The Borrowed Bride

by Jaye Peaches

  “Do you know?” The excitement in his voice was obvious.

  “It’s too early to say.” The fatigue and lack of appetite was likely due to her anxieties. “I’ve been in such a quandary, Matthew. I didn’t know if I should force his decision by claiming I would ruin his reputation, but I have no proof of misconduct.”

  “Well, I might—”

  He stopped talking abruptly.

  “Matthew? Matthew?” Still no sound from the other side. Then she heard whispering, too quiet to discern the nature. She stepped away from the door, fearing who might be there. If it was Henry, surely, he would be shouting?

  A key turned in the lock. Dara braced herself. However, the face that peeped through the crack wasn’t Matthew’s or Henry’s; it was Estelle.

  “Milady.” The maid opened the door further. “You must be quick.”

  Behind Estelle was Matthew. Dara gave Estelle a swift embrace of thanks.

  “My clothes...” She wore the ridiculous nightgown.

  Matthew removed his overcoat and draped it over Dara’s shoulders. She slipped her arms into the sleeves. The coat dwarfed her; she smelt him, and it warmed her heart to have him close to her flesh.

  “No time for dallying, luv.” He took her hand. “We must leave, now.”

  She wanted his warm embrace, his soft kisses, anything to stem the sense of dread that haunted her bones. “But... he’ll come back and find me gone, and I’ll be no better off—”

  “We’re past worrying about that, Dara. He’ll make your life a misery one way or the other.”

  “Why did you come for me?” she asked, ignoring his impatience.

  He tipped up her chin. “I’m sorry, lass. I made a mistake. I should never have let you return. He’s threatened you and treated you with malice. He’s not worthy of you. Paul has more sense than me.”

  “No, no. I chose to return. It was what we agreed. My marriage is my responsibility—”

  “And your happiness is mine,” he said firmly.

  “Milady.” Estelle fretted in the background.

  “Come on.” He harried her down the corridor toward the stairs. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Estelle closing the door and locking it again.

  They reached the far door when a voice boomed from the other end of the long passage.

  “Halt!” the deep voice echoed. It nearly brought Dara to her knees. Estelle ran straight past Lord Coleman, who paid her no heed.

  Two dogs bounded up to them, teeth bared and ears pointing forward. Matthew kicked at them.

  “Off with you!”

  However, the hounds were persistent. Dara hid behind Matthew, cowering in fright. It was only when she stood on tiptoes and peered over his shoulder, she saw the ominous figure of Lord Coleman storming down the corridor, his riding whip in one hand, a sword in the other.

  “So this is the devil who stole my wife.” Henry stopped short and waved the point of the rapier in Matthew’s face.

  “Actually, I borrowed her. Such a grand welcome... brother.” Matthew said coldly.

  “Brother? No, that’s a lie. She told me it was a lie.” Henry’s sword wavered as much as his voice.

  She, Dara assumed, was Henry’s grandmother. She’d seen her portrait on the wall above the grandest fireplace in the hall. A dour woman with icy eyes and thin lips.

  “I’m Matthew Denzel.”

  “Denzel,” Henry stuttered. “There was a tenancy under the name of Denzel; the farm was bought by the duke, my grandfather, for one of his tenants.”

  “And given to our mother.” Matthew shoved his hand behind him, forcing Dara to stand in his shadow. The dogs yapped noisily, but made no attempt to attack them.

  “No.” The denial was weak, the truth was sinking in as quickly as his breathing. Slowly, he lowered the blade. “You have been with him in your fine frocks,” he addressed Dara. “Did you give him the jewels?”

  She stuck her face out from behind Matthew’s arm. “Yes. I love him. And no, you know the jewels are in the house. You can have them back if you like.”

  The interlude lasted no more than a few seconds. Henry’s dark grimace spread over his face. The blade not only lifted again, it also moved closer to Matthew. Dara, fearing for his life, wriggled out of his arm and shot in between the space. The sword kissed her shoulder, nearly cutting her.

  Henry gasped and retracted the blade. Matthew swore.

