The Bride Says No

by Cathy Maxwell

  “Why did you make an offer to me?” she pressed. “Say it. I’m asking for your honesty, Blake. Admit it, you don’t care about me. You never did.”

  “Then why did you accept my offer?” he answered, true anger lighting his eyes.

  “That is a fair question,” she replied. She struggled to sort through her feelings, feelings she hadn’t recognized having until that awful moment in London when she’d realized she had to find Ruary. Even after a week of considering the matter, many of her reasons seemed jumbled in her mind . . . but some things were clear to her.

  Tara lifted her gaze to meet his. “I was flattered. They all wanted you, you know, all the women. You are handsome, but you are also aloof and perhaps a bit dangerous because of your past. And then there is your role as the duke of Penevey’s black sheep. That he recognized you, that he might even prefer you over his legitimate sons, makes you very intriguing.”

  “I’m no rake.”

  “You don’t have to be,” she said. “Everyone knows the only gambling you do is the occasional wager, although your friends are out and outers. You aren’t known for dueling or imbibing, although the one duel you fought, you won.”

  “That is no advantage to losing.”

  Tara had to smile. Blake had a quick wit. “What interested me most of all,” she continued, “is that you don’t need your father. Yes, Penevey played an important role in your life, but you are the sort of man who would have succeeded at whatever endeavor he chose. You can’t imagine how jealous I am. I have so few choices.”

  “No, Tara, you can’t blame your decisions on your father.”

  “I’m not,” she replied, stung by his verdict. “I mean, Father is a trial. I recognized his vices and that he will never be a doting parent. But my choices are limited because I’m female. Perhaps if I was as bold as you or male, I could make my own way in the world.”

  “We all make our own way,” he said, “but only the successful brag about it.”

  “Oh, please,” she said with irritation. “You criticize me for not conforming to how I’m expected to behave, then chide me for not being more independent?”

  “I chide you for wanting me to believe you are defenseless. There are mother wolves more defenseless than you, Tara. You always take care of yourself—”

  “I have a heart—”

  “And a reputation for playing fast and loose with it—”

  “Are you going to claim your heart is involved now?” Tara demanded, stung by his accusation.

  “I don’t even know if I have a heart,” Blake returned. “Certainly it has never been attached. A combination of luck and good sense has made me very wealthy, but I’ve had to work bloody hard, my lady, for everything I have. You asked why I courted you?” He laughed softly, a self-deprecating sound. “Of course it was because Arthur and all three of my ‘brothers’ don’t consider me good enough to clean their boots. And because my father, a man who didn’t claim me until I was ten, but claim me he did, advised me that I could change the future of my children with a good wife.”

  “Or Penevey wished me removed from the danger of becoming Arthur’s wife.”

  “That as well,” Blake agreed without missing a beat. “And don’t think I didn’t understand that fact when I offered for you.”

  “He needn’t have feared. As you pointed out, Arthur is not wealthy, but also, I do have standards.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Then we have the same opinion of Arthur.”

  “But is that enough, Blake?”

  “Enough for what?” he answered, his annoyance plain.

  “On which to build a marriage?”

  Blake backed away from her. “I don’t know anything any longer.” Again, there was a tone of self-criticism.

  “Tell me what you are thinking,” she asked, softening her voice.

  “You wish to know what I think? I believe you consider me a fool. You left London without a care about what your jilting would cost me. If you jilted Arthur, a duke’s heir and a marquis in his own right, he would have survived. But myself?” His eyes narrowed into hard glints. “If it was known that you’d bolted on me, I would have been a laughingstock. I would have lost respect. Do you know how hard I’ve had to work for every single thing I own? And that you would undo it all because of your flightiness?”

  “But what if I love someone else?”

  The words had just flowed out of her. A question that perhaps had not been wise to speak aloud, yet there it was: her very soul before him.

