A Groom of One's Own

by Maya Rodale

  To lust after Miss Harlow was unacceptable. Because he was an honest man, he could not allow himself to indulge in her pink mouth, or sink his fingers into that mass of dark ringlets, or feel every inch of her with his bare hands. These things were beyond his grasp and thus he was doomed to frustration.

  The swords of teacher and student clashed against each other.

  He had every intention of being faithful to his wife. But the siren called . . .

  Brandon dodged a feint to his lower quarter that almost instantly became an attack to his head. By God, Angelo was damn fast despite his years.

  Enough. He would resist the temptation, he vowed, and lunged forward seeking to make his mark on his teacher’s near shoulder before dipping beneath the opposing blade and pressing his attack to Angelo’s chest.

  Brandon would no longer dwell upon ringlets of dark silky hair brushing gently against creamy-skinned shoulders that curved down to the swell of round, luscious breasts that promised to be a good handful. A very good handful.

  Steel clanging upon steel, Angelo beat off the duke’s attack and advanced so aggressively that Brandon was forced to retreat.

  Thoughts of fluttering black eyelashes lowering and rising seductively and dark, expressive eyes would be avoided. He swiftly evaded another attack, but barely so.

  To imagine kissing her would be forbidden. To wonder at the softness of her lips, the taste of her, the mere brush of lips against lips that would certainly and inevitably and swiftly become more, so much more . . .

  Angelo thrust forward, but instead of the lunge that Brandon had been expecting, he launched his body like an arrow toward the duke, finding his mark and flashing past his student. Caught off guard and off balance, Brandon made the mistake of an amateur. He tripped over his own feet and fell.

  “You are not focused today, Brandon. On even an average day you would never let me win with a flèche,” Angelo said as he helped Brandon to his feet. “You must recover your concentration. I have heard that one of the greatest swordsmen in Europe, and thus, the world, will soon be coming to London. You will finally have a worthy adversary in His Highness, the Prince of Bavaria.”

  Chapter 11

  Twenty-four days before the wedding . . .

  The Offices of The London Weekly

  53 Fleet Street

  Sophie nodded to Bryson, the clerk in the lobby of the building, and took the stairs to the second floor. She said hello to Mehitable Loud, a gargantuan, knee-quakingly intimidating man of uncertain origins. His sole task was to claim to be the publisher when irate readers invaded the premises. Often, after one look at him, their issue with the paper was resolved.

  Mehitable smiled at Sophie, revealing a few missing teeth, and she smiled in return. He was really pleasant when one was on his good side.

  As usual, the offices were buzzing with activity. They all used to fall silent when she or another Writing Girl arrived. Now they paused to acknowledge her and went right back to work.

  A few of the penny-a-liners were in, offering stories about fires, murders, fights, and the like to Damien Owens. Knightly’s door was open, and she considered requesting, again, to quit the story.

  Instead she went to the leader-writer’s room and sat at one of the empty rosewood desks. It was supposed to be quiet, but that was a relative term.

  Grenville was grumbling as he scribbled furiously upon a sheet.

  Andrew Mulligan periodically set down his pen to mime the moves from a boxing match that he was presumably recounting.

  Alistair Grey murmured as he wrote: “Such stupefyingly dull drivel has never before graced the stage of this great nation. The theater does not get much worse than this.”

  Grenville glared.

  Sophie dipped her pen in the silver inkstand and commenced with the first installment of her four-part story on the creation of “The Wedding of the Year.”

  First, she wrote the title of her column on the top of her sheet: “Miss Harlow’s Marriage in High Life.” Generally, all stories in the newspapers were anonymous, but Mr. Knightly bucked the trend in order to capitalize on the scandal of a woman writing. Sophie consented because she hadn’t had a reputation to lose, but one to create. And that title did have a ring to it.

  Julianna, on the other hand, needed a veil of secrecy and thus her column was attributed to A Lady of Distinction.

