Four Weddings and a Sixpence

by Julia Quinn

  All is well here and we have enjoyed lovely weather with fair skies, which, as you know, I so adore studying. I must close, for the vicar’s wife requires my company for a visit to the Wallingford shops. Please write soon—I vow I am breathless with anticipation, awaiting further news of your progress.

  With love,

  Bea

  “I shall be glad to dine at home this evening,” Marguerite commented.

  Anne looked up, searching the older woman’s face from across the table where they shared luncheon. “Are you feeling unwell, Marguerite? We needn’t go out every evening if you need to rest. Declining invitations will likely only make us more desired by hostesses.”

  “Nonsense.” Marguerite waved a dismissive hand. “I’m perfectly fine. However, I confess I’m looking forward to enjoying the comfort of our own dining room.”

  “Will Uncle be joining us?” Anne asked. The oxtail soup was delicious.

  “Yes,” Marguerite replied. “He set off on some sort of business not long ago but said to expect him back in time.”

  “So we shall be three, then,” Anne said.

  They sipped their tea in silence before Marguerite continued. “Sylvia had a letter from her sister—Rhys’s mother, that is. She’s sprained her ankle and will be delayed in coming to London.”

  “Oh, I hope she is all right,” Anne exclaimed, noting her marked interest too late to recover. “And there are his sisters to consider, of course. They must be disappointed by the delay.”

  “Yes,” Marguerite concurred. “If Rhys were married, of course, his sisters could be chaperoned by his wife.”

  “So, his mother and sisters are anxious for him to marry then?” Anne sought to keep her query casual but feared she failed when Marguerite smiled at her with warm affection.

  “What mother does not want her son to marry and produce grandchildren? And then there’s the necessity of continuing the family line. Having said that, Sylvia and the rest of his family appear to be genuinely concerned that Rhys marry a woman who will appreciate his many excellent qualities. There’s no question that he would make a fine husband for having been raised with six sisters, he may well understand a wife’s needs far better than other, lesser men.”

  “In what way?”

  Marguerite smiled fondly. “He seems to equally indulge and support them, while expecting them to meet standards normally held for males. When he was eight, his sister Mary, a year younger, wanted to study mathematics. Rhys demanded that she be allowed to join him in lessons. The tutor was a bit taken aback but Sylvia said their father simply shrugged and agreed. After that, all the girls joined Rhys’s lessons. They’re all astonishingly intelligent women. Which”—Marguerite sighed—“only means it is becoming increasingly apparent that finding husbands for them will be equally difficult.”

  “What a marvelous story.” Fascinated, Anne wondered what life would have been like in a home filled with siblings, books, and all the lessons a duke could afford for his children. “It must have been a wonderful house to grow up in,” she said genuinely.

  “Indeed.” Marguerite’s expression softened as she met Anne’s gaze. “I dearly loved your mother, but coping with her dramatics could not have been easy. Especially as your father was cut from the same cloth.”

  “That is true,” Anne agreed pragmatically, grateful for the reminder. “I often felt as if I was the sensible adult and mother the temperamental child. Most often, Mama and Papa seemed either passionately happy or desperately upset. There was never any balance—for any of us.”

  “I suspect your experience with them may have colored your view of what would be an acceptable marriage,” Marguerite said gently.

  “How could it not?” Anne asked, both Marguerite and, admittedly, herself. Anyone would be a fool to ignore such a lesson, wouldn’t she?

  “They were two very passionate people. Unfortunately, it was their nature to react to common circumstances with an outburst of dramatic flair,” Marguerite agreed. “But that is not how every marriage plays out, my dear. Surely you know this?”

  “Of course,” Anne said. “I’ve met many couples who are perfectly complacent in each other’s company. They appear to live comfortable lives and I can’t imagine they endure daily tantrums. Passion and outbursts are unlikely to have a place in their world. That’s what I want in my marriage,” she added firmly. “Peace. Predictable days. A husband willing to let me determine my own activities as I leave him to his. That would be the perfect situation for a woman such as me.”

