Lord Holt Takes a Bride

by Vivienne Lorret

  He was terrified but caught himself smiling like a fool as he wiped filth from his eyes. Looking at her and seeing her so free and uninhibited, he couldn’t help but marvel at her. She had such zest for adventure. For life.

  Was it any wonder that he’d fallen irrevocably in love with her?

  * * *

  “Apparently, we missed quite the show this morning, Lord Waldenfield. I just finished tying up the trunks when I heard all about a pair of thieves who went on a rampage through the square. Half the village has gone after them.”

  As his driver spoke, Julian scanned the cobblestone square with a more critical eye, glad it was Imogene’s habit to take an age to ready her toilet in the mornings. Even when they were in a rush. “Any other news to report?”

  “Well, my lord,” he said, lowering his voice. “I kept a keen ear out and dropped Holt’s name a few times in conversation, but no one’s heard of him.”

  “Very good, Bastion.”

  The driver cleared his throat and shifted from one foot to the other. “There’s news of high waters in a few places along our route, my lord.”

  “And?”

  “Well, with all the additional weight from the trunks . . .”

  “Yes, yes.” Lifting his gaze to the luggage, Julian knew he should have refused Imogene’s demand to take all of them. But this cumbersome mountain was a clear representation of how he was unable to refuse her. “Just drive us there as quickly as possible.”

  Inside the inn once again, he mounted the stairs to the rooms, passing a maid in the hall who’d left Imogene’s door ajar. He had no intention to invade her privacy, but she caught him watching her tie a heathered gray ribbon beneath her chin. And like him, she let her gaze skim over his form with familiarity.

  “Did you have someone brush out your coat?” she asked, stepping into the corridor.

  He looked down, inspecting the green wool for a flaw. “I managed it on my own, but a boy came by this morning to polish my boots.”

  “You do quite well for a gentleman traveling without a valet.”

  He inclined his head casually to accept the compliment, concealing the fact that his pulse quickened. It was one of the most intimate exchanges they’d had in ages. And the saddest part was that he’d specifically worn the green coat for the journey because, years ago, she’d told him how much she liked the color on him. “Did you manage to sleep last night?”

  “Some,” she said. “It was kind of you to have a tray of milk and brandy sent up. I didn’t think you’d have remembered.”

  She averted her gaze to fuss with her gloves, but there was a distinct tinge of color rising to her cheeks.

  “You always had trouble sleeping in a strange place. I hope the revelry belowstairs into the wee hours didn’t bother you.”

  She glanced up at him with a quizzical smile. “Peculiarly, I found comfort in the quaint country music. I even thought that the girl’s tone had a similar quality to our Winnifred’s. Though I suppose that was simply brought on by missing her. If not for the exuberant performance to serve as a distraction, I might have lingered all night in the quiet over my thoughts and worries.”

  Seeing the strained fragility in her gaze, he wanted to reach out to her, to offer his hand in something other than assistance into or out of a carriage.

  “Imogene, I hope you know that—”

  The maid appeared again, interrupting to tell them that the carriage was waiting out front.

  Once she was gone, Imogene asked, “What were you about to say just then?”

  He was going to tell her that she never needed to worry alone. That he’d never deny any request of hers, no matter what state their marriage was in at the time.

  The sentiment seemed far too flowery now that he thought about it.

  So Julian merely swallowed and shook his head. “It’s not important. Shall we?”

  He proffered his arm, and they walked downstairs and out to the pavement. But at the carriage door, she stopped and lifted a troubled gaze to him.

  “Julian, what if we don’t find her waiting at your sister’s?”

  “Then we’ll go to Gretna Green.”

  “And if she isn’t there?”

  “I’ll find her, Imogene,” he said. “I promise.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a handsome, mustachioed man looking their way with suspicious interest. Reflexively, he crowded closer to Imogene and handed her into the carriage.

  Once safely inside, she cast a curious gaze over his shoulder and then back to him. “I know you will. You have always been a fine protector.”

