Wedded Bliss

by Celeste Bradley

  Neville made her feel that she was wanted at last. Better still, Neville didn’t care for travel. Long carriage rides made him ill. Neville wanted to stay home and study his butterfly collection and sit in his study to write long letters to naturalists around the world.

  For the rest of her life, Bliss would always know precisely where Neville was. Like a beetle stuck to her board with the pin of matrimony, he would never leave her all alone.

  No more lonely waiting. Ever again.

  Chapter 3

  BLISS and Iris entered the small Anglican chapel on the outskirts of London. It was an unimportant, unfashionable area, far from Camberton House and Neville’s interfering uncle. The priest was already standing before the cloth-draped altar with his Bible in his hands.

  For some reason, the priest did not seem as familiar to Bliss as she thought he would be. True, she’d spoken to him only once, a month ago, when she secured his silence with a purseful of gold and a demure flutter of her lashes. But in the light of a single candelabra set near the door, he looked older and smaller than she recalled. At some point during the past weeks, it seemed he had somehow lost most of his teeth as well. Still, he stood attired in his satin surplice and only slightly dingy robe. He did look a bit dull and sleepy, the poor man.

  Bliss supposed one should expect that with a secret midnight wedding. There were no other guests, no other witnesses. Bliss’s walk down the aisle would go unseen by anyone but stained-glass saints and shadows. That was a price she would gladly pay to prevent Lord Oliver from keeping her from her destiny!

  Bliss lifted her chin. No matter if the occasion was not perfect. The ceremony was but a moment. Afterward, she and Neville would be free to celebrate for the rest of their lives.

  A hush had descended upon the dim chapel, a hush that had nothing to do with the muffling effect of the pouring rain outside. Secrets, it seemed, were best told in whispers. Bliss found herself treading softly, as if she could keep Lord Oliver from hearing her hesitant step miles away.

  At her side, Aunt Iris began to hum the wedding march beneath her breath. When Bliss shot her a startled glance, Aunt Iris only smiled and patted the hand tucked into her elbow.

  “Dum-dum-de-dum . . .”

  When Bliss and Iris had progressed halfway down the aisle, a tall, dark form stepped from the shadows behind the priest. Bliss felt something relax in her shoulders.

  Neville.

  Didn’t he seem dashing and mysterious, with the hood of his rain cloak covering his head? The flickering candlelight made him seem quite looming. Even the silence lent the entire proceedings a sinister tone.

  Which was rubbish. She was overreacting. After all, she herself had retained her cloak, for the chapel was damp and chill. And while she would have liked a few more candles, it seemed a petty thing to complain about. Dim and damp was merely dim and damp. There was no reason to wax theatrical!

  Aunt Iris gave a delicious shiver. “My, it’s a dungeon in here. You are like a traitorous princess, walking to the guillotine!” Her stage whisper would be quite audible to the men standing before the altar, even over the hiss and rumble of the storm.

  Bliss sighed. Trust Iris to dramatize a dreary room and a musty draft. And seeing dear inoffensive Neville as an executioner? Flagrant silliness! Although he was quite tall, Neville’s guileless blue eyes and diffident manner made him most congenial.

  She could barely see his face as he half turned to watch her walk down the aisle toward him. Though shadowed by his hood and only dimly lit by the candles, she knew him by the silhouetted planes of his dear face and the tilt of his head.

  So why did her belly flip like a fearful fish in a too-small pool of water? Perhaps Aunt Iris’s overactive imagination was contagious.

  Then Neville turned his back once more to await her at the altar. With a squeeze of her hand, Bliss signaled Aunt Iris to hurry them along. Tradition was all well and good, but this slow ceremonial walk was of little use without an audience!

  When Iris swept her up to the altar and deposited her there with a sigh of a job well done, Bliss found herself a bit breathless. When Iris stepped back, Bliss felt colder than before.

  You adore Neville. Neville adores you. You will be most happy together.

  And you will never be alone again.

  With a brisk twitch of her skirts and a pat to her dampened hair, she lifted the bouquet of dahlias to her bosom and smiled at the priest.

  “Erm . . . Dress . . . Bread Eye?” The priest yawned.

  No, not a single tooth remained. It seemed his diction had suffered as a result.

  Neville stepped closer to stand with Bliss. His damp cloak carried a trace of faraway places and salt water, wafting past her senses like a distant memory. She shook the curious notion from her mind, ready to focus upon the priest who would bind their two separate souls into one. This was a sacred occasion. Bliss refused to allow a storm, a dotty auntie, or an interfering uncle to delay this ceremony for one more instant!

  “I am ready.” More than ready. She fixed her gaze upon the priest. Her most ardent desire was about to become her reality!

  “Beer Blood, see Goatherd Togger . . .” The priest began to drone, his weary mumble barely audible over the storm. Bliss found herself distracted.

  There was a leak in the chapel roof. Upon the pulpit directly behind the priest, rain dripped down from the high arched ceiling into a dented pewter chalice. Each drop struck the chalice with the force of a hammer, sending an annoying clang through the mostly empty chapel.