  “But, Anne, you make no allowance for affection, for love, not to mention passion,” Marguerite protested.

  “I suppose I would welcome affection. But love? Passion? No.” Anne shook her head, hopeful she appeared as resolute as she once felt on the topic.

  “Surely you do not truly feel this way.” Marguerite’s shock was reflected in her voice and expression.

  “I do.” Anne didn’t realize how tightly she gripped her teacup until she returned it to the saucer, the china rattling as she did so. She clasped her hands together in an attempt to still their trembling. “They had a terrible row at luncheon that day. I begged Mama not to go, but she wouldn’t listen. She insisted she must keep her fitting appointment for the gown she was to wear to the Standish fete. At the last moment, Papa insisted upon driving her. I’ll never forget how I felt when they drove away. Helpless. And angry. Even then, I could see all the destruction such powerful feelings could cause.”

  “It was an accident, Anne. A lorry veered in front of them. There was nothing your father could have done to avoid it. It wasn’t his fault.”

  “That is what my uncle told me after they died,” Anne confirmed.

  “But you don’t accept his word?”

  Anne sighed. “I understand his view of the situation. I certainly don’t believe my uncle, or you, would lie to me. But that doesn’t change what I saw that day—indeed, what I saw and heard nearly every day for the first twelve years of my life. My parents loved and quarreled with equal passion. They died after a very loud argument. Even if that argument had nothing to do with their deaths, their marriage is not one I wish to emulate. I found the constant shouting, tears, and slamming doors made the days and weeks unbearable. I don’t want a marriage with passion.” Her chin firmed. “I will not have a marriage like that.”

  She was not lying. But Anne had begun to wonder if love always came with arguments and disagreements, blind anger and senseless actions.

  “Oh, Anne.” Marguerite’s eyes were limpid with unshed tears. “If your mother were here, I vow I would shake her. She taught you nothing of the joys of marriage, and having lost her at such a tender age, you cannot remember anything but the tribulations.” She drew in a deep breath, her own round chin firming with determination. “I shall have to change that.”

  Dear Miss Brabourne

  Rhys sat at his desk and stared at the words he’d just written. “This is what it’s come to?” he asked the silence that surrounded him in the study. When no one answered, he picked up his crystal glass and sipped at the brandy within. Anne had said writing to her friends always lifted her spirits. He’d never been one for writing letters and could not remember the last time he’d done so. Still, it was worth trying. After the visit to the museum, something had to be done to ease the tension coursing through his veins. He took up the quill again.

  Dear Anne,

  Let me begin by saying this is all your fault. Up until the moment I met you, I’d successfully avoided emotional entanglements of any kind. And then you appeared. Attractive? Yes, but so were all the other women of my acquaintance. No, you were, rather are, something altogether different. I should not have offered to help you find a husband. It was entirely selfish on my part, meant only to secure more time in your presence. But now I pay by the second, wanting nothing more than to claim you for my very own, all the while knowing I cannot ever do so. You said yourself I am an unsuitable match, and while many would disagree with you, your un
cle would not. I am in an impossible situation—all of which I blame on you. Because this is my letter and I shall do as I please.

  Rhys threw down the quill and crumpled the foolscap in his fist. And then he heaved a heavy, long sigh. The text was childish. Selfish. And somewhat untrue. But Anne had been right. Letters could lift your spirits—just not in the way Rhys had expected. This letter would never be sent, not one single word within read, but it had, for a few moments, allowed him to indulge what he’d been attempting so hard to deny. He loved Anne Brabourne.

  Chapter 9

  Anne swept down the stairs the following morning to find Rhys waiting for her in the marble-floored entry.

  “Good morning,” she called, tugging on her riding gloves and ignoring the shiver of awareness as his gaze swept over her. The blue velvet of her riding habit seemed suddenly insubstantial and too snug across her breasts.