  The set of his mouth turned grim. “I will not be cuckolded, Tara. I will not have a wife who shows no discretion. I may not be able to control you, but I can certainly make any other man think twice before he takes you.”

  “Even if it means we are both unhappy?”

  “What does happiness have to do with honor?”

  “Perhaps not very much,” she admitted. “But it has much to do about love.”

  “And what do you know about love, my lady? What do any of us know? Love is a ‘feeling.’ A piece of nonsense to make us believe there is a deeper importance to our actions than what there is.”

  “Am I important, Blake?”

  “Are you asking if I am as besotted over you as half your suitors? In a word, no.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant,” Tara countered, softly, stung by his bluntness. “I’m talking about love.”

  “And what is love then?” he challenged.

  Tara thought of Ruary, of how she felt when she was with him—the racing of her pulse, the desire, no, the need to be as close to him as possible. “Love,” she said, raising her gaze to meet his, “means doing whatever I must for the person I love. Even if my heart is hurt in the process.”

  He considered her a moment, then answered, “You are lovely, Tara. I mean no insult when I confess I do not love you.”

  “And yet you would object to my finding someone I genuinely love?”

  “First, my lady, I can’t imagine you being selfless. And secondly, I keep what is mine,” he said.

  “You are a bastard,” she whispered.

  “You force me to be,” he countered.

  Her response was to pick up her skirts and go flying for the house.

  Blake watched Tara run as if she feared he would give chase.

  She was wrong, of course. He didn’t chase women. And Penevey was the only man to whom he had ever conceded his pride.

  He was his own person. An island in a teeming sea of opportunists, charlatans and other selfish creatures. The only person he could trust was himself. To the devil with the rest of them.

  Except now he was shackled to Tara Davidson. Damn her to holy hell.

  She had taken what should have been a simple matter, a marriage, and turned it into a fight for his very self-respect.

  Blake turned, looking in the direction of the stables, and discovered the horse master standing by the entrance, the reins of his horse in his hand. Chances were that he’d had a view of Blake and Tara arguing.

  For a long moment, the two men took each other’s silent measure.

  If the horse master thought he would best Blake, he was wrong.

  For a second, Blake toyed with the idea of calling the man out. However, there was no honor in dueling with a man beneath one’s station in life.

  Of course, the problem was, Blake didn’t truly know what his station was.

  The marriage was to solve that, he realized. The marriage would give him roots.

  But if he didn’t marry Tara, then what?

  There were people who would adore a story of his fall from grace.

  He could not let that happen. He would not.

  It was a devil of a fix . . . especially since the woman he realized he wanted was not Tara at all but her sister.

  Chapter Eleven

  The earl of Tay had gone a-courting. On a Sunday evening, no less.

  Aileen could barely contain her exasperation. The earl had left Annefield to call on the widow Bossley, and s
he doubted if any of them would hear from him until the morning or perhaps even the next few days. With this type of behavior, he’d become the talk of the valley, while she would be reproached for wearing her hem too short or some such nonsense.

  Of course, he would be forgiven because men were always allowed freedoms with a knowing wink. A blind eye would also be given to Mrs. Bossley because she was widowed . . . and, well, no one cared about her.

  But if Aileen stepped out of line, if she made a face at the butcher or indulged in even the mildest flirtations, she would find herself pilloried!

  Worse, the earl had charged off without saying anything to anyone. She had discovered he’d left when she’d gone to knock on his door to let him know that a light supper would be served in the family dining room. His valet had informed her that he wasn’t home. The earl hadn’t even thought to pen a note to her.

  It was already late in the evening. Supper should have been thought of earlier. Since Mrs. Watson always had Sundays off and Cook had left to visit her family after dinner, Aileen should have been the one doing the thinking, but she had been incapacitated. Yes, incapacitated. It was the only word she could think of that adequately described how she’d felt after her encounter with Mr. Stephens.

  The man unnerved her. All he had to do was look at her a certain way or put his arm around her and ideas, yearnings and desires that she’d thought she’d grown too wise to entertain filled her head.

