“Correct. We simply don’t want to give him any reason to change his mind. That is all.”
She thought about it another moment and imagined herself remaining with her uncle for the rest of her days.
“Money and freedom can have their uses.” She eyed that mysterious black portfolio with growing interest. “I do wish to take a look at your offer, Lord Hawthorne. Will there be any room for negotiation?”
The marquess raised an eyebrow in surprise, while his brother quickly opened the leather case.
Chapter 2
Seven days later
In the crisp, early evening air, a heavy crested coach, conveying Lord Garrett Sinclair from the train station, rumbled up the steep hill on its final approach to Pembroke Palace. The young golden-haired lord, who had come all the way from the Greek island of Santorini, was sound asleep inside.
There was neither a breath of wind, nor a single cloud in the sky. The moon’s bluish glow glistened upon the ice crystals that shimmered on the surface of the snow, while the sound of the coach wheels rolling over the frozen rutted road remained the only disturbance.
When at last the vehicle passed under the impressive triumphal arch and the horses’ hooves clattered over the icy stones on the cobbled court, Lord Garrett woke with a start and sucked in a deep gulp of air.
The dream was always the same... The relentless roar of the wind in the sails, the taste and grit of the salt on his lips, Johnny’s small wet hand slipping from his grip...
Like every other night since the accident, it woke Garrett like a violent, spiteful ghost.
Drenched in sweat, shivering in the chill of this punishing English weather, Garrett sat forward and worked to calm his breathing. When would it end? he wondered. Not just the extraordinary weather, but this terrible torment inside of him. Would he know happiness again? He prayed to God that this Christmas would deliver a gift, a reprieve from the agony had endured since spring. Otherwise he wasn’t sure he could go on living.
Sitting back, desperate for a distraction from the memory of that day on the water, he cupped his hands to the cold glass and peered out at the courtyard and palace, brightly lit up in the night.
Not much had changed since he had quit this house seven years earlier. It was still the same ostentatious braggart of wealth and social position—a sickening display of showy baroque architecture with giant towers and turrets, a commanding clock tower over a massive portico at the entrance, and enough steps to intimidate even the most privileged aristocrat—not to mention any decent common man of typical upbringing.
All of this belonged to his family alone, while thousands of decent, hard-working people starved in the poverty-stricken streets of London. Garrett wanted no part of this world, yet he needed the funds that his father had offered out of the strange depths of his madness. Garrett had come home to do what he must in order to secure them and put them to good use.
Nevertheless, what he must do plagued yet another part of him, for he supposed he was no better than a whore—selling himself for money—and he feared he was about to marry a woman cut from the same cloth. He did not know what to expect and was quite certain this was the second lowest point in his life. Not to be outdone, of course, by the first. Never to be outdone by that.
The coach crossed the courtyard and pulled to a careful halt at the front entrance. Garrett did not wait for the driver or a footman to open the door. He had been living too long outside this world of class distinctions and chose instead to flick the latch and alight from the vehicle on his own.
Tugging his coat collar tighter about his neck, he stepped out and exhaled sharply. His breath puffed out of him like thick smoke on the chilly night air. Just then the doors of the palace were flung open, and he braced himself for the enthusiastic welcome he did not wish to receive...until he saw his sister Charlotte approaching. His twin.
At the shocking sight of her—so grown up and lovely in her lavender dinner gown and jewels—whatever was left of his long-suffering heart snapped in two.
Heaven help him, this was not going to be an easy Christmas. Garrett wished he could leap forward in time to when it would be over, but that, unfortunately, was not possible. He would simply have to muddle through.
“Oh, Garrett! Dear, dear Garrett!”
His sister ran toward him without shawl or cloak and nearly knocked him over as she launched herself into his arms. Somehow he managed to keep his footing on the icy ground, and held onto her more tightly than he’d expected to do.
“Charlotte...” he softly said. “How I’ve missed you.” She was always the one he longed for most.
“And I, you,” she whispered in his ear. “Oh, Garrett. I feel whole again at last.”
He was vaguely aware of the servants collecting his bags, a footman speaking to the driver. Then all at once the world came back into focus and he found himself stepping out of his sister’s embrace to behold the other members of his family. They were all crowded around, shivering in the cold, waiting to welcome him home.
“Mother, it is good to see you.” Garrett stepped forward to kiss her on the cheek.
She looked older. Still beautiful, though. His head was spinning. Had it really been seven years?
As he backed away from his mother, he turned to face his two older brothers, Devon and Blake. They had dark coloring and tall, broad-shouldered frames. Like their father.
Garrett, on the other hand—for reasons no one wished to talk about—bore no resemblance to the duke whatsoever. He and Charlotte were golden-haired like their mother.
“You two look well.” He glanced toward the palace door. “Is Vincent here?”
“No,” Charlotte explained. “He and Cassandra have traveled abroad for an extended honeymoon. We are not certain when they will return. They seemed very determined to enjoy themselves.”
Devon stuck out his hand. “Words cannot express how pleased we are to have you home again.”
