Never a Bride

by Megan Frampton

  Or recalling how she felt, or how she screamed. Not if he didn’t want to hasten back over to her house so he could do it all again.

  So here he was, in some nondescript pub that was empty save for Clark, Hyland, and a few assorted men who seemed as though they were upper servants from some of the nearby houses.

  In other words, no lords here except for Griffith, thank God.

  “Captain!” Clark shouted again as Griffith walked toward the table.

  Judging by Clark’s tone of voice and the number of glasses in front of him, he and Hyland had been drinking for a while.

  Griffith beckoned to the barmaid as he walked.

  He grabbed a chair and turned it around to straddle it. Clark and Hyland grinned at him as though they knew what he had been up to.

  How could they?

  Then again, he wasn’t very subtle. So perhaps they could tell just by his face.

  “You found Wattings!” Clark said, hoisting his glass up. Hyland followed suit, and Griff looked around for the barmaid, who was thankfully approaching with his tankard of ale.

  He took it from her with a smile, then held his glass up before taking a long draught.

  “I did.” And I pleasured Lady Della.

  “Good work, Captain,” Hyland said, clapping Griff on the back. “You can do anything you set your mind to.”

  Griffith acknowledged Hyland’s compliment with a nod, finishing the ale with another long swallow while gesturing to the barmaid for another.

  “Was your lady pleased?”

  Griffith felt his mouth curl into a smug grin, only to realize Hyland wasn’t talking about sexual pleasure. Plus she wasn’t his lady. Most definitely not. If she were, she would have confided in him.

  He really wished that didn’t bother him so much.

  “Lady Della was pleased, yes,” he said in a short tone of voice.

  “Ah, but what about you?” Clark said, using his glass to point at Griffith. “You don’t sound pleased.” He leaned forward. “Have you and the lady agreed to part ways since your bargain is complete?”

  Griffith froze. Their bargain was technically finished, wasn’t it? They hadn’t discussed it. He didn’t want it to be over. He definitely didn’t want to stop spending time with her, even if Society was less daunting than it had been before. Even though it was still fairly daunting.

  “I think the captain has gone and fallen in love with her. That’s what I think,” Hyland said, draining his glass.

  He sounded as though he’d had as much to drink as Clark had. Griff would have to try to catch up.

  “No, he hasn’t,” Clark replied. He tried to raise one eyebrow, but just ended up looking like he’d gotten something in his eye. “If he had, he wouldn’t be here with us. He’d be stomping outside of her house declaring his love. Making some grand gesture that would prove to her that he was the best and only person she should be with.”

  Griffith blinked as Clark spoke. He wanted to agree with his valet-secretary. Secretary-valet. Whatever. That he hadn’t fallen in love with her, that he didn’t want to be with her for the rest of his life.

  Only he couldn’t. He strongly suspected—and this was likely a first—that he agreed with Hyland.

  Damn it. He had gone and fallen in love with her, hadn’t he?

  He could have chosen a better time to realize it than now. In a pub with his former crew members, downing mediocre ale like it was water.

  The thing was, what was he going to do?

  He knew she didn’t want to marry him. Mostly because she’d said that on multiple occasions.

  How could he convince her?

  “Captain?”

  Hyland nudged his shoulder.

  “What?”

  “Clark here was asking if you had something you had to do tonight. Or if we could just stay here all day and pretend you’re not a nob and we’re not sailors without a ship.”

  Griffith waved at the barmaid, gesturing to his friends so she would know to bring over three more ales.

  “We’ve got time. And I’ve got something you two can help me with.”

  Chapter 17

  Della let herself into the house, smiling as Nora pelted into her, wrapping herself around Della’s legs.

  “You’re back! Mama, Emily’s father is here, and everybody is crying, but they’re not sad.”

  Della bent down and hugged Nora, feeling her eyes prickle also. “Yes, sweetheart. Emily’s father is back, and we weren’t certain we would see him again, but now he’s here.”

  “Where is my father? Is he coming back too?”

  Della froze. She should have expected the question—it was natural, given how much Nora and Emily shared. That one father was returned surely meant another would be returned as well?

  Only she wasn’t ready for the conversation. But Nora deserved an answer.

  “Let’s have some tea and talk about it,” Della replied, nodding to one of the girls, who’d emerged from the kitchen, likely when she heard the door open. “In my sitting room, please,” she added. The girl nodded in reply, then ducked back into the kitchen as Della rose, taking Nora’s hand in hers.

  “Will Emily’s father live with us too?” Nora asked.

  Della blinked. She hadn’t thought about what would happen after she found Sarah’s husband. Just that she was desperate to do so, and would do whatever she could to make it happen.

  Including spending time with the largest, most handsomest man of your acquaintance, a sly voice in her head reminded her. What a hardship.

  Hmph, Della wanted to reply. There was no guarantee that the person she’d make such a bargain with would be so large and handsome. It was just a bonus to the arrangement.

  Nora ran ahead and opened the door, holding it so Della could enter, shutting it carefully after them. Della went to sit on the sofa, disturbing one of the kittens who blinked at them sleepily. Nora cooed and drew the kitten onto her lap as she sat down, crossing her ankles.