  For an instant, he felt a stirring of hope that, perhaps, they could start again and reclaim what they’d lost so long ago.

  Yet as he felt her fingertips slip from his own, he thought to himself, Not always.

  Chapter 20

  After the first hour of her introduction to driving, Winnifred let Asher take the reins. He’d become rather insistent directly following a near-fatal collision. Not for them but for an entire gaggle of slow-waddling geese.

  So she’d settled back, finding a sense of peace and comfort riding beside him. They’d passed through a few rain showers, rested the horses while Asher told her another story of Lolly’s adventures, and then the sun came out again and they were on their way.

  She wanted their journey to last for hours longer, but time was fading out of her control. And by early evening, they’d arrived.

  The sun rested over a copse of trees like a candied orange in a sweetmeat dish. Standing tall at the end of a long weather-worn drive behind an open iron gate, Avemore Abbey looked like a molded pudding dusted with white sugar and dotted with spires. Cut into the pale stone, rows of recessed mullioned windows shone like mirrors, and at the base, one half of a broad oaken door opened at their approach.

  Winnifred glanced again at the sun’s position above the trees, wanting some magic to hold it in place. Once it fell, it would end their final day together. An emptiness gnawed at her and she knew her heart would feel it even more, come morning.

  Asher slowed the curricle. “It’ll be dark soon.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “The horses are tired,” he said. “They’ll need to rest.”

  Her gaze swerved to Asher. “And to be brushed and fed.”

  “True.” He nodded, his throat constricting on a swallow. “Do you think your aunt might invite me to linger until morning?”

  “She’ll insist upon it.”

  “Then we’ll have a few more hours,” he said quietly, reading her thoughts.

  Just then, a woman emerged through the doorway, her long plait of silvery russet hair draped over the gray shawl on her gently rounded shoulders. Leaning on a cane, she shielded her eyes, scrutinizing the trespassers in the curricle.

  “Winnifred?” she asked in startled disbelief. “Is that you, my dear girl?”

  In answer, she waved and smiled and felt tears sting her eyes all at the same time. This was the beginning of a new life for her, a new chapter. And yet she couldn’t conjure any happiness, not when she was still clinging to the last page of this one.

  Unable to help herself, she laid her hand over Asher’s on the reins and squeezed.

  “It is I, Aunt,” she said, clearing away the emotion clogging her throat. “Though how could you possibly recognize me? I was just a girl when I was last here.”

  Not only that, but she must look a fright in her mud-speckled dress, with the ribbon barely clinging to her hair.

  “You’ve grown into the very portrait of my own mother and she was the most beautiful woman who ever lived. I knew the instant I clapped eyes on you,” her aunt said, walking with an abbreviated step toward the curricle. “Well, don’t dawdle. Come here, girl, and greet me properly.”

  As soon as Asher lifted the brake, Winnifred scrambled down. Her aunt summarily crushed her in a fierce embrace, scented with the comforting fragrances of cedar, lavender and old books.

  Clinging gratefully to
her, she asked quietly, “Am I welcome, then, Aunt?”

  “Of course you are. For as long as you wish,” she said, her eyes wet as she brushed a soft hand over Winnifred’s cheek. Then, after Asher stepped down, she turned her attention to him. “Surely this isn’t the man you wrote to me about. Your Mr. Woodbine? Why, he doesn’t appear to be odious and unpleasant at all.”

  She laughed at her aunt’s audacity. “If he were Mr. Woodbine, he would be insulted indeed.”

  “Though I can assure you,” Asher said, standing beside Winnifred, “Mr. Woodbine is those things, in addition to being a braggart and a complete buffoon. He let Winn slip out of his fingers, after all.”

  “You see, I . . .” she hemmed. “I left him at the church and ran away from my wedding.”

  Her aunt cackled with laughter and took Winnifred by the arm, leading her inside. “Goodness me! I should have loved to see the look on my brother’s face. That makes two marriages he’s arranged, and both with the same results. When will your father learn not to interfere in matters of the heart?”

