His Jilted Bride (Historical Regency Romance)

by Rose Gordon

  “What did you drink?”

  “Some punch,” she said on another peal of uncontrollable giggles. She let go of her hold around his neck and bent backwards at the waist, spreading her arms as if she were falling backwards into an endless pit behind her.

  His hands kept their firm grasp on her hips and didn't let her fall despite the way she swayed and arched against him. “You need to go lie down.” He pulled her back into a standing position and her breasts pressed against his chest.

  Her skin prickled and tingled as he slid his hands up toward her arms, exciting her in ways she'd never known existed until now. Her blood pumped and her body sang with a need she couldn't comprehend.

  “Come,” he said; his lips so close to hers she could almost feel them against her heated skin as he said the word.

  She couldn't come. Or go. In fact, she couldn't move at all. Her legs felt as if they'd suddenly turned to lava. Two hot, tingling, burning columns of immovable lava.

  As if sensing her inability to leave the room on her own accord, the stranger scooped her into his arms and carried her across the room.

  She opened her mouth to ask where he was taking her; but doubted the correct words came out because he didn't respond.

  The steady rhythm of his footsteps was reminiscent of a lullaby; a very upbeat and strangely lively lullaby with his heartbeat now joining in the harmony. She closed her eyes and her circle of color returned, bursting with each “beat” she heard.

  The sounds of boot heels on rock soon added to the music. She had the strangest sensation she was being carried up stairs, but couldn't pry her eyes open to confirm her suspicion.

  Suddenly she felt cold and realized the stranger was moving her away from his body and down...down...down she went to fall against a soft feather mattress.

  Exhaustion—or perhaps a strange hallucination—took over and suddenly she was transported back to a game of chase she'd played with Elijah Banks where she'd threatened to kiss him if he didn't play. “Wait,” she called—whether in her dream or in real life, she'd never really know.

  There was a response, but what it was, or who said it—eight year old Elijah or the stranger who'd found her in Nigel's study—she may never know.

  She reached forward, trying to grab Elijah by the suspenders, or the twin shirttails flying behind him, or any part of him she could get her hands on really. Fabric. So many times she'd reached for him and never gained purchase. But this time she held fabric.

  Amelia clenched her fingers into a fist so not to let him get away and gave a hearty tug to pull him to a stop. “I got you, Elijah Banks,” she declared proudly before yanking him closer to her and planting her lips squarely on his.

  This was the moment in which Elijah's hands usually found her shoulders and threw her off, no matter who was watching or how undignified it made them both look. But this time it was different. His hands came to her shoulders, but instead of pushing her way, he held her in place and the strangest thing happened: he kissed her back.

  Soft yet firm, demanding yet gentle, his lips moved with hers in a kiss far more intoxicating than she'd ever dreamed possible.

  Chapter Two

  The Next Morning

  Amelia's head was about to explode.

  Or would that be implode?

  No matter, she could worry about the difference between explode and implode later. Right now she just needed something to relieve the intense pressure she felt behind her eyes.

  She lifted her hand to block the sun streaming in through the nearby window that only served to make her head throb more. Where was she? None of the furniture in the room was hers. It was all vaguely familiar, mind you, but she couldn't place where she'd seen it before.

  She moved to sit up in the bed and frowned in discomfort. She was still wearing her blasted corset. Part of it anyway, she amended when she glanced down and glimpsed almost her entire bosom. She gasped and placed her hand on her chest to cover herself. How had her dress gotten that way? And why had she gone to bed wearing her gown in the first place? And at a strange place, no less. Something wasn't right, but what?

  Amelia pushed to her unsteady feet and immediately wished she hadn't when a wave of nausea unlike anything she'd ever experienced before engulfed her as the room spun in fast circles around her. The need to retch was overwhelming. She grabbed the nightstand next to her to regain her balance.

  She took a deep breath in through her mouth—something a proper young lady should never do—then exhaled. Then again. She'd do it as many times necessary if it'd settle her stomach without the need to shoot the cat. Whatever it was she'd ingested last night was not agreeing with her. But for the life of her she couldn't remember anything she'd eaten for dinner. Or where she'd eaten it.

