Never a Bride

by Megan Frampton

  “Mr. Baxter,” she said on an exhale. He didn’t have to confirm it, she could see it in his eyes.

  Damn it.

  “He will be an excellent husband, Della.” The duchess spoke in a condescending tone. “He’s already providing for you, and you haven’t even gotten married yet. I am so glad someone has seen fit to overlook some of—” And then her mother paused.

  “Overlook that I ran off and had a child with my dancing instructor?” Della tried to keep her voice calm. Mostly because she knew it would infuriate her parents. And because she was infuriated, but didn’t want to reveal just how infuriated. And hurt. And disappointed.

  But not in her parents; she had already reconciled herself to never having a relationship with them again. But how could he have done it? Whatever it was he had done?

  He had kept it from her, and he knew that was the one thing she would not countenance.

  “Shh,” the duchess said, glancing around them. “You don’t want anyone to hear.”

  “Can we discuss this later?” Griffith had taken her arm, and she shook him off.

  “No, we cannot.” She flung her head up and stared him in the face, all that hurt and anger whirling through her body.

  She saw him swallow, and she knew he was hurting also. But his feelings couldn’t and wouldn’t overshadow hers; he had to know, or at least she hoped he knew, what she would think about him charging in to handle things without telling her. “We’ll discuss this now,” she said, taking his arm. “If you’ll excuse us?” Della said to the duke and duchess, dragging him away, then releasing her hold on him as soon as they were out of earshot.

  “We were sitting in that carriage for a full thirty minutes,” she said in a low, furious voice. “You had plenty of opportunity to tell me.” She stepped forward so she was only a few inches away from him. And he still looked so handsome, damn it.

  She shouldn’t be noticing that, not when she was so irate.

  “I was going to,” he replied, meeting her gaze. His eyes were intensely focused on her face. “But I wanted to wait—”

  “Until I’d made a fool of myself?” Della interrupted. “Until I’d told you all about my past and that I love you?”

  He closed his eyes as though in pain. Welcome to the club, Lord Autocratic.

  “I’m sorry,” he said at last. He sounded sincere.

  “So am I.”

  Della spun on her heel and strode out the door, her sisters gathering in a phalanx behind her as she went.

  “Goddamn it.” Griffith watched as Della walked away from him, her back rigid, her sisters falling into formation behind her in their own battalion of furious feminine anger.

  “My daughter is very impetuous.” Della’s mother had arrived at his side, and it took everything not to bark at her to go away. Not only would it be rude, which Griffith couldn’t care less about, but it would be useless. Della was angry with him.

  You only wanted to help.

  But you know how she feels about anyone making decisions for her.

  Why hadn’t he thought about what she would want? Because he’d seen the opportunity to ride in on his financial white horse, paying Baxter enough to go away, and thinking she would never find out.

  What kind of idiot was he?

  The best kind, a voice in his head replied.

  But you just wanted to do what would help, another voice added.

  True, yes, but he hadn’t considered beyond the help—not how she would feel about the help, nor the way it was tendered.

  He’d just considered himself.

  And now he was here by himself. No, wait—it was even worse. Her mother was here, still giving him an interrogative look, as though she was waiting for a reply. What had she said? That Della was impetuous?

  “Your Grace, if you will forgive the disagreement, I don’t believe Lady Della is impetuous. I believe she knows her own mind. Thoroughly.” He didn’t wait for her response, but just bowed and walked out of the ballroom, vowing to do whatever he had to in order to make it right.

  Even if she regretted telling him she loved him.

  “Are you going to tell us now?” Olivia demanded.

  All five of the sisters were crammed into a hackney cab, Della not wanting to wait for anyone’s private carriage. She had told them, pointedly, that they could just go home and not bother about her, but none of them had listened to her.

  Which was why she was currently smushed between Eleanor and Olivia, with Pearl and Ida on the seat opposite. All four of them keeping their eyes on her, as though she might explode or something.

  Which was a possibility.

