The Bride Says No

by Cathy Maxwell

  “Would you shut the window?” he barked at Jones.

  “Fresh air would be good for you, sir.”

  “And why do you think that?” Blake pushed back his hair with his hands and vowed to not drink one more drop of whisky with that devil Lord Tay.

  “Stirs the soul, sir. Stirs the soul.”

  “I thought sermons did that,” Blake grumbled. He stood, naked. Yawning, he crossed over to the screen to see to his morning business.

  “They might,” Jones was saying to him. “There is nothing like a rousing Calvinist screed read aloud to the uninitiated to vanquish dark and brooding natures.”

  “Sounds delightful.” Blake pulled on a pair of breeches and turned himself over to Jones’s services.

  Using soap scented with oriental spices, Jones lathered the rough beard covering Blake’s jaw before handing him a cup of strong tea from a tray on a side table. Letting the lather rest a moment, Jones prepared the razor.

  Blake began to feel better, enough so that he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. “Jones? Did you lay out my dress coat for me to wear to church?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And knee breeches and pumps?” Blake continued, incredulous. Though this outfit was part of every gentleman’s wardrobe, Blake didn’t even know why he had these clothes, as he avoided any stuffy occasion where he’d be required to wear them. Once. He’d worn them once. “I won’t wear them.”

  “It’s church, sir.”

  “It’s a country church. In Scotland. Give me my boots.”

  “We aren’t heathens, sir. You dress for church.”

  “We?” Blake frowned. “You are Scottish, Jones?”

  “Aye, I am,” Jones said, revealing a broad brogue. “Sir,” he offered as an afterthought.

  “Why didn’t I know that?” Jones had been with Blake for over two years.

  “You didn’t ask, sir.” Jones took the teacup and began applying the razor to Blake’s jaw, but Blake caught his wrist and stopped him.

  “But you haven’t sounded Scottish, Jones, until this moment. And Jones is not Scots . . . is it?”

  “A man can be a Jones and a Scot. There is no law against it. My father was a valet for an Edinburgh merchant, and I thought I’d find my fortune in London working for a fine gentleman. However, after several interviews I realized my accent was going against me.”

  “I would have still hired you if I had known you were Scottish,” Blake said. “And we need to close the window. This country has a chill even in August.”

  “Your blood is too thin, sir,” Jones said as he did as requested. “And you weren’t the one who hired me. Your father’s valet, Vernon, did. You and I settled in with each other after your brother Arthur gave me the sack.”

  “Oh, yes,” Blake said, remembering. “I saved you.”

  “Or I saved you. Your wardrobe made me shudder with horror.”

  “It was a good bargain.” Blake leaned back in the chair to be shaved.

  “It was, sir. The marquis still tosses valets aside as if we are nothing. It was providence that my path crossed yours.”

  Blake chuckled. “Providence had nothing to do with it. You couldn’t keep your tongue quiet, and Arthur doesn’t like any opinion save his own.”

  “While you, sir, barely pay attention to half of what I say.”

  Blake’s newly shaved skin tingled from the soap as he laughed at the truth in Jones’s statement. But then he halted the shaving progress to say with complete seriousness, “It doesn’t seem right you hide who you are. I know. When Penevey picked me up off the streets, I had to make the decision whether to pretend to be someone else or be the man I am.”

  “Once into the ruse, I couldn’t stop.”

  “You stop now.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “And because I am the man I am,” Blake continued, “I will not wear those pumps.”

  But in the end, he did.

  Jones insisted, and Blake was wise enough to listen to his valet, although his legs without boots felt, well, exposed.

  “Your boots will be here for you when you return, sir,” Jones promised, reaching up to tie a proper knot in Blake’s starched neck cloth.

  “So, tell me, Jones, what should I expect in church today?”