  “You’re very alert this morning,” Rhys replied, his normal deep voice rougher, darker. “I suspected you would be awake far too late last night reading the novel you found at Hachette’s last week.”

  “How did you know about that?” Anne said. “I don’t remember mentioning it.”

  “You didn’t,” he replied, his gaze drifting over her from head to toe. She felt the brush of his look as if he’d touched her. “Marguerite told Sylvia. For some reason, my aunt felt I should know about it.”

  “Hmm, that’s odd.” She shrugged. “As to the novel, I must confess, I found it most entertaining.”

  “Really?” He lifted a brow, eyeing her with bemusement. “It seemed very much like fairy tales to me—Sylvia mentioned a kidnapped heiress and an earl disguised as a masked highwayman.”

  He looked truly confused and Anne couldn’t restrain a laugh. “Perhaps it’s not the sort of novel you would choose to read?”

  “No.” He shook his head and grimaced. “Most assuredly not. That’s not the odd part, though. What puzzles me is that it does not sound like the sort of book you would read. Far too fanciful for your tastes, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Anne would agree, actually, just not out loud. Doing so would mean she’d have to explain why such a tale suddenly appealed to her. And she wouldn’t do so with the duke. She couldn’t.

  “Would you allow your sisters to read such an adventurous novel if they wanted?” Anne asked, redirecting the conversation away from her.

  “Of course. Why would I not?” His gaze narrowed over her. “Are you suggesting you believe I should monitor them?”

  “No,” she said firmly. “I do not. I merely wondered if you believed a male, who is also a duke,” she teased with a roll of her eyes and a smile, “should have the right to tell his sisters what they must read.”

  Rhys shook his head at her in disbelief. “Clearly, you have not met my sisters or you would never think they would agree. It’s also clear,” he added, “you must believe me to be the worst kind of tyrant to deny them such pleasures.”

  “Many men would not consider themselves autocratic, but rather believe duty required they oversee their sisters’ choices.”

  “Many men were not raised with six sisters,” he scoffed. “My father gave me sage advice when I was very young. He said a wise man understands that his comfort is dependent on living in accord with the women in his life and not attempting to command them.” His eyes lit with mischief. “He told me this after I loudly complained my sisters had refused to obey my orders while they were crew on my pirate ship. Since they had just mutinied and pummeled me with pillows and pirate hats, I took my father’s words to heart. I believe there were some wooden swords involved as well. I had bruises, if I recall.”

  Anne burst out laughing. “I should have loved to have known you as a child, and your sisters as well. You must have had a great deal of fun.”

  “We did.”

  Timms held the door as they left the quiet house. Anne’s uncle and Marguerite were still above stairs, and the peaceful silence was broken only by an occasional sound of a servant’s footsteps.

  Stubborn wisps of fog shrouded the trees in the square’s central park as they descended the steps. A groomsman held the cheek strap of a pretty chestnut mare and a black gelding.

  “Good morning, George,” Anne said.

  “Morning, miss.” The amiable groom dipped his head.

  Anne paused to stroke her palm down the blaze on the mare’s forehead, murmuring with pleasure when the horse nickered and affectionately nudged her muzzle against Anne’s hand. With one last pat, Anne stepped away, but before she could use the mounting block, Rhys caught her waist and lifted her.

  Startled, she clutched his forearms and felt the heat and flex of powerful muscles as he tossed her up into the saddle. His hands lingered, steadying her until she had her balance. For a moment, his gaze held hers, heat flickering to life in the depths of his eyes. His hands tightened before he abruptly released her and stepped back to swing aboard his horse.

  The groomsman rode a discreet distance behind as Rhys and Anne left the square and headed toward Hyde Park. Workmen hurried about their business, and the streets were busy with drays and hacks; still, traffic was much lighter than it would be later in the day. They reached the gates to the park and left the busy street, trotting down the quiet, deserted gravel byway of the Serpentine.

