Roman stared at his father, his mouth agape.
“Father, you cannot be entertaining this! You have many years left to work. Why would you bequeath the shop to me now?”
“Why not?” Nathan replied, grinning. “I have a few good years left in my bones. Perhaps I will take your mother away somewhere exotic for once. What is the use of having a young, able bodied boy if I cannot have him take on my work so I might enjoy the last years I have on this earth.”
“Father, are you certain…?”
“Yes, Oscar and I have discussed this at length. He and I would like the chance to amend our broken friendship also. We both know that will not happen while we continue to cluck like hens at one another all day long.”
Roman turned to Oscar who nodded encouragingly.
“He is correct, son. Carter-Andrews belongs to you and Emmaline now. Treasure our treasure but know we are here for guidance should you need us.”
Roman pressed his palms to his father-in-law, the two shaking heartily.
“There is one more thing,” Iris added and all turned to acknowledge her. She smiled softly.
“You must forsake this silly game of hiding your feelings for one another. True love should never be hidden, not for any reason.” She glared at the two older men for a moment and they hung their heads in shame. Roman looked at his wife and she at him, their eyes shining brightly with adulation.
“We are free to love one another,” he whispered softly, grasping her hands lovingly. She smiled at him, largely and genuinely and she realized it was the first time she had ever done so with a witness. Roman leaned forward and gently kissed her lips, his hand caressing her cheek sweetly. They would never need to hide again.
Unreciprocated Love
~Bonus Story~
A Historical Arranged Marriage Victorian Romance
Scarlett Clarendon knew exactly what to expect out of her life, even if she didn’t like it. But when her betrothed passes away unexpectedly, she’s thrust into a new future, one that threatens to overwhelm both her dreams and her nightmares.
It isn’t that she is opposed to the match her father and his have arranged—at least she hadn’t been when she’d made a foolish declaration of love for young Lachlan years before.
But he’d made it clear then in no uncertain terms that he her feelings were not reciprocated. Now she’s trapped, stuck in a marriage with a man who doesn’t want her.
Or is it possible she has misinterpreted the man’s feelings from the beginning?
* * *
Chapter 1
Scarlett paced back and forth across her bedroom floor, her chest heaving, heart pounding and her blood boiling. She was ready to hurl the heavy pewter pot on the table across the room at the handsome, brutish, ogre of a husband who stood by the door, leaning casually against its frame. The grin he wore was so irritating she imagined his handsome mouth the target of her pewter weapon. Her fingers itched to reach for it, thinking he would never see it coming. Then again, just to irritate her he was probably even now at the ready, his arms only appearing relaxed, but prepared to thwart whatever attempt she made at knocking the oaf unconscious.
Just a few short months ago her life had been serene, almost perfect. And now…
She remembered back to when it had all started, the day her father announced she was to wed Sir Lachlan William Tamhas Mackenzie Wakefield, third Earl of Wendover, fifth Earl of Cromartie. For heaven’s sake, the man’s name was an even larger mouthful than her own Lady Scarlett Catherine Elizabeth Clarendon. What on earth were parents thinking when they bestowed such elaborate, longwinded titles upon their offspring?
It wasn’t so much of a surprise, though—the length of his name, that is. The betrothal, on the other hand, had been entirely unexpected. Her betrothal to his brother, the original Earl of Wendover and Cromartie, had been arranged many years before, but he had succumbed to smallpox just months before she had come of age and they were expected to wed. She’d mourned the Earl, but not the marriage. He had been kind-hearted and amiable, but she hadn’t a speck of interest in tying herself to the man in Holy matrimony. But then, Scarlett had no interest in marriage at all, however outrageous that might make her.
“And what if this one succumbs to illness as well?” she had railed at her father in objection. “There are no more brothers in that family to pass me onto…so what is it to be? One of his cousins? A grandfather, still living perhaps?”
“Come the fourteenth of June, you will marry the earl, daughter. I have made up my mind and the contract has already been signed,” her father had bellowed back.
“And if I refuse? If I will not let you force me into marriage with that wretched man?”
“Then I will have you confined to your rooms until the day and drag you to the altar myself!”
Their eyes blazed with the same stubborn anger that all Clarendons came by naturally. She was only fortunate her father was not a heavy-handed man or else she’d have gotten a lashing more times than she could count in her twenty years on God’s earth. He did not punish her for it because he knew full well from which parent she’d inherited the trait. Nevertheless, they’d railed at each other in anger more times than she could count. Her mother had long since learned to stay out of their arguments, knowing her soothing attempts to set things to right would only prolong the heated conflict.
She’d won a good number of their arguments by driving her father to exhaustion, but no matter how much she protested this time, the stubborn man would not be swayed. And on the fourteenth of June, she knelt at the altar next to the red-haired, giant of a man who would be her husband within moments. He was too big, and too strong, and what had the good Lord been thinking making a man so handsome? Didn’t He worry the man would become a conceited scoundrel, using his good looks to compromise the constitutions of young ladies everywhere?
