The Bridegroom

by Joan Johnston

  “Everyone is fine,” Becky hurried to reassure her.

  That was when Reggie stopped to take a good look at her sister. Becky’s face glowed with joy, but her eyes were red-rimmed and shadowed by dark half-moons. “What on earth has befallen you?”

  “I am in love,” Becky said with a smile and a shrug.

  “With Mick, of course,” Reggie said, returning the smile with a grin. She crossed the room and hugged her sister hard. “I’m so happy for you. I’m presuming Mick has confessed to loving you as well.”

  “Yes,” Becky said. “And he has proposed marriage.”

  Reggie’s hands dropped, and she took a step back from her sister. “And you said …”

  Becky paced away toward the fireplace and held out her hands to the flames. “I have told him I need time to think before I answer him.” She pivoted to face Reggie. “I have done nothing but think all night, and I don’t see how I can marry him.”

  Now Reggie understood the contradictory reddened eyes and dark half-moons that accompanied the glow of joy on her sister’s face. “You want to marry Mick, but you don’t think the marriage will work out because Mick is not the least plump in the pocket, has no title, and Society will not approve,” Reggie said, speaking what she guessed were her sister’s conclusions.

  Becky nodded miserably.

  “Do you really care what anyone else thinks?”

  “I am concerned what Papa may say.”

  “Papa likes Mick.”

  “As a son-in-law?” Becky said dubiously. “I am the daughter of a duke. Mick has no father at all. It is not done.”

  “What is the worst Papa can do if you marry Mick without his approval?” Reggie asked.

  “Let Mick go without a reference,” Becky said promptly. “I could not bear it if Mick was to suffer as a consequence of loving me.”

  “I am sure Mick has weighed the danger and must be willing to accept any consequences, if he has asked for your hand. Has Mick said he will speak to Papa?”

  “I have told Mick I will do it … if I agree to marry him.”

  “You had better let me do it,” Reggie said. “You are likely to—”

  “I said I will do it,” Becky said, her chin lifting. “And I shall. If I decide to marry Mick.”

  “Well, well,” Reggie said with a grin. “My sister has acquired a backbone. It seems love agrees with you.”

  “I do love him, more than I ever believed possible,” Becky said. “But there are so many ways I am afraid I will not measure up to what he will expect of me.”

  “Do you think Mick would ask you to do anything he did not think you capable of doing?” Reggie asked.

  “I suppose not.”

  “Then you have your answer,” Reggie said, spreading her hands wide, as though the problem were solved.

  “You are forgetting Lily,” Becky said. “She is Penrith’s daughter, and a duke’s granddaughter. Is it fair—”

  “What Lily needs most is love, and she will have more of it from Mick than she ever got from Penrith. If you are worried whether Lily will be able to make a good match, watch and see if Papa does not give her a large enough dowry to ensure that she takes when she makes her bow to Society.”

  “And our other children?”

  Reggie smiled and took Becky’s hands in her own. “Will be blessed to have the two best parents in the world and an aunt who will sponsor them in London whenever they wish to go.”

  A tear slid onto Becky’s cheek. “You make it sound so simple.”

  “It is. Love is too wonderful to waste. Be happy, Becky. And make Mick happy.”

  “I will,” she said, laughing through her tears.

  “When are you going to tell him?” Reggie asked.

  “Papa is planning a dance for the St. John’s Eve celebration next week. I suppose I will tell Mick then, so he can make the announcement of our engagement during the festivities. That way there will be no turning back.

  “Papa has invited everyone—Uncle Marcus and Aunt Lizzie, the Duke of Braddock and his duchess, the Earl of Denbigh and his countess, the earl’s friend Percival Porter—”

  “Denbigh is Trent now,” Reggie corrected, “since Denbigh’s grandfather cocked up his toes.”

  “Oh, I had forgotten. Which makes Charlotte a duchess, not a countess. And of course, the entire neighborhood has been invited, since all of them are farmers who will be celebrating St. John’s Eve along with Papa.”

