Wedding Wagers
Page 1
Timeless Regency Collection:
Wedding Wagers
Donna Hatch
Heather B. Moore
Michele Paige Holmes
Copyright © 2018 Mirror Press
E-book edition
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles. These novels are works of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialog are products of the authors’ imaginations and are not to be construed as real.
Interior Design by Heather Justesen
Edited by Cassidy Skousen, Kristy Stewart, Tracy Daley, and Lisa Shepherd
Cover design by Rachael Anderson
Cover Photo Credit: Period Images
Published by Mirror Press, LLC
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Wedding Wagers (Timeless Regency Collection, #11)
Other Timeless Regency Collections
Table of Contents
A Wager on Love | By Donna Hatch
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
More romances by Donna Hatch:
About Donna Hatch
The Final Wager | By Heather B. Moore
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
More romances by Heather B. Moore:
About Heather B. Moore
An Improbable Wager | Michele Paige Holmes
Shropshire, England | June 1805 | Chapter One
Chapter Two | Fourteen Years Later
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
About Michele Paige Holmes
More Timeless Regency Collections:
Don’t miss our Timeless Romance Anthologies:
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Wedding Wagers
Table of Contents
A Wager on Love by Donna Hatch
Other Works by Donna Hatch
About Donna Hatch
The Final Wager by Heather B. Moore
Other Works by Heather B. Moore
About Heather B. Moore
An Improbable Wager by Michele Paige Holmes
Other Works by Michele Paige Holmes
About Michele Paige Holmes
A Wager on Love
By Donna Hatch
Chapter One
Growing up the son of a duke had provided a few advantages, but being the brother of a duke came with definite challenges—especially if that brother was the famed Duke of Suttenberg, one of the most respected men in England and therefore every season’s most eligible bachelor, a paragon. Still, Phillip was nothing if not optimistic. Surely some young lady with discerning taste would view Phillip as every bit as desirable.
Phillip attempted to smile at the young lady twittering about how very pleased she was to meet him, but she never once looked him in the eye. Which was a shame, really, because she missed out on his handsome face and the dimple that so many women found irresistible.
“. . . hear you are an excellent dancer, Your Grace, and—”
Of course. Phillip should have known. He held up a hand to stop the chatter. “Pardon me, but it seems you have me confused with my brother.”
“. . . and I absolutely adore dancing . . . what?” She blinked, looking at him for the first time.
“I am Phillip Partridge, the duke’s brother.”
Honestly, if one more girl threw herself at Phillip because she wanted to be part of the Suttenberg ducal family—or because she mistook him for the duke, rather than because of the good looks and charm Phillip possessed in spades—he would put out an eye.
Since he had no desire to start sporting an eye patch—not that he couldn’t pull it off with style, but it sounded deuced painful—he managed a polite, curt bow and left before she asked him to introduce her to his so-much-more-eligible brother, the one with the title.
Looking over the heads in the ballroom, he spotted Michael Cavenleigh’s blond hair in the crowd. Phillip threaded through scores of ladies scented like flowers, dressed in cream or white silk, and flirting with gentlemen in brocade and superfine who would rather be at a card table.
Upon reaching his friend’s side, Phillip jerked his head toward the door. “I believe I’ll accept Tristan Barrett’s invitation to visit Vauxhall Gardens.”
Michael lifted a brow.
“It’s fine weather for an outdoor lark.” Did he sound desperate?
A corner of Michael’s lip twitched. His normally taciturn friend seemed even less talkative than usual tonight, but that smirk revealed his awareness of Phillip’s decision to make a strategic retreat.
Phillip tried again. “Barrett desires several gentlemen present—something about making sure there are enough male prospects for all the young ladies he has invited. Care to join me?” Not that Phillip had given the outing much thought until now, mind you.
A small huff that might have been a suppressed laugh escaped Michael’s lips. With a glance at the young lady who’d been batting her eyelashes at him, Michael bowed his head. “It seems I am needed elsewhere. Good evening.”
Phillip made a note to express his gratitude to his friend. For now, he contented himself with calling for his carriage.
“And where do you think you are going, young man?” His mother stood with all the dignity and authority of a duchess, for obvious reasons, and glared at him, also for obvious reasons.
Phillip inclined his head in a loose bow to the duchess. “Good evening, Mother.”
“Don’t you ‘good evening’ me. You promised you’d be attentive tonight.” She snapped her fan shut and pointed it at him as though she were a foot taller than him rather than the other way around. How such a diminutive lady could be so commanding remained a mystery.