  “No more,” she cried. “No more lies and hatred. No more. I cannot stand it.” She glared at her husband. “I do not love you. You know this. And you most definitely do not love me. So let me go. Have your divorce, I don’t care. Your mother faced the same decision when she chose Matthew’s father, and she made it bravely, for it was in her favour. I shall do the same. If you want to petition the courts, do so. I shall live in hope that my family will one day forgive me.”

  “Dara,” Matthew said. “Don’t.”

  “I shall do as I please,” she said, digging up every morsel of courage she might have left.

  “Then, milady, you will have to face the consequences,” seethed Henry. “My bastard brother will end up ruined, I shall see to it.”

  “He’s not a bastard,” she hollered.

  “Dara,” said Matthew, almost calmly, in her ear. “Tis time to go. I’ll not fight him. He can call me what he likes. I’m his brother, and my mother is his mother. If he can’t see we’re kin, then there’s no hope for him.”

  They backed toward the door. Henry, although his sword remained aloft, made no attempt to stay in step with them.

  A shout went up, then another. Somewhere in the house, there was a familiar voice. “Master, Master.”

  Running down the corridor, his face crimson and streaming with sweat, was Lemuel. He stopped, bent over and rested his hands on his knees, panting heavily. Henry turned to stare at him.

  “Who are you?” he snarled.

  Lemuel, to Dara’s admiration, simply ignored Henry, the sword, and the curious dogs, and took from his pocket a folded piece of paper. “For you, Master. The reply you sought. He took two days to decide what to do, then he agreed to write a reply. I’m sorry I could not come sooner.”

  Henry stood between them. Matthew walked around him, keeping Henry and his indecisive blade in his view the whole time. He received the letter, which bore no seal, and unfolded it. Somehow, he managed to read it and never allow his guard to drop.

  Lemuel propped himself against the wall, then slid down. Dara wondered how many miles the exhausted youth had covered to reach the house.

  “This is my house,” said Henry. “I demand an explanation. Who is this boy?”

  Matthew revealed no emotion in either his voice or face; he remained a picture of neutrality. Dara was bursting to know what the letter contained and why it was so important to read then and there.

  “Lemuel, lad. Take yourself off. Find a friendly servant to give you a well-earned drink.”

  “Master.” Lemuel struggled to his feet and trotted down the corridor. Only when he was out of sight did Matthew hand the letter not to the expectant Dara, but Henry.

  He fumbled to hold it and the whip. “What is—”

  “Read it,” said Matthew. He returned to Dara’s side and squeezed her hand.

  The colour drained from Henry’s face. “How did you find him?”

  Matthew scratched his nose nonchalantly. The confidence had returned to all faculties of his body. “Alfie. The old gamekeeper. He preferred to use the old hunting lodge that sits close to the border between your land and mine.”

  Henry pursed his lips. “He left my service two years ago, so—”

  “Alfie is a cousin of a friend of mine.” He turned to Dara. “Maggie.”

  “Alfie isn’t the person who wrote this letter,” Henry said. The paper trembled in his hands.

  “No. But he was able to give me the name and address of the man who did write it: an upstanding innkeeper with a wife and two sons. Alfie, I think, could guess at the nature of my enqu
iry, but kept his mouth shut. Something I guess he did frequently on your behalf?”

  “I thought him loyal.”

  “He was loyal to our mother. He would bring news to her from time to time of you. Your grandmother refused to let you meet her. So Ma had to find some way to know how you fared.”

  Henry frowned. “This letter, I shall deny—”

  “Yes, you can destroy it, but I’ll get another, then another. If necessary, I’ll bring a notary and have it made a sworn affidavit. The author of it still blames you for his dismissal from Willowby Hall, the humiliation, even though what happened was not his fault. You engineered his exit to your advantage.”

  “He’s willing to go this far?” Henry pointed at the signature at the bottom of the letter and shook his head. “I believed I had not offended him. He changed his mind and left in good spirits.”

  “Who?” Dara whispered to Matthew.

