Wedding Wagers

by Donna Hatch

  “Yes.” Shrewdly she watched him from her perch. “What is it that you really want?”

  Phillip should have known this would not work as he’d hoped. “I want you to meet the Stafford’s niece, Miss Meredith Brown.”

  “Oh? Oh.” A slow smile curved her lips, reminding him of a cat about to enjoy a bowl of cream. “You’ve found a girl? Oh, Phillip, this is wonderful!” She went still. “Why the dinner party? What is wrong with her?”

  He fisted a hand. “There is nothing wrong with her. She is lovely and charming and kind and bright and witty. And I love her.”

  “Why don’t you think I’ll approve?”

  He ever despaired of her intuition. “Make her acquaintance before you pass judgment. You will like her—I’m sure of it. In fact, Suttenberg will like her. Mother, she’s the most—”

  “Phillip.” With an impatient glance, she waved her hand at the maid. “Leave us.”

  The woman stepped back, curtsied, and soundlessly left the room.

  As his mother opened her mouth, Phillip interjected, “Mother, please, just meet her.”

  She arose and faced him like an indignant queen. “Who are her parents?”

  He stood, his back ramrod straight like a soldier marching to battle. “Her mother is a lady—a daughter of a gentleman and a relative of the Baron of Stapleton.”

  “And her father?”

  He swallowed. He’d rather face that schoolmaster and his switch than confess to his mother. He gathered his courage. “He owns a lace factory in Loughborough.”

  “No.”

  He barely managed not to stammer, “I beg your pardon?”

  “No, you may not marry her, no matter how beautiful or charming you think she is or how much you fancy yourself in love. You will not water down the bloodline with someone so far beneath us.”

  Phillip’s blood heated. “How can you be such a snob?”

  “It is a matter of duty as well as family pride. Our feelings do not matter. We must do right by the family name—generations of Suttenbergs, past and future, rest on our decisions.” She took a breath. “You have neither my permission nor my blessing.” She took a few steps closer and poked him in the chest. “Do not shame us by continuing to associate with this . . . this . . . factory girl.”

  “She is a lady in every possible meaning of the term—”

  “Not by birth!”

  He recoiled.

  She softened and put a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, Phillip, you are only four and twenty. You have time. There are plenty of young ladies out there of good breeding who would love to marry you.”

  Bitterly, he said, “They see only the Suttenberg family. They don’t see me.”

  In soothing tones, she said, “Out there is someone you have not yet met.”

  “I have met her, Mother.”

  Her face hardened. “My answer is no. I forbid you to see her again. This discussion is over.” She turned away and stood with clenched fists and heaving breath.

  His anger left him, and in its wake came a searing, aching pain that he would be disavowed by the very people who should love and accept him unconditionally. He would lose them, probably forever. His children would never know his side of the family.

  His father would not have approved. No one in his family would condone their union. Grandmama would probably strike him with her cane. The scandal of him marrying a girl of Meredith’s birth would taint generations of Suttenbergs. Even his brother, the paragon, would bear the shame of Phillip’s marriage to the wrong girl.

  He would be selfish to take his little slice of happiness at their expense.

  Chapter Twelve

  Meredith sat in the last row of chairs at the musicale between her cousin Annabel and her friend Cora Harris. Poor Cora. All the light had left her eyes, and she never once smiled. It pained Meredith that she had removed her friend’s happiness. Still, it was better that Cora learned of her suitor’s intentions before it was too late.

  At the end of the performance, Cora excused herself. Meredith stood to mingle with other guests and offer her appreciation to the performers. Across the room, she spotted Michael Cavenleigh. How odd to see him without Phillip. For that matter, it felt every bit as odd not to have Phillip at her side.

  Her lips, nay her entire being, still tingled from Phillip’s earth-moving kisses. She’d almost begged him to marry her on the spot. But his family would need to be won over. Somehow. And having a long and respectable courtship would please Uncle and, hopefully, her parents before she married Phillip.