  “Good people who are probably brimming with a curiosity about you, since Lady Tara is a local favorite.” Jones often provided information to Blake, as did any servant worth the pay he received. He inspected his handiwork with the knot as he said, “You will have the attention of everyone in the kirk. They will watch every twitch of the eye and lift of the finger. Gloved finger,” he emphasized, pointing to the kid gloves he’d laid out on the dresser. Blake hated wearing them perhaps more than he detested pumps.

  Jones adjusted the knot a bit as he said, “If you think London is full of know-it-alls and busybodies, sir, wait until you experience country folk in Scotland.”

  Blake frowned. “Do you believe they will know that Lady Tara ran away from the marriage?”

  “I’ve been listening for that, sir. I’m certain Ingold and Mrs. Watson are aware, but if the other servants have an inkling, they have not breathed a word. They are very loyal here.”

  “Even about Lady Aileen’s divorce?” Blake wanted to discover what he could about the incident.

  “They are especially protective of her, sir.”

  That was unusual. In London, a story like Aileen Hamilton’s would have been common gossip amongst the servants.

  Blake held out his arms so that Jones could help him into his dark blue dress coat. “Keep listening. I’m interested in that regard.”

  His order was met by an uncharacteristic beat of silence, then Jones said, “Are you still going to continue with this farce of a marriage, sir?”

  “I have no choice.”

  “There is always a choice, sir.”

  Blake smiled grimly. His man did not understand. “Not with any semblance of honor.”

  “Is your honor more important than having a wife who gives you comfort and sees to your needs?” Jones asked, offering Blake the gloves.

  “A man’s word is his bond.” Of all the dictums he’d schooled himself on in his quest to become a “gentleman,” this one rang truest. Even the scoundrels, pickpockets, and whores who had been a part of his early childhood understood a code of honor.

  “Then perhaps it wouldn’t be wise to ask more questions about Lady Tara’s sister?” Jones suggested.

  Blake bristled at the hint of disapproval, even while silently acknowledging Jones was correct. He should cool his interest in Lady Aileen. He should, but not quite yet.

  Instead of responding, he took a bite of the bun Jones had included on the morning tray and finished the tea he had started while dressing. From outside the window, he heard the sound of horses being brought around. “I must go.” He left the room, but Jones’s admonishment lingered in his mind.

  Penevey had said he needed a wife, and Blake had agreed with him. But finding a young woman from a suitable family had been difficult. In spite of the wealth he had created, the reputation he had established, and the duke’s recognition of him . . . most doting parents did not find him completely acceptable for their precious daughters—not if they could land a young man with a less dubious history. The world might admire a self-made man, but the ton never would. They lauded tradition.

  And Tara, too, had liabilities. For all her celebrated beauty, her father’s drinking, womanizing, and general reckless behavior, compounded with the scandal of her sister’s divorce, had seen her crossed off many a gentleman’s list for a wife—at least from their parents’ perspectives.

  And Blake was no fool. He knew Penevey had approached him about marrying Tara Davidson because the duke wanted to save his heir from her. Arthur had been making an embarrassment of himself in his pursuit of Tara. She was the one thing Arthur appeared to want with a dedicated enthusiasm.

  Considering all the mean-spirited pranks Arthur and
his ilk had visited upon Blake when they had been in school together, Blake had taken great satisfaction in winning the lady.

  And he promised himself that in spite of how silly he found Tara, he would be a good husband to her. This marriage would give his children legitimate bloodlines and social standing. It had already gained him great approval from Penevey, a man of whom he was never certain yet someone he wanted to please, as all sons, even bastards, wished to do.

  God, he was even going to church.

  “Ah, there you are, Stephens,” the earl of Tay greeted him. The earl was standing in the front hall, his hat on his head. He wore knee breeches and pumps, and Blake silently prayed he cut a better figure in the clothes than the earl. “I was afraid I needed to send Ingold for you. The ladies are already tucked into the coach.”

  The ladies. That meant Lady Aileen.

  Blake’s step picked up its pace. He walked out the front door to the waiting vehicle.

  The coach had a row of seats facing each other. Lady Aileen sat on one side; Tara on the other.

