by Maya Rodale
Perhaps it didn’t. But there was also the chance that he was running away from her. Was it so damned hard for a man to stand at the altar and wait for her?
She turned to go.
At the Docks
Upon her arrival at the docks, Clarissa realized that she hadn’t completely thought this through. She was an unchaperoned young woman in a spectacularly fancy gown studded with pink sapphires, waiting in an obviously fine carriage at the docks. Alone.
Her heart thudded, and not purely with pleasurable anticipation.
Frederick was supposed to be here. She did not see him waiting with open arms, as expected. In fact, there was no sign of him.
She did not know which ship was his. She was not sure if she should get out and ask someone for directions to the ship owned by the Prince of Bavaria, or if she should wait here and send the driver. Oh, dear.
Sophie and Brandon were likely married by now. If this didn’t work out, she was in Big Trouble.
Trouble so massive that she couldn’t comprehend it. Penniless trouble. Her mother’s freezing, merciless fury. Her father’s disappointment and embarrassment. Perhaps she should climb aboard the first ship she could and hightail it out of London entirely.
Before she could, the carriage door was flung open.
Clarissa shrieked.
“Your prince has come, my darling.” It was Frederick climbing in, thank the Lord, and not a marauding sailor with dubious intentions, as she had feared.
She launched herself into his arms and allowed herself to feel relief, having found him before he sailed away from her forever. She nestled into his embrace, feeling safe, and enjoying his scent and the way his long, soft hair brushed against her cheek.
Eventually, his mouth found hers for a kiss. It was sweet, tender, and passionate all at once. She knew that this kiss was the prelude to so many more and her heart swelled at the thought.
“I love you,” he said. “I love you because you can’t sing, and because you are even more beautiful on the inside, because you write such good letters, and because the mere sight of your handwriting makes me happy. To gaze upon you, to touch you, to love you . . . Oh, Clarissa,” he said, and his voice tapered off. “I love everything about you.”
From the way he held her gaze she wondered if he knew her secret. She could not be sure, but she knew that if he was aware, it did not matter to him. They would have time to know everything there was to know about each other.
“I love you,” she told him. “Because of you, I have become the woman I always wanted to be, but never thought I could. I love you for helping me find myself. I love your long hair, and your dramatic scars, and your passion for everything. I love everything about you.”
“Will you come away with me?” he asked.
“Yes. Anywhere,” she answered.
“Then we will live in Bavaria, but we shall return to England to introduce your parents to their grandchildren.”
“That is perfect,” Clarissa said.
“We’ll not leave just yet. We shall marry first. Right now, in fact.”
“But Sophie and Brandon . . .”
St. George’s, Hanover Square
Near the Altar . . .
Lady Hamilton ordered Charlotte to recover her senses, which the girl did promptly. Lady Richmond shook out her arms and glowered at the girl who had thwarted her, and then stepped into the way of Brandon, blocking the exit to the aisle.
He swore. This was getting ridiculous now. All he wanted to do was marry Sophie. She was here, as was he, they were in a church, with a clergyman standing by a special license around somewhere. Why was this so damned hard?
“They said you were a good man,” she said coldly to him.
“I have taken steps to ensure your daughter’s future happiness.” He knew this to be true, just as he knew that he was a good man.
“What have you done with her?”
“She is with von Vennigan,” Lady Hamilton said, taking her by the arm and guiding her out of the way. “She is with a prince. A very rich prince.”
The path to the altar was clear now.
The path behind him, to the vestibule, was still clogged with dear, dear friends whom he was finding very, very annoying. Beyond them, he saw Sophie turning to leave.
He felt a wail, not unlike the one Lady Richmond emitted, building up inside him but he contained it.
He could run, out the back, around the building, and push through the throngs in front and maybe, hopefully catch Sophie before she left forever. He knew her and thus knew that she was at her most vulnerable now, waiting for a groom to stand up and be there for her.
So Brandon adopted his Obey Me I Am a Duke posture, with long straight spine, broad shoulder thrown back, and head held high.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said loudly, though he didn’t yell, for that was undignified. Enough people in the vicinity quieted, prompted the rest of the church to fall silent as well. “Ladies and Gentlemen. We are going to have a wedding today. If you’ll all regain your composure and manners, my bride and I would appreciate it.”
And then, to the dear, dear friends of Lady Richmond, he said, “Ladies, please do kindly remove yourselves from the path of true love and happily-ever-after.” Members of the congregation who heard that, laughed, and someone hollered that he ought to “get the cows out of the way” and the ladies fluttered away, pink with embarrassment and fury, and the aisle was clear.
