance toward Ravenwood, who held up his palms and shook his head.
The vicar clutched the cross hanging from his neck and backed away.
“Not Ravenwood,” Sarah said, her voice cracking. “The baby is yours.”
Edmund’s ears roared. If anyone was speaking, he could not hear them. Sarah was pregnant. The baby was his. Sarah was pregnant. He was going to be a father. Sarah was right there in front of him, waiting for his reaction with tears in her eyes.
Edmund’s position had not changed. His will had only been reinforced.
“Stop the wedding.” He marched forward, his gaze locked on hers. “She marries me.”
Ravenwood sidestepped in front of Sarah, blocking Edmund’s view of his bride.
Edmund’s eyes narrowed.
Ravenwood turned his back on Edmund to curl his insolent fingers gently about Sarah’s trembling shoulders. “You don’t ha
ve to marry me, Sarah,” he told her in his calm, quiet voice. “But you don’t have to marry Blackpool, either.”
Edmund’s fingers flexed into fists. If the duke had a death wish, so be it.
“I have never had a choice,” said Sarah, her expression haunted. “Women have never had choices. Not really. Least of all someone in my position.”
“Because of the baby?” Ravenwood’s voice lowered. “I told you I would have no problem raising your child as my own, and affording him or her all the benefits of—”
“Your wedding is off.” Edmund shoved the duke aside to take Sarah’s hands. She had loved him before. She would love him again.
He lifted her swollen fingers to his lips to kiss them, but stopped when he remembered the unkempt beard protruding from his face. He would not kiss her like this. Not even her fingers. Not when she’d been about to wed a duke who would have showered her with money and estates and thousands of ducal advantages that Edmund could never replicate.
He let her fingers drop. “We’ll call the banns tomorrow.”
The vicar cleared his throat. “Tomorrow is Monday—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sarah interrupted. “I can’t wait for banns.” She cast a pointed look toward her round belly. “We can’t wait for banns.”
No wonder she was in a hurry. Edmund swallowed. He still couldn’t fathom it.
He’d spent so many months just trying to get through one more day, one more hour, that he hadn’t given any thought to the future at all. Still wasn’t certain he had one. Things like futures could vanish in the blink of an eye.
All he’d wanted was Sarah, if only for one more night. One more moment.
Well, here she was. Standing right before him. With a chasm the size of the world between them.
His stomach churned. What had happened between her and Ravenwood? The duke was bloody nice enough to do something foolish and romantic like wed his missing friend’s bride so the babe would not be born illegitimate. The duke was also rich enough to have sent out a hunting party or two in search of said missing friend. Hell, the duke’s know-all older sister could probably have rescued Edmund on her own in a matter of hours, and cleaned up the French/Austrian political climate that same day after tea.
Edmund would’ve settled for just being found.
“Well, you’re not marrying him,” he said flatly, without sparing Ravenwood so much as a glance. “So you’re right. You have no choice.”
“Be reasonable,” began the duke. “You haven’t—”
Edmund cut him off with a chilling glance. “This is my baby and my bride. You might notice that I’ve just returned from war. A wise man wouldn’t speak to me right now, for fear of how I might react.”
“Of course I’ll marry you, Edmund.” Sarah flashed him a wobbly smile, her eyes glistening. “I’ve never wanted anything else.”
His chest thudded in pleasure. He longed to reach for her. But not like this. Not covered in dust and dressed in rags. She deserved so much more. He would prove he was a man she could be proud of.
“Brother…” came a voice from somewhere behind him.
Heart thundering, Edmund whirled toward the rear of the alcove. Bartholomew. Edmund’s chest tightened with love at the ridiculous sight of him. Bartholomew’s valet had trussed his master up just as beautifully and ostentatiously as Edmund remembered.
Which only made him feel less worthy of Sarah’s love.
Where Edmund was covered with grime and too much facial hair, Bartholomew was starched and tailored and shaved into perfection. Where Edmund’s skin was unfashionably brown, Bartholomew’s was properly porcelain. Where Edmund’s borrowed boots had begun to separate at the soles, Bartholomew… now bore a false limb?
Edmund’s shocked gaze flew up to meet his brother’s. Were it not for the telltale clapping sound as the wooden prosthetic snapped into place with each step, neither Bartholomew’s manner nor appearance would have given any hint that one of the most celebrated dandies in London was missing half of one his legs. Edmund’s heart clenched.
This, at least, indicated why Bartholomew had not led the search party for his missing twin. He would not have been able to walk for many months. Perhaps had even spent time recovering in hospitals himself. His injury explained so much.
Edmund swallowed. He hated himself for being relieved that there was a reason his brother had not come to find him. Never would Edmund wish the slightest harm on his twin, much less the loss of a leg. But, well… when one returned from war to discover one’s bride about to wed one’s childhood friend, one could easily begin to think he’d been forgotten completely.