Phillip put on his most conciliatory smile. “I danced a set.” And fended
off three girls who implied they’d be wonderful wives to a member of a ducal family—or to the duke himself if he would kindly introduce them—but that did not bear mentioning. “However, I have other invitations this evening, as I am sure you do. Perhaps some of them will be less crowded.”
“The Season is in full swing. All of the soirees are crowded.” She touched her bandeau as if to assure herself it remained in place. The white feather contrasted with dark hair untouched by gray.
“Some parties are more crowded than others,” he said wryly.
His mother looked over Phillip’s shoulder at Michael. Her smile always softened for him, especially since he’d lost his fiancée in a tragic accident. “Why, Mr. Cavenleigh. Good evening.”
“Your Grace.” Michael bowed.
“How are things at your stable?” she asked. “Still breeding champions?”
“Indeed, mum.”
“Come for dinner, won’t you?”
“Thank you.” Michael bowed again.
Phillip jumped back into the conversation, as it were. “Good evening, Mother. I hope you have a pleasant time.” Phillip inclined his head again and headed for the door.
“Phillip.” His brother’s voice stopped him. Hadn’t he been across the room a moment ago?
Phillip swung back to greet His Grace, the Duke of Suttenberg, whose ducal poise cracked long enough to smile. Suttenberg’s pale shock of hair in front, so starkly contrasting with the rest of his dark hair, seemed lighter than usual—almost white. Of course, everyone thought the unusual birthmark striking and so fitting for the newest in a long line of dukes.
Phillip’s matching blond streak served as a glaring reminder that he should be targeted for his connections—not for his dashing good looks, intellect, and charm. All these he possessed in spades, of course.
“Suttenberg.” Phillip couldn’t help but grin at his brother. It wasn’t really Suttenberg’s fault he’d been born first and had both the title and the perfectionist instincts to make him superior in every way to a mortal younger brother. Despite common opinion, Suttenberg hadn’t always been so perfect. As boys, they’d gotten into their share of scrapes together. Father’s untimely death had changed everything.
Phillip never wanted the burden of a title. He sought a girl who actually saw him and not merely a fat purse or the means to climb the slippery social ladder. Being the younger brother of a duke, a paragon of perfection, made that difficult. Still, Phillip refused to let his brother’s brilliance blind every woman alive. Surely somewhere existed a lady of substance, someone extraordinary, who would see Phillip for the man he was. He would find her, even if it took years, and he would make her his own.
Suttenberg clapped a hand on Phillip shoulder. “I haven’t seen you in a fortnight, little brother.”
Phillip shrugged. “We’ve both been busy. You with Parliament, and I . . .” He jabbed a finger over his shoulder at Michael. “Cavenleigh Stables needed my wisdom moving this year’s batch to Tattersall’s.”
Michael snorted, but Phillip didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him.
“Ah, yes. I would enjoy looking over your new stock,” Suttenberg said to Michael.
“I’d be honored,” Michael said. For a man of few words, he usually said everything right.
“Are you leaving so soon?” Suttenberg’s gaze returned to Phillip.
“We have young ladies to meet elsewhere,” Phillip said. “It’s a chore to be so much in demand. Of course, you wouldn’t know.” He grinned.
Suttenberg huffed a laugh. “I know nothing of demands.”
Phillip shook his head mournfully. “You really ought not be such a wastrel, you know. People are starting to talk.”
Mirroring Phillip’s expression, Suttenberg nodded. “A challenge, to be sure, but I’ll make an attempt.”
Phillip glanced at Michael, waiting patiently for him by the door to the great hall, and said to his brother, “Good night, Duke.”
“Good night, little brother.” A grin came with the term of endearment, since they stood at equal height.
Waving over his shoulder, Phillip headed for the great hall. After they retrieved their hats, they went out into the night. Perhaps Vauxhall Gardens would produce an unusual lady of true character and substance who would see him for the man he was, a man who offered more than a powerful family connection.
Chapter Two
Meredith Brown stood in the small river park several feet away from the riverbank, clutching her cloak and questioning her sanity. Surely there were better ways to spend the evening than taking a boat across an enormous, dirty, and somewhat dangerous river as the tide came in. The sinking sun offered little warmth, and a chill wind blew off the Thames. Incoming tide rushed through the arches below the nearest bridge and lapped hungrily at the banks, gurgling like some live beast. Little boats filled with passengers bobbed while ferrymen battled against currents, making slow progress toward the far bank.
“Cheer up, Merry.”
Meredith jumped. She pressed a hand over her chest and tried to breathe. “Gracious, but you gave me a scare.” She frowned at her cousin, Annabel Stafford.