  Della felt her throat tighten as she regarded Nora. So small and so in need of protecting still, but also showing signs of independence.

  I wonder where she gets that from?

  Now the voice sounded remarkably like Lord Handsome’s.

  Della put her arm around Nora’s shoulder and drew her closer. The kitten stretched on Nora’s lap, her tiny claws digging into Nora’s gown. Nora just giggled, petting the kitten between its ears.

  “We are all so happy that Emily’s father has returned. And you asked a question about your father.” How could she put this? She never wanted to lie to her daughter, but she also didn’t want to tell her anything her daughter wasn’t yet mature enough to understand.

  “Your father and I were so pleased when we discovered we were going to have you.” That, at least, was true. Mostly because Mr. Baxter saw Della’s pregnancy as a means to leverage money from her parents, even though Della herself was adamantly against that. Just one of the many things on which they disagreed. “But when you arrived, we realized we were better apart.” This was so hard to explain. But Nora deserved the truth, or at least as much of it as Della could tell her.

  “So my father left us?” Nora’s voice sounded quavery, and Della’s heart hurt.

  Yes. He did. “He loved you so much”—which was an outright lie, but this was a lie Della could live with—“but he knew it would make all of us unhappy if he stayed.”

  “Oh.” Nora seemed to be digesting that, and Della held her breath that her very curious daughter wouldn’t ask more questions.

  “So is he coming back? Like Emily’s father?”

  Della squeezed Nora’s shoulders. “If he does, I know he will be so proud to see you, and see what a smart, strong girl you are.”

  The door opened, thankfully, to admit the girl holding the tea service. She glanced questioningly at Della, who nodded for her to put it down on the table in front of the sofa.

  “And biscuits!” Nora exclaimed, dislodging the kitten, who gave a disgruntled meow a
nd scurried under the sofa. She picked a biscuit up and put most of it into her mouth, crumbs dropping onto her lap.

  Della was not going to chastise her for sloppy eating. Not now, not when the arrival of the biscuits had derailed her daughter from continuing her line of questioning.

  She had no doubt but that Nora would return to her questions, but for now the biscuit had saved the day.

  She served herself some tea, taking a long sip as she thought about Mr. Baxter. Something she normally did not allow herself to do.

  What would she do if he did return? Not that he would, not unless he sensed there was money to be had. And since her parents showed no signs of relenting in their ostracism of her, there was no possibility of that. But what if he did return? Would she want Nora to meet him?

  She shook her head at herself as she finished the tea. This was all theoretical, since she had no idea where Nora’s father was. It wasn’t like her to ponder things that were very unlikely to happen—she was far more likely to consider the things that could happen—her losing her heart to Lord Handsome, or Sarah and her family moving away, or any number of terrible things.

  Griffith hadn’t been able to come up with any kind of plan, even though he, Clark, and Hyland had spent hours discussing it. Along with ingesting several rounds of ale.

  It was the morning after, and his head bore the ill effects of . . . everything. He was in the dining room staring resentfully at a plate filled with scrambled eggs, a steaming cup of tea to his right.

  He did not want to ingest anything at the moment. Well, except for her. And even that would take him a moment to do.

  He’d had to admit to Clark and Hyland how he felt about her, which caused at least half an hour of ribaldry (would he get the opportunity to share the word with her?), but then they had set their respective minds to the problem and had come up with—nothing.

  Clark had offered to dress up as a highwayman and waylay them, but Griffith had rejected that because he couldn’t guarantee she wouldn’t just take his gun and shoot Clark herself.

  Same for Hyland’s idea—to serenade her outside her bedroom window. First of all, Griffith couldn’t sing, and she might just shoot him on that basis alone. Second, it wasn’t as though he thought she would agree to be with him on the basis of public humiliation. Because if that were true, she would have just allowed him to punch that blackguard at the party and risk public ostracism.

  “My lord?” The butler stood at the door holding a silver salver.

  Perhaps that was the answer he was waiting for?

  “Yes, come in,” Griffith said.

  The butler nodded, then deposited a letter on the table, next to the still-full cup of tea, its lack of steam aligned with how Griffith was feeling.

  He pushed the plate away to pick up the envelope, noting the heavy weight of the letter, indicating it came from someone who could afford to spend for good stationery.

  He didn’t recognize the seal on the envelope, but that wasn’t surprising. He wasn’t certain he would recognize Frederick’s own seal, even though it would eventually be his.

  He slid his finger under the seal to undo the envelope, withdrawing an equally luxurious piece of paper.

  My lord:

  Please visit me at your earliest convenience.

  Yours,

  The Duke of Marymount

  He stared at it as though it would reveal more information, even though, of course, all that was there was all that was there.

  Why was Della’s father asking to see him? Did she know?

  Of course she didn’t. As far as he knew, the only time she had seen her parents had been at the event two nights earlier, when he had been occupied with finding Wattings, and hadn’t been able to go to the party himself.

  She hadn’t mentioned anything beyond it being difficult to see them.

  Or was this why she had grown suddenly distant? Had she been distracted enough by their passion to forget, only to recall soon thereafter?