  “You are going to have to tell us sooner or later,” Ida pointed out. Pearl nodded in agreement.

  “Why were you all there anyway?” Della asked, glancing at her sisters. “I’ve barely seen you, Pearl, and I thought you were busy being a new bride, Ida.”

  Ida folded her hands in her lap, a prim expression on her face. “I have time for my sister. Especially since I went and located you.” She looked around at the remaining three sisters as though reminding them it was her who had managed the impossible.

  Her sisters just stared back at her, and Della had to stifle a laugh.

  “You are trying to avoid telling us,” Eleanor said. Not incorrectly.

  “You’ve fallen in love with him. Lord Stanbury,” Olivia announced.

  Della rolled her eyes as Ida glared at Olivia.

  “Of course she has, but something has obviously happened,” Ida said disdainfully. “So what was it? You know that whatever it is, we support you.”

  Della leaned forward and took Ida’s hand in hers, squeezing it as she smiled at her youngest sister. “I know. Thank you. And thank you for finding me.” Even though at the time she hadn’t wanted to be found.

  “Well?” Olivia demanded impatiently.

  “Well,” Della began. “I will explain, but I want to wait until we are at my house. I don’t want to have to say it all over again to Sarah.”

  The sisters were silent for the ride home, although Della could feel how Olivia was practically vibrating from wanting to speak.

  They got home, Olivia paying the hackney, and then all five of them walked into the house. Neither Pearl nor Ida had visited before, so the two of them were glancing all around, likely noting the mismatched furniture and the clutter of toys and garments in the hallway.

  Sarah emerged from the back of the hallway, probably having come from the kitchen. She looked as though she was about to speak, then saw Della’s face and her expression grew fierce.

  “Do any of you have to do with this?” she asked the sisters at large.

  “No, they’re here to help,” Della explained, quickly, before Sarah started challenging each and every one of them to ensure they weren’t the cause of Della’s distress.

  Her friend truly was the best.

  “Let’s go into the dining room, that’s the only space big enough for all of us.”

  Mr. Wattings walked down the staircase from the upper floor, clearly having just woken up. His eyes widened at seeing all the sisters in the foyer. And looked as though he were considering just turning around and going back upstairs.

  “Can I help with anything?” He addressed his question to his wife.

  Sarah looked at Della. “Can he?”

  Della shrugged. “He might as well come. He knows Lord Stanbury, and I wouldn’t want him to be caught unawares by anything Lord Stanbury might say.”

  “Lord Stanbury now, is it?” Sarah said. “And said so very formally.” She stepped up behind Della and removed her cloak from her shoulders. “Let me hang this up and ring for tea.”

  “Dear Lord, I know it’s bad when you admit that tea is needed,” Della replied, trying to draw a smile from Sarah.

  Sarah just glared at her, as though she knew full well what she was doing.

  But at least it had distracted Della from the pain of having him do something behind her back. The first time he’d tried t
o manage things for her she’d made it absolutely clear she would not tolerate it. But then he had gone and managed to do it again. “Manage. Man-age,” she murmured to herself, laughing ruefully at the pun. If it were called womanage she didn’t think so many men would believe it was their right to do it.

  They all filed into the dining room after Sarah had directed one of the girls to fetch tea.

  Della sat first, and her sisters and Sarah took chairs all around her, Mr. Wattings seated the farthest from her.

  “Well,” she began.

  “Well,” Eleanor echoed in an encouraging tone after a few moments.

  “I suppose you want to know why I am so . . . agitated,” Della said, glancing at each of the faces in turn.

  Sarah reached over and took Della’s hand. “You know you don’t have to tell us.”

  “Yes, she does,” Olivia contradicted.

  “For once, I agree with Olivia,” Ida added in a dry tone. “If we don’t know what is happening with you, we cannot help. And I believe it is important to share one’s true feelings with one’s siblings.”

  “Oh, like how you told us all how you felt about your husband?” Olivia rolled her eyes at Ida.

