Never a Bride

by Megan Frampton

  “Only it felt too close. Too intimate as soon as it was done.”

  Sarah folded her arms over her chest and rested her back on the sofa, a knowing smile on her face.

  “What?” Della asked challengingly. Fearful she knew what her friend was going to say, and unable to deny it.

  Sarah shrugged, looking sly. “You have feelings for him.” She reached forward to take Della’s hand. “I believe you might have fallen in love with him.” The last part she said in a dramatic whisper, punctuating her words by leaning forward to speak directly into Della’s face.

  “No, I haven’t.” Only her response didn’t sound sincere, and both of them knew that.

  Sarah shrugged. “Deny it all you want. You like him, don’t you?”

  Della shifted uncomfortably. “There’s a vast difference between liking someone and—and that other thing.”

  “Falling in love with them?” Sarah supplied in a disingenuous voice.

  “Yes. That.” Della focused her gaze on the kitten, since she didn’t want to look her friend in the eye. “He is pleasant. He is certainly pleasant to look at, and what we did was”—and she paused, searching for the word—“spectacular, but that doesn’t mean I’ve fallen in love with him.”

  “Do you think about him when you’re not with him?”

  Always.

  “Uh—”

  “And do you feel comforted in his presence? But uncomfortable in an enjoyably pricklish way?”

  Yes.

  “Uh—”

  “And when you think about him being with someone else, or you being with someone else, how does that make you feel?”

  Like I’d like to murder someone.

  “Being possessive doesn’t mean I’m in love, it just means I don’t like to share,” Della retorted, unable to keep herself from arguing even though she suspected Sarah was entirely correct. As usual.

  “So you tell me. What means you’re in love?” Sarah asked in a soft voice. She still held Della’s hand, and she squeezed it as she spoke.

  Della bit her lip as she considered it. “Feeling as though your life is less complete without the other person. Even when you’re angry with them, knowing that you wouldn’t be completely happy without them.” A good thing for her to recognize, given how angry he often made her.

  “Respecting their opinion, even when you know they’re wrong. Knowing they have your best interest at heart. Trusting them to do what is best for you, no matter what.”

  Sarah’s lips stretched into a huge smile, and she arched one eyebrow toward Della. “Anything you want to tell me? Or better yet, tell him?”

  Della yanked her hand from her friend’s grasp, tossing both arms up in the air. “Fine. You want me to admit it? I am in love with Captain Enormous, Viscount Whatshisname of the Broad Shoulders.” She emitted a disgruntled noise. “But we’ve agreed not to make this thing we have permanent at all. In fact, it would be bad for him especially given his situation.”

  Her casual words were the absolute opposite of how she felt inside. Something she knew Sarah already understood without being told.

  It terrified her, being in love. Allowing herself to feel that vulnerability again, when she’d sworn never to.

  “What is his situation? Being the heir to a centuries-old title? It certainly sounds like it would be completely dangerous for him to actually marry the woman to whom he’s betrothed.” Sarah spoke in a dryly sarcastic tone.

  “We’re not actually betrothed, you know that!” Della said. If they were—if they had a future together—she wouldn’t know what to do with herself, or her anger at her parents.

  Was she holding on to those feelings unnecessarily?

  A quick review told her no, she was not; her parents had barely acknowledged her, and that only after she’d had some respectability restored with her fake betrothal.

  If it were real, you could be welcomed back into the family, a voice whispered inside her head. Nora could have a relationship with her grandparents, and you wouldn’t have to worry about unpleasant gentlemen saying terrible things to you.

  But that would be unfair to him, to use him merely to regain her respectability.

  Even though she wouldn’t be doing that at all; she’d be doing it because she loved him.

  But he didn’t know that.

  Which just meant she should tell him. And then see what he said.

  “Why are you smiling like that?” Sarah asked in a suspicious tone.

  So Della told her.