  The cold night air made Bliss tug her cloak tighter. She could hardly feel the hand that held the trembling bouquet, despite the perfect fit of her fine kid gloves. Perhaps she ought to have traded her dainty undergarments for woolen ones—but one had such hopes for one’s wedding night!

  Apparently, the priest had just dispensed with the preliminaries and began the vows. Bliss tried to pay attention, she truly did, but the old man garbled and yawned so. She could scarcely attend him over the roar of the rain, the rumble of thunder, and the incessant pinging of water-to-chalice. Instead, her senses fixed upon Neville at her side. Which was odd, because as dear as Neville was, one would never consider him fascinating. Sweet, charming, pleasant . . . comfortable, yes.

  Riveting, no.

  Yet at the moment, Bliss found herself decidedly uncomfortable. The thick shoulder that brushed her own provided the only warm spot on her body. Heat seemed to radiate from his big male presence like a pile of glowing coals. Again, the scent of wild air teased at her senses, bringing to mind exotic spices or perhaps stormy seas . . .

  Neville became seasick in a rowboat on a pond. It had to be the rain. Perhaps the dampness had brought out the tang of old incense from the ancient stones. Or perhaps Iris had switched out her customary rosewater for something more unusual.

  “Blister China Worrisome—”

  Bliss blinked at the priest. He was speaking to her, apparently, though he mangled her name so that she barely recognized it. He raised his bleary eyes at her, waiting.

  “Bliss Regina Worthington,” she corrected politely. “I will.” She didn’t think the vows required much else.

  Neville shifted at her voice. Had she not sounded thrilled enough? It was late and she was cold and the storm was worsening outside, the rain drowning out the priest’s next words.

  A great crack of thunder rattled the chapel. Bliss wasn’t one to fear a storm, but she found herself startled into reaching for Neville’s arm. Her fingers dug into a muscular biceps.

  Oh my.

  Neville must have been taking exercise! Poor dear, did he imagine that she didn’t find him pleasing? His lanky form was just fine with her. Besides, she had great confidence that he would fill out someday. Then she recalled her own decision on the lacy underthings. Everyone wanted to please their newlywed spouse, did they not?

  She gave h
is arm a comforting pat as she released it.

  The chalice had filled and now overflowed onto the embroidered parament beneath it. Bliss twitched away the compulsion to clean up the water pooling at the base of the altar.

  “More Than Rice. Duty Big Swimming Table . . .”

  Bliss was swept with an entirely inappropriate desire to laugh. Iris was already giggling away behind her.

  “I will.” Neville’s voice was deep and husky.

  What a pity! Her inattention had caused her to miss the priest reading Neville his vows. It seemed all memories of her wedding ceremony would be categorized as “dim,” “dripping,” or “garbled”! But again, this was a mere moment of her life, one that hereafter would provide her with a lifetime of Neville’s gentle companionship. She pasted a pleasant smile upon her lips.

  Almost there.

  “Gumption and Strife!” the priest intoned with enough energy to be heard over the rain, then shut his book.

  Husband and wife.

  Suddenly, it was done.

  From her place in the front pew, Iris clapped her hands together in delight. Bliss allowed herself to relax at last. The priest gestured to the table where the marriage contract lay awaiting their signatures. Bliss hurried to delicately inscribe her full name, Bliss Regina Worthington.

  As she stepped back to allow Neville his turn, Bliss felt the warmth of accomplishment infuse her. She no longer cared one little bit about the cold and wet. She had achieved the impossible. All her secret notes to Neville, all her detailed arrangements and generous bribes to servants, everything she had done had borne fruit.

  She was now Lady Danton, Duchess of Camberton. She leaned forward with a smile to watch Neville sign his name below hers in a broad, scrawling hand: Morgan Pryce.

  What?

  She blinked against the dimness and peered at the contract.

  Her eyes had not deceived her. Thoroughly confused, she turned to look up into Neville’s hooded features.

  She saw Neville’s jaw and cheekbone. She saw Neville’s dark hair and dark blue eyes. Yet the man who glared back at her was a complete and total stranger. Older. Harder.

  Morgan Pryce.

  More Than Rice.

  “Who are you?” she breathed, her voice a horrified whisper.

  The handsome not-Neville glared down at her. “I am your husband, Mrs. Pryce. Neville is now safe from your grasping ways. Happy day to us both!”

  Chapter 4

  OUTSIDE, the storm clouds had blown away, and the chapel was illuminated by the moon’s pale glow. The last dark wisps sped past the waxing moon. Morgan helped his new aunt-in-law into the rickety Worthington carriage. The woman gave a cheerful wave as he shut the carriage door. She seemed unaware that anything untoward had occurred. Morgan decided the carriage itself was a rolling act of neglect, and took care not to pound too hard on its side as he signaled the driver. His fist made a strange slushy sound against the waterlogged wood.

  Iris Worthington leaned out of her window to blow her niece a kiss. “Have a lovely wedding night, dearest! Remember, it’s perfectly fine to say naughty words in the marriage bed! Bon nuit!”