  Closing her eyes to block out the movements around her, she racked her brain, but nothing was coming back to her. Her legs began to tremble, and she moved her hand to get better purchase on the nightstand, her fingers brushing something hard and cold.

  Slowly, she turned her head toward the nightstand and opened one eye. A glass. And a note of only two words: DRINK THIS.

  She frowned. She didn't recognize the giant, stiff writing, but a snatch of memory of accepting a glass of punch from Philip flashed in her mind. Then she'd... What had she done with it? She hadn't drunk it right away; instead, she'd walked around and then gone into a dark room. Yes, a dark room where she'd set it down on a desk. But why was she in a dark room alone?

  Unable to stand any longer, she sank down to the mattress and picked up the liquid. She sniffed it then jerked it away from her face with so much force she nearly spilled it. That was the foulest smelling thing she'd ever been unfortunate enough to inhale. There wasn't a chance in the world she was going to drink it. Not like that sweet, fruity punch she'd tasted last night.

  More snatches of last night came to mind. She'd been taking sips of her punch while digging through drawers. Her frown deepened. That couldn't be right, could it? Why would she be digging in drawers in a darkened room?

  She looked around the room, hoping to find some sort of clue about what had happened last night other than her drinking some very delicious punch. But there was nothing in the room that looked out of place. Oak armoire. Vanity with a large oval mirror hung above and a plush pink-topped stool underneath. The nightstand next to her with a three-candle candelabra and the note. The demi mask at her feet. The pine che— The demi mask at her feet? Despite the revulsion in her stomach, she dropped her gaze to the floor where a white and gold demi mask lay at her feet.

  As if suddenly the pressure of rising water broke through a dam, incomplete memories came flooding back to her.

  The first was of Philip asking her to find a bundle of papers. That's what she'd been looking for in the drawers.

  Then she'd been frustrated she'd drank the entire glass of punch at once and lit the candle. That's when the mysterious stranger appeared...

  They'd talked, about what she couldn't say. Then she'd... Then he'd... Then they'd...

  Fractured memories of him holding her and carrying her to this room formed in her mind. But then, suddenly things were very clear. She'd been chasing Elijah around his father's estate, threatening to kiss him, and when she did, he'd kissed her back.

  Her blood turned cold. That kiss was real. It had to be. It was far too vivid not to be, which would mean...

  Her hand flew to the gaping bodice of her gown What had he done after they'd kissed? She searched her brain but nothing was coming to mind. Clearly the masked scoundrel from last night had seen fit to undo the top of her gown, but had he touched her anywhere else? She might never know.

  Tears stung her eyes, blinding her, and she pushed to her feet. She needed to leave this awful place and go home.

  She exited the room and padded down the hall. Not a soul was in sight. She'd been to her cousin's house often enough to know her way around and found the stairs easily enough.

  Several loud snores filled the air and Amelia
gripped the handrail tighter as she descended the stairs as quietly as she could and found a relatively new footman, rather than the aging butler who'd known her for her entire life, to send a carriage for her.

  Shame and uncertainty and even fear settled in her stomach as she rode back to Mumford Hill, her family's country estate. Mother and Father were in London and likely by wearing the disguise Philip had selected for her, she hadn't been recognized last night. But that did nothing to replace her lost innocence and eliminate the other consequences she might face now. No not might, even if she didn't conceive, she was now impure and that meant she was unmarriageable.

  A sob built in her throat and a lone tear slipped from her eye and by the time she arrived at her house, she was a sobbing mess.

  “Where the blazes have you been?” Philip slurred without preamble before she'd crossed the threshold.

  Amelia blinked at her brother. He looked nearly as bad as she felt. His face had several nasty cuts, both of his eyes had large purple circles around them and the entire left side of his face was swollen. “What happened to you?”

  “Never you mind that.” He likely attempted to scowl at her as he said it, but his face was too swollen and bruised to tell. “Where the hell did you go last night?”

