Jilted By A Cad (Jilted Brides Trilogy Book 1)

by Cheryl Holt

  “I realize that.”

  “It’s not happening, Jo. The child is mine, and you are mine. You have to accept it.”

  She yanked her gaze from his. When she looked at him, she was always overwhelmed. She couldn’t think straight. She couldn’t make good decisions.

  While she was distracted, he dipped in and stole a quick kiss.

  “Oh!” was all she could manage as a response.

  “Here’s what we’ll do.”

  “No, Peyton, it’s not up to you.”

  “Yes, it is.” He reached into his coat and withdrew a piece of paper. “I applied for a Special License. It confirms that you and I can wed today.”

  She glared at him. “You and I? Marry—today? You were awfully confident about me.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be? You never could resist me. We’ll walk out to the altar, and we’ll have the vicar wed us instead of you and Evan.”

  “You’re deranged. I won’t hurt Evan like that.”

  “He’ll get over it, Jo.”

  “How would he?”

  “Well, maybe he won’t get over it,” he said instead. “He’s been angry with me for ages, but his opinion is irrelevant.”

  “It’s not irrelevant to me.”

  “I won’t let you go, Josephine. Haven’t you been listening?” He laid a palm on her tummy where the bulge of their baby was visible. “Wed me, Jo. Keep me by your side forever.”

  “I’m so confused,” she moaned.

  “I love you, Josephine Bates. I love you so much that I can’t breathe with wanting you. Say you’ll have me.”

  Jo stared down at her feet.

  Could she do it? Could she bind herself to him?

  He’d deserted her at the altar, and afterward, she’d believed herself jilted by a cad, but he wasn’t a cad. He was kind and generous and amazing. He was the man of her dreams, and though it was disgraceful and tragic, she couldn’t follow through with her promise to Evan. Not with Peyton having come for her. Not with Peyton pleading with her to pick him.

  She couldn’t marry Evan—because she could never be the wife he deserved. But could she cry off at the last second? It was the same humiliation she’d suffered twice. Could she act that despicably? In light of how he’d assisted her, would she be damned? Would she be cursed?

  “Say, yes, Jo,” Peyton urged. “Tell me you’ll have me.”

  “I can’t,” she wailed. “This all seems so wrong.”

  “It’s not wrong. It’s very, very right.”

  He dipped in and kissed her again, and it wasn’t quick or sweet. It was determined and resolute. He was claiming her. He was putting his mark on her. She was his and could never belong to anyone else.

  For the briefest moment, she stood like a statue and refused to participate, but she only hesitated for an instant. He was correct that she couldn’t resist him. Where he was concerned, she never could arrive at the sane choice, the rational choice. She leapt into the fray with a wild abandon.

  Someone knocked on the door again, and they ignored it, then it opened and Amelia cleared her throat.

  “Pardon me, but I need to interrupt.”

  Peyton growled with frustration and drew away. “We’re busy, Amelia. What is it?”

  “Evan left.”

  “No!” Jo gasped.

  “He said—when you didn’t return immediately—he figured it was over.” Amelia smiled at Jo. “He said to tell you congratulations and that this is probably for the best. And to not be sad or feel guilty.”

  “Did he really say all that?” Jo asked. “Or are you maybe fibbing a bit so I’ll appear less horrid than I am?”

  Daisy popped up behind Amelia. “Yes, Aunt Jo, he really said it. And he said too, if Uncle Peyton is ever mean to you, that you should find him, and he’ll force Uncle Peyton to behave.”

  Peyton snorted. “It sounds to me as if he’s stepped aside, Jo.”

  “Yes, he has,” Amelia said.

  “He’ll never forgive me,” Jo muttered.

  “I’m betting he will,” Amelia predicted. “He’s not stupid, Jo. He realized it was over the minute Peyton blustered into the church. I realized it was over too. It’s why I went to Benton to fetch Peyton—so he’d stop you.”

  “You didn’t want me to marry Evan after all?” Jo inquired.

  “I wanted both of you to be happy. Now you will be.”