  “You shouldn’t go on your own,” Clark argued, even though he’d been saying the same thing for the half an hour it had taken them to get Griffith dressed properly for a rendezvous with his lover’s former—whatever he was. Just that Griffith wanted to punch first, try to define who this Mr. Baxter was later.

  They were in Griffith’s bedroom, a room that had initially seemed far too opulent for him, but now seemed as though it was just about the right size.

  It was early evening, and Griffith had returned home from the duke’s house determined to take care of things sooner rather than later. So he’d summoned Clark and the two of them had retreated to the bedroom, where they had discussed the letter and what to do.

  Although they had not come to any kind of agreement.

  “I should come with you, at least to the tavern,” Clark continued.

  Griffith snorted. “It’s not as though I can’t handle myself. The blackguard just wants money.” He shrugged. “I have money, I will give it to him, and send him on his way. He won’t dare to return, not after I’ve spoken to him.”

  “That’s why you shouldn’t go on your own,” Clark replied mildly. “I am not concerned for your safety, but for the safety of the blackguard. What if he says something you don’t like? I know you. You’re as likely to knock him down as to hear him out.”

  “Nice turn of phrase,” Griffith said with a grin. “But I promise, I won’t be punching anybody.” Not that she would know about it, but she would not like it if she ever heard he had punched someone on her behalf. He knew that because she had told him just as much.

  He wished she could tell him why she closed up so quickly after sex. He knew it wasn’t a problem with the sex itself; her cries of pleasure told him that much.

  But he wanted her to trust him with her mind as well as her body.

  He’d never had that thought about a woman he’d been in a relationship with before. And it wasn’t as though his heart hadn’t been nearly caught on occasion; he’d come close to falling in love, but just hadn’t.

  Until he had. Suddenly, headlong, ridiculously in love.

  Now that he knew what it was, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Like a starving person looking forward to their next meal.

  He wanted to devour her.

  “Griffith?” Clark’s voice recalled him to the present. Right. He had to go deal with this Mr. Baxter, then figure out how to tell her he loved her without scaring her off entirely.

  Because he knew her, because she was so much like him—at the first sign of something potentially disturbing, he was likely to run. And it was clear from her actions that she was the same. She had run off when her family’s plans had countered what she wanted for herself. As had he. And neither one of them had thought the future out, at least as far as he could tell. Because if she had thought it out, she would be happily married to this Mr. Baxter and not currently involved with him.

  Thank God she hadn’t thought it out.

  “Right,” he said at last. “I should go.”

  “You’re certain—?”

  “No, I don’t want you to come. Stay here and make sure Hyland doesn’t get in trouble.”

  “That’s a full-time job,” Clark rejoined.

  Griffith grinned, then picked up the stack of bills he’d gotten from Fred and headed out the door and down the stairs.

  “Baxter?” The woman behind the bar glared at Griffith. “If you see him, he owes me money for his lodging. I’m not running a charity ho
use here, you know.”

  Griffith glanced around the pub, which showed no sign of being charitable at all. “I can see that,” he replied, noting the worn tables, the sticky shiny floors, and the broken chairs that were stacked at one end of the room.

  “You are sent by the duke?”

  Griffith turned at the sound of the man’s voice.

  “Here he is. Baxter, you owe me money,” the woman said, slapping her hand down on the bar. “I’ll take it now before you meet with your nob.”

  A nob now, am I? Griffith thought. And just a few weeks ago he had blended right in.

  “Ask him for it,” Baxter said, nodding toward Griffith. “Unless you want me to go somewhere else for it?” he added, a spiteful look on his face.

  Griffith exhaled as he reached into his pocket for the funds. Do not punch him out, a voice that sounded like Clark’s said in his head. At least not until you have determined he will no longer be a threat to Della, another voice added.

  The last voice sounded like his own.

  “That’ll do,” the woman said as Griffith dropped a bill on the table. “You’ll owe more next week,” she warned.