He saw Sophie’s delicious backside, and she paused, as if gathering her courage to turn and brave the long walk down the aisle before two hundred strangers, then say her vows, and become his wife. Courage, too, to redefine herself once again from Miss Harlow, to Mrs. Fletcher, to a Writing Girl, to the next Duchess of Hamilton and Brandon.
Brandon waited patiently, in front of all those curious faces, all the more so because he stood in the middle of the aisle, halfway to the altar.
In the vestibule, Sophie had paused to catch her breath and gather her wits. In a moment of damp palms, frantic shallow breaths, and a stomach in a dozen different kinds of knots, she had turned to flee the church, leaving behind the man she loved and the future she longed for.
Madness!
Sophie recovered her senses, turned around and saw everyone in their seats, quiet and expectant. She saw the aisle was clear, save for Brandon.
He was waiting for her, still and steady and assured, in the place she feared most of all. It was the spot halfway down the aisle, where she’d been standing when Matthew jilted her, when the veil obscuring her vision had been ripped away and her life had forever altered.
And though she was afraid to go there again, and could barely fathom walking past it, all the way down the aisle, Sophie remembered that she was a brave woman and that she’d already trusted the man waiting for her with her heart. Now it was time to trust him with the rest of her life.
She took a deep breath. She placed one foot in front of the other. And then another. He waited.
As Sophie got closer to Brandon, the feelings of fear melted away. He waited. She smiled.
And when she stood before him, halfway down the aisle, Brandon lowered to one knee and clasped her hands in his. When he spoke his voice was firm and confident.
“I love you, Sophie Harlow. You are everything I never thought I wanted, but exactly what I need. I want you with me forever. I will never leave you, not because I am honorable, reliable, and about to make a sacred vow before God. I will never leave you because I love you, and will always love you. There is no greater reason, or greater bond than that.”
“Oh, Brandon,” she sighed. Honestly, it was all she could manage. It was the perfect thing for him to say. A few hot, happy tears stung her eyes because this was, in a way, the same as shouting one’s love from the rooftops.
He grinned an
d continued.
“I could list all the things I adore about you . . .”
“You and your lists,” she said with a little laugh. She loved him and his lists.
“But I think we ought to get married first, because we’ve waited long enough.”
“Yes,” she said, even though he hadn’t asked yet. And a few people in the crowd couldn’t help themselves and yelled, “YES.”
“Will you marry me, Miss Harlow?” Brandon asked.
“Yes,” she said again. “Yes!”
He stood, and wrapped his arms around her, and lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss was sweet, and a promise of forever. And then she whispered, “I love you, too”—and then she whispered it again.
“What about the wedding?” someone shouted.
“We came for a wedding!” another called out.
“Shall we, then?” Brandon asked offering his arm. He would walk her down the aisle, because he knew she was terrified to do it alone.
Oh, her heart wanted to burst with happiness.
“No, we must do this properly,” Julianna cut in, bustling down the aisle, issuing directions. “Lord Brandon, you go stand at the altar and do not leave it until you are married to our girl.” She turned to Sophie and spoke softly, “Sophie, I shall give you away.”
Sophie offered a wavering smile, because now she really feared that she might cry. Even though Julianna hadn’t approved, and hadn’t believed this moment would ever happen, now that it was here, she wasn’t fighting her best friend but standing up for her. But then again, that’s what best friends did. They both knew that things were going to change, but that their friendship wasn’t going to fade.
Sophie threw her arms around her for an embrace.
And then someone forgot their manners and asked loudly if she was going to walk down the aisle or not.
And then she did, all the way.
Julianna escorted her, which might have been remarkable, except that it was the least scandalous thing that had happened all day.
And then the Duke of Hamilton and Brandon made Miss Sophie Harlow—formerly of Chesham, lately of London, and famously of The London Weekly—his wife and his duchess.
Chapter 45
Ten minutes after the first wedding . . .
Still at St. George’s
Because Lady Hamilton and Sophie had thought of everything, there was a special license awaiting Clarissa and von Vennigan when they arrived at the church, to go with the one that Sophie and Brandon completed as soon as their ceremony was over.
Lord Richmond gave his consent upon learning of the prince’s wealth, his intention to share it, and the pair of Holsteiner horses he planned to gift as well. Lady Richmond wept copiously through the ceremony. And Clarissa and Frederick said, “I do.”