  Anne glanced sideways and caught the gleam in Rhys’s eyes.

  “Shall we let them stretch their legs?” he asked.

  She nodded and, without waiting for his reply, lifted her mount into a run.

  Rhys followed her, arrested by the sight as muted sunlight found its way through the fog and highlighted Anne’s graceful figure atop the equally beautiful thoroughbred. Distracted as he was, he was slow to realize his grip had tightened on the reins and his mount was objecting. Anne looked over her shoulder at him, her cheeks flushed with color, her green eyes sparkling with challenge as she leaned forward, urging her mare faster.

  Rhys abruptly eased the reins and the galloping horses left the groom far behind as they raced on, hoofbeats thundering, until they reached a tree-shadowed section. Rhys was on Anne’s heels and had nearly overtaken her when the mare faltered and slowed.

  His mount responded instantly to Rhys’s hand on the reins but still, he was several yards beyond Anne before he could turn the gelding. As he drew near, Anne slipped from the saddle to lead the mare onto the grass and beneath a tree. The mare was obviously favoring her left front leg.

  “What happened?” Rhys asked, swinging down from the saddle.

  “I think she may have picked up a stone,” Anne replied, looking up as he reached her. She stroked a hand down the horse’s cheek, her tone worried. “She’s limping.”

  “Let’s take a look.” Rhys handed Anne the gelding’s reins and bent to lift the mare’s hoof. A rock was wedged against the shoe. Rhys pried it loose with a quick, careful tug before he lowered the mare’s leg. She shifted, restless, and instantly limped. “I think the frog may be bruised,” he commented. “Nothing some rest won’t put right.”

  “Are you sure?” Anne queried, anxiously looking at him.

  “Yes, but I’m afraid you can’t ride her.” Rhys looked back down the gravel they’d just traversed but the lane was empty; they were alone here in the shadow of the large old oak. “We’ll wait for your groom to arrive. I’ll put you up on his horse and he can walk your mare home.”

  Anne groaned deeply. “It is my fault. If I hadn’t been intent on winning . . .”

  “Don’t. It’s not your fault. Accidents happen.”

  Her gaze searched his before she gave a brief nod, the worry easing from her features.

  She tugged off a glove, slipped her hand in a hidden pocket of her skirts, and pulled out a lump of sugar. “My poor Guinevere,” she murmured as the mare lipped the treat from her palm. Strong teeth crunched the sweet and her ears pricked as she waited expectantly. Anne laughed softly. “She likes treats.” Three more lumps of sugar were quickly devoured before Anne stroked the mare�
��s nose. “I’m sorry, but that’s all I have.”

  The chestnut nudged her palm and Anne laughed, giving her a final pet before turning her back to step toward Rhys. “It appears sugar can cure all ills,” she said. “Perhaps I should—”

  The mare bumped her muzzle between Anne’s shoulder blades in a demand for attention. Unprepared and already in mid-step, Anne went flying, knocked off stride.

  She landed against Rhys’s chest and he caught her, instinctively wrapping her protectively in his embrace, one arm at her waist, the other tight around her upper back.

  He froze, paralyzed by the swell of breasts pressed against his chest and the inward curve of her slim waist beneath his hand. He sucked in a harsh breath, and the scent of lavender assaulted his senses. She was sweet, warm female in his arms, her body lying trustingly against his, her skirts tangled around his legs, and just that quickly, he was seduced and ensnared.

  She tilted her head back, and bare inches separated their faces as she looked up at him. Her thick-lashed eyes were wide with surprise and her lips parted as she caught her breath, the inhale pressing her velvet-covered breasts more firmly against him. The tip of her tongue slicked over her upper lip in a quick, unconsciously seductive movement.

  Lured by the plump pink curve of her mouth, he closed the scant distance between them and traced the damp path her tongue had left across the sweet bow of her lush lip.