by Aubrey Wynne
“How I’ve missed ye,” he murmured against her ear, trailing his lips down her neck. “Have ye dreamt of me?”
Fenella nodded, clinging to him. “I have to talk to you, Lachlan. I need to tell you something.”
“No, I have something to ask ye first.” He’d made up his mind and had to get this off his chest, let his happiness envelop them both.
Shimmering gray eyes held his. “But I—”
He put a finger on her lips, silencing her. “I dinna ken what the future holds or where we may make our home. But I love ye. I need ye like a thirsty mon in the desert, like my grandfather needs to touch my grandmother every day after forty years.” He stepped back and took both her hands in his. “Fenella Franklin, will ye be my wife?”
Tears spilled down her cheeks. He smiled at her female sentiment and dried her face with the pads of his thumb. “Will ye marry me, Fenella?” He bent to kiss those full lips again but her words stopped him.
“I-I have something to tell you first.”
Stunned, his head jerked back. “Before ye say ‘yes’?” He shook his head, trying to clear the confusion muddling his brain. “Ye said ye loved me. Did ye mean it?”
“Yes! Oh, yes. I love you with all my heart. With every breath. But…” She hung her head, filled her lungs in preparation, and clutched his hands again. “I have not been completely truthful with you.”
His heart pounded. He’d expected her to agree immediately, not have a discussion first. They should be holding each other passionately, celebrating their future. “What are ye saying?”
“My mother will oppose my betrothal to a Scot.”
“Because I dinna have a title?” He wondered how he’d ever get along with such a woman. “I thought ye no longer had to worry on that account.”
“No, it’s not that. She’s ashamed of her lineage. My mother has spent all her married years trying to erase any brogue, any trace of her Scottish background to become a very English Lady Franklin.”
Lachlan dropped her hands, his nostrils flaring. “Ye’re saying she’s a Scot who looks down on her own kin?” He paced to the hearth and back, hands on his hips. “So, she’d never agree to our marriage?”
“No.” Tears filled those silver eyes again. “But I don’t care.”
“And now ye’re telling me this?” His jaw clenched.
“At first I was ashamed and then I meant to, several times, but something always seemed to happen.”
Her words slowly penetrated the fog in his head. “Lady Franklin?”
He saw her intake of breath, her body stiffen. “My father is a baronet. He’s not a nobleman, but he’s addressed as Sir Horace and my mother is Lady Franklin.”
The breath whooshed from his lungs, the words echoing against his skull.
My father is a baronet… is a baronet…
Lachlan clutched his head. “Ye’re father’s not dead?” It came out as an incredulous shout. The words burned his throat.
She shook her head, the long blonde locks flinging against her neck as she reached for him. He backed away, palms out.
“Let me explain, please,” Fenella begged, her voice strangled. “Ian misunderstood at the interview and before I could correct him, the conversation turned.” She clutched at his shirt, panic rising in her tone. “I forgot about it until that night when Colin came back, when we—”
“Professed our love?” He thrust her hands away and turned his back, his hands scrubbing his face. The intimacy they had shared. He’d never spoken to her father about his attentions, received permission to… Sweet Jesu!
“Please, listen to me,” she begged, her fingers touching his shoulders. He shrugged her off.
“Ye forgot to tell me yer father is alive, and yer mother will hate me.”
“I’m so sorry, Lachlan. Please, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I love you,” she sobbed.
“Is there anything else ye’ve forgotten to tell me? Is Fenella yer true name?” Disgust finally overcame the shock. He cleaved to it, a lifeline to pull him from this nightmare.
“Yes,” she whispered, “that is my name.”
“Good. I’ll be sure never to let it pass my lips again.” He stormed from the house, from the betrayal, from her. It was time to find a barrel of good whisky.
*
Fenella sank to her knees. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t stop the tears. She couldn’t bear the thought he was gone, forever. The pain gripped her, then the shame. Why had she waited so long? By the time her grandmother’s hand touched her shoulder, Fenella had no more tears.