  And it was not wise to have these thoughts. He was to be her brother-in-marriage—yet the attraction she felt for him was real. It had been from the time she’d first laid eyes on him.

  She was not some green girl. She’d danced with fire before, and she knew the danger. With Geoff and, later, with Peter, she’d betrayed herself over and over.

  Only at Annefield had she finally achieved some measure of peace.

  And then what did a benevolent God do? He sent a man with the power to stir up discontent and longings inside Aileen that were better left for dead.

  But this afternoon, Mr. Stephens had made her realize she wasn’t very alive.

  Mr. Stephens also wasn’t free.

  He belonged to her sister, and Aileen had just spent a good two hours pacing the floor of her room and reminding herself of that fact.

  Was it any wonder, then, that she embraced the annoyance of her father’s slipping off for a lover’s tryst with all the passion of an overtaxed martyr? Especially since he was leaving her to deal with Tara and Mr. Stephens alone?

  Aileen crossed the hall to her sister’s door and knocked.

  “Who is it?” Tara’s muffled voice replied.

  “Your sister,” Aileen replied with some impatience. “I had the kitchen girl set out a cold spread for supper. I always eat light on Sunday evenings.” She paused and said, “Father is not here. Apparently he is off to call on his newest paramour, at this hour of the night. I wonder when he’ll return home?” Without waiting for an answer, she said, “I believe I will stay in my room this evening. I’m not feeling quite the thing. You need to see to Mr. Stephens.”

  There. She was done with the matter and would have run right back to her room save for Tara’s answer.

  “I’m not hungry. I’m not going downstairs.”

  Aileen turned back to the door. “Tara? Are you feeling well? Are you ill?”

  “I’m fine,” came the exhausted, disillusioned voice.

  Aileen reached for the door handle. “Dearest, let me see you—”

  The door was blocked from opening by Tara’s hand. “I’m fine,” came a more forceful response.

  “Then why don’t you want your supper?” Aileen said. “You need to entertain Mr. Stephens. He is your guest.”

  “I need time, Aileen.” There was a hitch in Tara’s breath as she spoke.

  The door was still cracked between them, and Tara stood away from Aileen’s line of sight. “Have you been crying?” Aileen demanded.

  “Oh, please. Enough. I’m no longer a child. If I don’t want to eat supper for any reason, then I don’t have to.”

  That was true. But there was another hard truth at work: Aileen needed Tara to help her keep her distance from Mr. Stephens. “Mr. Stephens is your guest,” she repeated.

  “I know.” There was a long, tension-filled pause, then Tara said, “My heart is breaking. I know you don’t approve of Mr. Jamerson, but there it is.”

  “I’m not without feelings,” Aileen answered, stung by Tara’s verdict.

  “But you can’t understand. You have never been in love.”

  “I’ve—” Aileen wanted to protest but then stopped. What could she say? Had she loved Geoff at one time? Or even Peter?

  Would she have done for either of them what Tara had been willing to do for Mr. Jamerson?

  “Life goes on, Tara,” she said, leaning closer to the crack in the door to whisper to her sister so that she could not be overheard. “It must.”

  “Blake knows about Ruary and me.” Tara’s words were edged in tears.

  So here was the problem. “Did you tell him?” Aileen asked.

  A portion of her sister’s face appeared in the door. “He found us together. Blake threatened he would destroy Ruary if I didn’t go through with the wedding.”

  For a second, jealousy the likes of which Aileen had never known speared through her.

  And anger.

  She had not mistaken the emotions she’d felt in the field today, but she was convinced that Mr. Stephens had experienced them as well. How humbling it was to realize that only moments later he’d delivered such an ultimatum to her sister.

  “Aileen? Are you still there?”