Garrett stared down at his brother’s outstretched hand. For a hazy moment, he was overcome by a surprising sense of nostalgia as he recalled the carefree days of his childhood when his father was nowhere in sight and he and his older brothers chased each other through the subterranean passages of the palace and played hide-and-seek in the garden.
Those days were long gone now, however. Garrett knew why the family was so pleased to see him, and it had little to do with brotherly affection. They simply needed him to secure their inheritances.
“Don’t get too used to it,” Garrett replied. “I hope I was clear in my letter. I do not intend to stay long.”
An awkward silence ensued. Garrett met his mother’s wounded gaze and felt an instant’s stirring of regret. She was a kind woman who had been his greatest protector when he was young, and he bore no ill will toward her, of all people. He would have to do better than this.
“I apologize,” he said. “It’s been a long journey. I am overtired and out of sorts.”
“No apologies are necessary.” She slid her arm through his. “Come inside, my darling. It’s much warmer by the fire. Are you hungry? I will have a hot supper prepared.”
“Thank you.” He glanced up at the tall clock tower overhead as they ascended the steps, and it was then that he noticed the duke had not come outside to greet him. Garrett was not surprised.
“Where is Father?”
There was a long pause, as if they each hoped someone else would provide an answer. As it happened, Blake was the only one willing to offer an explanation. “He is sleeping. The doctor gave him something to calm his nerves. We won’t likely see him until late tomorrow morning.”
It hardly mattered. Garrett had no illusions about being welcomed home with open arms by His Grace. The only son the duke ever cared about was Devon, his eldest—and the heir. The rest of them might as well have been born invisible.
Or not at all. Especially Ga
rrett and Charlotte.
A fierce gust of wind blew across the courtyard, and the horses shook in their harnesses. Garrett and the others hurried inside to escape the cold.
A short time later they were seated in the library, crowded around a blazing fire in the hearth. Sparks snapped wildly and flew up the chimney.
Still feeling numb to the bone, Garrett glanced up as Blake handed him a glass of brandy. “You look as if you could use this.”
Garrett accepted it with a nod of thanks. He took a sip, then leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and collect his thoughts.
“Well?” he said. “Is she here?”
Devon cleared his throat while the others remained silent.
“There is no point dancing around the issue,” Garrett continued. “Let us all be frank. I am here to fulfill my obligations and secure our inheritances. I will take a wife—as you have all begged me to do for almost a year—collect the funds that are promised to me, and that will be the end of it. I only ask that we move forward as quickly as possible so that I can be on my way.”
“On your way? But you must stay for Christmas!” his mother blurted out.
“Yes, you must!” Charlotte echoed.
Devon raised a hand to silence them. “Of course we want him to stay, but there is more that we must explain. Garrett, you cannot simply marry the girl tomorrow. Father believes our world will come crashing to an end on Christmas Day if we are not all happily married. Ever since the incident with Vincent—after that sham of an engagement to Lady Letitia—he believes true love is necessary to thwart the curse.”
Garrett frowned. “Oh, God. Are you suggesting I must fall in love with the girl? I’ve never even met her.”
“No, but Father is under the impression that it is a love match. Otherwise the whole thing is pointless.”
“A love match...?” Garrett’s gut turned over with dread. “What lies have you told him?”
Charlotte spoke flippantly. “Oh, what does it matter? He doesn’t remember half of anything anyway.”
“Charlotte, behave yourself,” the duchess scolded.
“I beg your pardon, Mother,” she argued, “but you know it’s true. We tell him whatever we must in any given moment to keep him from climbing the walls and jumping off the roof.”
Garrett drew back with a frown. “Is it really that bad?” He could not imagine his father being anything but in complete control.
“Worse, actually,” Blake replied. “Two days ago, we found him playing billiards alone at dawn.”
“There is no crime in that.”
“He was naked as the day he was born.”
“I see.” Unsettled by the image, Garrett swirled his brandy around in the glass and tried to stay focused on the money, while he wondered how in the world he was going to manage this charade. It was a vast understatement to say that he had never been close to his father. He wasn’t sure what to expect. Would the duke even recognize him, much less believe he was in love with a fiancée he’d never met?
“You must prepare yourself,” Devon said. “He is greatly changed.”
“He thinks the palace is haunted,” Charlotte added. “He gets up in the night, wanders the corridors, and talks to himself.”
“To be precise,” Devon clarified, “he talks to the ghost of Brother Salvador.”
“Who is Brother Salvador?” Garrett asked, shaking his head in disbelief.
“A monk,” Charlotte answered.
“He was the prior here actually,” Blake added, “when this place was a monastery a few hundred years ago. Brother Salvador was murdered when it was discovered he was having an affair with a woman in the village. That woman is the mother of the first duke, our very own ancestor.” Blake’s dark eyebrows pulled together with uncertainty. “But you know all of this, don’t you?”
“I vaguely remember the stories.”
“At any rate,” Devon said, “Father will not rest until Christmas has come and gone, and he is assured that the curse has been thwarted. He has instructed his solicitor not to release your marriage settlement until the twenty-fifth.”