She looked up with swollen eyes, tried to swallow but her throat hurt too badly. “I’ve ruined everything,” she rasped.
Aileen grasped her by the elbows and pulled her from the floor. With an arm around her shoulders, she led her to the settee. Rose entered with a tray of tea and poured them all a cup.
“Drink this,” said her grandmother, adding a splash of whisky, “then straighten yer shoulders. It’s no’ the time for self-pity.”
She sipped at the hot tea, wincing as the liquor ran down her raw throat. “He hates me.”
“He’s a Scot with a temper. Ye need to give him time to adjust to the news.” Aileen added some of the golden liquid to her own cup. “What did ye think? He’d nod and smile and say it was all right? He’s a prideful mon, and ye startled him.”
“He proposed.”
Rose gasped. “And then you told him?”
“I made a muck of it. I rattled about Lady Franklin and that my father is a baronet but not noble.” Fenella shook her head. “I’d planned how to tell him in my head a hundred times. But when he asked me to marry him, I panicked.”
“I imagine ye did,” soothed her grandmother. “Now, it’s time to look ahead and win him back.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Matrimony and Machinations
Mid-September 1819
London
Exquisite. It was the only word that did Evie justice. She stood before the mirror while the modiste fussed and clucked with pins held between her teeth. Mid-morning rays slanted through the open sash, cooling the room. A light breeze billowed the sheer cambric curtains across the arched windows. As Evie fidgeted, clingy white satin shimmered beneath a champagne overdress of Brussels point lace that added a glow to her skin. Gold embroidery trimmed the cap sleeves and hem, as well as the satin and lace train. Gold silk gloves and slippers finished the ensemble.
“You will be the most beautiful bride,” Fenella said, blinking back tears. “What accessories will you wear?”
“Brecken’s mother gave me a tiara of thin twisted gold and clusters of pearls. It looks like white roses entwined in golden vines.” Evie’s voice was wistful. “She wore it at her wedding.”
“So, the two of you get along well?” she asked.
“Of course they do,” interrupted Lady Franklin. “Who would not appreciate Evelina’s delicate beauty and flawless manners?”
Fenella rolled her eyes, determined to ask her sister again when they were alone.
“We’ve come to an understanding,” Evie said quietly. “She’s not pleased the ceremony will take place in London rather than their family home in Wales.”
“No one would travel so far to a Welsh estate. He spends most of his time in London anyway,” huffed their mother.
“Mama, could you give Fenella and me some time alone? It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other.” She gave Lady Franklin a sweet smile. “Please, Mama?”
“Well, I suppose.” Their mother moved to the door and paused. “I want to see the final fitting before Madame leaves.”
“I’m having doubts,” Evie whispered. “His inheritance has been somewhat ravaged. The late earl was ill for several years and an unscrupulous solicitor took advantage. While Brecken’s been successful with investments since gaining the title, he cannot afford to revive the estate.”
“So your dowry will be essential in that effort.” Fenella wondered at both her sister’s bl
ush and the lack of this information in any of her letters. “Do you fear he loves the money you bring to the marriage rather than you?”
Evie nodded and sniffed, her eyes glistening.
“The Lord Brecken I first met was enamored of you at first sight. He had no idea of your dowry.” She laid a hand on her sister’s cheek. “I can only imagine your time together enhancing his attraction.”
“The reason he was attending the season was to find an heiress.” Evie blinked. “His mother was pressuring him.”
“We certainly understand overbearing mothers.”
The modiste snorted.
“Dear sister, when you enter the room, his eyes see nothing else. It’s love in his gaze. I’m sure of it.” She hugged Evie.
“Do you really think so?” She bit her lip, and Fenella could see she wanted to be convinced.
Fenella nodded and hugged her sister. “I swear it.”
Evie wiped at the corner of her eyes. “Thank you, dear Fenella. I’m so glad you’ve come.”
“By the way, you hadn’t mentioned moving to Wales in your letters.”