  Crossing her arms against her chest, Aileen gave herself a mental shake. Geoff had never been faithful. Perhaps Peter hadn’t either. And now Mr. Stephens was proving himself to be like all the rest. This was what God had wanted her to see, and she thanked her Almighty for this cold dose of reality.

  “I’m here,” she said. She shot a bitter glance in the direction of Mr. Stephens’s door, then leaned closer to where Tara stood to say, “Men are territorial.”

  “I understand they are. I don’t believe Blake wants me. He doesn’t have any feelings for me. But if I can’t have Ruary, I don’t know how I shall go on,” Tara confessed tearily.

  “But you will,” Aileen soothed. In truth, she didn’t understand Tara’s desire for Mr. Jamerson. Had she not left him once, years ago? “Darling, have you ever considered that what you feel for the horse master might merely be an infatuation? Or a way to accept the changes that marriage will bring?”

  The answer was the door being slammed in Aileen’s face so hard she could have lost her nose if she hadn’t pulled back in time.

  Pressing a hand to her almost injured nose, Aileen said to the door, “Tara, you would be wise to take this evening and work out what is in your heart and mind. The pain of regret is the worst you will ever suffer. If you do not wish to marry Mr. Stephens, don’t. We’ll see our way through this.”

  Silence was the only answer.

  Aileen hated silence.

  She was also disgusted that the earl and Tara both lived their lives according to their whims without a thought to anyone else.

  But Aileen was not like them. She understood responsibility. They had a guest, and while Tara and the earl seemed determined to ignore him, Aileen knew someone must see to his expectations. It was the right thing to do.

  She turned to his door. For a second, it seemed to glow and pulse with all sorts of imagined possibilities. Taking one step toward it was a risk.

  She also knew nothing could stop her.

  Straightening her shoulder, her heart pounding against the wall of her chest, her every nerve poised over the anticipation of seeing him again, Aileen crossed to the door and knocked.

  Immediately, the door opened.

  But instead of Mr. Stephens, Aileen found herself face-to-face with his valet. She could barely hide her disappointment.

  “I wish to i
nform Mr. Stephens that supper will be light tonight, as it usually is on a Sunday eve. It has been laid out in the dining room. Of course, I would be happy to send up a tray,” she added, wanting to come across as a hostess.

  “Mr. Stephens is not here, my lady.”

  That was not the reply she’d expected.

  “Not here?” Had he taken off as well without a word? Were all males without manners?

  She knew the answer to that question.

  “Where is he?” Her words sounded sharper than she intended, and the valet’s brows rose accordingly.

  “I do not know, my lady.” In his tone was the reprimand that he didn’t believe it was his position, or hers, to question his master’s whereabouts.

  “Very well,” Aileen said, adopting her own hauteur. She walked away and went downstairs for a cold dinner alone. Just like every Sunday evening over the past three years.

  Of course, eating alone had never bothered her until this night—and not because of the absence of her sister and father.

  Reminding herself that Stephens was not hers to fuss and worry over did not take away the sting of his leaving without a word. He hadn’t even left a message for her through his valet.

  In the dining room, she picked up a plate from the stack of four left there. She used a fork to take a piece of cold sliced beef but found she didn’t have the appetite for more. Simon the footman hovered like he usually did.

  Aileen made a pretense of eating, but the food had no taste to her, and the meal was over all too quickly. Without conversation, eating alone was a practical ordeal, a matter dispatched with speedy resolve.

  However, once she’d finished, she did not move. Instead, she sat in the dining room, the table lit by a single candle, and found herself wondering at the emptiness of her life.

  She’d believed all was well. Now she realized she’d been pretending. She was lonely, and her encounter with Mr. Stephens had forcibly made her aware that, all evidence to the contrary, she still believed in love.

  The thought unsettled her. She was not as young as Tara, and life had taught her that Love—with a capital L—could not vanquish loneliness, fear and doubts. Love did not brighten her days or comfort her nights. Love would be steadfast, never wavering, and always accepting—but she’d never experienced it.