Bartholomew opened his arms.
Edmund swallowed his brother in an embrace fierce enough to make up for several of their lost months.
“I hope I’m crushing your hideous cravat beyond all salvation,” he whispered into his brother’s ear.
“I hope the French haven’t permanently turned you off from bathing,” his twin shot back.
A bark of laughter escaped from Edmund’s throat. He clapped his brother on the back and broke their embrace to get a better look at him. “What happened to you?”
“I decided to be an Original. Any dandy can have two feet,” Bartholomew returned with a careless wave of his hand. He stared at Edmund as if he couldn’t quite credit that he was actually home. “I’ve missed you so much. What happened to you?”
Edmund’s smile fell and his mind shuttered closed. He didn’t wish to discuss what had happened to him. He had finally learned that the only way to stop dwelling on the past was to stop thinking about it altogether. To concentrate on the moment. On right now.
And right now, he had a bride to talk back to the altar. “Don’t suppose you’d loan me the use of your valet, brother?”
Chapter 4
When Sarah arrived back home at her parents’ London townhouse, her mother was on her knees peering beneath the dining room buffet table and her father was in his study packing books into boxes.
Not the housekeeper. Not the footmen. Her parents. Because they didn’t have servants anymore, save for an underpaid maid-of-all-work who they were unlikely to be able to retain.
The Fairfax pockets weren’t simply to let. They’d passed that milestone ages ago, and spiraled down into unsurmountable debt. Again.
Sarah had never told a soul about her family’s struggles. She was too ashamed.
Soon, however, there would be no hiding it. The Fairfaxes’ London days were over. No more modistes, no more soirees, no more nights at the theater. Ever since she was a small child, having a permanent home in London had been her dream. Her life thus far had boasted very little permanence. She never seemed to know from one day to the next what the future might bring.
The Fairfaxes would be returning to their country cottage forthwith, and they’d be fortunate indeed if they got to keep it. The books Sarah’s father packed so lovingly—the books given to him by his father, and his grandfather before him—were not earmarked for their country cottage, but rather a private collector. They were to be sold, along with all the other Fairfax valuables, in order to settle their overdue rent and pay for passage back to Kent for the entire family.
The situation was not entirely Sarah’s fault. Her mother had never displayed the slightest interest in whether there was a limit to their modest finances, and Sarah’s father had never displayed the slightest interest in anything other than indulging his wife.
Love matches like that could only lead to ruin.
This was not the first time that the Fairfax family’s circumstances had been reduced dramatically. The first such incident (that Sarah was old enough to remember) had occurred when she was but ten years old. Her dolls had been sold. Her music instructor sacked. Her faded dresses became increasingly ill-fitting. In short, it was the end of the world as far as ten-year-old Sarah was concerned.
Until she’d met Edmund. Beautiful, wonderful, lovable Edmund.
Her parents’ new cottage was
modest at best, but it was also on a parcel of land bordering the Blackpool estate.
The Blackpools were not rich—especially when compared to the titled neighbors who also held property nearby—but to Sarah, the handsome Blackpool twins were a welcome escape from the doldrums of impoverished youth.
It began with running and fishing and rolling down hills whilst shrieking with laughter. Normal things. Little-girl things. Until her parents overspent their funds again and even their cramped little cottage was in danger of being ripped from them.
That was the first time her older brother Anthony came home with tear-stained cheeks and a black eye. He had gambled. And lost more than he’d arrived with. The proprietor of the back-door gaming den was displeased, but Anthony had scarcely been fourteen years old. His failure was preordained. The proprietor had allowed the boy in with every intention of fleecing him.
The gambit succeeded. Once. But Sarah’s brother was not so easily discouraged.
To this day, she did not know where Anthony procured enough coin to gamble with, but within a fortnight he had come home with enough blunt to keep the roof over their heads for another six months. Her parents were relieved. Anthony was thrilled. He had not only provided for his family, he’d found the answer to never being poor again: gambling.
Sarah, on the other hand, had found a different solution to the problem. Marriage to Edmund Blackpool, the boy she adored.
If only he would have her.
Her family was undistinguished. An embarrassment, even. They told her the best she could hope for was someone young and pleasant, who was neither on the hunt for a title or an heiress, because he didn’t need one. Someone who wasn’t rich enough to have pretensions of marrying up, but who had enough financial stability to be reasonably comfortable for the rest of his life.
She didn’t want the “best she could hope for.” She wanted Edmund.
He was handsome and adventurous. Fearless and exciting. Reckless and romantic. He rubbed shoulders with aristocrats and yet still had time to take a maturing young girl for sunset walks along the winding river. He stole her first kiss. And then he stole her heart.
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