  “We have not been invited,” Reggie said, her eyes bleak.

  “But you have. I helped Kitt pen the invitations, and I know she sent one to Carlisle. Perhaps he has not shared it with you yet.”

  “I suspect he does not intend to share it with me at all,” Reggie said. “He is determined I shall not see Papa, and that Papa shall not see me.”

  “Why not come without him?” Becky suggested.

  “I may just do that. I don’t want to miss the announcement of your engagement to Mick. Since Carlisle has not shared the invitation with me, he will think I know nothing about it, so I should be able to sneak away to attend.”

  “It is too bad you cannot come together,” Becky said.

  It was as close to a criticism of Reggie’s marriage as Becky was likely to make. Reggie wanted to defend Carlisle, but the truth was, though she loved him, she thought he was wrong. Her eyes twinkled with mischief. “Perhaps I will leave enough clues for him to figure out where I am—after I am safely gone.”

  “You are incorrigible,” Becky said with a laugh.

  “I know. And impossible and hopeless. But I am determined to make a silk purse from the sow’s ear I have married.”

  Becky giggled. “Oh, do not let Carlisle hear you describe him in such terms.”

  “Of course not,” Reggie said with a grin. “To his face he is always ‘my lord.’ ”

  • • •

  Becky could not keep the smile off her face. She had never been so happy as she was in the days preceding the St. John’s Eve celebration. She had made up her mind to marry Mick, and she was determined to live her life as happily as she could from now on. She was a little uncertain what her father’s grand company—a houseful of dukes and lords, and even a marquess she had never met before—would think when Mick announced their engagement that evening, but she was determined not to quail before them.

  Becky had not attended the supper preceding the St. John’s Eve dance, because Mick had declined his invitation, and she knew she was too excited to make idle conversation with company when she had not yet told him her decision. Mick was a guest at Blackthorne Hall, because he needed to be on hand to supervise the preparations for the outdoor St. John’s Eve festivities to be held later in the evening, which included a bonfire. He had a room upstairs where he stayed whenever his business with her father kept him overnight.

  Becky sought him there.

  She was wearing a gown of sapphire blue silk that matched her eyes, with a low-cut square neck, short, capped sleeves, and a flounced hem. She knocked on the door and waited with bated breath for Mick to answer it.

  “Oh!” she said when he opened the door. “You look so … elegant.”

  He was dressed in exquisitely tailored evening clothes, including a light blue coat in a shade that complemented her gown, a silver waistcoat, gray trousers, white stockings, and black patent leather shoes. He could easily have passed for one of the noblemen dining downstairs. But he was not and never would be. Once she married him, her life would change forever.

  Mick peered into the hall and said, “What are you doing up here, Becky? Someone may see you. Do you want to ruin your reputation?”

  She grinned. “Since I have decided to marry you, I don’t give a fig what anyone thinks.”

  Becky had not meant to blurt it out like that. When she saw the look of utter joy on Mick’s face, she was glad she had. He grabbed her by the hand, dragged her inside his room, and closed the door behind her. A moment later she was in his arms being soundly kissed.


  It was a long time before they came up for air, and they were both grinning with delight when they finally looked at each other.

  “I promise you will never be sorry,” Mick said, covering her face with kisses. “I will devote myself to making you happy. I will try to be a good father to Lily and our other children—you do want more, don’t you, Becky? We never spoke of children.”

  “I do,” Becky said. “I want as many more as we can manage on your salary. I do not intend to let Papa discharge you if he disapproves of our decision to marry, even if I have to go to Kitt and ask for her help to make him keep you on.”

  “About that …” Mick said. He caught her face between his hands. He was smiling, but there was concern in his blue eyes. “There is something I have not told you.”

  “Whatever it is, I do not want to know,” Becky said, suddenly certain it was not good news. “Please, Mick. Say we can be married. I don’t care how hard our lives will be. I am willing to endure any hardship, if only we can be together.”

  “Oh, my darling. Heart of my heart. You have filled my cup to overflowing. It will not be hard. There is something I must tell you that—”

  A knock on the door interrupted him.