  “My heart wasn’t involved in the least.”

  “Ah.” Her aunt’s green eyes twinkled. “But that brings us back to the question of who this young man is.”

  “Aunt, this is Viscount Holt,” she said as they stopped in the vaulted stone foyer, surrounded by niches of marble statuettes. “Asher, this is my most exceptional aunt, Miss Myrtle Humphries.”

  “At your service, madam,” he said with a bow.

  Aunt Myrtle turned narrowed eyes on him. “Holt, you say? It’s been a number of years since I’ve been in society, but I recall the family name.”

  Reaching out, he took her fingers and lifted them to his lips. “Then I offer my humblest apologies.”

  “Effusive charm will earn you no favors.”

  Winnifred laid her hand on his sleeve. “Oh, that’s just the way he is. Incorrigible flirt.”

  Her aunt harrumphed. “All I want to know is if you are anything like your father.”

  Asher straightened, jaw clenched to twitch. “If I were, I would beg you to shoot me here and now.”

  After a moment of further scrutiny, she nodded and began to walk down a long corridor, bidding them to follow. “I liked your mother, Lord Holt. You have her eyes, you know.”

  “Thank you, my lady.” Those eyes grew soft, a tender smile on his lips. He whispered to Winnifred, “I like your aunt.”

  “I heard that, flatterer,” she called back over her shoulder. “I also notice you’re wearing a black cravat. Are you in mourning for your father, by chance?”

  “Eventually, I trust.”

  “What I mean to ask is whether or not mourning is the reason you haven’t married my niece yet?”

  Embarrassed, Winnifred’s cheeks heated to scalding. “He isn’t going to marry me.”

  Aunt Myrtle stopped with a firm clack of her cane and faced them. Her brow arched with the same superior skepticism that her father often employed. “No?”

  “No,” she answered, ignoring the sudden piercing pain in the vicinity of her heart. “He has other obligations and he’ll be leaving for London in the morning. That is . . . if he is welcome to stay the night?”

  She pursed her lips and lifted one shoulder. “As long as he likes. Though I think a trip to Gretna Green at first light would serve the two of you far better.”

  “Aunt!” Winnifred gasped. “I . . . or rather, the two of us . . . aren’t even interested in marriage.”

  Her aunt eyed them, one after the other. Then her gaze dropped purposefully to the space between them.

  Both Winnifred and Asher looked down at the same time, then jolted. They were holding hands, fingers twined, palms flush. Neither of them moved quickly to separate either, but did so only after a reluctant squeeze.

  Meanwhile, her aunt cackled with glee, the sound echoing as she walked up a recessed stone staircase. “Seems to me the pair of you could use a good scrubbing and a meal. Perhaps, at dinner, you can tell me about your grand adventure from London.”

  “How do you know it wasn’t one disaster after another from the very start?” she asked, smiling when Asher reached out to tug on her little finger.

  “Because I’ve had my share of them and I can see the effects in your eyes. It’s clear to me that you’re quite in love . . .”

  “Aunt!” Winn nearly tripped up the risers.

  “. . . with having adventures, of course,” she added cheekily, her teasing words tumbling down the stairs, one after the other.

  Winnifred slid a glance to Asher. But he was staring straight ahead and frowning.

  Frowning?

  Instantly, her mind provided an answer—he didn’t want her to love him. Not her. Not plump, freckled—

  No. She stopped herself, knowing that those thoughts came from her predisposition to take another’s opinions and let them burrow under her skin.

  Perhaps she was plump. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t also like the way she filled out this dress or secretly thrill over the admiring gazes she’d recently begun to notice.

  She may not possess her mother’s willowy grace and ethereal beauty that complemented many a parlor and ballroom. But she had never really liked stuffy assemblies anyway. She’d always preferred open, breathable spaces and was thankful to have strong limbs, well-suited for a trek across the countryside. And the truth was, she’d always liked her hair. She’d often thought of it as the rebellious part of her, refusing to be managed or constricted.