Sir Lachlan William Tamhas Mackenzie Wakefield did not look anything like the man who had been his thin, willowy older brother. Was it even possible the two of them were related?
Yes. There was one thing that connected them, that told every onlooker they came from the same stock; they had both possessed the same blue-green eyes, a turquoise she had never seen anywhere else.
She stood when she was instructed to, and she spoke the vows as she was expected. But while she’d intended to maintain a cool detachment from the words, she could not stand there in the house of God and speak idle promises. Whatever else she was, she was not a woman who would lie directly to God. And so, by the conclusion of the ceremony, she’d tied herself irrevocably to the man who stood next to her. However much she hated the vile blackguard, he was her husband and would be so until the moment of her death. Or his—which at present did not sound like a wholly unpalatable idea. While still in the house of God, though, it was probably best she confined her thoughts to less sinful things than the gleeful prospect of her husband’s demise.
And she kept her thoughts as pure as possible on the ride to her parents’ home, sitting next to the man whose presence took up so much of the carriage it was a wonder her parents had fit into the crowded space with them. Though not custom, her father had insisted on riding back to the manor with them, probably concerned that he might find a widowed daughter by the time she arrived otherwise. The three of them kept up polite conversation the entire way, but she couldn’t force herself to chime in with little more than one-word answers. She wasn’t oblivious to the fact that following the customary wedding breakfast, there were only a limited number of hours until the wedding night would come…her wedding night.
Her mother had provided her with a rudimentary explanation of what she could expect from that, but she’d hastened away from the subject quickly, thoughts whirling in her head of the heavily muscled Lord Wendover crushing her slight frame beneath him. Death by bedding—the thought rose anew in her mind and she was forced to stifle a giggle, a hysterical response that no doubt arose from a hefty draught of fear of the unknown.
Aside
from her vows, she’d barely spoken more than a handful of words to her husband, and she was expected to lie passively beneath him, letting him take his pleasure at leisure? Her hackles rose at the thought, but she tamped them down quickly. “…to love, to honor…to obey…” she recalled the marriage vows she’d spoken. She could not love him, and was quite certain he was full of himself enough that he would see to his own honor. But she could obey, no matter how much it made her skin crawl. She would submit to him because she’d made a vow to God to obey her husband. At least…she’d try.
Chapter 2
The wedding breakfast had passed in the same uncomfortable silence as the rest of the day. Oh, the room had not been quiet by any means. Family, friends and acquaintances were full of compliments to the host, well-wishes to the bride and groom, and plenty of the latest of London’s gossip—of course. But she had spoken to her groom no more than absolutely necessary, and he’d seemed content to join in all the conversations that had gone on around them, seemingly all but forgetting his bride sat there by his side the entire time.
It was of little concern to her. In fact, as the day had grown late and guests began begging their leave, she had wished fervently that he would forget about her completely. She was not to be so fortunate, though.
“Shall we retire to bed?” he asked her as she stifled her first yawn of the evening.
Her tiredness dissipated quickly at his proposal. “No, please, do not let me interrupt. I’m sure we can linger a little longer.”
“No, I think ye’ve had enough, my bride.” He rose then and she could do nothing to protest. Even if it weren’t for the cumbersome vow she’d made to obey, she would draw unwanted attention to herself if she protested her groom any further on their wedding night. She rose demurely and accepted the arm he offered, nodding to their guests as he made their excuses. And she tried not to blush from head to toe when she realized every guest left in the room knew precisely what the bride and groom were “retiring” to do.
Up the stairs, and behind closed doors, she strode to the window and stood there, her fingers worrying in front of her as she stared out unseeing at the property that stretched out behind the manor.
“Do ye intend to sleep standing up, Scarlett?” he queried after several long moments.
His wry humor jarred her from her stupor and she turned to him without thinking. He had doffed his jacket and stood there in trousers with his shirt unbuttoned. He wore the most irritatingly handsome grin that turned up the corners of his full lips, one side raised just slightly higher than the other, which only served to make him appear even more handsome.
“Sleep?” she squeaked, part in nervousness, part in response to the way his state of dishabille was affecting her.
“What else? Ye don’t really expect me to push the issue when ye’ve been making your distaste for your groom clear all day?”
“You mean you don’t plan to…I mean, that is to say…” She shut her mouth, realizing she was babbling ridiculously. Worse, it looked like he was stifling a laugh at her discomfiture.
“Why would I force a woman to bed me when I can have my pick of ‘em more than up to the task?”
Oh! What a lout! Her temper flared. “Why does it not surprise me that you’d run so eagerly to a whore?”
He looked momentarily taken aback by her crass observation, but it was his own fault. He’d been the one to start it.
He seemed to recover from his astonishment quickly. “I’d rather a whore riding me than a cold fish stiff as a board beneath me.”
“Well then, if you have no use for me, I will seek a bed elsewhere. Goodnight, Lord Wendover.”
“Not so fast, mo gràidh.”
He caught her by the arm as she endeavored to fly right past him. Though he didn’t grasp her hard, the contact sent a fiery jolt right through her body. And while she would have been tempted to shake off his loose hold on her, the strange sensation brought her to a sudden halt.
