His Perfect Bride

by Boyd, Heather

  A pair of grooms rushed to stand at each side of her, ready to catch her should she become unbalanced and start to topple.

  She handed one her cane and took hold of the newly added rails at each side of the carriage doorway and hopped up. On the first step, she wobbled. On the second, she grinned, but the harder step was still to come. She had to stretch farther forward without anything substantial to hold onto and hop inside to finally reach the carriage seat.

  As she made an attempt, she wobbled—and then someone grasped her firmly around the waist from behind and steadied her.

  “I have you.”

  Ophelia fairly flew across the carriage then and landed horribly awry across one seat. Her skirts became wrapped around her legs, making it hard to straighten up with any sort of ladylike precision. She was embarrassed, her cheeks flaming.

  The hands around her waist, the voice, had belonged to the Duke of Montrose.

  The duke was back.

  The carriage shook, and then gentle hands lifted her up and deposited her on the seat properly. She looked up at the Duke of Montrose’s stern face in utter surprise as he settled into the opposite seat.

  “You are home,” she noted, then blushed even more. She had thought of him every day since he’d left her behind. It was such a relief to see him again that she fought to contain her overwhelming happiness. But contain it she must because the duke would likely not appreciate her making a fuss over him.

  “Indeed. I should have known I would find you here again amongst the grasping rabble,” Montrose grumbled.

  Montrose was not religious, they had that in common, and he had little time for the vicar, too. He’d never forbidden her from attending services on Sundays, but he never looked happy when she was on her way out the door.

  He threw a thunderous scowl at the lingering grooms, who scrambled to return to their positions posthaste. Only with his nod of approval did the carriage begin to roll forward, driving them back toward the Sherringford Estate.

  Ophelia wet her lips, suddenly nervous of him. “I wasn’t expecting you for some weeks yet.”

  He grunted, scowled darkly, and Ophelia knew better than to ask another question straight away. The duke was a moody man. He could terrify his servants just by dropping a book too loudly.

  She glanced out the window and spotted his larger closed traveling carriage following them home. So, he was only just back. Had he brought his bride with him already?

  She lifted her hand, prepared to wave to the new duchess, until Montrose spoke.

  “Don’t bother. There’s no one in the carriage,” he told her.

  Ophelia met his gaze slowly, astonished by the news. Montrose had promised to return with his bride. He had sounded so sure that he would be a married man the next time they saw each other. “What do you mean?”

  He scowled again. “She changed her mind.”

  “Oh,” Ophelia said slowly—and was ashamed to realize she felt immense relief at the news Montrose was not married, or about to be. And then anger on his behalf. “But why?”

  “Isn’t it explanation enough that she released me from the engagement?” he snapped, and then his jaw clenched. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Ophelia bit her tongue. She wouldn’t be getting any more conversation out of Montrose until he was calmer. She’d made a study of his moods and behaviors over the past months. If she pried, he’d throw up his defenses, and he’d tell her nothing at all.

  Chapter 2

  Harry saw Ophelia’s disappointment, but wouldn’t change his mind and reveal the whole story of his time away. Some humiliations could not be shared…especially not with someone like her. And it would do no good to dwell on his mistake. He’d left a bachelor and returned the same.

  Nothing had changed.

  The journey home from the village gave him ample opportunity to observe Ophelia Shaw’s ever-changing expressions. She was worried. Though about what, he couldn’t tell. Was it that he’d returned without a bride, or that he’d returned to the estate at all?

  Her lips pressed together in a tight line, and that signified to him that she had something grim on her mind. During the whole of her time confined to her sickbed, she’d worn that exact expression many times. She never would tell him what she worried about then, and he’d learned not to pester her for explanations now. There was a distance between them—a vast chasm that might never be spanned. There had to be, too, though he regretted that he’d just snapped at her.

  However, he would not tell her how badly his time in London had really gone.

  He should never have bothered trying to find a bride when the sweet and gentle woman before him was everything he’d ever wanted…but couldn’t admit to.