“Nothing has been decided as of yet, so there was no need to.” She made a circle as Madame pulled at her skirt. “He said we will make all decisions together.”
“See? He’s not only handsome but reasonable.”
Evie pulled up her wheaten curls and turned as the modiste sat back on her heels, smiling at Fenella’s reflection.
“Puhfecshun,” the modiste said around the pins in her mouth.
*
Three days later
The intimate wedding was held at St. George’s Hanover Square Church on a stormy Thursday morning. Each time they had to dash from the house to the carriage to the church, the women had been blessed with a break in the rain. Evie had fretted over the clouds, but their father insisted it was good luck.
There were no more than a dozen friends and relatives invited, though more would attend the breakfast afterward. Everyone was dressed in their best. Fenella had a new gown of silk that matched the color of Evie’s lace. Vines and tiny roses had been embroidered along the hem, echoing the tiara her sister wore. Both sisters wore their hair upswept in an elaborate chignon with a cascade of tresses falling to the nape.
The cathedral itself was a typical Anglican church with a spacious nave, where they now stood, with tall box pews flanking the wedding party. Galleries and a balcony overlooked the nave on three sides. The dark intricately carved wood and ornate plastered arched ceilings contrasted with the brilliant stained-glass windows behind the altar.
As the ceremony ended, and vows were repeated, Fenella was surprised to see tears in her mother’s eyes. A twinge of jealousy pinched her heart, but when she looked at the joy on Evie’s face as she turned to her husband, it disappeared. Lord Brecken was devastatingly handsome in black tails, satin breeches, and a coffee-brown waistcoat, embroidered with gold to match Evie’s trim. An intricate white cravat was perfectly tied with a diamond pin set in the middle. His dark hair was combed back, his beard neatly trimmed, and his smile genuine as he gazed down at his new bride. The love in his hazel eyes mirrored her sister’s, and Fenella knew she could return to Scotland without worry.
“They are a bonnie couple,” whispered her grandmother as the earl and his bride were presented to the small congregation. Her cheeks, pink with excitement, showed a deepening dimple as she beamed at the newly betrothed. “Ye should be proud to have had a part in it.”
“I can’t take much credit, except for introducing them. Lord Brecken would have found some way to meet my sister.”
“Aye,” Grandmama agreed, “he seems to be quite a determined man. I’m glad of it, since he has much work ahead of him. His mother is still attractive. Perhaps she’ll marry again.”
The dowager’s petite form was misleading. Her sister had told of the stubbornness and strength the woman possessed. She gave a regal appearance, her dark hair held only a hint of silver, her face still smooth except for tiny lines around her mouth and eyes. When she turned her glittering black eyes on them, Grandmama clucked. “I’d no’ want to cross her. Yer sister best tread softly.”
Fenella pointed out the taller man next to the groom. His hair was a deep brown, his eyes almost black. Though his clothes were expertly tailored, he seemed uncomfortable in his surroundings. “That is Brecken’s older half-brother from his mother’s first marriage. Lord Conway’s barony goes back to Edward I when his family fought the English.”
“He’s Welsh then, no English blood?”
She nodded. “Evie said it took some convincing to get him across the border. He hates England but loves his brother.”
“He’s a fine-looking mon. I can see him standing on a cliff in the wilds of Wales.”
Fenella chuckled at her grandmother’s dramatics. “Lady Brecken’s, er, Dowager Lady Brecken’s second husband was English. His property and title go back to the days of the Marcher lords and Henry VIII.”
“Your mother must have swooned when she heard these family trees.”
“Grandmama, my signature is needed. I shall see you soon.” Fenella acted as a witness after the ceremony while the documents were signed and set in order. The earl’s brother was the second witness. With the legalities completed, they braved the rain and joined the other guests for breakfast.
The next day, Evie returned to the house to oversee the last of her trunks packed onto the coach. Brecken wanted to show her Italy. They would travel the country for a month before returning to London for the winter. Her sister’s color was high as she hugged Fenella.