  Ida waved her hand dismissively. “I did eventually. But I am not the point here. Focus, Olivia.”

  Della felt a tiny warmth kindling the cold anger that was roiling inside her. It would be all right, as long as she had her family: Nora, Sarah, her sisters, and now Mr. Wattings.

  “Well,” Della began again. “It seems Mr. Baxter is back in town. And that Lord Stanbury has seen fit to deal with him directly without informing me.”

  Chapter 21

  “Well, you’ve really mucked it up now.”

  Griffith glared at Frederick, who merely raised one eyebrow, a mild expression on his face.

  “I’ve got to agree with Duke here,” Hyland said before downing the rest of the brown liquid in his glass.

  “Your Grace, you heathen,” Frederick said, but his tone was amused.

  “Yes, you really did,” Clark agreed, pouring more alcohol into everyone’s glasses. Griffith shook his head no when it came to his turn.

  The last thing he needed was to be drunk when it came time to talk to her. Which, since he was more than finished with being patient, since that had gotten him nowhere, would be in the time it took to go to her house, get let in—probably an easy task since clearly she had no butler—and apologize profusely.

  “Do you know what you’re going to say? You are going to talk to her, aren’t you?” Frederick asked, taking a sip from his glass.

  Griffith frowned at his cousin. “Should you be drinking? I mean, aren’t you—you know?”

  “Dying?” Frederick supplied. He grinned at Griffith. “Well, no, as it happens. I am sorry to disappoint you, but it seems I have a weak constitution, but as long as I take care of myself and drink some ghastly concoctions the new doctors have prescribed, I will be here a long time. I know you were looking forward to being duke too.”

  Griffith was leaping out of his chair as soon as Frederick said “no,” and was hoisting him up, clasping him in a huge hug.

  “I knew it was a good idea to have you see more doctors,” he said.

  “Don’t squeeze me too hard,” Frederick said, his voice muffled. “Weak constitution, remember?”

  “Put him down, Griff,” Hyland demanded.

  Griffith complied, setting Frederick down as gently as he could.

  “This means you could return to sea, you know,” Frederick said.

  Griffith stared at Frederick as his words swirled in his head.

  Return to sea? Be the captain of his own ship again? Not have to attend parties and wear clothing that would tear if he moved a muscle?

  The thought was alluring, and certainly what he had dreamt of when he’d first returned home.

  “Return to sea. You hear that, Captain?” Clark said. It was as if Griffith was hearing the words through a fog.

  Griffith felt as though his heart was being squeezed.

  But—

  But—

  But then there wouldn’t be her.

  Life at sea was unsettled. Life could literally capsize in an instant, and he knew that she would never subject her daughter to that.

  And he didn’t want it anymore either.

  He wanted to be settled.

  He wanted to have vigorous, frequent sex with her in a bed that was properly sized and immobile, unless they were the ones moving it. He wanted to get to know her sisters, and her best friend. He wanted to argue with her, and have her call him Lord Handsome and then watch her stand up for herself.

  Most of all, he wanted her.

  “He’s a goner,” Hyland commented, shaking his head as though disappointed. But he had a grin on his face that contradicted his demeanor.

  “Damn it,” Griffith said. “I am.”

  “So you’ll be staying here, then?” Frederick asked.

  “If I can get her to agree to it,” Griffith replied in a gruff voice.

  Clark waved his concern away. “You can persuade anyone of anything. You got me and Hyland here to stop arguing, that was a miracle.”

  “Especially since all Clark is good for is reading maps and issuing orders,” Hyland said.

  “Whereas all you’re good for is scurrying up ropes and causing trouble,” Clark replied.

  “Let me solve one dispute at a time,” Griffith said, holding his hands up in supplication. “First let me go resolve things with my lady, and then we can return to which of you louts is the worst. And then I’ll have to tell the crew.” He looked at Frederick. “You have some jobs that need filling, don’t you?”

  Frederick nodded. “Now that I’ll be here to oversee the work? You have my word there will be enough positions.”

