Hopes and Brides: Regency and Mail Order Bride Historical Romance Collection

by Joyce Alec

  Miss Grey drew in a long breath, leaning into Peter. “You mean to say that you were the one who injured Lord Marchmont so terribly that he was knocked unconscious, only to set him in an attic room of a boarding house and leave him with a note that threatened his brother if he did not do as was demanded?”

  Lord Whitfield looked at her for a long moment and then, sighing terribly as though he were truly distraught over what he had done, nodded.

  “Where is my brother?” Peter demanded, his fear growing suddenly. “What have you done with him?”

  “I do not know where your brother is!” Lord Whitfield exclaimed, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “That was nothing more than a lie, Lord Marchmont, although it did me no end of good to know that you would be coerced into acting as I wished because of what I held.”

  Closing his eyes, Peter swayed suddenly, relief flooding him. Edward, it seemed, was quite safe. “The ring,” he said hoarsely, his voice rasping. “How did you come upon it?”

  Lord Whitfield waved a hand. “I won that from him a long time ago,” he replied, shaking his head. “I do not think that your brother ever spoke to you of it, for he knew that it was dear to your family.”

  “That cannot be so,” Peter replied, shaking his head. “I saw him with it often. It was never removed from him.”

  “He had another one made to his specifications, I believe,” Lord Whitfield replied, still looking quite distraught. “The ring I placed in the box I won from your brother before he left England,” he told Peter decisively, his eyes finally lifting to his. “I had to use it in order to have you do what I asked.”

  Peter swallowed hard, relief coursing through him as he felt Miss Grey’s hand tighten in his. His brother was safe. There was no threat. It had all been nothing more than a ruse.

  “Might you explain the bet that you made, Lord Whitfield?” Miss Smallwood’s voice was thin but clear, and Peter nodded in approval. “Why did you seek to have Lord Marchmont and Miss Grey courting?”

  “Not only courting, but wed,” Lord Blackridge interrupted before Lord Whitfield could speak. “Is that not so?”

  Lord Whitfield nodded glumly. “Betrothed.”

  “Betrothed,” Peter repeated, as thought that meant something. “Why did I need to become betrothed to Miss Grey? What was the purpose of it?”

  “That was the purpose of the bet, do you not see?” Lord Whitfield exclaimed, throwing up his hands in apparent exasperation. “I have tried to explain this clearly to you Lord Marchmont, but it seems I have failed thus far.” He took in a breath and dropped his hands—although whether he was irritated with himself or with Peter, it was not clear.

  “I placed a bet,” Lord Whitfield continued after a moment of silence. “I have something of a tendency to do such a thing without due consideration, particularly when I have drunk overly much.” He shook his head again, a soft groan escaping from him. “Therefore, when I came to my senses and realized what I had done, I had to pray that things would progress as I hoped. Unfortunately, when it appeared that you had decided against Miss Grey, I had to take matters into my own hands.” He swallowed hard and glanced up at Peter, appearing rather embarrassed. “I did not mean you harm, Lord Marchmont, but I could not afford to lose so much.”

  Peter nodded slowly, his anger slowly beginning to fade as he saw the truth for what it was. Lord Whitfield had not done anything out of malicious intent, for it seemed he had wanted simply to win the bet—although doing what he had done to Peter in order to force his hand had been entirely wrong, of course. Glancing down at Miss Grey, Peter saw her looking back at him with wide eyes, as if she herself were not quite certain what to do with such information.

  “I do not appreciate being manipulated in such a fashion, Lord Whitfield,” he said, turning his attention back to the gentleman in front of him. “You made me believe my brother was in danger.”

  Lord Whitfield had the decency to look ashamed. “I quite realize that, Lord Marchmont,” he said, sounding almost humble. “I should not have done such a thing, but, as I said, I could not see another way out of such a thing.”

  “Wait!” Peter’s eyes widened, suddenly recalling how Lord Whitfield had managed to discourage him from attending White’s on a few occasions. “You prevented me from returning to White’s. I see it quite clearly now. You were afraid that I would see the entry in White’s’ betting book, did you not?”