A few hours after the weddings . . .
The wedding breakfast hadn’t begun until late in the afternoon, and it was late in the evening when the guests, very well entertained, wined and dined, stumbled to their carriages.
Brandon escorted his new bride up to the ducal bedchambers—she would have gotten horribly lost, otherwise.
When she saw the massive bed, she promptly collapsed upon it. Oh, how her feet ached from all that dancing! And her cheeks hurt a little, too, from so much smiling. Not that she was complaining. Those were very good problems to have.
Her husband—Oh, how it thrilled her to say that, and to think of him as such!—would solve another problem of hers: how to get out of this dress without a lady’s maid assisting.
But first she admired her ring, the Hamilton and Brandon family heirloom, which Clarissa had given to her. The emerald reminded her of her husband’s eyes.
He joined her on the bed, and they lay side by side, looking at the canopy.
“I had a plan,” she informed him. “Because one must always have a plan.”
“I know. I as well,” he said.
“From now on, we shall have to plan together,” she said.
“Yes. I have something in mind right now.” He grinned wickedly at her.
“You’re planning to ravish me, are you not?” she said, knowing him so well.
“Exactly. Shall I list all the things I will do as part of this ravishment?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. Then he listed all the places he would kiss her—her mouth, of course, and then the curve where her neck met her shoulder. Then he would explore the hollow of her throat, and move lower to her breasts, which he would lavish attention upon with his mouth, and his hands. He told her how he would take the pink center in his mouth and, at that, she moaned because she could almost feel it, and she needed to feel it completely. He continued on with his list, detailing all the other places he would explore, like the curve of her hip, and shockingly, between her legs, and then the inside of her thighs, and then back up to her belly, and higher to her breasts.
“Enough with your lists!” she cried, aching to feel his touch for real. “Kiss me,” she commanded. And he did, because a gentleman honors a woman’s wishes, especially involving long, hot, loving kisses.
Epilogue
Six months after the wedding . . .
FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE
By A Lady of Distinction
After a whirlwind, secret courtship and a surprise switch at the Wedding of the Year, the Duchess of Hamilton and Brandon, formerly The Weekly’s own Miss Harlow, is settling into her new home with the help of a map commissioned by her devoted and besotted husband. It is with the duchess’s permission that I announce that Her Grace will soon need to find her way to the nursery.
The duke’s former intended, Her Highness, the Princess of Bavaria, née Lady Clarissa Richmond, has recently arrived at the Bavarian Court after an extended honeymoon with her new husband, the Prince of Bavaria. An official state wedding is in the works.
Author's Note
In every age, there are women who buck conventions and defy expectations. Those are the women I’ve found most fascinating and inspiring, and those were the characters I wanted to write. And so, Sophie Harlow and the Writing Girls were born.
Nothing like them actually existed in the Regency Era. However, at that time and earlier women were active in publishing. Mary de la Riviere Manley was the editor and founder of The Female Tatler (1709), and later of The Examiner (1711). Eliza Haywood launched The Female Spectator, the first magazine created by women specifically for women, in 1744. Mrs. Elizabeth Johnson, a printer, published the first Sunday paper, The British Gazette and Sunday Monitor, in 1779. La Belle Assemblee, a Regency era women’s fashion periodical, employed women.
Furthermore, virtually all articles in newspapers and periodicals were published anonymously, so who’s to say there weren’t women writing?
The London Weekly is based on papers like John Bull or The Age—very gossipy weekly papers—or, more contemporarily, the New York Post. Sophie’s column is based on one called “Marriage In High Life,” that appeared in The Illustrated London News in 1842. For more information about women writers, my books, and the Writing Girl world please visit www.mayarodale.com.
Acknowledgments
This book was made possible thanks to my agent, Linda Loewenthal; my editor, Tessa; and my ideal readers, Ann and Tony. Thank you all!
About the Author
Maya Rodale began reading romance novels in college at her mother’s insistence, and it wasn’t long before she was writing her own. Maya is now the author of multiple Regency historical romances. She lives in New York City with her darling dog and a rogue of her own.
Please visit her at www.mayarodale.com.
Romances by Maya Rodale
A Groom of One’s Own
The Heir and the Spare
The Rogue and the Rival
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The
characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A GROOM OF ONE’S OWN. Copyright © 2010 by Maya Rodale. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition June 2010 ISBN: 9780062000156
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