  Sophie thought for a moment and wrote her first line: There is little dissent that the wedding between the Duke of Hamilton and Brandon and the only daughter of the Duke of Richmond will certainly be the wedding of the year.

  Sophie flipped open her notes. She had written the following: horribly unromantic proposal, shameless namedropper (Lady Richmond), perfect gentleman (who else?), Lady Sophie, Duchess of Hamilton and Brandon, if only, and This One (from the night at the betrothal ball).

  In short, a worthless collection of scribbles.

  Sophie tapped her pen against the desk. Grenville scowled at her. She stopped, and leaned over to glance at what Alistair was writing.

  “I caught up on gossip during the first act, and slept through the second,” he said as he wrote.

  “What play is that?”

  “The Hairy Falsetto.”

  Grenville shushed them, and they went back to work.

  What she really wished to write was not at all publishable, much like how most things she wished to say were just not said.

  Just for fun, Sophie proceeded to compose a most unsuitable version of “Miss Harlow’s Marriage in High Life” for her personal amusement.

  One would hope that the wedding of the year, between the Duke of Hamilton and Brandon and Lady Clarissa Richmond, would be more romantic than the proposal. His Grace, the so very handsome Double Duke, asked the beautiful and sweet Lady Clarissa to become his bride with her parents attending. Lady “Namedropper” Richmond wept; by all accounts no one else was similarly moved.

  The Duchess of Hamilton and Brandon has relinquished an exquisite heirloom ring of emeralds and diamonds.

  This author has developed amorous feelings for His Grace and is well aware that they are thoroughly unsuitable. Yet she cannot stop dreaming of his eyes, green like ferns, the countryside, or emeralds. She longs to kiss him, and dearly wishes to control these feelings before they lead to heartache.

  An advertisement for WRIGHT’S TONIC FOR THE CURE OF UNSUITABLE AFFECTIONS—a new “medicine” that had recently gone on sale—would not be out of place next to this utterly unprintable edition of “Miss Harlow’s Marriage in High Life.”

  On a fresh sheet of paper, she began anew. A duke, she wrote, for dukes always sold. His beautiful soon-to-be duchess, she wrote, for everyone was always interested in the goings-on of beautiful duchesses. A Whirlwind courtship . . . That sounded so much more romantic than the truth.

  Chapter 12

  Twenty-one days before the wedding . . .

  Hamilton House

  Like virtually everyone else in the ton, Brandon read The London Weekly over breakfast every Saturday morning. Even though he thought it rubbish, one had to read it in order to understand most ton conversations. He had always skipped “Miss Harlow’s Marriage in High Life” because he was barely interested in his own marriage, and much less interested in anyone else’s. Today, he made an exception.

  MISS HARLOW’S MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE

  A handsome duke. His beautiful soon-to-be duchess. A Whirlwind courtship. There is little dissent that the wedding between the Duke of Hamilton and Brandon and the only daughter of the Duke of Richmond will certainly be the wedding of the year. All the romance of their betrothal and every detail of their upcoming nuptials will be reported in these pages in a London Weekly exclusive.

  This author had the privilege to take tea with the perfect couple and their mothers (the architects of the greatly anticipated grand
celebration) in which they related their romantic story.

  After meeting at the ball one evening, His Grace was immediately smitten by the young and lovely Lady Richmond. “She possessed all the qualities of a perfect duchess,” he said. After only two weeks, he proposed to the lucky woman at her home in a romantic proposal that “brought tears to my eyes,” said the bride’s mother, Her Grace, the Duchess of Richmond.

  A breathtaking emerald-and-diamond ring was given as a betrothal gift to the young Miss Richmond. Lady Hamilton, the groom’s mother, informs that it is a family heirloom.

  Wedding preparations are already underway; after all, the big day is just around the corner! There are three more weeks until the wedding . . .