  “I’ll be leaving soon enough, and then you’ll miss my money,” Baxter replied. The innkeeper snorted. Baxter turned to Griffith, ignoring the woman entirely. Who, it had to be said, was doing the same to him. “Shall we repair to my room? It is exceedingly dirty,” he said pointedly, “but it affords some privacy.”

  “Please,” Griffith replied, gesturing for Baxter to lead them.

  They walked up a narrow, dirty staircase. Griffith nearly shuddered at the mounds of dust and dirt in the corners of each stair. He really had become a nob, hadn’t he? Past Griffith wouldn’t have noticed the dirt. He just would have noticed if the ale was fresh or not, and would have drunk it no matter what the answer was.

  They emerged at the top of the stairs to an equally narrow hallway, although it was so dark Griffith couldn’t see if it was as filthy. A blessing in literal disguise, perhaps?

  “Here,” Baxter said, withdrawing a key from his pocket. He twisted the key in the lock, then thrust the door open and stepped inside, Griffith following after.

  “You can sit there if you want.” Baxter gestured to a chair that had clothing piled up on it, while more clothing was scattered on the floor. He picked up the heap of clothes from the chair and dumped it onto the bed, then yanked a small stool from beside the bed and sat down on it, his knees raised at an awkward angle.

  Griffith sat, hearing the strain of the chair and hoping it wasn’t well on its way to joining its compatriots in the corner.

  “What did the duke say?” Baxter repeated.

  Griffith appraised the man. What had she seen in him anyway? He was taller than average, and had all his features, but that was about the most he could say about him. His eyes were sharp, darting around the room as though waiting for trouble to spring up at any moment. Griffith had seen men look like that before, mostly when they had been on the run from something and had taken to the sea as a last resort.

  He’d seen the same look in his own eyes when he’d first run off to sea. Which meant that this Baxter had little to lose.

  “He didn’t say anything, which is why I am here. I am acting for the duke.”

  Baxter’s eyes narrowed. “Acting for the duke? What do you mean?” He struggled to get to his feet, which was awkward, given how low the stool was. He gave up and sat back down, but his glare remained unrelenting, focused on Griffith.

  Griffith didn’t care. He’d been on the receiving end of equally irate glares through his years of rising up through the naval ranks. One rotten scoundrel being angry with him was just about par for the course.

  “That isn’t the point. How much do you want?”

  Might as well get right to it. He didn’t want to stay in this filthy tavern for a moment longer than was necessary. He had a lady to woo, and a dukedom to prepare for.

  “You know that I could ruin her just by revealing my presence in town.”

  It wasn’t an answer. It was, however, a threat. Griffith was considering just how much trouble he’d be in with her if he did punch Baxter.

  Likely too much, he thought with regret.

  “That’s why I am here. We don’t want your daughter, the one you purport to care for, to know that you were here and yet you didn’t make an effort to see her.”

  Baxter’s lip curled. “It’s not even a sure bet she is my daughter.”

  Griffith was up and at Baxter’s throat before the last word was out of his mouth. He wrapped his hand around the man’s neck as he lifted the man up off the stool, suspending him in air. Baxter’s eyes were wide, his breathing ragged, and Griffith just stared at him for a few moments before lowering him back down. “You won’t say anything like that again.”

  That was a threat. And Baxter knew it.

  “Fine,” he said, still gasping for air. “But the price went up. Now that I know you care about her.”

  Griffith wished he were in a good enough mood to roll his eyes at the man’s idiocy—of course he cared about her, or why else would he be here? He had already made it clear he wasn’t the duke’s emissary, and he was clearly a gentleman.

  He would have to ask Della at some point just what she saw in this idiot.

  And, if she ever felt the same way about him—which he hoped she would—he might have to question her judgment. Though not enough to refuse her attentions.

  But first he had to deal with her former idiot.