  “Your presence is requested downstairs in the dining room, Mr. O’Malley,” an underfootman said.

  Becky exchanged an uneasy look with Mick. “I thought you had refused Papa’s supper invitation.”

  “I did,” Mick said. “One of the guests has commanded my presence, someone I … never expected to see at Blackthorne Hall.”

  “Who?” Becky asked.

  Mick sighed. “I suppose you will have to know sooner or later. Will you come with me?”

  Mick offered his arm and Becky took it, but she could tell from the grim look on his face that she was not going to like whatever was coming.

  There was an even number at the supper table, even though Reggie had not made it after all. Another gentleman took up the extra setting needed to partner Trent’s bachelor friend Percival Porter, Viscount Burton.

  “Tenby was telling us about your good fortune, Mick,” Uncle Marcus said. “Quite a coincidence, finding you after all these years. We all wanted to toast your good fortune.”

  All the gentlemen stood, while the ladies raised their glasses.

  “Please do not—”

  Mick’s protest was drowned out by the Marquess of Tenby’s toast. “To my long-lost grandson, Michael Delaford, Earl of Stalbridge. Welcome back to the fold.”

  “Here, here,” the gentlemen said as they emptied their wine goblets.

  Becky had heard what the marquess said, but she was still not certain she understood what it meant. She turned to Mick and asked, “Are you Michael Delaford?”

  “Yes, but Becky—”

  “How long have you known?” she demanded, aware that she was making a spectacle of herself, but unable to stop.

  “Since I was last in London.”

  She felt her heart begin to ricochet. Felt her ears begin to roar. “And yet you let me believe that if I married you we would live as paupers?”

  “We won’t be rich,” Mick replied. “I traded my inheritance to Penrith for your freedom.”

  The blood leached from Becky’s face. “How could you?”

  “You are still rich, my boy,” Tenby volunteered. “I forced my solicitor to reveal what you intended to do and bought off Penrith myself. Sent him out of the country for good, so he would never cause another worry to you or your lady. Your inheritance is intact.”

  It was Mick’s turn to blanch. “Becky, I had no idea—”

  “Do not speak to me,” she said. “I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for what you’ve done. Or trust you. Or love you. And I most certainly will not marry you!” Becky turned and fled from the room.

  “What was that all about?” Blackthorne asked Mick.

  “It appears your daughter has just refused my proposal.” Mick met his grandfather’s penitent eyes and said, “I didn’t ask for your help, and I don’t want it. Stay out of my life. You’ve done enough damage!”

  Mick pivoted on his heel and left the suddenly silent dining room, desperate to find Becky and make his apologies. But he did not hold out much hope that she would forgive him anytime soon. “Damn, damn, damn!”

  “Why do I think that is not a toast to your coming nuptials.”

  “Reggie!” Mick cried. “Thank God you have come. You must talk to Becky.”

  “Why? What is wrong?” she asked, stopping inside the door to hand her cape to the butler.

  “A stupid misunderstanding.”

  “I presume you are the one who has been stupid.”

  “Do not play games with me,” Mick snapped. “My whole life is at stake—and both Becky’s and my happiness.”

  Reggie eyed the butler and said to Mick, “Perhaps we should go somewhere private to continue this conversation.”

  “The drawing room should be empty,” Mick said, leading her in that direction. Once they got inside, Reggie settled onto the sofa, while Mick paced before her.

  “The last time I spoke with Becky, she had made up her mind to marry you and live a life of sacrifice. What has happened since then?” Reggie asked.

  “I have become an earl as rich as Croesus,” Mick retorted.

  Reggie was startled onto her feet. “What? You cannot be serious.”

  “When I was last in London I met with a solicitor who informed me I am Michael Delaford, the long-lost grandson of the Marquess of Tenby. Because of his shabby treatment of my mother, I wanted nothing from my grandfather, so I pledged my inheritance to Penrith in exchange for Becky’s freedom.”