  Winnifred wanted to like her terrible freckles, but perhaps that would take more time.

  Though most of all, she liked the way it felt to be with Asher. To be free to explore and to discover. To touch and to tempt. To laugh and to fall in love.

  Somewhere along the way—in between that first shouting match beside the carriage and the quiet moments lying in his arms—she’d fallen in love with him. And she would have bet her life on the fact that he was feeling the same way.

  At least, until he frowned just now.

  Then again, she didn’t know much about scoundrels and knew even less about falling in love. Her future contribution to the primer was suddenly looking rather confusing and pathetic.

  Through diamond panes of window glass, she saw the fading light of sunset, the orange tinged with a veil of lavender that threatened the close of day. Seeking a semblance of reassurance, she reached out just enough to let her fingers brush against his.

  Asher surprised her by catching her hand and holding it tightly. He didn’t let go until they reached the top of the stairs. But he was still pensive, and she still didn’t understand the reason.

  Then, greeted by a maid and a footman, they both went their separate ways.

  * * *

  All the ifs that had been spinning in Asher’s head earlier finally came to a full stop. His last encounter with Mr. Lum had made everything blindingly clear. A future with Winn would never be possible unless he could protect her from his father.

  He refused to put her at risk again. Therefore, he had to get on that ship and return with a fortune large enough to keep his father from causing any more chaos. It was the only way.

  But how was he going to make it happen?

  For more than an hour, Asher paced the length of his room and tried to find an answer, though there was hardly enough floor in the room to pace. This used to be an abbey, after all. The rooms held only a bed, wardrobe and washstand. And beyond the high, narrow window, a long seldom-traveled driveway pointed toward an uncertain future.

  Looking out, he felt as though he were already in a cell, rotting away in Fleet, alone and unable to pay the debts his father had accrued in his name.

  Lungs tight, he rubbed a fist over his chest. The air tasted musty and stale like the thoughts haunting him. He couldn’t breathe in here.

  Striding out into the corridor, he startled a maid bustling about her duties. His methodical steps echoed down a long, constricted passageway. When he’d nearly reached the end, a
familiar sound drew his footfalls around a bend and down the evening-darkened archway. Like a moth seeking a source of light, he found it in the lilting melody of a bawdy tune.

  A smile tugged at his lips. Winn. All it took was the sound of her voice and everything became clearer at once. There was only one thing that truly mattered—a chance at a new life. With her.

  Asher reached the door and listened to her song, letting each note burrow inside him. He braced his hands on either side of the frame and pressed his forehead against the wood, breathing in the polish of turpentine and beeswax, and wishing their obstacles were simpler.

  But they weren’t.

  She was still an heiress and he was still a man without a farthing to his name.

  She was going to live here and he would be away for months, even years, trying to amass a fortune great enough to withstand his father’s obsession.

  And in addition to all that, she might not forgive him for making a bargain with her father. Even without Waldenfield here to collect his daughter, Asher needed to tell her the true reason he’d been waiting at the church that day. There was no room for deception or manipulation in the future he wanted.

  During the drive, he’d rehearsed a speech in his mind a thousand times. But the words were still all wrong and he feared he would lose her. It was a gamble he couldn’t risk.

  So for now, he turned around and walked away.

  * * *

  At dinner that evening, Winnifred wore one of Aunt Myrtle’s dresses from years ago before the accident that injured her leg, when she’d still ventured into London. It was a lovely rose-colored muslin with wide gold piping around the sleeves, a low-cut bodice and a gold sash beneath her breasts.

  Having grown accustomed to wearing the newer fashions, she felt practically naked in this thin gown with only a chemise and bust bodice beneath.

  The servants had also laundered and pressed Asher’s clothes and polished his boots. He was never more handsome, with a fresh shave that accentuated the sculpted lines of his countenance.

  Sitting across the linen-draped table from him, it was difficult not to blush at the memory of his eyes widening when he’d first seen her this evening, and then how they darkened. She knew what that hungry look meant now, and felt a corresponding flutter in her midriff.