  “To Nigel's study to look for the papers as you instructed.”

  Philip crossed his arms. “And did you find them?”

  “N-no.” She wet her lips. “I looked for them, but I couldn't find them. I—I'm sorry, Philip.”

  “It's of no account,” he said as crisply as his swollen mouth would allow. “We can try again. Now, you go upstairs and get presentable. Lord Friar is expected to come for a visit this afternoon and I do believe it is time you accept his suit.”

  “W-what?” Amelia stammered. Lord Friar was one of the most vile, ungentlemanly creatures she'd ever met. He'd pursued her relentlessly since her come out five years ago, and to her good fortune, Father had rejected his suit, no matter how strong his argument of having plenty of funds and of Amelia swiftly becoming a spinster.

  “You're ruined,” Philip burst out, gesturing to her dress.

  She'd nearly forgotten her own state of undress at seeing him. “We don't know that yet,” she said, hopefully. Frankly, being condemned to spinsterhood was better than being trapped into a marriage with Lord Friar and his leering eyes and wandering hands.

  “You might have escaped that house unseen,” Philip allowed. “But you are still ruined.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do,” he said, lifting his chin a notch. “And you will marry him within the fortnight, so if there's a child, he will assume it's his.”

  Amelia blanched and her hands went straight to her abdomen. “I cannot marry that man.” She refused to say the word “gentle” in regards to Lord Friar.

  “Then do you plan to be branded a whore and bring shame on your entire family?” Philip countered, a hardness in his eyes Amelia had never glimpsed before. He sighed. “Don't you understand this is what you must do now? Your chances of making a match are diminishing by the day as it is and now that you've—you've—” He gestured toward her abdomen. “You cannot afford not to marry.”

  “I could go off to live in the country,” she said in a broken whisper.

  He snorted. “Is that what you think to do? Go off and live in the country?”

  “It's a possibility.” Not one that most young ladies dreamed about, but when one found herself in a delicate way without the bonds of marriage, it was certainly a possibility.

  “Not for you it's not. You know as well as I do that Father doesn't have the funds to keep his townhouse in London. Keeping you hidden in the country is the equivalent of building a castle in the clouds.”

  “I don't have to have my own cottage,” she pointed out.

  Philip's jaw dropped. “Are you suggesting you and your bastard live here?”

  “It is my home, too.”

  “No,” he snapped. “It's Father's home and one day it will be mine and I will not let you and some bastard bring shame to it.”

  She blanched. “We don't even know that I've conceived.”

  “Nor do we know that you haven't, and won't for a while yet, I expect. Which is why we need to accept Lord Friar's suit today. Tell him you'd like to have the wedding before the end of the month, so you get to enjoy the majority of the Season with your husband. He'll understand that. Then in nine months when there's a grand event, he'll just assume it's his.”

  “You seem to have everything worked out,” she remarked. “But I wonder why he'd be so inclined to want to marry me once he finds out about my ruin.”

  “Do you plan to tell him?”

  Her face heated. “No. I thought you would.”

  “Amelia, listen to the nonsense you speak. If I tell him then he won't marry you.”

  “But if you don't and he finds out after we marry he might petition for a parliamentary divorce,”

  Philip twisted his lips. “All right. I'll inform him, but you must promise that if he doesn't mind that you're no longer chaste that, you'll marry him.”

  That was a promise no young lady wanted to make. But it was also one that Amelia couldn't afford not to make. At least this way her mother and father wouldn't have to suffer the scandal of a bastard grandchild, she whispered to herself as the last rays of hope that one day Elijah Banks would come back from one of his many travels and fall in love with her.

  She took a deep breath. “I promise.”

  Chapter Three

  Two weeks later

  Brighton

  Elijah Banks clenched his hands into twin fists and willed himself to stay seated.

  He shifted on the hard bench and took a deep, calming breath. It had only been forty minutes. Lord Friar could still arrive.

  The silence that filled the room seemed louder than the crowds who gathered each night at Vauxhall.