“That is two weeks from now,” Garrett said. “Am I to understand that I must remain here and pretend to be in love with a total stranger until then?”
“She won’t be a stranger by the end of it,” Charlotte mentioned helpfully.
Good God. He had truly walked through the gates of hell. That reality, along with self-loathing, prickled up his spine.
Yes. He supposed that was rather appropriate, for hell was exactly where he belonged.
“When will I meet her?” he asked.
And did she know about all this? The naked billiard games? The ghosts and the murders?
“Whenever you like,” Devon replied. “She is in the drawing room presently with Rebecca and Chelsea.”
No one said a word for a moment. The tension was as thick as London’s fog. Garrett’s family was probably terrified he would change his mind and walk out first thing in the morning.
Perhaps he should. He didn’t want a wife, nor did he care about easing the woes of a father who had always treated him like the bastard son that he was.
But Garrett’s hasty departure would only result in more lives ruined because of him, and he had come a long distance to atone.
Rising from his chair, he moved from the fire to the chilly side of the room where he could take a moment to think. He looked up at all the books on the shelves. A spectacular collection to be sure. Enough to keep one’s mind engaged for a lifetime.
Marriage was supposed to be for a lifetime...
But did that really matter? Time and happiness had no meaning to him now. There was nothing but dust in his veins. He didn’t care who he married, or how he spent his future. Nothing mattered anyway. Except for one thing. The money.
“I will be courteous to the young lady,” he said, turning to face all of them. “I will put on a good show for Father, as long as you promise me that the money will be forthcoming on Christmas Day.”
“I have confirmed it with Father’s solicitors. It will,” Devon replied.
“Good. Then I will do whatever is required.” Bloody hell, he didn’t even know the lady’s name.
Devon rose from his chair. “Excellent. Then let us go and meet Lady Anne. Follow me to the drawing room. I will introduce you and you can spend some time getting better acquainted this evening.”
Wonderful. He could hardly wait.
Chapter 3
Anne immediately rose to her feet when the Sinclairs entered the drawing room. The marquess led the way, followed by his sister Charlotte, then the duchess, Lord Blake, and last to enter the room—their youngest brother, Lord Garrett. Her betrothed.
Goodness, her heart was pounding like a drum. She had watched from the window a short while ago as Lord Garrett exited the coach but could see little through the darkness and shifting moon shadows. Now here he stood before her, waiting to be introduced.
His skin was bronzed from the sun, his hair thick and wavy—the color of honey. He had full lips, a strong, chiseled jawline and a charming dimpled chin. He was not tall and slender like his older brothers. Instead, he sported a stocky, muscular build. His hands were big and strong, which was not surprising for she had been told he was a master yachtsman.
He lifted his sky-blue eyes and met her gaze. She could not tell a lie. He was, without a doubt, one of the most ruggedly handsome men she had ever encountered. It was madness that he had to pay a woman to marry him. But perhaps there was something wrong with him.
Lord Hawthorne approached. Anne was vaguely aware of Rebecca and Chelsea rising from their chairs behind her.
“Garrett, this is Lady Anne.”
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady,” he said.
He bowed to her, and she gave a polite curtsy while
wondering how to proceed from there. What exactly did one say to a beautiful stranger, a stranger one was being paid to marry?
Garrett frowned as he stood before the woman his brothers had selected for him. He had not expected to wed such an incredible beauty. She was slender and petite, with striking dark features and sea-green eyes that nearly knocked him over as he walked through the door.
There was something serious and intelligent in those eyes—possibly something a little jaded as well? Or was it greed at the sight of him? Perhaps it was that. She was marrying him for money, after all.
“Would you like to escort Lady Anne to the gallery and show her the family portraits?” Devon suggested.
His brother obviously wished to give them an opportunity to become better acquainted in private.
Fine. Garrett had promised to do what was required, so he would do exactly that. With a polite nod of his head, he approached his fiancée and offered his arm.
As they left the room, Anne worked hard to settle her nerves. She walked with Garrett in silence down a long, vaulted corridor and through a keystone archway, which brought them into a large gallery lit by three enormous crystal chandeliers. They stopped just inside and looked around at the numerous works of art on the walls.
“I have not been here in quite some time,” Garrett said.
Anne was consciously aware that these were his first words to her, beyond the initial formal greeting.
“I barely remember what is here,” he added.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This was exceedingly awkward, but quite unavoidable. She must simply find a way to push through this uncomfortable beginning.
“Then let us discover it together,” she suggested. “Shall we go left, or right?”
“Your choice, Lady Anne.”
“I choose left.”
They walked the length of the room, stopping briefly to look at each painting, saying nothing as they continued in silence.
On a few occasions Anne would have liked to make a comment or two about the individual pieces, but the tension in the air kept her from venturing forth into easy conversation. She had no idea what was going through this man’s mind. If she read him correctly, he was feeling somewhat irritable. And the mere fact of her presence seemed to weigh him down like an anchor.
Married by Midnight (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 4) Page 2