The Bad Luck Bride for comp

by Jane Goodger

  “I suppose a house full of women isn’t much fun for a young man,” Elda said, laughing, while Alice tried not to feel too disappointed. Her thoughts of the day’s events mingled with the soft clacking of her mother’s knitting needles and the occasional rustle of a page from the book her sister was reading. A book sat on Alice’s lap as well, but it was impossible to read with her thoughts whirling about her head.

  “You seem distracted this evening, Alice,” her mother said, looking up from her knitting.

  She glanced down at her book. “Oh, no. Just tired.” Liar.

  “It’s the fresh sea air,” Elda said. “There is something about being close to the sea that is so fatiguing.”

  “It’s a good sort of fatigue. That’s why I’m living here forever,” Alice said feelingly. “There is nothing like St. Ives.”

  “Alice, you cannot live here forever, you silly goose. What will you do when Mama and Papa are no longer here?” Christina cast a look of apology to their mother. “Oliver will eventually get married, for all his protestations to the contrary. And I doubt he’d like to have his sister hanging about.”

  Alice hated when her younger sister was more practical than she.

  “I’ll live with you.”

  Christina laughed. “I’m afraid His Grace and I will not have room in our castle.”

  “You’re marrying a duke, are you?”

  “Why not? My grandfather is a duke,” Christina said predictably. “I don’t know why you didn’t have higher aspirations.”

  Alice shot her little sister a look of disbelief. “I was engaged to marry a baron and a viscount. And a pretend earl. I hardly call that having low aspirations.”

  Elda looked between her daughters, an indulgent smile on her face. “If you want to marry a duke and Alice wants to marry a baron, that’s fine with me.”

  “I’m not getting married to anyone,” Alice announced, and was surprised when her mother and her sister both laughed. “I’m not,” she insisted. “Don’t you think it highly unlikely at this point that anyone will want to marry me? The bad luck bride?”

  Elda furrowed her brow. “Christina, you didn’t.”

  “Someone had to tell her. Really, Mother, did you think she wouldn’t find out?”

  Alice quickly interjected before her mother got truly angry with Christina. “Mother, it’s far better that I know than not. This way when someone says something—and they will—I shall be prepared. Harriet told me already at any rate, so you cannot place sole blame on Christina.”

  “That silly moniker will not prevent you from marrying,” Elda said firmly. “I’m certain most people have already forgotten it or haven’t read that awful piece in the first place.”

  “Maybe we can bribe someone to marry her,” Christina said cheerfully. “What about Mr. Southwell?”

  Alice immediately felt her face heat. “That’s just silly. He’s far too good a friend to subject him to having you as a sister-in-law.”

  Christina stuck out her tongue and Elda tsked. “Girls, that is enough. No one is marrying anyone in the foreseeable future.”

  “I might marry next year,” Christina said. “I’ve made a list of potential suitors already.” She giggled. “Would you like to know who is at the top of the list?”

  Alice struggled not to roll her eyes. “I know very well who is at the top of your list. It might as well be Prince Edward.”

  “He’s married,” Christina quipped. “And Prince Napoleon is living in England now, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. It’s all you can speak of. You do know there is talk of him marrying Princess Beatrice.”

  Christina made a face. “Have you seen her nose?”

  “Christina!” Elda looked at her daughter, shocked.

  “Well, have you?”

  Alice tried her best to stifle her laughter but found it nearly impossible. “You are terrible. The princess is really a lovely person.” Christina picked up her book pointedly and began to read, effectively ending the conversation and leaving Alice to her own thoughts again, which immediately returned to the path to Tregrennar and Henderson.

  And that kiss.