  She was his cousin’s widowed bride. Grieving for the love of her life still. A man who had been Harry’s exact opposite in every way.

  Ophelia was perfect—elegant and serene, vastly intelligent, though she downplayed that before him still.

  She was much too good for an ogre, so he kept his admiration well-hidden and maintained a respectable distance at all times. She’d been hurt enough by the accident, by her late husband’s careless disregard for her safety, and Harry wanted to have the privilege of looking after her for the rest of his days. He’d even concocted a scheme to occupy her days, claiming that he needed her assistance to run Sherringford.

  To his surprise, she’d thrived on the challenge of running his household, even going so far as to involve herself with the wider world around the estate. She was admired and respected. Harry was in awe of her.

  Just then, a change in the scenery caught his eye as they passed into open farmland. One of the smaller tenant cottages seemed to be swarming with men. “What’s going on there?”

  She shrugged. “I’m told there was a great cracking heard one evening a few nights ago, and when morning came, the wall had fallen outward.”

  Harry peered at the scene again. Of sound timber construction, the cottage had no right to simply fall apart on a whim. “I can’t believe that.”

  “Neither can anyone else,” Ophelia muttered. “What matters is that the house is under repair, and all is well again.”

  He sat back, peering at her. “What are you not telling me?”

  A stain of color began to climb her cheeks, and she looked down at her hands. “It was too much to hope the matter could be resolved without your involvement. I fear you will be made unhappy by the news.”

  “But not with the teller of the tale,” he promised. “Now, what really happened?”

  She sighed heavily. “You are right. The cottage did not simply start falling apart. It had help. The Johnson brothers got into a bit of a row a few nights ago.”

  He leaned forward. “How much of a row?”

  “No one died,” she promised with a wince. “But Mrs. Nash has a broken arm.”

  Harry ground his teeth. Maggie Nash was an older woman, and slow-moving. She also tended to involve herself in other people’s affairs. He wouldn’t be surprised to learn she had been in the thick of the row, hoping her presence would cool the hot tempers. Usually, her meddling turned out well. She’d never been harmed before that he knew of.

  He turned to the driver. “The Nash farm. Now.”

  When he turned back to Ophelia, she was biting her lip again.

  He stretched out a hand, palm facing her, hoping the gesture would reassure her. “I’ll speak with Mrs. Nash and then deal with that rabble once and for all.”

  She winced again. “I have something to confess, and you might not like it. I didn’t want the matter to spoil your homecoming with your bride, so something had to be done to stop the quarreling pair starting up again. I have overstepped my duties, but I came up with a punishment for them in your absence.”

  He looked at her in surprise. “What did you do?”

  She pointed out the carriage. “You’ll see in a moment.”

  They turned into the Nash drive and headed for the cottage that was set in t
he midst of open fields. Maggie Nash was a sweet lady. She’d once been a maid at Sherringford but had been unfairly dismissed by Harry’s late father. Harry wouldn’t ever admit it to anyone, but he had a soft spot for the woman. She had been kind to him as a boy. She’d married a local, and her husband was a decent sort. Quiet, just the way Harry liked his neighbors.

  He easily saw the pair since they were sitting out in the sun together, studying their land as they often did on warm summer days. Everything seemed as he’d left it. “What am I not seeing?”

  “Look there,” Ophelia murmured, pointing away from the Nashes. “Out in the field.”

  Harry squinted. “The field is being plowed.”

  “And the Johnson brothers are taking turns at being the horse. They have that whole field to do, and then the next one, too. After that, they’re promised to labor at the mill, sawing lumber that will one day become the furniture they destroyed in their own cottage.”

  Harry considered what he knew of their situation. The Johnson brothers had recently come into some money and suddenly thought themselves above their neighbors. New coats, extra servants. Strutting about the village as if they owned the place. “That’s hot and dirty work for a pair of would-be toffs.”