  “What do you want?” Griffith pointed an accusatory finger at Baxter. “But this is it. I won’t have you coming back for more. Whatever your price is, name it now. If you try to come back for more,” he said, shrugging, “I can’t promise it won’t negatively affect you.”

  Hopefully the idiot wasn’t so stupid he didn’t understand what Griffith meant.

  “You won’t see me ever again once you pay me,” Baxter said. “I know how your kind operates. You could just as easily pay to have me removed as give me money.”

  “I’d just do it myself, save the cost of paying someone,” Griffith remarked in a mild tone. He was pleased to see Baxter turn pale. His size was still good for something. “So how much?”

  Baxter named a figure that was high, but not so high that Griffith couldn’t pay it. “I don’t have that much on me,” he said, pulling out the money he’d brought with him. “You can have this now and I’ll get you the rest later.”

  “On account?” Baxter snorted. “How do I know you won’t just leave me high and dry?”

  “Because,” Griffith said slowly so the man could understand, “if I don’t, you’ll enact your threat and make your presence known.”

  Baxter’s expression cleared. “Right. I knew that.”

  Griffith shook his head as he rose. He tossed the money on the bureau next to the door and glanced back at Baxter. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

  Baxter folded his arms over his chest. Which might’ve looked impressive if he weren’t effectively sitting on the floor. “I’ll come to you. Don’t want you forgetting to come find me.”

  Fine. Whatever. “You’ll find me at the Duke of Northam’s residence in town. My name is Stanbury,” Griffith said.

  Baxter’s eyes widened. “Another duke? How is it possible that Della is connected with two dukes? There are only about half a dozen in England, what are the chances?”

  And what were the chances that Griffith’s Della—smart, fierce, fiery, independent Della—would have run off with this bag of beans masquerading as a gentleman?

  She must have been very desperate.

  Which meant that he should ensure she was never in a desperate situation again, so she wouldn’t make another foolish decision like this one.

  Like marry you?

  That would take some persuading, he knew that.

  One thing at a time.

  He didn’t bother answering Baxter’s question. It was none of the man’s business, Griffith’s
money was going to make certain of that, and he didn’t want Baxter to know any more than he already did about her.

  “I’ll need a day to get the rest of it,” Griffith said as he opened the door.

  “A day, but no mo—” The rest of Baxter’s words were lost as Griffith stomped down the hall. The man would come see him tomorrow, if he knew what was good for him.

  Otherwise he might just lose patience and take Baxter to the docks, where a man could get lost. Or pressed into Her Majesty’s service, although Griffith wouldn’t want to do a bad turn like that to Queen Victoria, no matter what she might think of his improper procedure.

  Chapter 19

  “Do you have a plan?” Sarah asked, smoothing Della’s gown.

  Della stood in front of the glass in her bedroom, twisting so she could see how the gown looked.

  It was a deep sapphire blue, a rich, lush color that required a particular type of assertive confidence to wear. And Della knew she had that. Or more precisely, that she would need it for what she was going to do.

  She was going to tell him. She had no idea how—

  “No, I don’t,” she replied. She shrugged, making Sarah purse her lips as she adjusted the sleeves.

  “This is gorgeous,” her friend said. “You do look lovely. But then again, you always do.”

  Della met Sarah’s gaze in the glass. “Thank you.” She took a deep breath. “I wish I weren’t so nervous.”

  Sarah tilted her head, wrinkling her brow. “Do you know, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you nervous. I’ve seen you angry, concerned, excited, and worried, but never nervous.”

  Della gave a wan smile. “I guess that is because I have never been in love?” she said, feeling the rightness of the words.

  “Have you told him about Mr. Baxter?” Sarah asked.

  Della opened her mouth to say yes, and then realized she hadn’t. Not truly. Not that there was much to tell. And she knew he wouldn’t judge her for her actions, he’d already made that clear. But she wanted to tell him everything, she wanted to bare her soul to the man she loved.

  She wanted to trust him.