“It is our wedding night, and as such, a certain…intimacy is expected to take place between a bride and groom.”
“I thought you had no intention of taking me to your bed,” she sneered, a jilted anger she felt once before rising to the top.
“Aye, ye are correct, but I have no intention of making that known to the rest of the household. Ye’ll sleep here this night, and smile sweetly in the morning like a woman properly bedded. Do ye understand me?”
“And if I refuse to remain in such close proximity to a cad?”
“Then I’ll be forced to take ye, like it or not, to make sure there’s no doubt the job’s been done.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“Wouldn’t I? Truth be told, ye’d be better off if I did. I have no doubt ye’d like it, Scarlett. Ye’d like it a lot.”
The look in his eyes changed and his grasp on her grew tighter, not so tight it cut off circulation, but tight enough for her to realize she’d have to put up a substantial fight to escape his hold. And then his hand fell away. Where there had been heat, suddenly the place he’d touched her was cold. She felt off-balance, unsure, and she didn’t like the feeling one bit.
“I’m sure you’re quite wrong.” She stood up straight and raised her head, striding away from him as if neither his words nor his touch had left her frazzled in the slightest. Once she reached the bed, though, she hesitated. How on earth was she supposed to sleep in her gown? Since it was fastened in the back, there was no hope for her getting the dress off on her own. And there wasn’t the slightest chance she was going to ask Lord Wendover for his assistance.
So, she returned to the spot she’d taken up by the window, looking out while trying to concoct some miraculous way of removing her gown. And then she felt him there right behind her, his fingers at the back of her neck. He’d crossed the room so quietly, she wondered if he’d transformed himself into a cat to make the soundless crossing. His fingers worked nimbly at her buttons, but she yanked herself away from him.
“What do you suppose you’re doing?” she whispered furiously. Hadn’t he just said they were to pass the night in relative peace, and already he’d changed his mind?
“Ye can’t very well sleep in that gown, can ye?” he mocked sarcastically.
If there was any other possible way out of her dress she would have gone to it happily. Seeing no such possibility, she presented her back to him and waited as he released one clasp after another. Tiny flames licked down her spine everywhere he touched and set a strange fire ablaze low in her abdomen. She closed her eyes against the onslaught of sensation and resisted her body’s urge to sway back against him. The moment seemed to drag on forever and yet pass too quickly as well. His fingers stilled low on her back once he’d released the last of the gown’s clasps, and he lingered there. She wondered what he was doing, but didn’t say a word, secretly afraid he’d remove his hands if she brought it to his attention. But he stepped back a moment later and she silently chastised her body for its treacherous response while he crossed to the other side of the room without a sound.
Looking over her shoulder, she could see he was still facing in the opposite direction, and she used that opportunity to let the gown fall to the ground and scurry into bed. She was beneath the covers before he turned and started back toward her. Panic struck her momentarily as he seemed to be making his way straight for her, but it was to the chair in the corner of the room he was headed. Once he was settled, she closed her eyes and was surprised to discover just how tired she was. While she’d worried she would lie there tossing and turning all night, sleep began to pull her under quickly, listening to the quiet inhale and exhale of his breath. Inhale, exhale…inhale, exhale…
Chapter 3
Lachlan sat in the overstuffed wing-backed chair in the corner of the bedroom, reading, and then re-reading the same lines of text over and over. He’d been reading the same paragraph for the past twenty minutes and was no more cognizant of the words it contained now than when he’d begun.
What on
earth had his father been thinking? Not in arranging the marriage between himself and the lovely Lady Scarlett, but the betrothal between his brother, Calum, and that fiery tempest. Calum would have cowered in fright the first time the vixen bared her claws, and would have run scared long before she let loose the worst of her temper. His brother had been a good man, kind and even-tempered, but he’d often wondered if Calum hadn’t a firm bone in his body. No, the match would have been a terrible one for sure.
Now, he and Scarlett were a very different story. Lachlan was nothing like Calum, as different in temperament as they were in appearance. He could take whatever the tempest threw at him and fire it right back. In fact, even from a young age he’d enjoyed sparring with her, though she certainly hadn’t been the force of nature she was now when she’d been a girl of no more than ten. Still, she’d been wittier and full of more spunk than any of the young ladies he’d met who were five, even ten years her senior.
It had been nearly six years since he’d last seen the girl—now no longer a girl, but a woman full grown. The beautiful and graceful child she’d been could not have prepared him for what he’d seen that morning in the church. And the woman he’d stood next to in the church could not have prepared him for the bright eyed hellcat she transformed into just moments ago.
Magnificent.
There was no other way to describe it. She was magnificent. Had he known, he would have gladly gone to battle to have her. But she’d been destined for Calum from a young age and he’d long since tried to put her from his mind.
He’d been in no particular hurry to return to England, even once his father had informed him of the marriage contract he’d made on his behalf—an advantageous match with her family owning so much property in England. He didn’t particularly care about her family’s England property—the plight of a second son who never expected the responsibilities that came with land and titles to fall to him.
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