  Miss Harlow had a gift, Brandon thought after reading her story about his engagement. The facts were all true, and yet she had managed to make it seem like the stuff of romance and fairy tales. She wrote about a beautiful bride with attentive parents, a doting fiancé, and a kindhearted mother-in-law to be.

  He wondered if she was such a truly talented writer, or if she was delusional.

  “Miss Harlow’s column is perfect,” his mother said. She had already read the paper when he joined her at the breakfast table.

  “Yes, it is nicely done,” he agreed. He was now more interested in the items on his plate—steaming hot scrambled eggs, smoked ham slices, and buttermilk biscuits still warm from the oven and slathered in melted butter.

  “You don’t seem very interested in the story or Miss Harlow,” she said.

  Thank God, Brandon thought. No one must know how he obsessed over her against his better judgment and in spite of his best intentions.

  “Miss Harlow is an agreeable young woman,” he said. “As for the story, I find myself more inclined than Lady Richmond to keep certain matters private. While I agreeably participate, I do find myself less enthused at the prospect.”

  “You speak as if you were in Parliament and not at the breakfast table.”

  “My apologies, Mother.”

  “Oh, it’s all very well, dear. I just wish to see you enjoy a more liberated attitude occasionally,” she said, taking a sip of her tea.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Not take everything so seriously. Enjoy a spot of fun from time to time.”

  “I engage in ‘fun’ activities.”

  “Other than making your lists and giving orders?” she questioned with a lift of one brow.

  “I fence. I particularly enjoy that. And issuing orders is remarkably satisfying.”

  “Running people through with a sword. So very amusing,” his mother replied.

  “I read,” he continued on, “often of things other than parliamentary bills or estate accounts.”

  “Clearly, I am in the wrong,” his mother said, taking another sip of her tea.

  “Why mention all of this now?”

  “You had to take on so much responsibility at such a young age, when your father passed, and now you shall have even more. Life is so precious and I wish for all my children to enjoy it to the fullest.”

  That did not exactly answer the question, but it somehow made perfect sense to him. Since then he had shouldered the burden of everything relating to the Dukedom of Hamilton and Brandon. And now he was taking on more responsibility—a wife. But Brandon never thought of marriage as putting an end to his carefree days the way most bachelors did; the death of his father had seen to that.

  “How are your other children?” he asked with a grin.

  “That is some way to refer to your dear sisters!” Lady Hamilton said playfully. Her children were very fond and loving to each other.

  “How are my dear sisters?”

  “They are well. Penelope is redecorating, Amelia’s confinement is going well, and Charlotte . . .”

  Brandon took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, which is what one did when dealing with Charlotte. One might describe her as exuberant or spirited, but hoyden was an apt description as well. She had a heart of gold, an unquenchable thirst for mischief, and Brandon feared the day she made her debut, for his younger sister did not suffer fools.

  “Charlotte has had another fainting spell,” his mother said.

  “Another? Has she seen a physician?”

  “Yes. He could find nothing amiss and the headmistress suspects that Charlotte might be having hysterical symptoms.”

  “Or is feigning fainting,” he added.

  “Or feigning. There was an incident when a teacher interrupted a group of girls, including Charlotte, apparently practicing swooning,” his mother said.

  “She would adopt such a malady,” he said, able to imagine his sister developing a habit merely for amusement.

  “Nevertheless, it could be serious, and she should have continual visits with the physicians until she is cured. And to think—my daughter, prone to fainting spells!”

  At the conclusion of the meal, Brandon left for a long, fast, and dangerous ride around Hyde Park. He skipped Rotten Row in favor of the wilder parts. After a breakfast spent discussing weddings, feelings, and fainting spells, he needed to. A man could only endure so much.

  The fog was, predictably, thick. It only slightly slowed his pace. At first his thoughts were like the weather—dense, unclear, hazy. As he rode on, lulled by the steady pounding rhythm of his horse’s hooves against the dirt, all his thoughts shifted and fell into place without much effort on his part. And then he understood, after an hour in the saddle, why he was relentlessly bothered by Miss Harlow.