  Forever it would be sealed in her memory. She wished it had never happened, that she hadn’t teased him about his kiss being brotherly. It would be far better to have never experienced Henderson’s skilled caresses. The thought of a man’s tongue in her mouth would have repulsed her just one day before. Truthfully, the thought of any man’s tongue other than Henderson’s made her feel slightly queasy. With that one, scorching, life-altering kiss, Henderson had completely changed the way she thought of him. While her heart had always stepped up a beat whenever he walked in a room, now it seemed ready to explode out of her body just at the thought of him. She felt odd and faint and not at all herself. And she didn’t like it one bit, because she had a terrible feeling that after he’d done kissing her and stepped back, he hadn’t given another thought to how wonderful it had been. All her friends had insisted that men felt differently about kissing than did women. For a woman to kiss, it was far more emotional, held far more meaning. Men went around kissing girls all the time if they could get away with it. Four years ago, even as sheltered as she’d been, she’d heard the rumors about Henderson being quite the ladies’ man.

  For him it had been a kiss. For her it had been the kiss.

  The kiss that changed her life. Now she was even more certain that she would never marry. For what man could she possibly marry who could make her forget she wasn’t in the arms of the man she loved?

  Chapter 8

  Henderson returned, as promised, just before midnight. He’d been in the Downalong, the very old center of St. Ives, sharing drinks and stories with one of the chaps Joseph and he used to see when they were in school. Percy Taylor was the son of a local squire and was one of the most intelligent men Henderson had ever known. Unfortunately, Percy also had a tendency to think of all others who didn’t share his intelligence as lesser beings. Still, he was sharp-witted and a nice distraction—and he had mellowed in the past four years since his marriage and the birth of his daughter. The last time Henderson had seen Percy was at Joseph’s funeral, a common theme since his return to England. They studiously avoided talking about Joseph, to Henderson’s great relief. It was difficult enough staying at Tregrennar with all its ghosts without discussing Joseph with every man he met who had known of their friendship. Like Henderson, Percy had not been there the night Joseph died.

  Instead they talked about Percy’s life, politics, the weather, and India, though Henderson did not go into detail about the famine. The truth was, Henderson wanted to forget about the suffering for a time. A note had been forwarded to him with his luggage from Lord Berkley, setting up a meeting the following day. He would save his thoughts of India for that meeting; this night was for drinking and laughing with an old friend.

  He had said a good night to Percy and was about to walk through the door when Sebastian Turner—one of the men who had been there that fateful night—entered the pub. Henderson recognized him immediately and was tempted to pretend he didn’t see him, but Sebastian, after a double take, greeted him with far more enthusiasm than Henderson felt.

  “My God, Henderson. What are you doing in St. Ives? Come sit and catch up.”

  The two men sat at the very same table Henderson had just vacated, and after giving the other man a brief accounting of his time in St. Ives, Sebastian sat back and shook his head in wonder. “I cannot believe you are here. How long has it…” His voice trailed off as he realized precisely how long it had been. “Ah, that night.”

  Sebastian stared at his tankard of beer for a long moment. “A hellish time, wasn’t it? Tristan is dead, you know. Two years ago. Hunting accident, apparently.”

  “No, I didn’t know.” Tristan had been part of their small group, and had been Sebastian’s closest friend. But the five of them—Joseph, Henderson, Tristan, Sebastian, and Gerald—had spent a lot
of time together at Oxford, carousing and generally raising hell. Now, two of their group were dead. It was difficult to comprehend. “I’m sorry.”

  Sebastian shrugged, but Henderson saw a deep pain in the other man’s eyes before he took a long drink of his beer. “I was wondering,” he said, staring into his beer, “did Joseph ever mention a Mr. Stewart?”

  Henderson thought back and couldn’t recall such a conversation. “I don’t believe so, but he may have.”

  An odd smile crossed Sebastian’s face. “You would have remembered. Just wondering.”

  The conversation turned to other things, their exploits, the women, and they drew more than one patron’s attention with their laughter.

  “We’ll get together again before I leave for India, shall we? I’m staying at the Hubbards’—Lady Hubbard insisted—and I dare not be too late.” Henderson stood and shook the other man’s hand. “It was good to see you, Sebastian.”