  “Marry me, Jo,” Peyton said.

  “She hasn’t agreed?” Daisy asked. “You’ve been in here all this time. What have you been doing?”

  “I had to wear her down,” Peyton explained, “so we’ve just been talking.”

  “The talking has to be finished,” Daisy insisted. “Jo, the vicar is growing impatient, and Uncle Peyton brought the Special License. We have to hold the ceremony, so we can all go home to Benton.”

  “To Benton…” Jo murmured. She glanced up at Peyton. “Are you sure, Peyton? Are you truly, undeniably certain?”

  “Yes, Jo. You. Me. Daisy. Let’s be a family. At Benton.”

  Jo peered over at Amelia and Daisy. “Are you two sure?”

  “For pity’s sake, Jo,” Amelia scolded, “cease your dithering. You whole life is waiting.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  Peyton raised a cocky brow. “Did I hear a yes in there somewhere?”

  “Yes, Peyton,” Jo said, “you heard it. Let’s get married. Let’s be a family.”

  Amelia and Daisy whooped with joy, and they rushed over and hugged Jo as tightly as they could.

  “I knew I could convince you,” Peyton said, looking very smug.

  Jo didn’t argue the point.

  THE END

  Don’t Miss Book 2 of

  CHERYL HOLT’S Jilted Brides Trilogy

  JILTED BY A SCOUNDREL

  The Story of

  Miss Winifred Watson

  and Lord John Dunn

  Available now!

  Read a sample!

  JILTED BY A SCOUNDREL

  CHAPTER ONE

  Summer, 1815, an island off the Cornwall coast…

  “What do you think of it?”

  Winnie Watson forced a smile and stared down at her two charges, Jane and Bobby Prescott. Jane was eleven, and Bobby was twelve.

  “It’s scary,” Jane said as Bobby enthusiastically said, “It’s tremendous!”

  They gaped at the open gates of Dunworthy Castle. It was a real castle, with drawbridge, stone walls, turrets, and battlements. It looked like an edifice out of a medieval legend. They might have fallen back through time, and if an armored knight suddenly rode out on his war horse, she wouldn’t have been surprised.

  “Do you suppose my uncle is here?” Jane inquired.

  “There’s only one way to find out,” Winnie responded. “Let’s go in and ask.”

  In the town on the mainland, they’d been told it was market day at the castle. It was also “Justice Day,” where local citizens could appear before a magistrate, voice grievances about their neighbors, then have their cases arbitrated to a conclusion that probably didn’t satisfy anyone.

  There were people rushing in and out, many hauling carts of supplies, so the place was bustling with activity. A teamster with a heavy wagon lumbered up behind them, and they jumped off the trail so he didn’t drive over them.

  Winnie had grown up outside London, and she’d been reared in the upper classes. She’d attended the most expensive boarding schools and had rubbed elbows with the daughters of dukes and earls. She’d never previously been to Cornwall, and so far, she wasn’t impressed. Everyone they’d encountered had been surly and unhelpful. They’d glowered and frowned, had whispered gruffly and pointed in amazement, as if they’d never observed a woman traveling alone with children before.

  And perhaps they hadn’t. Perhaps none of their personal horizons had ever delivered them a greater distance than the next village. Clearly, strangers were rare and not p
articularly welcome.

  Dunworthy Castle was built on an island a few hundred yards off the coast. It boasted a small harbor, with a village—simply named Dunn—nestled around it. The castle was perched on a promontory that was surrounded by cliffs. It was windswept and desolate, and it fascinated her in an odd manner.

  If she’d been partial to barren, inhospitable country—which she’d never been—she might have been enthralled, but she wasn’t. She thrived on the culture and society found in the city, and she enjoyed interesting, sophisticated people.

  She was dawdling, and Bobby impertinently asked, “Are we going in? Or do you plan to stand here all afternoon?”

  “We’re going in,” Winnie replied, “and don’t be smart.”

  “Sorry,” Bobby mumbled.