  Marry Phillip. She smiled. How easily she pictured his face smiling across from her breakfast table, as they rode, as they walked, as they laughed. She longed to snuggle up to his side while his arms encircled her.

  If only Cora could be so happy. Perhaps Meredith ought to check on her to ensure she was well. She moved toward the door, nodding to Michael Cavenleigh as she passed him.

  A gentleman greeted him loudly. “I heard the strangest thing about you, Cavenleigh. You were seen purchasing a mule.”

  A mule? Why on earth would a breeder of prize-winning stallions buy a mule? Meredith glanced back.

  Mr. Cavenleigh’s mouth twisted to a grimace. “Who said that?”

  “So, it’s true, then?” the gentleman laughed. “Why would you do that?”

  Riding a mule sounded like the price of a wager typical of two gentlemen bachelors. Poor Mr. Cavenleigh. He really should have known better.

  “Excuse me.” Mr. Cavenleigh muttered to the still chuckling gentleman as he headed the door. As he passed Meredith, he gave her polite nod.

  She sent him a sympathetic look and took a guess as to the odd purchase. “Gentlemen’s wagers can be a sore trial, can they not?”

  He looked startled. “He told you?”

  A warning bell rang in Meredith’s head. It was probably nothing, but she hadn’t spent years developing her suspicious nature to let go of it now. She conjured up a giggle and waved her hand.

  “We have few secrets. I don’t know all the details, just that your losing involves a mule. I admit, I’m curious. Do elaborate.” Phillip had failed to mention the entire wager, but Mr. Cavenleigh could make what he might of her words. “What must Phillip do if he loses?”

  “He has to muck out my stables.”

  She covered her mouth and laughed. “Oh, dear. A humiliating and difficult task for someone born of a duke. No wonder he didn’t tell me.” The breadth of how unaffected he seemed by his high station continued to surprise her.

  Cavenleigh almost smiled. “As humiliating as a prize stock breeder riding a mule at Hyde Park.”

  Part sympathetic and part amused, she laughed again. “I see. I almost wish there were a way you could both win to be spared.”

  He nodded. How odd to converse with Phillip’s normally silent friend. Then again, quieter people were often overshadowed by more open, outgoing friends. People like Mr. Cavenleigh, who seemed content to allow their friends to carry conversation, sometimes conversed more when no one else filled that social obligation.

  She gave him an encouraging smile in the hopes to get him to continue talking. “When, again, will the outcome be decided?”

  “He wanted to make it when you announced your engagement, but I insisted it must be by Season’s end, or the day after your wedding, in case you changed your mind.”

  Everything inside her went still.

  He misread her expression. “I didn’t know you then—you might have been a jilt. But you aren’t flighty.”

  She put on an amused smile, while deep in her heart, the fear that once again she had been duped by a silver tongue crept out of his hiding place to haunt her.

  She’d been the object of a gentleman’s bet.

  They had wagered about her marrying Phillip.

  Had all of Phillip’s attention been the result of his desire to give his friend a set down? But marriage seemed extreme. Still, perhaps he’d learned of her dowry despite her attempts and needed the m
oney worse than she supposed. He was a second son, after all, and many families left second sons to fend for themselves by finding gentlemen’s employment or marrying well. Perhaps he, too, was lying about wanting marriage and only wanted a dalliance. She should have known it was too good to be true.

  Aware of Mr. Cavenleigh’s observation, she conjured up a laugh. “That sounds a fitting wager. I doubt he has ever mucked out a stable, and I’m certain you have never sat on less than a prized purebred.”

  “Indeed. But the wager aside, I do wish you happiness.”

  At least, that’s what she thought he said. The roaring in her ears drowned out most sounds around her. They’d bet on her. With high stakes to their pride.

  “Thank you.” She swallowed. “We are not engaged to be married, though.”

  “Of course. Premature.”

  She managed some sort of reply and took her leave of him. Once again, love had made a fool of her. How could she have been so foolish as to have believed it was real this time?