“How was your wedding night?” After Lachlan, Fenella had a better idea of what went on between a couple and prayed Evie’s experience had been as… breathtaking as her own.
“It was… it was… indescribable.” Evie bit her lip. “He was so tender and considerate. I am lucky to have found him, Fenella. I pray you are as happy with Lachlan.” She smoothed the skirt of her travel dress, dipping her head shyly after the confession.
Fenella hugged her sister fiercely. She’d written Evie of her own growing affection but had failed to tell her of the rift with her Scot. This visit had been about Evie and a wedding, not her sister’s mistakes.
“Take care of Grandmama and write me. I shall miss you so, but we are both beginning such grand adventures.” She gave Fenella one more hug. “I wish I was here for you when Mama finds out.”
“I’ll keep you informed,” Fenella promised. “And you must send me details of Rome and Venice. Perhaps we will be reunited at Christmas if you do not go to Wales.”
Her parents and grandmother joined them, followed by Lord Brecken. “The Franklins have twenty minutes for the final goodbyes,” the groom announced. “Then I’m whisking my wife away for at least a month.”
“Wife,” giggled Evie. “How I love the sound of that.”
“Lady Brecken,” added their mother, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye with a lace handkerchief. She gave the earl a kiss on the cheek. “Take good care of my sweet girl.”
Lord Brecken exchanged a significant look with Sir Horace. “I’ve been warned, my lady. I’ve been warned.” With that, he tipped his beaver hat, tucked Evie’s hand in the crook of his arm, and escorted her to the carriage.
The family watched them drive away. Evie hung out the window and waved until the carriage disappeared into the traffic.
Fenella tucked her hand in Papa’s elbow as they walked back to the house. “I see you have not lost your paternal protectiveness.”
“You and Evie will always be my little girls. It doesn’t matter how many years pass.”
*
Later that afternoon
“Come in here, my dear,” called Papa from the library. “We finally have some time alone.”
She paused in the hall, staring at the dark-paneled walls. With a deep breath, she entered the room. Fenella had been dreading this moment, the disappointment in her father’s eyes when she told him of the disaster in Glas
gow.
“I’m so happy to have you home,” Papa said as he kissed on her the cheek. “I’m sure you have much to tell me.”
“I see you’ve managed quite well without me.” She tried not to sound hurt, fingering the edge of the desk where they’d spent so many hours tallying columns of numbers.
“I would like nothing better than to keep you with me, Fenella.” Sir Horace’s smile faded. He tipped her chin up to meet his gaze. “My main concern is for both my daughters to be happy.”
“I know.” She threw her arms around his neck. “I’ve missed you so, Papa.”
He studied her. His keen gray eyes made her stifle a squirm, as if she was a little girl again. “Are you happy?”
She blinked and gave him a watery smile. “Tell me about the visit to the decaying Welsh estate,” she urged, putting off the dreaded confession for a few moments.
Sir Horace laughed. “He’s an honest man, I’ll grant him that. I think the invitation was to open our eyes to his predicament. Brecken didn’t try to hide his dismal state of affairs. But the place has potential and was once a magnificent family seat.”
“So, he wanted you to know where your money would be going.”
He nodded. “Before he asked for Evie’s hand, and I respected that. He has a good business head on his shoulders and made several excellent investments. We’ve spoken of some joint ventures. I’m optimistic about their future.”
“Mother is beside herself with pride.” She elbowed her father in the side. “I even saw her wipe away a tear.”
“I may have wiped away a few myself when I saw the receipts for this wedding and the trousseau.” He put an arm around her and gave her a squeeze, kissing the top of her head. “Tell me your wedding will not cost me as much your sister’s.”
She shook her head, her throat swelling. Do not cry, she told herself. She needed to face this like an adult, not a child. “Papa, I met a man in Glasgow. I’ve been working for him.”
“Working? For wages?” he asked, his eyes narrowed. “If you needed more money, I’d have sent it to you. Is Aileen in financial difficulty?”