  Lord Blackridge’s eyes widened in astonishment, nodding slowly as he realized the truth. “And did you not fear that a gentleman would speak to Lord Marchmont of your bet?”

  Lord Whitfield shrugged. “Those who were present vowed secrecy, otherwise the bet would have failed should you have become aware of it. But yes, I feared that you would spy the entry in White’s’ betting book and call me out for it.”

  “Goodness,” Miss Grey murmured, sounding surprised but not upset. “And might I ask, Lord Whitfield, if the gentleman you have bet against is Lord Ancrum?”

  “It is,” Lord Whitfield admitted, looking at her whilst Peter gazed down upon her in admiration. “I am sorry for what he has done, Miss Grey. I did not expect him to attempt to ruin your reputation.”

  Miss Grey hesitated, throwing a quick look up into Peter’s face before turning back to Lord Whitfield. “I do not think any particular harm has been done,” she said kindly, as though Lord Whitfield was nothing more than a foolish child who had done something silly and now was paying the consequences of it. “Lord Marchmont, as you can see, has not stepped away from me because of it.”

  “No, indeed I have not,” Peter murmured, leaning closer to Miss Grey for a moment. “Nor would I.”

  She smiled up at him, her eyes aglow.

  “And I consider, Lord Whitfield, that whilst you have been incredibly stupid and whilst I shall not thank you for the injury to my head nor the threat to my brother and the worry and anxiety it has caused me since, I cannot pretend that I have not found a happiness with Miss Grey that I did not ever expect.” He did not look to Lord Whitfield as he spoke but rather gazed down into Miss Grey’s eyes, seeing her expression gentle as he continued. “For that, I think, there must be a modicum of gratitude within my heart. You have managed to procure some good out of your foolishness, it seems.”

  Lord Whitfield shuffled his feet, clearing his throat gruffly and forcing Peter and Miss Grey to look back at him.

  “Then, might I be so bold as to ask if the betrothal still stands?” he asked, looking to his feet as his color rose. “I know I have no right to ask it of you after all I have done, but the truth is, the bet…”

  “Lord Marchmont is aware of the bet now, is he not?” Miss Smallwood asked, sounding confused. “Therefore, the bet no longer stands.”

  Lord Whitfield looked all the more embarrassed. “It need not be known that Lord Marchmont is aware of what was agreed upon between myself and Lord Ancrum,” he said, his voice taking on a pleading tone. “It is, as I said, a great sum of money which the Earl of Ancrum might be able to afford to lose but I certainly cannot.”

  Peter considered this for a few moments, looking down at Miss Grey and seeing her smile softly up at him.

  “You do not deserve any kindness, Lord Whitfield,” he stated coldly, keeping his tone measured as he looked directly into the gentleman’s face and seeing him shrink before him. “You made me fear for my brother’s life. However, as it stands,” he continued, his tone softening, “it seems that, regardless of the bet and the money you stand to either make or lose, the betrothal between myself and Miss Grey will soon be confirmed.” He looked down at her again, hoping that she would not turn from him now. “That is, if she will agree.”

  “I will.”

  Her answer was immediate, coming to her lips without hesitation as she looked up at him. Had they been standing alone, then Peter would not have hesitated to lean down and kiss her hand, giving in to every emotion that washed over him.

  “Then it appears you are not to have the punishment you deserve
, Lord Whitfield,” Peter told him, seeing the man weaken with relief, swaying heavily as he mopped his brow again. “Now, whilst I am delighted with this news, it now seems that we have a good deal to set to rights.” He drew himself up and let go of Miss Grey’s waist reluctantly. “I must first speak to Lady Sharrow and then find that dastardly gentleman, Lord Ancrum.”

  “Goodness, Lord Marchmont,” Miss Grey exclaimed, grasping his arm with both hands and looking up into his face. “You cannot mean to call him out.”

  He smiled at her, although his expression remained rather tight. “I shall do what I have to, Miss Grey,” he said darkly. “I will not allow another gentleman to demean you without having to make recompense.”