  Reggie gasped and sank onto the sofa.

  “A moment ago, Becky found out everything.”

  “And refused to marry you,” Reggie said.

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you say something to her sooner?” Reggie asked.

  “It seems foolish now, but I wanted her to give up everything for love.”

  “And she did, and then found out you had made a fool of her. I cannot blame her for being angry,” Reggie said rising again to confront him. “I am furious with you! How could you go to Penrith without asking Becky first? I thought her marriage wretched, but it should have been her choice whether to remain in it.”

  “I cannot be sorry for ridding her of Penrith,” Mick retorted. “I cannot even be sorry for testing her as I did. It is a sweet thing to know one is loved for oneself, not for any title or fortune. Surely Becky can forgive me.”

  “How can she trust you after this?” Reggie asked. “After you manipulated and deceived her so cruelly?”

  “I love her, Reggie. Tell me what to do. Tell me what to say.”

  Mick looked so miserable that Reggie took pity on him. “I saw Becky walking in the garden when my carriage arrived. If you want her back, I suggest you beg her pardon and promise never to mislead her again. It cannot hurt if you point out that you will be wealthy enough to support her comfortably, and that when your grandfather sticks his spoon in the wall, she will become a marchioness and take precedence over me when we go in to supper.”

  Mick grinned. “You are incorrigible, Reggie.”

  “I know. Hurry, Mick. You have a lifetime of love to arrange.”

  Mick kissed her on the cheek. “You have been a good sister, Reggie, to both me and Becky. Is there anything I can do to help you in return?”

  Reggie shook her head. “Go. I am bound to see Papa at last. Then I will deal with that beast I have married.”

  “You will deal with me now,” Carlisle said.

  Reggie turned and saw the devil had come to life. Carlisle was dressed entirely in black, with a cape that covered even his white linen.

  Mick put himself between Reggie and her husband and said, “You will have to go through me to get to her.”

  “Please go, Mick,” Reggie said, adroitly stepping around him. “I need to speak with my husband alone.”

  “I don�
��t trust him not to hurt you,” Mick said.

  Reggie saw the flash of affront in Carlisle’s eyes. He had never physically harmed her, though he had not made her life as easy as it could have been. “You have business of your own that must be tended,” Reggie reminded Mick. “My husband will do me no harm.”

  Reggie worked to keep her demeanor calm, knowing Mick would make his judgment whether to leave or to stay, based on her behavior. “Go,” she urged. “Becky is waiting.”

  A moment later Mick was gone, and Reggie was alone with her husband.

  “What are you doing here, Reggie?” Carlisle asked.

  “I was invited,” she replied flippantly. “Though you neglected to advise me of the fact,” she said in harsher tones.

  “I have forbidden you to see your father. You must know he is here tonight.”

  “Yes. And a great many other friends with whom I hope to visit,” Reggie agreed. “Now that you are here, I will be able to dance. I have missed dancing with you, my lord.”

  “I did not come to dance.”

  “Neither did I,” Reggie admitted. “I came with the sole purpose of seeing my father. You cannot keep us apart forever, my lord.”

  “Come home with me, Reggie,” he said, holding out his hand to her.

  “And if I refuse?”

  “I will carry you out of here kicking and screaming, if that is your choice.”

  She believed he would do it. It was dreadful to get so close, and yet not speak with her father. If Mick had not delayed her, the deed would have been done, and she would not have been left with the choice that Carlisle now gave her. If she did not go quietly, her husband intended to forcibly remove her from her father’s house. If she resisted, he would doubtless make a scene and create a scandal and perhaps even provoke her father into a duel.

  It would not be hard to do. Both men were proud and stubborn and opinionated.

  “Very well, my lord,” she said. “I will postpone my visit to Papa until another time.”

  She was not giving up. She was only giving in for the moment. At least she had gotten her husband to cross the threshold of Blackthorne Hall. That was a feat she would have believed impossible, except he was standing in her father’s drawing room. It was a small step, but enough small steps might eventually get Carlisle where she wanted him to go.