  “Likewise.” He grinned suddenly. “I’m getting married, you know. In November. Do you remember Cecelia Whitemore?”

  “Of course. Congratulations. I haven’t gone down that road yet.”

  “I am running down that road, Mr. Southwell.”

  Henderson let out a chuckle. “So it’s like that, is it?”

  His grin widened. “It is.”

  Henderson left the pub feeling a bit melancholy. It has been grand seeing Sebastian, even though talking with him brought back painful memories, but it had also been shocking to hear another of his friends had died. Though he was feeling a bit of the effects of alcohol, by the time he reached Tregrennar, he was quite sober—a good thing, too, for the minute he walked in the door he noticed a dim light showing beneath the library door, which could mean only one thing: Alice was waiting for him.

  “Hell,” he whispered, staring at the thin bit of light. Just seeing it, knowing she was there curled up in a chair with a book, probably wearing her nightgown and a robe, was enough to make him ache. God, he wanted her.

  To subject himself to the torture of being in the same room as Alice, knowing the only thing that separated him from her naked flesh was two thin layers of fabric, was enough to drive him mad. He stood there, hearing only his breath and the soft clicking of a hall clock, and stared at that light, feeling the heavy weight of his arousal. Suddenly the light was doused, and he was caught in the middle of the wide hallway with nowhere to go and certainly not enough time to make his escape before the door opened and…

  She appeared before his muddled mind could decide whether he should run or hide, and so he was left standing there stupidly. “Alice.”

  She let out a sound. “My goodness, Henderson, I didn’t see you there.”

  “I thought not, and I didn’t want to startle you. But it seems I did in any case.” He grinned, even knowing it was too dark for her to see.

  “I was going to retire. Are you just getting home?”

  “I am. I saw the light and…well…” He bent his head, feeling foolish. “I was trying to decide whether or not I should go in.”

  Even in the darkness, he could see her tilt her head. “Was it such a difficult decision?”

  “I’m tired and I know how you can talk,” he said, teasing her because he certainly couldn’t tell her the truth. I couldn’t go in because if I did I knew I would do something very foolish. And very wonderful.

  “Come on, then. I need to tell you about the last four years and it may take a while.” She turned around and walked back into the library, sure he would follow. And after the smallest hesitation, he did, vowing he would not do what he wanted to do even if it killed him.

  He nearly groaned aloud when she lit a small lamp, for her hair was in a thick braid down her back, and she was, indeed, wearing only a nightgown and robe. And why not? She thought of him as a brother. It irked him, to be honest, that she could be so naïve as to think he didn’t want to ravish her, didn’t realize it took a hellish effort not to go up behind her and draw her against him so she could feel just how aroused he was.

  She settled on a large, deep sofa and curled her legs up beneath her while he threw himself on an oversized chair opposite; the same spots they had sat four years earlier.

  “What would you like to know?” She drew her knees up and rested her chin on them, looking adorable and desirable. Henderson crossed his legs and winced.

  “Tell me about your betrotheds. Is that a word? Can you make betrothed plural?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes, you can. Is that what you really want to know?”

  “I suppose what I really want to know is why you didn’t write.”

  Her eyes flew wide and she laughed. “I did. All the time. I just didn’t send the letters. I didn’t know where you were and I couldn’t send them to your grandparents. What if they read what I’d written?”

  Something sharp hit his heart. “You wrote?”

  “I did. I still have the letters.”

  He was completely taken aback. “May I see them?”

  “Never,” she said with an adamant shake of her head. “Never, ever. Once I realized I would never actually send them, they became a diary of sorts. Those letters helped me with what happened to Joseph.” She was silent for a few beats. “Why didn’t you write? You certainly knew how to reach me.”

  Henderson looked toward the fire, which still held a few glowing embers. “I did,” he said softly. At her soft gasp, he shook his head. “I didn’t send my letters either. I burned them. Every time.”