  “I realize we’re nervous, but there’s no need to be. We’ll have this situation resolved in a quick minute.”

  She herded them through the tall entrance and into the inner courtyard, halting first to steal an anxious glance at the shore. It was low tide, so there was a visible path in the sand that they’d crossed to walk out to the island. But they’d been warned—if they weren’t invited to stay at the castle—they shouldn’t tarry. The tide would roll in, and they’d be trapped until it rolled out again.

  There were no hotels or coaching inns on the island, so unless they were offered lodging, they wouldn’t have shelter. In light of their recent spate of bad luck, that sort of calamity would be typical and completely expected. The past five months had been a long slog of mishaps that had ultimately found Bobby and Jane evicted from their home and Winnie—their governess—fired from her job.

  They were running on a wing and a prayer, and if they couldn’t garner assistance at Dunworthy, she couldn’t imagine what they’d do. She hadn’t voiced her reservations to Jane and Bobby though. On their journey to Cornwall, she’d pretended to be confident that they would achieve an acceptable result, but her optimism simply proved that she was a tad deranged.

  As a governess, she was meant to be an expert on all topics, especially one as elemental as geography, but she didn’t know much about the ocean. She tried to recall how often the tide changed. Was it every six hours? Every twelve? She had no idea, but if it was a shorter period, they had to hurry and be about their business.

  She yanked her gaze from the frothing sea water, not eager to contemplate how violently it might swallow up the sand and leave them stranded. It was like a scene out of a grim fairytale, where an innocent maiden was lured into danger by a wicked witch.

  She fought off a shiver of dread and followed after the children.

  They wandered through the busy courtyard where vendors had set up booths and were selling food and other merchandise. They stopped an officious-looking man and inquired as to the whereabouts of Mr. John Dunn. He was Jane’s uncle who they were hoping to locate. They were directed into the main hall of the castle.

  They entered into a huge room that was probably very much as it had been during the Middle Ages. There were rows of tables and benches for communal dining, as if the serfs still shared all their meals.

  A large fireplace was built into the wall, and even though it was the first week of July, it was cool and cloudy outside. Massive logs burned in the grate, so the space was toasty. It was filled with people, and their packed presence increased the temperature. The smell of unwashed bodies was a bit overwhelming.

  Up in the front, there was a dais where the family could eat and stare down at their servants as if they were royalty. As far as Winnie was aware, the Dunns had no noble blood, yet their castle gave every sign of their carrying on like ancient lords.

  There was a hearing in progress, and a man on the dais was listening as two fishermen complained about pilfering each other’s catch. A woman sat next to him, and occasionally, he’d lean over and they’d confer about the testimony.

  He was very imposing, very commanding, and he had the air of a soldier, as if he’d spent his life barking orders and having them obeyed. His powerful personality wafted out across the assembled crowd, and it was obvious his elevated position was recognized by all.

  He had black hair—worn longer than was proper—and very blue eyes. She thought he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen, but his stellar looks annoyed her. Since her failed engagement three years earlier to Holden Cartwright, who’d been dapper and charming and very good looking too, she’d developed a potent loathing for men.

  Her low opinion had initially been stirred by her despicable father who’d passed away and left her in dire financial straits. Then she’d added Holden to the list, having suffered the humiliation of being jilted at the altar by him when she was just seventeen.

  But her recent experiences with the Prescott family—Jane’s and Bobby’s relatives—had her convinced that males of the human species were beyond redemption. She’d cursed all of them to perdition.

  Jane and Bobby, who were half-siblings, had been sired by Neville Prescott, the Earl of Benton. He’d been an amoral cad who hadn’t been able to marry either of their mothers because he’d already been married.

  They’d grown up at his Benton estate, and Winnie had been hired to work as their governess, but he’d had the gall to die and leave them unprotected. His brother, Peyton Prescott—the new earl—had decreed he would no longer support Neville’s illicit offspring.

  Winnie had been terminated, and Jane and Bobby had been kicked out. Bobby had no kin to take him in, but Jane had her uncle, John Dunn, at Dunworthy. Winnie had written him several letters as to the possibility of Jane and Bobby coming to live with him, but she’d never received a reply.