“This will be fun,” Annabel said. “They call it Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens for a reason.”
“I’m not certain the method of reaching the gardens is safe.”
“You can’t always play it safe, Merry. Sometimes the best things happen when you take a chance.” Annabel tucked a wayward auburn curl back into her bonnet, a stylish creation that sported more flowers than Uncle’s garden.
Meredith clamped her mouth shut to avoid voicing the first words that came into her mind about how taking chances is exactly what landed her into her current predicament.
“Look,” Annabel said. “Up there. That’s Tristan Barrett. Isn’t he so handsome?”
Meredith spotted a fashionable gentleman standing on the river’s edge, heedless of the churning water. “Oh, indeed.”
“His brother is the Earl of Averston—equally handsome, but not terribly social.” Annabel lowered her voice. “According to rumor, Mr. Barrett is a bit of a rake, but oh, what a beautiful face.” She sighed.
Rumor often bore little truth, as Meredith knew all too well. Still, she’d keep an eye on him if he came near her cousin. Her whole reason for agreeing to her aunt and uncle’s sponsorship of her first and only season was to enjoy time with Annabel and help her make a good match with an honorable gentleman who deserved her. At season’s end, she would return to her grandmother’s house. Perhaps she’d even marry the vicar who had proven himself honest and kind, if somewhat bland. That, at last, might please her parents.
Several more members of their group stepped into small boats and cast off, rocking in the choppy waves.
Annabel gestured. “In the far boat is Mr. Finley—he’s the grandson of a viscount—and behind him is Mr. Dixon, the third son of a marquis.”
Meredith shrank back. “I don’t belong with all these aristocratic people.”
“Nonsense.” Annabel squeezed her hand. “No one here has a title. As landed gentry, we’re all technically commoners.”
Meredith didn’t truly qualify as gentry, notwithstanding her aunt and uncle’s sponsorship or her mother’s birth.
Behind them, a gentleman laughed. “Nothing to worry about, my dear Miss Harris. Come see for yourself how easily they cross.”
Meredith glanced behind her. A pale-faced young woman wearing a purple bonnet stared at the river. Next to her stood a gentleman with a beaver hat and striped cravat. He tugged on the frightened lady’s arm to pull her closer to the riverbank.
A gust of wind rose up, tugging at Meredith’s bonnet and sending a chill through her. The purple bonnet sailed off the hapless lady’s head. The lady let out a cry and reached for her bonnet, but it tumbled in the air like a kite off its strings. Meredith made a grab for it as it swooped over her fingertips. The bonnet landed on the grass several feet behind her.
“My bonnet!” cried the la
dy, putting her hands on her head as if to protect it from some ill that only befell bareheaded people in public.
“Bad luck, that,” said her unhelpful companion.
Either he lacked devotion for the lady or he lacked gentlemanly valor. Meredith ran for the headwear, but the wind kicked it just out of reach. The wind pushed it again, and it bumped through the river park and into the street, where it finally rolled to a stop.
Dodging a carriage one moment and a rider the next, Meredith chased after the purple creation. As if to play with her, the wind pushed it ever farther until it landed against a storefront window displaying buns and bread.
Meredith pounced on the bonnet. “I have you now.”
She snatched it up and inspected it. Considering the amount of time it spent bumping on the ground, the ribbons and trimmings all seemed intact, and the brim, though a tad scuffed, retained its shape.
“Spare a coin, miss?” a small voice said. Hanging at the corner of the bakery and a narrow alley stood a ragged little girl. Limp strings of hair hung down her thin shoulders.
Meredith knew better than to go near an alley in this part of town. Meredith reached into her reticule and pulled out a twopence. “Here you are.”
“Tuppence,” the girl mouthed, as if offered a king’s ransom. The girl wavered, half in the alley and half on the street.
She took a timid step forward on bare feet. Poor thing probably lived in the rookeries. In a rush, the child darted forward, snatched the coin, and rushed around the corner. Meredith would have bought bread for the girl and watched to be sure the child ate. Too often, children handed their coins to their drunk of a father, who spent it on more drink. But a bareheaded lady awaited her bonnet, and no young lady—not even those in disgrace like Meredith—went about London alone, not even into a bakery.
With a firm grip on the wayward bonnet, Meredith returned to the group gathered at the edge of the riverbank.
“Gracious, Merry, you frightened me when you ran out into the street!” Annabel stared with wide eyes. “You might have been hit or trampled.”
Meredith smiled at her cousin. “Nothing so exciting.” She presented the hat to its owner. “I believe this is yours.”