  Or was he thinking too much that it all had to do with him?

  Well. That was a lowering thought, and not one he had ever had before.

  Perhaps her distance had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with her own personal issue.

  What did it mean if not everything was about him?

  “The duke is expecting you.” The butler took his hat and coat, handed them off to a waiting footman, then gestured down the hall. “This way, please.”

  Griffith followed, glancing around at the duke’s house. Was this where she had grown up? Or had she been in the country until it was time for her to enter Society?

  There was so much he didn’t know about her, and he now wanted to know it all. Now that he knew he loved her. He wanted to immerse himself in her, learn who she was and what she wanted.

  And who she wanted. Hopefully, that would be him.

  “Lord Stanbury to see you, Your Grace.”

  Griffith walked into the room where the duke waited for him.

  “Thank you for coming,” the duke said, even though his tone was not at all grateful. More as though it was entirely expected he would, and that it was a courtesy that the duke had welcomed him in so quickly.

  Or perhaps he was assuming.

  “It is a good thing I did not have much scheduled today,” the duke continued, gesturing to a chair in front of a desk that was likely designed to look as intimidating as possible.

  “Well, you did send a note,” Griffith replied, allowing a wry tone into his voice.

  “Hmph, yes.” The duke walked around to his side of the desk, seating himself with a few grunts and groans. There was nothing to indicate the duke actually worked at the desk—no papers, no pens, nothing but a bronze bust of a past gentleman grimacing in Griffith’s direction.

  “That is my grandfather,” the duke said proudly. “He had two sons. No daughters.” The last part he said bitterly, as though resenting his ancestor for his good fortune.

  Griffith did not want to spend time discussing the duke’s forbears, given that he didn’t have too high an opinion of the current Duke of Marymount, much less an opinion on some long dead relative.

  “I presume your daughter Lady Della is why you have asked for my presence?” Might as well go right to the heart of the matter.

  The duke shifted, and his lips thinned. “Yes. Della. We—that is, my wife and I—saw her a few evenings ago. You and she are betrothed?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I understand you are the heir to the Duke of Northam? I do not know the gentleman myself, but I believe him to be ill?”

  Griffith’s chest tightened. “Yes.” He spoke in a curt tone.

  “So you are the proper person to deal with this letter I have just received.” The duke opened his top right-hand drawer and withdrew a piece of paper, which he slid across the desk to Griffith.

  Your Grace,

  I am in London, and am hopeful of reuniting with your daughter Della. She and I have a child together, and I cannot shirk my responsibilities as a father any longer.

  Unless you wish to protect Della and her daughter and provide me with funds.

  I am staying at the Bear’s Arms waiting your reply. If I do not hear from you by the end of this week, I will assume you welcome my return to your daughter’s family.

  Sincerely,

  Mr. George Baxter

  Griffith read the letter, then read it again, feeling the ire well up inside him. How dare he? How dare he casually mention returning to Nora’s life, to Della’s life, as though they would want him back? But that he was willing to forego being a responsible parent if the duke paid him enough?

  Wait.

  “You haven’t paid him,” Griffith said, placing the letter back on the desk.

  The duke shook his head. “No. I wish we could, but when she left, my daughter made her own decision. I will not be responsible for any situation that might arise because of that decision.”

  Griffith felt his eyes widen. The man was ruthle
ss. Although not so ruthless he didn’t go to someone else—namely Griffith—for help dealing with this “situation.”

  “Is that why you asked me to come? To resolve this ‘situation’?”

  The duke inclined his head.

  “Because you refuse to?”

  Another nod. This one more pronounced.

  How had Della—his bright, vibrant, passionate Della—grown up in this household with this father? How strong must she be not to have let his implacable dukeness infect her?

  Or had it, and her fiery reaction to any attempt to control her had come from growing up with this man?

  No wonder she was so determined to control her own life.

  Griffith snatched the letter from the desk, crumpled it in his fist and shoved it in his pocket.

  “I’ll deal with it,” he said grimly.

  The duke gave a brief nod, then picked up a bell and rang it. The door opened immediately, and the butler stepped inside.

  “Lord Stanbury is on his way out,” the duke said.

  Not even an offer of tea, Griffith thought, disdainfully amused. Not that he wanted to take tea—or even a stronger beverage—with this entirely unpleasant person.

  “I look forward to seeing you at the wedding,” the duke said in a stiff tone of voice.

  Griffith entertained the notion of telling the duke he wouldn’t be invited, since he strongly suspected Della wouldn’t want them there, but he also knew he shouldn’t and wouldn’t interfere with her and her family.

  “I’ll deal with it,” he said again, striding out the door.

  Chapter 18

  “So . . .” Sarah began, fixing the tea as she and Della liked it, “how was it?”

  Della couldn’t pretend to misunderstand. “It was wonderful.” She barely recognized her own gushing tone.

  They were in the small sitting room, each holding one kitten. The sun was making one last valiant effort before nightfall, and the room was cast in a warm, golden glow.

  Sarah raised one dark eyebrow. “That good?”

  Della bit her lip. “Mmm. Only—”

  “What?” Sarah prompted, when Della stopped speaking.