  “Who?” Henry snorted. He sheathed his rapier and threw the whip across the floor. The dogs chased after it. “He was ambivalent, and I was young and stupid. I made a mistake in approaching one of my own manservants, and he complained to Alfie. Yes, Alfie said nothing, because he has the wit to stay silent, but I couldn’t trust a servant to keep his mouth shut. After that, I stopped using the lodge, and travelled further afield.”

  “Ambivalent? What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Inexperienced, too.” Henry sighed. “Just one time, and he baulked, realising he wasn’t as keen as he, or I, thought. I bore him no ill-will, and I assumed he would shrug off our misadventure. It was a misunderstanding. Then I feared his animosity if he thought I might reveal what had happened in the lodge; why I’ve no idea. I paid him a handsome sum, I might add, in compensation for his dismissal.”

  Dara wished for a better explanation than that. “Matthew—”

  Matthew wrapped his arm around her shoulder. He spoke quietly, for her benefit only. “Tis simple, lass. Henry prefers the company of men, not women. He needed marriage for heirs, not a lover.”

  “Oh.” She shrank back on her heels. She’d not thought such an alliance was possible. But the revelation, as shocking as it might seemed, explained many things about Henry’s behaviour toward her. The lack of consummation and his frustrated visit to her bedchamber the previous night being the most obvious observation.

  “Do you not like me?” she asked her husband.

  “You’re pretty enough. Just not as I like it,” Henry said unapologetically.

  “What do you mean, farther afield?” She now had the stronger position; Henry had lost his bravado, even the dogs sensed it. They milled around his feet, whining.

  Matthew pointed to the letter. “After that sorry affair, I suspect his lordship travelled a great deal in the hope of finding the right companion for his needs. I suspect, given his frequent and lengthy absences, he has.”

  “Overseas,” Henry said. “Not everywhere is as harsh as this country.”

  Dara suddenly understood the significance. “You have a... a lover? You, you... are also unfaithful, sir, and you married me with the intention of continuing this affair?”

  Henry blushed. Dara laughed. She couldn’t help it. She felt justifiably angry, but also a perverse sense of pity toward her husband. He had treated her abominably while knowing he was cheating on her and acted as if everything was her fault. But now he stood before her weakened and stripped of authority. The very set of circumstances he must fear as much as losing his reputation and dignity.

  “Humiliating, isn’t it? Answering questions about your private matters.” She folded her arms across her chest, feeling there was more humbling to come.

  Matthew, though, frowned. “We’re brothers, Henry, I don’t want to see you driven out of the country to live in permanent exile. Let’s go somewhere more comfortable and talk about Dara’s future, the one she deserves.”

  Henry, the letter still crushed in his fist, led them downstairs and into the library. This time, he chose not the formidable chair behind the desk, but a low-slung armchair. He flopped into it.

  “What do you plan to do?” he asked Matthew.

  Matthew directed Dara to sit, while he remained on his feet. In a matter of minutes, he’d gone from being an unwanted intruder to appearing as if he was the lord of the house and not Henry.

  Dara cleared her throat. “Kings are allowed lovers. Queens, too, I suspect. I have natural desires, Henry, I merely sought them out when you failed me.”

  He looked at her with a new expression: jealousy. “My kind of mistress is forbidden by law. Gossip is the least of my worries.”

  Matthew rocked on his heels. “I suggest a compromise. Tis only fair that all of us come out of this with our honour and good name intact.”

  “How?” she said. What possible solution would leave her with Matthew and esteemed in the eyes of her father?

  “By staying married to Henry.” He hushed her before she could reject his proposal. It was surely out of the question to keep up the pretence. “Since you and Henry have both engaged in”—he smirked—“inappropriate activities, then it would be devastating to the Colemans and your family, Dara, to seek a divorce and all the ensuing gossip. Lies will get muddled up with the truth, and I’ll be damned if Dara has to put up with that misery. My mother went to great lengths to protect my father and me from scandal.”

  Henry nodded. “I don’t see it serves any purpose to pursue an annulment now. You are clearly not a virgin, Dara, and I have my peculiarities.”

  “As a wife, Dara will raise any children as Henry’s heirs, and in return you’ll not interfere with our affairs. We’ll not mention yours either.”