  He dutifully took his place beside Tara, but he welcomed the opportunity to feast his eyes on Aileen.

  Naturally, Tara looked fetching in a dress of soft white muslin trimmed in green silk ribbons. Her cheeks glowed with youth and country air. Green-hued pheasant feathers decorated her stylish bonnet.

  At first glance, one would think Aileen was a dull duckling compared to her sister, but Blake found her handsome. Very handsome, indeed.

  She wore a dark blue day dress with a neckline that was cut higher than her sister’s and lacked any embellishment, but none was needed because the style emphasized her full breasts and trim figure, and the color highlighted the near perfection of her complexion. Instead of a bonnet, she wore a soft cap that reminded him of a painting he’d seen of an Italian countess. All she lacked was a strand of creamy white pearls.

  Blake wondered if she realized that the blue in her dress brought out the gray in her eyes.

  He found he longed to tell her.

  But he couldn’t, because Jones was right, damn him. No good would come from this attraction to Aileen Hamilton . . . other than to create another scandal, something Blake could not afford to do.

  And yet he found himself wondering how much truth there was in what the gossips said about her. Everything about her demeanor was at odds with the accusations whispered about her. He could not picture her having an affair or being inconstant. The rumors struck him as inconsistent with what little he knew about her.

  Tara beamed a becoming smile that brought a celebrated dimple to her cheek and asked, “Are you prepared for our big step?”

  He assumed she meant the announcement of the banns. “Of course,” he murmured. “For our ‘Highland’ wedding.”

  If Tara detected the hint of derision in his voice, she didn’t comment.

  But Aileen had noticed. The corners of her mouth had tightened. She didn’t say anything. She wouldn’t.

  The earl climbed into the coach and knocked on the ceiling for the driver to take off, while Tara began prattling on about her new plans for their wedding breakfast as if there wasn’t any other topic in the world more important.

  Blake pretended to listen.

  He tried not to stare at Lady Aileen, yet every once in a while, their eyes met. In her expression, he saw confirmation of his belief that she had been evading him on purpose, and he wondered if perhaps she didn’t feel some measure of attraction for him as well. What other reason could she have for not wishing his company?

  It was a heady idea, especially since Blake had never experienced this mysterious pull toward one woman in particular. She aroused his hunting instincts.

  He could even smell her scent. Light, slightly floral, yet there was a note of something deeper, something sensual—

  Tara’s hand touched his arm. “Don’t you find it to be true, Mr. Stephens?”

  Blake’s mind scrambled. “Um, yes,” he improvised.

  “I though you would agree,” Tara said, beaming happily.

  Blake wondered what he’d agreed to, but instead of offering more explanation, she glanced out the window and announced, “Ah, we are here.”

  The coach had rumbled into the village of Kenmore. They passed what appeared to be a well-tended inn, a welcome sight to any man trapped at Annefield. The church, or kirk, was located on the banks of Loch Tay. The yard around it was filled with vehicles of all shapes and sizes, although they had the only coach and driver. The service would be crowded today.

  When the coach rolled to a halt, the earl’s footman opened the door and the earl stepped out with all the grandness of the Lord Mayor of London.

  There were quite a few parish members gathered outside, enjoying a moment in the fine weather before going inside the kirk. A murmur went through them at the earl’s appearance, then well-dressed and prosperous people rushed to greet him as if he’d been a returning hero.

  Tay enjoyed the adulation. He grandly helped his daughters out of the coach. Blake was interested to note that Lady Aileen, a divorced woman, was not ostracized the way he would have anticipated. Why, in London, he doubted if anyone would have been pleasant to her. But here, she appeared accepted. Oh, there were a few prune faces, but there always were.

  Tara was greeted with the welcome of a favorite child. They all gathered around her, surprised that she was there. Several women her age rushed up to her, wanting to know if she was married, and that was when Blake was presented with warm welcomes.