  After they’d been tossed out on the road, she’d decided to travel to Cornwall with them. She could hardly have let them go alone. She intended to throw herself on John Dunn’s mercy and plead for his assistance, but if he refused to provide it, she had no alternate plan.

  A man at the rear of the room appeared to be a guard of sorts. He noticed them and interrogated them as to their purpose. When Winnie whispered that she needed to speak with Mr. Dunn, the fellow gestured to the dais, indicating that Jane’s uncle was the man holding court.

  The guard asked her name, then had them sit on a bench in the back. He explained that they’d be called up when it was their turn. She couldn’t imagine addressing the situation with so many people eavesdropping, but she was weary and hungry and in an awful mood. For once, she did as she was bid.

  They watched the proceedings, as one case after another was brought before Mr. Dunn. They involved common village quarrels: stolen items, rustled cattle, physical fights, unpaid debts. There was even a stabbing and an adulterous affair.

  She and Bobby observed it with a high degree of interest. Jane fell asleep though, her head drooping onto Winnie’s shoulder.

  Mr. Dunn was smart and brusque and an excellent judge of truth and character. He doled out penalties and sentences like an angry god, and no one argued with any of his edicts. He possessed complete and undisputed authority.

  The drone of voices had lulled her into a stupor, so she was startled when the bailiff suddenly announced, “Miss Winifred Watson.”

  At first, she didn’t move, then Bobby nudged her with his elbow. She eased Jane off her shoulder, and the girl woke up and rubbed her eyes.

  “Shall we come up with you?” Bobby murmured.

  “No. Wait here. Let me talk to him by myself. Take care of Jane for me.”

  “I always will,” Bobby said, and he meant it.

  He was a brave, loyal boy, and at twelve, he was perched on the edge of manhood. During their trip to Cornwall, he’d repeatedly told Jane he would shield and defend her, and Winnie thought it was sweet that he was so devoted. It made her wish he was her son or that she might have a son just like him someday.

  She stood, and she ran a hand across her skirt and patted the same hand across her hair. She’d have liked an opportunity to wash and change clothes before they’d me
t with Mr. Dunn, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. They’d been granted an audience, and it was obvious he viewed himself as being very important. He wouldn’t brook any nonsense or tolerate any delay.

  She walked to the front, hating how everyone was focused on her. She didn’t like to be the center of attention, and she most especially didn’t want to have others listening as she and Mr. Dunn conversed.

  They had delicate matters to discuss, and they weren’t the type that should be publicly debated.

  “Hello, Mr. Dunn,” she said.

  The woman next to him snottily snapped, “It’s Lord John to you.”

  Mr. Dunn looked to be thirty or so, and the woman was about his same age. She was voluptuously chubby, with black hair and cold black eyes, and there was malice in her gaze that was unsettling.

  Was she Mr. Dunn’s wife? Could she be Jane’s aunt? It was a disturbing possibility. Furtively, Winnie scrutinized their hands, but neither of them was wearing a wedding ring, so she couldn’t guess at their relationship.

  The woman’s attitude was terribly rude. Winnie hadn’t yet uttered a word as to her quest, and the suspicions as to her motives had already blossomed. They were probably fueled by a general contempt for strangers, and the notion was exhausting.

  “Hello, Lord John,” she said. “I’m Miss Watson.”

  “Yes, yes, you’re Miss Watson” he grouchily replied, “and you’re the last person on my list. State your case so we can wrap this up. I’m tired and eager to open a cask of ale.”

  The spectators mumbled with excitement, so it was likely the custom to end the legal day with a protracted bout of drinking.

  Wonderful! She’d arrived just as the occupants—Jane’s unmet kin—would soon be addled with liquor.

  Mr. Dunn was glaring at her as if he’d engaged in all the testimony he could abide for one afternoon, and it occurred to her that she’d better explain herself quickly or he’d boot her out before she could spit out the reason for her lengthy journey.