  Home. She must go home. Now, before she lost her composure. Through blurred vision, she sought her aunt and uncle.

  Annabel found her instead. “Oh, Merry, you must come. Mr. Morton has cornered Miss Harris.” She took Meredith by the hand and towed her to another room.

  Cora Harris? In trouble? Meredith cast off her sorrow and focused on protecting her friend. It was all she had left, it seemed.

  “Please, listen to me,” a male voice said.

  In the far corner of a sitting room, Cora Harris stood with her hands upheld. Mr. Morton stood over her, his arms extended.

  “I have heard all I need,” Cora’s voice quivered. “You only desire my dowry, just like those other ladies you courted. You never loved them, and you never loved me.”

  “That’s not true.” He stepped closer. “I do love you—more than I ever loved them.”

  Meredith hurried forward to lend aid to her friend and placed herself between them, facing Mr. Morton like a mother bear protecting her young. “Mr. Morton, the lady is not interested in your lies.”

  “I am not lying. I love her.” He addressed her friend. “Cora, please, I love you!”

  Meredith stood taller to protect her friend from doom.

  Cora’s muffled voice came from behind Meredith. “You only want my dowry. Now go away!”

  He raked his fingers through his hair. “All right. I admit that at first, I sought you out only because of your dowry. My aunt cut me out of my inheritance when I refused to marry her half-witted daughter. And I never got the education to have a profession, such as a barrister. I don’t have the nerve to enlist in the army. So yes, at first, my only plan was to marry well.”

  “Then you’d best leave, sir,” Meredith said, staring him down. “Your game is over.”

  He cast a frantic glance at Cora behind her and then looked Meredith in the eye. “Please do not condemn me without allowing me to defend myself.” The steady, courageous desperation in his expression gave her pause.

  “Very well. State your case.” She folded her arms.

  “I don’t need a dowry to support myself. I need it to care for a wife and children.”

  At least he was thinking about how he would provide for his family, but he was still a mercenary.

  “Shortly after meeting Miss Harris,” he continued. “I developed a true attachment to her. I enjoy being with her, and I like who I become in her presence. She makes me want to be a better man. I want to spend all my days with her. And if her dowry did not exist, I would find a way to provide for her—learn some kind of skill. I would marry her even if she were penniless.”

  Behind Meredith, Cora’s breath caught. His earnest expression pled for understanding. But was he truly sincere? Phillip Partridge had seemed genuine too, but it had all been part of a wager, the true purpose of which she had yet to determine.

  “Do you mean that?” Cora said.

  He stepped to the side and reached for her. “Cora, darling, I mean that with all my heart.”

  Meredith turned over his words, searching for a hidden agenda. Nothing came to mind. He seemed sincere. She glanced back.

  Cora stared at him with tears brightening her eyes and a smile that transformed a plain girl into a beauty. “Oh, John!”

  Meredith stepped to the side and allowed them to converse without her in their way.

  “I am in earnest, Cora. I will refuse your dowry. Will you agree to an extended betrothal to allow me time to find a means to care for you as you deserve?”

  Cora sniffled.

  “Please, will you marry me?”

  “Yes!” She ran into his arms.

  As Meredith strode to Annabel lingering in the doorway, her cousin smiled. “That was brilliantly done.”

  Meredith shrugged. At least one person had found her true love. If Meredith must be denied that kind of joy, she would become the guardian of young girls to ensure they were never deceived. Someday, she might find and mend the broken pieces of her own heart.

  Chapter Thirteen

  On the ride home, Phillip agonized over his choice. Sever ties to his family and bring social censure upon them, or give up the only girl who’d ever seen—ever loved—him? She hadn’t said she did, but her kiss had revealed her heart in a way words could not. One day she would trust him enough to declare her love for him.

  Could he disappoint, humiliate, reject his family this way?

  Could he give up Meredith Brown?