  Their ready acceptance was a strange experience. The locals were more open than he had imagined. The people he was meeting refuted the image of dour-faced Scots. The men looked him in the eye and the women were gracious. Their words of greeting sounded genuine, and they introduced themselves by names he knew he would not be able to remember—but found he wanted to. These were good people, and not one of them demonstrated an undercurrent of “knowingness,” the term Blake always applied for those who were overly aware of his dubious parentage.

  The earl spoke in a carrying voice about how his daughter had wanted a Highland wedding. Many of the women nodded, as if they had already heard this fact. Blake played the dutiful husband-to-be, nodding and standing by Tara . . . while his gaze drifted to Lady Aileen—

  No, he couldn’t do that. He had to keep his focus on Tara, but the task was difficult.

  The minister rang a bell, a signal that the service was about to begin.

  Moving with his friends toward the door, the earl announced, “Stephens will know you all better on the morrow. We’re holding a hunt. Everyone is welcome. Midday tomorrow. It’s been a while since I’ve seen my hounds at work.”

  Heads nodded and smiles broke out. Several commented that the day would be good for hunting and promised to attend.

  “What day will the wedding be?” a dowager in purple half mourning asked.

  That question stopped conversation, as everyone seemed keen on the answer.

  “We will be discussing that matter with Reverend Kinnion,” the earl said, placing a hand on the minister’s arm.

  The well-dressed Reverend Kinnion, a thin man with a pale complexion and wispy brown hair, nodded agreement.

  “I shall come round to Annefield to discuss the matter, my lord,” Kinnion answered, adjusting the spectacles on his nose. “But now let us proceed inside for the service. The Lord awaits.” He waved his hands, shepherding them in front of him.

  Of course, the earl of Tay had his own pew in the cool darkness of the church. It was a narrow space, but the four of them managed to squeeze in, the sisters side by side, then Blake next, with Tay on the outside.

  The Davidsons were also surrounded by family.

  In the hurried moments before the service started, Blake was introduced to uncles, aunts, and distant cousins. It seemed a quarter of the congregation were relatives of the earl of Tay.

  One woman who stood out was Miss Sabrina Davidson. She was the only child of the earl’s younger brother, a ghastl
y, grim man who served as magistrate, a fitting role for him. Miss Davidson’s demeanor was the opposite of her father’s. A buxom brunette, she had a sunny smile.

  It was obvious that she and Lady Aileen were great friends. Tara seemed equally pleased to greet her cousin, but Blake noticed that Miss Davidson’s reception toward her was cool.

  He also found he was growing out of his morning grumpiness. He had not considered that marriage would mean becoming part of a large extended family, one that appeared to readily accept him. He liked the thought.

  His mother had no family that he knew of, or none that had stepped forward to take him in after she died, and his relationship with the duke was a delicate matter. His half brothers would have been happy to wrap him in a sack and toss him into the Thames if they’d been able to wangle it without being suspected.

  So the Davidsons’ easy acceptance of him into the family touched a deep chord within him. He found himself reaching for Tara’s gloved hand. She raised surprised brows. He had never made such a simple, gentle move. He smiled and turned his attention to the service Jones had assured him would be instructive.

  Actually, it was. He was no biblical scholar, so, on this Sunday morning, the story of a Good Samaritan was fresh to him, and meaningful. The idea that one man should help another for no reason other than it being the right thing to do resonated strongly in Blake. He’d always believed he had some responsibility to his fellow man, and Reverend Kinnion’s words reinforced his conviction.

  Furthermore, as he sat there among the congregation, a contentment he’d not known before settled upon him. In London, his goal was to validate himself. Always and relentlessly. But here, the knots of tension and determination loosened. He liked being with these people.

  The time came for the announcing of the banns. Another couple was having their banns announced, and Blake was interested to realize that one half of the couple was Tay’s horse master. He’d conversed with the man a time or two when he’d been around the stables. Jamerson was his name. He had the dark, brooding look that women always seemed to like. His betrothed was attractive in appearance but not stunning. This was their second announcing of the banns.