  “Exactly.” Ophelia smiled serenely. “If they behave like animals, I say we treat them as such. They offered to pay compensation, but I knew Mr. Nash would never have taken a penny of it. So, I made another suggestion, and everyone agreed. The pair have buckled down to their punishment with only a bit of grumbling about it now and then. I hope the hard work will remind them to respect what they have and to take more care around their elders.”

  Harry rubbed his hand over his jaw. It wasn’t exactly how he would have punished the pair, but he couldn’t think of a single objection to her plan to knock them down a peg or two on the local social ladder. It might just improve their manners faster than tossing them out on their rears—which is what he would have done that very day most likely.

  The carriage stopped near the Nashes, and he stepped out. Ophelia remained seated, as he expected her to do.

  The pair bounced up, though he noted Mrs. Nash clutched her arm to prevent any jostling. She curtsied to him while her husband touched his cap. “Your grace, what an honor.”

  “Mr. Nash. I’ve just heard what transpired.” He looked down on Maggie Nash, concerned about her in a way he was for very few people. “Are you all right, Maggie?”

  “I’m fine,” she promised with a smile, then drew closer. She set her hand lightly on his sleeve. “Just a little bump. Don’t worry about me now.”

  He shook his head. He worried, but he rarely showed it. People claimed him cold, unlovable, but Maggie knew better. And she had always shown him affection. That was the reason his father had actually dismissed her from Sherringford. Harry had not been allowed to care about anyone as a boy, and when he’d been seen laughing with Maggie, a maid, over some trifling matter, she’d been dismissed that very night.

  He’d learned not to laugh with the servants after that.

  He covered her hand briefly with his. “A broken arm is no trifling matter.”

  “I’ll heal soon enough.” She pulled away. “Don’t let this spoil your homecoming, your grace. It’s good to have you back where you belong.”

  “Thank you.”

  She curtsied, and then backed away.

  Her husband gestured Harry to join him in a stroll toward the pair plowing the field.

  “Is the punishment to your taste, Nash?”

  “Vastly, your grace,” he promised. “After all the help my Maggie has given to the raising of their younger sister, they deserve worse.”

  Harry offered a rumbling sound of assent, but he did not offer an alternative.

  Nash was much older than Harry, twenty years Maggie’s senior, too. Over the years, Harry had learned to trust his opinions, and even sought them out occasionally.

  Nash smiled. “My Maggie is all right. Just a bit of pain now and again. Mrs. Shaw saw to the bone being set herself and sent a maid from the estate to help with any chores. I appreciate her insistence the Johnsons not get off so lightly as being rendered homeless for what they did.”

  In the field, the Johnsons had stopped to yell at each other. Harry frowned. “It seems they have not yet seen the error of their ways.”

  “A prolonged punishment is just the thing then,” Nash decided. “It’s been a vastly entertaining few days watching them trying to work together. Get back to it, you drunken sots,” Nash suddenly shouted.

  Harry folded his arms across his chest, glowering at the distant pair in distaste. “So, they were cup-shot?”

  “Nasty night all round. Their sister came to us in a right state. That’s how we knew something was amiss. I swear if Mrs. Shaw hadn’t suddenly appeared, too, there would have been bloodshed. Nothing quiets an argument faster than Mrs. Shaw shuffling into a room.”

  Harry grunted. Her presence soothed him, too. Ophelia had a knack for getting people to do what she wanted without even saying a word. He probably did owe her some sort of explanation for his bad mood, but he’d pick his time well to tell her. He’d wait till he wasn’t as angry about it anymore. “Well, as long as you’re satisfied.”

  “Indeed, I am.” Nash turned to look behind them and grinned. “Thick as thieves again, that pair.”

  Harry looked behind him, too. Maggie Nash and Ophelia appeared deep in conversation, though Ophelia remained in the carriage for the conversation. They had taken to each other almost from their first meeting, and Harry approved their friendship since Maggie was a woman of sense. “Yes.”

  “She’ll perk up, now you’re back.”

  Harry sighed. “Maggie has no reason to worry about me. I’m not a little boy anymore.”