  “I do not want you to be injured in any way, however,” Miss Grey replied, her eyes suddenly blazing with a fire that he had not seen before. “There is no need to do any such thing, Lord Marchmont. You remaining by my side will be evidence enough that Lord Ancrum has been foolish in his attempts to ruin my reputation, surely.” Her hands tightened on his arm. “And if you do speak to him then have no doubt that I shall go with you. I shall not remain in the shadows whilst you seek to defend my honor.”

  Peter held her gaze and felt admiration for her wash over him again, chasing his anger towards Lord Ancrum away.

  “If it is of any help,” Lord Whitfield added timidly, “I know that Lord Ancrum has the outward appearance of courage but holds none within his heart. Even if you did call him out, Lord Marchmont, he will not appear.”

  Miss Grey’s hands did not let go of his arm. “You must know how deeply I care for you,” she murmured so that only he could hear. “Pray, do not allow yourself to become injured for my sake, not when there is no need to do so. I could not bear to have you removed from my side, whether or not Lord Ancrum is the coward Lord Whitfield believes him to be.”

  Peter let out a long sigh, feeling the final traces of fury being blown away by the tender words from Miss Grey’s lips. “I can do nothing but seek to please you,” he replied softly, seeing the look of relief in her eyes. “I shall seek out your aunt instead, then, and hope that she will not refuse my request to take you as my wife.”

  Miss Grey laughed softly, her hands loosening their tight grip on his arm. “I do not think she shall even consider refusing you, Lord Marchmont,” she promised, leaning into him. “Come now, let us go and seek her this very moment.”

  14

  “I cannot believe that you are going to be wed!”

  Ophelia tried not to laugh as her aunt threw open the drawing room door and practically danced into the room with these words flung out from her. She had never seen her aunt in such raptures before and hoped that this meant her aunt would never again fall into despondency as she had done before—although Ophelia had to admit that she was grateful Lady Sharrow had not done so these last few weeks. To have had her bedridden and tired and refusing to be of aid in any way would have brought Ophelia to the very limits of her strength. It was as though Lady Sharrow had discovered a new strength deep within her that had come from a determination not to allow Ophelia to become a spinster.

  “Indeed, Aunt, I am very pleased,” Ophelia replied as her aunt clasped her hands together in delight. “Although I am sorry for the difficulties that came with last evening.”

  The smile faded slightly from Lady Sharrow’s face. When Ophelia and Lord Marchmont had finally found Lady Sharrow, they had discovered her quite oblivious to all that had gone on. This was simply because Lady Sharrow had decided to sit in a quiet corner with one or two of her companions, having believed Ophelia to be safe in the company of Lord Marchmont and Miss Smallwood and trusting that Ophelia herself would behave impeccably.

  It had come as quite a shock to the lady to know what had occurred, although Ophelia had been glad to see Lady Sharrow recover herself almost as soon as she had heard that Lord Marchmont sought Ophelia’s hand in marriage.

  “Lord Ancrum is nothing more than a rogue,” Lady Sharrow declared firmly, her smile growing dimmer still as she spoke. “I hope that he finds himself in a good deal of difficulty at some time in his life, so that he might know what it is to be so troubled.”

  Ophelia wanted to say that it was somewhat unchristian to be stating such things, but found that her tongue was bound, given that she found herself agreeing wholeheartedly with such a remark.

  “But we need not think of that any longer,” her aunt continued abruptly. “I have written to your uncle and I have no doubt that he shall attend us here in London at once, much sooner than he had planned. He will want to meet Lord Marchmont and discuss certain matters with him.” She smiled and walked to the side of the room to ring the bell for tea. “Although you shall be married at home, of course.”

  Ophelia smiled at her aunt, seeing the happiness in her eyes and finding herself glad that Lady Sharrow would no longer be so despondent. “Of course, Aunt.”

  Lady Sharrow sighed happily and settled herself in her chair. “I must hope that this is the one thing that will bring your father back home to England,” she said, sending a jolt through Ophelia’s heart. “I know that we have been very happy here, but I can tell that you miss him.”

  Ophelia, who tried her best to never allow her loneliness over her father’s prolonged absence affect her, managed to smile despite the sudden flood of tears that inexplicably pressed themselves against her eyes.