  “Our children?” Dara said, aghast. “You would—”

  “Aye, lass. I would for your sake, not his. They will inherit his title and bear his name. But in secret, we’ll know they’re ours. Now and again, Henry will return home and play the role of father and husband in some suitable public venue. He may then leave to return to the life he chooses. Neither of you, if we are careful, need suffer any dire consequences.”

  Henry scoffed. “Have my wife raise her children in a hovel? How will this fit the story? Who will they think you are?”

  Dara pulled a face. “I admit, servants would be useful, and I don’t wish to live in that cottage—”

  Matthew interrupted without rancour. “The cottage will be gone, and as for the children, they’ll known me as their uncle.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Henry, alarmed. “Their uncle—”

  “What about the cottage?” added Dara, confused.

  Matthew held a hand to silence them both. “Heavens, you’re as bad as each other in the matter of patience. I have not lived frugally for no purpose, lass. I have saved every penny, and there is a small deceit on the part of our grandmother, Henry, the duchess.”

  Henry’s eyebrows furrowed. “What deceit?”

  “She sent money to my mother after she married my father. In secret, of course. My father opened a bank account in my name. The amount grew and I added to it later. It’s now a sizeable fortune. I plan to replace my hovel, as you call it, with a fine manor house and I’ll move my farm labourers into a purpose-built settlement by the river. I shall do so using my name, Denzel, to save you any embarrassment.”

  Henry’s jaw had dropped as low as Dara’s. Both of them sat in silence, absorbing Matthew’s plan, while he petted the dogs’ heads with his workman’s hands.

  “I see,” muttered Henry eventually. “It seems there is no reason to object to your arrangement.”

  “Aye, except for one small matter. Folks will need to know that Dara visits kin, your brother, the uncle of your future children, and that will then explain why she stays with me for protection, while you do your travelling. Long journeys, I take it?”

  “Very long,” Henry smiled. “I understand. “I shall ensure you are recognised as my legitimate half-brother. Not a Coleman, obviously, but nevertheless my kin.”

  “Good.” Matthew nodded
. “This will go some way to restoring our mother’s good name. The Denzels will be landed gentry in a few years’ time, you’ll see, and they’ll be nothing humble in the education of my children; they’ll be upstanding in society. We’ll be discreet, naturally, and just as you’ve trusted your servants to stay loyal to you, mine will too. Pay them a decent wage and they’ll turn a blind eye, and ear, to overheard conversations between me and Dara.”

  “Indeed,” said Henry dryly. “Although, as I’ve learnt to my cost, I suggest you interrogate them carefully first.” He held up the crumpled letter. “Or else they’ll return to make trouble for you.”

  Matthew held out his hand. “Give me the letter.”

  Henry hesitated before handing it over. Matthew turned to the fireplace. The embers were still warm from the previous evening’s blaze. He poked the paper deep into the hottest ashes and slowly, the paper crisped, turned black, and disintegrated.

  “As I said, I can always get another one, but I don’t think we need threats anymore. What do you think, brother?” Matthew raised his eyebrows.

  “I think you’re quite correct,” said Henry pleasantly. The colour of his skin was no longer flushed with embarrassment. He eased back in his seat and snapped his fingers. The dogs, pausing to look up at Matthew, wavered for a second before wagging their tails and settling at his feet. “It seems I’m still master of Willowby Hall.”

  “Aye,” said Matthew. He held out his hand and drew Dara to her feet. “We’ll get her clothes and things, and go.”

  Dara was supposed to be acting the part of Lady Coleman. She tugged on Matthew’s sleeve and said quietly, “Shouldn’t I stay until—”

  “I think his lordship will be leaving again quite soon. He’s good news to tell somebody important in his life. Aren’t I right, brother?”

  “Yes, I shall be gone early in the morning. I have a long journey. I suspect this time I might be gone... eight or nine months? Would that suit your plans?”

  Dara stroked her belly. “Quite probably. You should return for the baptism of your child. Matthew will be the godfather, and we can celebrate with a party, invite my parents and sisters to see our successful enterprises.”