  Or mayhap that was just the steady tattoo of his blood pounding in his ears.

  “Would you relax?” his twin Henry whispered. “It's not your wedding.”

  And what a pity that was. For as much as he'd denied the possibility to his father when he was younger, he'd gone and fallen in love with Lady Amelia Brice. And desperately wished it was his wedding today. “It might not be my wedding, but she is my friend.”

  “Do you think he woke up this morning and realized he was about to marry a spinster?” one of the ladies sitting in the pew behind him asked with a slight giggle.

  Elijah bridled at her remark. Amelia might be four-and-twenty, but she wasn't what he'd consider a spinster. Besides, if anyone was getting the bad end of this bargain, it was Amelia. At least she was young and attractive. Hiram, Lord Friar was older than her father; and though Elijah had never actually seen the man, as he mixed in circles that even Elijah wasn't welcome in, the man's reputation of being one of the worst sort of no-good, lecherous scoundrel preceded him.

  Henry lifted his eyebrows at him and Elijah jerked his gaze away. In a moment such as this, he wished he wasn't a twin. For as odd as it might seem to others, he and Henry had the ability to finish each other's thoughts and sentences with no difficulty, and with something as simple as an exchanged look, they could communicate every thought and feeling they had to the other. And right now, he didn't want his twin to know a single thing that was racing through his mind.

  “Only five more minutes, then I can claim my winnings,” another lady said behind him.

  The hair on the back of Elijah's neck stood on end. What was she talking about?

  He was saved from asking when one of the lady's companions inquired.

  “Nothing you'd be interested in, Griselda,” the woman said archly. “Just a little wagering.”

  “You placed a wager on the wedding today?” the lady who must have been Griselda said in shock.

  “Perhaps.”

  A little sputter of laughter passed one's lips and Elijah's temper flared. Amelia had been his friend as long as he coul
d remember and he'd be damned if he'd continue to sit idle while she was mocked behind her back.

  He shoved to his feet. “Excuse me,” he murmured, pushing his way down the pew and to the aisle, where he dodged a multitude of curious looks on his way to the back of the sanctuary.

  Closing the large oak door behind him, he exhaled and swallowed. He could do this. He needed to do this. He owed it to Amelia.

  Chancing a look down both sides of the hall to make sure her father or brother weren't stirring about, he knocked softly at the door to her bridal chamber. “Amelia?”

  No answer.

  He twisted his lips and considered knocking again, then dismissed the idea. She was in there, he was certain of it. Quiet so not to startle or upset her, he turned the knob and opened the door.

  “Amelia,” he said, uncertain if his word was a question or a statement as his eyes fell over her quiet form.

  She half sat, half lay on a floral settee that blended into the equally flowery wallpaper, wearing one of the fluffiest dresses he'd ever seen. Her shawl lay in a little pile of white silk next to her, which was exactly where it should be, not draped around her, covering up her delicate shoulders or the tops of her luscious breasts. He swallowed. She'd always been a beautiful young lady, but just now she was absolutely breathtaking as she sat there and idly twirled a fallen lock of her silky, dark brown hair.

  He found an empty chair from across the room and pulled it over to her so he could sit beside her. At least when they were both sitting, the height difference between her petite five foot frame and his towering five foot-eleven didn't seem so noticeable; and that was much the way he preferred it: equal.

  “I should have known he'd do something like this,” she whispered.

  “I'm sorry,” Elijah whispered just as softly as she'd spoken.

  “Don't be. It's not your fault he jilted me at the altar.”

  No, but it is my good fortune, because now I won't even have to halt a wedding and pray your answer will be yes. He shoved the thought from his mind. If she truly wanted to marry Lord Friar, he'd have stepped aside and blamed himself for taking too long to tell her how he felt. But since he knew as well as she did that a match between Amelia and Lord Friar would be the equivalent of a death sentence, he'd come today to make one last appeal. Not to her father, to her. Fortunately, Lord Friar's absence had afforded him an opportunity to offer her marriage without the same risk of scandal or rejection.