  “He will return,” Lady Sharrow said with certainty. “My brother will return to greet his daughter and his new son-in-law, I am quite sure.”

  “I must hope so,” Ophelia replied, an ache slowly growing in her throat. “I should be very glad to see him again.”

  Lady Sharrow made to speak, only for the door to open and the butler to announce Lord Marchmont. Ophelia rose at once, brushing her tears from her lashes as Lord Marchmont stepped inside, his eyes fixed upon her immediately.

  “Lord Marchmont,” Lady Sharrow cooed as Lord Marchmont bowed politely. “How very good to see you again.”

  “I could not linger even a moment longer away from Miss Grey’s side,” Lord Marchmont replied, coming closer to Ophelia, who held out her hands to him. He grasped them tightly and looked at her with concern. “You are quite well, I hope?”

  “Quite well,” she replied, squeezing his hands and finding her heart reaching out towards him. “It was only that Lady Sharrow made mention of my father. She believes he will return to England when he hears news of my engagement and I find myself hoping that he will do so.”

  Lord Marchmont’s expression grew tender. “I can understand your hope,” he replied gently. “And I shall pray it will be as you say, Lady Sharrow.” He smiled at Ophelia and let go of her hands. “I have, this very morning, received a letter from my brother.”

  Ophelia’s eyes widened. “Oh?”

  Lord Marchmont grinned, a weight clearly removed from his shoulders. “He is still on the continent,” he replied with a shake of his head as though he ought to have known all along. “He writes to say that he is in full health and that there is nothing to be concerned about.” Shrugging, he spread his hands. “And he also states that the ring he has is nothing more than paste, since he lost the first in a bet of some sort. He was ashamed to admit it and so did not tell me.”

  “So it is as Lord Whitfield said,” Ophelia murmured, seeing Lord Marchmont nod. “That is something of a relief, I must admit.”

  Lord Marchmont let out a long breath. “It is,” he said, smiling at her again. “And I must hope that he, too, will return from the continent in order to be present for the wedding. I have written to him at once, although I cannot be certain that he will arrive in a month’s time.”

  Ophelia laughed gently. “We have not yet had the banns called, Lord Marchmont,” she reminded him. “I would be glad to delay for a week or so if it would give your brother more time.”

  “And, mayhap, your father,” he said, his expression warm as she held his gaze. “Although I should not wish to wait for too long, Miss Grey.�
��

  Her breath caught at the look in his eyes. “Might you care for a short walk in the gardens, Lord Marchmont?” Ophelia asked, suddenly feeling the need to be free of the four walls that surrounded her, as well as from the sharp-eyed gaze of her aunt. “It is a fine afternoon and I should like to take a turn about the gardens.”

  Lord Marchmont smiled broadly. “I should like that very much indeed, Miss Grey.”

  Lady Sharrow cleared her throat softly. “Do ensure that you return for tea and refreshments,” she said, looking directly at Ophelia and making it quite clear that she was not to be alone with Lord Marchmont for long.

  Ophelia nodded. “Of course, Aunt,” she murmured, before rising to her feet and walking towards the door, with Lord Marchmont only a step or two behind her.

  “I know that you long to see your father again.”

  “I do,” Ophelia admitted, her hand on Lord Marchmont’s arm as they walked through the small gardens. “But it was not only that hope that brought such a swell of emotion to my heart.” Her mouth went dry as she looked up into his face and saw the gentle tenderness in his expression. Swallowing, she tried to find what it was she wanted to say without stumbling over her words. It was not like her to find speaking her mind so challenging, but it seemed that discussing matters of the heart was more difficult than she had expected.

  “I—I find that it is the happiness that comes from knowing I am to be your wife,” she said, finding that she could not keep his gaze, such was the intensity of his expression. He was focused entirely on her, on what it was she was saying, and Ophelia wanted to ensure he knew the full truth of what was in her heart. “I did not think that I should ever find myself so joyous over our betrothal, but now that it has come into being, I find that I am overcome with happiness at the prospect, Lord Marchmont.”