  “Thank you,” Griffith said, exhaling.

  “Good luck, cousin,” Frederick said as he raised his glass. “Bring me back a duchess-to-be.”

  Griffith nodded. “I’m going to try my damnedest.”

  Olivia, bless her impetuous heart, thought that Lord Stanbury had only done what was necessary in the moment.

  Eleanor wished he had consulted with her first, which was a mild version of how Della felt.

  Ida sniffed in disdain at hearing how he hadn’t bothered to tell her at all, and had, in fact, heard her out without disclosing his own information.

  Whereas Sarah just held her hand and shot her concerned looks.

  Pearl and Mr. Wattings were both quietly sympathetic, but Della couldn’t blame them, given how many words both Olivia and Ida had spoken.

  “The door,” Sarah said, tilting her head to listen.

  “Drat, and I don’t think anybody is out there,” Della said, rising from the table.

  “They’re all getting your tea,” Sarah replied pointedly.

  “Hush, you.” Della shot her friend a grin as she walked out toward the front door. Her family was here for her, and even if her heart was completely and thoroughly broken—plus she’d confessed she loved him, and she wished she didn’t feel so humiliated about that right now—at least they were all there and supporting her.

  While also arguing about the best way to support her. Which was the way of all the best families, she supposed.

  She flung the door open, gasping as she saw him, his size nearly filling the frame of the door.

  “Evening, my lady.” He swept his hat off his head and held it in front of himself.

  He looked nervous.

  He should look nervous.

  Because she was still angry.

  And she was now angry at herself for not anticipating he might show up on her doorstep.

  “Who is it—oh!” Sarah exclaimed as she strode across the hall.

  “Captain, if the lady says you are to go . . .” Mr. Wattings began as he followed his wife.

  Her sisters came out too, standing behind her as though preparing for battle. She hoped Ida’s face wasn’t too fearsome, not that it would sc
are him away.

  “Della, do you want—?” Olivia said.

  Della held her hand up. “Hold on. You do all know I can take care of myself? That is the whole point, isn’t it?”

  She heard their murmurs of assent.

  “Will you speak with me, my lady?” he asked.

  He still looked nervous. Though, to his credit, he didn’t look more nervous now, even after all of her family was ranged in back of her.

  “I will.”

  Olivia uttered a squawk of protest that was quickly stifled, likely by Ida’s glower.

  She turned to them. “I can handle this by myself. You should all go.”

  The sisters filed out the front door, Ida tossing Lord Stanbury one more derisive look, Olivia trying to whisper in Della’s ear until she waved her sister away. Sarah and Mr. Wattings disappeared down the back stairs.

  And he was still standing at the door, to one side so he could allow the remaining duke’s daughters to exit.

  “Come in, then,” she said, not waiting to see if he would follow before returning to the dining room.

  Of course she felt him at her back—all that huge, glorious, muscled warmth that still made her a bit gooey inside, even though she was still mad at him.

  She held the door open as he entered, then shut it firmly behind them as she gestured to a chair.

  “Sit.”

  He didn’t argue. He likely didn’t dare.

  Something must be wrong with her that she thoroughly enjoyed that.

  She remained standing, folding her arms over her chest. Tapping her foot.

  “Well?” she asked at last.

  He still looked nervous.

  Although there was something in his gaze, something predatory, that made her shudder in a delicious way.

  Oh dear. Perhaps she didn’t have the upper hand after all.

  “I am sorry,” he said at last. “I did the wrong thing. I didn’t respect your wishes. I wanted to help so desperately that I ignored how strongly you felt, and I did what I thought was best. I didn’t ask you. I just—did.”

  She nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  “And,” he continued, closing his eyes as if in concentration, “I have to admit that the idea of me helping you was so compelling I didn’t even stop to think about how you would feel.” He opened his eyes. “Your father is even worse than you’d intimated. I wanted to protect you from having to deal with him and from ever having to see that Baxter.” He spat the name out, making Della wish she felt like smiling.