  “I was speaking of Mrs. Shaw. If you ask me, she’s been a bit low these past weeks. Now you’re back, I expect she’ll be her happy self again.”

  He saw nothing different in Ophelia’s manner. “What reason could she have to be unhappy?”

  “Alone in that big house without you.”

  Harry tried not to roll his eyes. “There are at least forty staff at Sherringford ready to wait on her, and no doubt Maggie has visited.”

  “It’s not the same as having you around, and you know it.”

  Harry frowned. He’d wondered if the quiet of Sherringford would dissatisfy Ophelia in the end. She’d had a more exciting life, married to his cousin Paul. She’d traveled extensively throughout England with him and had enjoyed visits from friends whenever they’d taken on a lease of a house. Since coming to Sherringford, Ophelia had been nearly closeted, with only the local families for amusement. “Do you think I should hire a woman for her?”

  Nash chuckled. “A companion would only get in your way. But I do think you should do something about that torch you’re carrying for her one of these days.”

  Harry stilled—and then pretended he hadn’t heard Nash.

  “Come now, lad. It’s been plain as day to anyone who knows you well that you care about her.” Nash smiled knowingly. “And where is that bride you promised to bring home with you, eh?”

  Harry licked his lips. Nervous that a neighbor had noticed his interest in Ophelia. He’d thought he’d hid his feeling better. “Of course I have an interest in her. She’s my cousin’s widow.”

  “That’s not the reason you’re interested. She’s a fine woman.” Nash glanced at his workers in the field, put his hands up to cup his mouth, and shouted out again, “Well, don’t just stand there, Johnsons. Field’s not going to plow itself, and you’ve another to do yet.” Nash faced Harry and grinned. “If you don’t speak up, someone will try to take her off your hands.”

  Harry knew that, but he doubted any would be successful. Not unless they were like Paul—outgoing, funny, adventurous.

  Harry scowled at Nash, but his neighbor merely chuckled. “Now, don’t take a set against me for speaking out of turn. You need the nudge. You’ve been happier si
nce she came to stay. Now, it’s time I convinced Maggie to rest her arm, and you’d best get Mrs. Shaw home before she takes a chill.”

  Harry glanced up at the sky. The day was perfect in every respect. Not a cloud in the heavens and warm.

  When he glanced at Nash, the man was struggling not to grin. “It could rain.”

  “Nash, you are tilting at windmills.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Despite the perfect weather that had no chance of turning bad, Harry hurried to the carriage and the lovely woman waiting for him.

  Mrs. Nash was still whispering to her through the open carriage door, but she stopped when they saw him returning.

  Harry expected the whispers and the pitying looks to continue in the coming weeks. At least they would not talk about him dangling after his cousin’s widow, as Nash had just done.

  Ophelia had most likely told Maggie he’d returned unmarried. Hell, Mr. Nash had guessed, and Harry hadn’t even said a word. Harry would prefer the version he wanted known about his failure to marry, rather than a wild embellishment the gossips might concoct. Tomorrow, he’d tell Ophelia what she needed to know, and that would truly be the end of the matter, he hoped. He’d settle back into his usual routine and spend his spare moments keeping an eye on Ophelia from a distance—or reminding the servants to do so.

  Harry climbed in opposite Ophelia and waved the Nashes goodbye.

  When the Nash farm had fallen well behind, he turned to her. Ophelia fascinated him, though he’d always tried to hide it well. If Nash had figured it out, no doubt others might have, too. He would have to be more careful to hide his partiality in the future.

  He frowned. He might have to avoid her again. Something he found difficult to do. But from tomorrow onward, not today. “You did the right thing about the Johnsons, though it remains to be seen if it’s a cure for their quarreling.”

  “Thank you for saying so, your grace. One can only hope they can be civilized.”

  They were silent for the remainder of the journey. Harry ran the events of the past weeks over in his mind, deciding what to leave out of the telling. In retrospect, he’d rushed the proposal. He’d just wanted it over and done with so he could come home again.