  “Why?”

  Henderson shrugged, unwilling to tell her the real reason. They had been far too intimate. Far too honest. He had poured out his heart in those letters, about Joseph. About her. He thanked God every day for burning them. “They were silly, inconsequential things. I’m not much of a writer.”

  Alice gave him a skeptical look but let it go. “All right then. I’ll tell you about all three of my betrotheds.” And she did. It wasn’t until the east was seeing the first glow of the sunrise that they stopped talking. It had been the most fun Henderson had had, well, since the last time he’d spent hours in the library with Alice. God, he’d missed her, more than he’d even realized.

  When conversation lulled and the fire, which Henderson had stoked at some point in the evening, had again turned to coals, Alice stood and stretched. Her robe had opened, just enough so that when she arched her back, her lovely dusky nipples, hard from the cold, were clearly visible, and his mouth went dry. In that split second, the control that Henderson had kept well in check nearly cracked. Snapping his gaze down, he took a deep breath. And again.

  “Henderson?” She stood in front on him, so damned innocent, her breasts clearly showing through the thin material.

  “Cover yourself, Alice. For God’s sake.”

  * * *

  Alice felt her face burn and knew she had turned a brilliant red. Drawing the robe tightly around her, she said, “Sorry, I didn’t realize.”

  Henderson let out a gusty sigh. “I know you think of me as a brother, Alice, but I am not. I’m a man and when a man has a half-dressed woman in front of him, well, it can be difficult.”

  “Difficult?”

  “Difficult for the man not to touch—” He snapped his mouth shut and Alice’s eyes grew wide. She couldn’t help it, she smiled.

  “You think I’m pretty.” It was a statement.

  “God, Alice, more than pretty. I can hardly keep my hands from you.”

  She furrowed her brow. “Truly?”

  “Yes, truly.” Henderson sounded angry, but Alice sensed it was directed more toward himself than at her. “It was that bloody kiss. It never should have happened. I never should have kissed you that way.”

  “Oh.” Alice pulled in her lips, uncertain what to say, how to act. She’d always been so comfortable with Henderson and she didn’t much like this awful tension between them. Yes, she’d had a crush on him when she was a girl, but she was no longer a girl. And
what she was feeling, that dense throbbing between her legs, was no crush. It was desire. Feeling a bit startled and more than a little frightened—of herself, not Henderson—she took a step back. “Yes, you are right. I…” Again she pulled in her lips, and Henderson’s gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth. The terrible throbbing got worse.

  “I think I’ll retire now, before I do something I’ll regret even more,” Henderson said gravely. “I don’t think it is a good idea for us to meet here anymore. We probably never should have in the first place, now that I think of it.”

  Alice nodded. “You are right. But I shall miss our talks.”

  “We can still talk, you goose,” Henderson said on a laugh. “But perhaps we should do so when the sun is shining and with people about.”

  Alice frowned. “That won’t nearly be as much fun, will it?”

  “Perhaps not. But we cannot get in trouble. You do realize that if anyone discovered us, it would be disastrous.”

  Disastrous. Yes, it would. But Alice couldn’t stop the stab of disappointment that Henderson thought the idea of being compromised would have disastrous consequences. It somehow didn’t matter that she had vowed never to marry. “I suppose I never thought of that. Truly, Henderson, if my mother walked down right this minute, I don’t think she’d say a thing. She knows you are practically family.”

  “Perhaps. But perhaps not. And neither of us wants to take that chance.”

  “So our first kiss is our last kiss,” Alice said, her stomach tumbling at the thought.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  No. The word exploded in her head. She had to have one more kiss. “Before you leave for good, would you kiss me one more time, Henny? For old time’s sake?” He stiffened, and Alice immediately regretted her words. “Just a kiss on the cheek,” she said with forced cheer. “Right here.” She dimpled her cheeks and pressed an index finger into the small indent.