  No. No, he could not, would not give her up. Of course, the condition of Mr. Stafford’s permission to court Meredith was to gain his family’s permission. He’d failed on that score. He refused to allow that to stop him.

  Meredith might have an idea. The very thought of sharing his worries with her and seeking her counsel settled like a healing balm on his troubled heart.

  Instead of going home to change, he rode directly to the location of tonight’s musicale she would be attending. Wearing riding clothes dirty from the road, he didn’t dare enter a home where everyone would be clean and dressed in their evening finery. He couldn’t wait. He had to see her. He paced the sidewalk, waiting for her to exit the building.

  Guests began emerging, and Phillip moved closer to the steps where he would be illuminated by the light spilling out of the fanlight above the door. A few who exited the house recognized and greeted him, and he replied to them as if he always lurked about the streets, dressed for a day in the country.

  More and more people emerged, and Phillip grew anxious. Had she already left? Had she decided not to attend after all?

  Michael appeared in the doorway and paused midstep as he recognized Phillip. “How was your visit with the duchess?”

  “Not as successful as I had hoped.”

  “You’ll prevail.” He offered a teasing smile. “Or I’ll enjoy watching you muck out my stables.”

  “I’ll enjoy watching you ride a mule,” Phillip shot back. “Is she here?”

  He glanced back. “I didn’t see her leave, but then, I haven’t seen her in the last several minutes. Ah, here she comes now.” He descended the steps and moved behind Phillip. “You might not want to speak with her now. You smell of horse.”

  “I know, but I need to see her.”

  A soft chuckle came in reply.

  The Staffords exited, followed by Meredith Brown, who walked with bowed head.

  Phillip’s heart surged in his chest, and it was all he could do not to rush to her side. “Miss Brown.”

  She lifted her head. Even silhouetted, her stiffened posture revealed something was terribly wrong. What could have happened? Surely Mr. Stafford hadn’t forbidden her to see him after telling Phillip he could court her if he gained his family’s approval. What else might have upset her? Had someone snubbed her?

  As she passed between the columns flanking the door, he moved to her side. “What has happened?” He reached for her.

  With barely a glance, she sidestepped him. His blood chilled.

  “I have no
thing to say to you, Mr. Partridge,” she said, her tone icy.

  This couldn’t be the woman who had been so warm and willing in his arms only hours ago. “What do you mean?”

  “Whatever game you are playing, it is over. I will not be the object of a wager.”

  “Wager?” The chill in his blood sank into his bones.

  Next to him, Michael cursed under his breath.

  “High stakes.” She folded her arms. “I have heard of so-called gentlemen’s wagers, but I never dreamed I’d be the object of one. Did you record it in that infamous betting book at your club?”

  “N-no,” he stammered. “Of course not.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, you both deserve to lose.”

  Aware of a growing crowd around them, including Mr. and Mrs. Stafford, who glared at him, Phillip said, “It’s not what you think. Let’s discuss this in private.”

  “There is nothing to discuss. We shall not converse, or even meet, again.” She lifted her chin and strode past.

  Mr. Stafford stepped up to him nearly nose to nose. “The answer is no.”

  The Stafford family drove away. Members of the ton who had once called themselves friends of his—at least, of his Suttenberg connection—gave him looks ranging from amusement to triumph to pity.

  He turned away and grabbed Michael by the arm, walking with long, angry strides. “You told her,” he snarled.

  “I—”

  “Was winning so vital that you sabotaged me? I didn’t know you’d sink so low. I thought, out of everyone, I could trust you. But I was wrong. Everyone is so concerned with appearances, with doing what they think the beau monde expects of them, that no one can be a true friend or—heaven forbid—encourage someone to pursue their own definition of happiness!”

  After a moment of trotting along to keep up with Phillip, Michael said, “Are you finished?”

  “Yes. We are finished here.” He pushed Michael’s arm away as if it were diseased and crossed the street.

  Michael. How could he? His oldest friend. Phillip never would have expected it. He’d lost his oldest friend. He’d lost the only girl he’d ever loved.