  Because she managed to find and bring out the man he was before his father died and before everything rested upon him—his sound judgment and his integrity. Before, when he laughed easily, flirted with pretty girls, and, more often than not, engaged in mischievous schemes with Charlotte rather than frowning in disapproval upon learning of them.

  He had been happy before. He could not return to that time or place or the way things were. To be Before Brandon in an After world could not lead to anything good, if it was even possible.

  Chapter 13

  Eighteen days before the wedding . . .

  Hamilton House

  At the request of the duchesses, Brandon entered the blue drawing room in the south wing with the intention of a short visit in which he would pay as little attention to Miss Harlow as politely possible.

  She might invoke Before Brandon like a sorceress, but it was very much After, and there was no longer a place in the world for his former self.

  “We were just finishing up with the guest list,” Lady Richmond said.

  “Speaking of lists, we have some things for you to take care of,” his mother stated, as she handed him a sheet of paper.

  Things to do for the wedding:

  1. Secure the special license.

  2. Find a best man.

  3. Prepare a wedding toast.

  “I thought the wedding was set for eleven in the morning on a Saturday,” he said.

  “We’ve moved the ceremony to half past noon,” Lady Richmond declared. Weddings at that time required him to obtain an interview with the Archbishop of Canterbury to plead for a document that he could obtain, with much more ease and much less expense, had they instead moved the ceremony to one hour earlier.

  “Is there a particular reason?” he inquired. As soon as he gave voice to the words, he regretted them. It didn’t matter the reason, for as a gentleman, he would oblige.

  “To marry by special license makes such a statement,” Lady Richmond declared. “And we shan’t wish to risk anything by having someone protest the wedding when the banns are read.”

  “Why would anyone do that?” he asked. Never had he heard of anyone protesting the banns, or even coming forth during the ceremony with a reason why a couple should not be wed. He knew just who to ask about this. “Mis
s Harlow, have you ever witnessed a wedding or heard of an instance of the marriage being protested?”

  “Sir Hunt and Miss Bailey, by her former suitor, Mr. Westlake, on the fourteenth of January last.”

  “How do you remember that?” Clarissa asked. Her entry into the conversation surprised him, but he was glad for he wondered the same.

  “I took ill during the ceremony,” she said as her cheeks burned pink, and he was intensely curious. “It was very upsetting.”

  “You see, it does happen. And with all of Clarissa’s rejected suitors, I should hate to take the chance. Better safe than sorry, I always say, and to marry by special license . . .”

  Lady Richmond did not need to complete her thought, for they all understood her wish for each and every status symbol.

  “I shall obtain one,” he acquiesced, because a gentleman honored a lady’s wishes, even if they were idiotic or an inconvenience. “And now, if you’ll excuse me. I am due at Parliament shortly.”

  “Are you going right now?” his mother asked.

  “Yes, why?”

  “Is the fog still terrible?” his mother asked.

  “Very much,” he answered. It was terrible more often than not.

  “Would you mind escorting Miss Harlow home on your way?” his mother asked. “I fear for her safety walking in this weather.”

  “Oh, Lady Hamilton, it is really gracious of you to offer, but I could never impose like that,” Miss Harlow answered. Silently, he thanked her. To be trapped in a secluded, enclosed, and intimate space like a carriage with her would introduce more temptation than he wished to endure.

  But there was no arguing with his mother when safety was at stake. And thus, all of his best intentions—namely, to avoid Miss Harlow—were put to the test. In the end he agreed, because it was the gentlemanly thing to do and the fog did endanger pedestrians.

  Within seconds of the carriage door closing, and finding himself alone in the secluded, enclosed, and intimate space, Brandon realized that he had made a grave error and there was indeed a time and place for being rude. He should have sent her home in another carriage. He had a dozen, after all. He kept two drivers.