  Then she was gone, rattling away down the cobbles. There remained nothing visible but a voluminous lacy handkerchief waving good-bye. In his mind, Morgan calculated that the carriage would last another twenty minutes before disintegrating from wood rot. It would not be Neville’s coffers that would pay for a new one, thanks to Uncle Oliver’s well-plotted rescue.

  Although Morgan had never met the Worthingtons, he had heard of them. Mostly it was the Worthington men who made the gossip sheets—and by association, their ladyloves. Even in far-flung ports, the local British transplants delighted in rumors about their homeland, and the Worthingtons seemed to be a very juicy source of tittle-tattle.

  Surely the feminine apples didn’t fall far from the wicked tree. Lord Oliver certainly seemed to believe that.

  Morgan turned to examine his new bride. He hadn’t managed a good look at her in the dim candlelight of the chapel. She now stood in the light of the moon, an enigmatic figure in her white wool cloak and hood. Then she raised two delicate, gloved hands and pushed her hood back.

  Bloody hell.

  Bliss Worthington was beautiful. In the moonlight, her fair hair shimmered white. Those “eyes of sky” that Neville had carried on about had gone silver and otherworldly. She turned that eerie gaze upon Morgan, causing an inexplicable shiver to run up his spine.

  Morgan turned his grunt of surprise into a menacing clearing of his throat. Of course she was attractive. Neville might be young, but he had excellent taste. It seemed that while liberating his half brother from the clutches of a fortune hunter, Morgan had netted himself a truly stunning wife.

  She parted her entrancing lips. “I appreciate your seeing Aunt Iris safely home, but may I inquire where I am going, if not with her?”

  Morgan let his lip curl. “We are well and truly married, Mrs. Pryce. You will accompany your husband wherever he sees fit.”

  She tilted her head. “I see. May I assume that Neville is well and that he is not bound and gagged in some cellar?”

  Her calm demeanor surprised him. He reminded himself to believe nothing this manipulative creature did or said. She had seduced a naive young man into believing himself in love. She had then tried to bully him into a secret marriage, despite the concerns of his family.

  Morgan had read the notes Uncle Oliver had intercepted from Miss Bliss Worthington and kept from Neville. Neville, although he pined for this wayward creature, knew nothing of this overwrought plan. Morgan was aware that every bit of this night was her idea and hers alone. If he hadn’t arrived home in time to commandeer her plot, she might have eventually succeeded!

  Morgan had nothing to be ashamed of. His trickery bordered on heroic, in his mind. Saving Neville from a disastrous marriage was reward enough. No one needed to know that Lord Oliver had sweetened the deal considerably.

  It was not gold that Morgan desired. There was only one lure that could have tempted him to dismiss his satisfactory bachelorhood without rancor. His own ship. Captain-owner of the Selkie Maid, free and clear. Such a prize was well worth the burden of a grasping wife! He had saved Neville and his own loyal crew in one simple act of subterfuge.

  So why did he feel a twist of guilt in his belly and a flush of shame rise up the back of his neck? At best this woman was a social-climbing fraud. At worst, she qualified as a confidence trickster of the highest order.

  Liar. Scheming little tart. Yet despite his scorn, he found himself reacting to her as if she were the lady she purported to be. He answered her question.

  “Neville is at home, quietly passed out from drink. I bribed your priest to go on his way and brought in a man guaranteed to follow orders.”

  “As incomprehensibly as possible, yes?”

  “A fortunate arrangement.”

  She shook her head. “‘Gumption and Strife,’ indeed.”

  Morgan lifted his chin and straightened. “I could not allow my brother to throw his future away upon a common fortune hunter!”

  She blinked her wide, strange eyes at him. “What fortune hunter is that?”

  Her tone was breathless and sincere, as if she truly had no idea. Morgan restrained an outright sneer. “That miscreant is you, Miss Worthington!”

  “I thought my name was Mrs. Pryce.” She looked down while she tugged at her gloves and he thought he saw a slight smile form upon her lips. “I can see how one might think—”

  Her smile infuriated him. “I think you have been entirely defeated this night,” he reminded her. “You can never have a place at Neville’s side now.”

  Morgan knew his temper caused large, barbaric sailors to cringe before him. Yet this female remained unaffected. She only frowned at him with a quizzical wrinkle between her eyebrows. Her gaze held the
cool flavor of a disapproving governess. Boyhood conditioning almost prompted Morgan to apologize on the spot. Then his anger swelled once more to the fore. He stepped in closer, menacing her with intent. “So, Mrs. Pryce, you will hoist your greedy arse into that carriage and go home with your husband, where you belong!”

  • • •

  MR. PRYCE HAD a hired carriage that was waiting outside the chapel, presumably the carriage in which he had arrived. Bliss took his hand to ascend the steps but kept the contact brief.

  He disturbed her. What was it about him? Was it that he looked rather like Neville, but a brawnier, more dangerous version? Or was it that he was a stranger who had intentionally foiled her plans for happiness? Either way, it would be highly impractical to stand on the street in the middle of the night to discuss it. Thus, she agreed when he suggested they retire to his home.

  She wasn’t afraid of him. For all his swagger, he did not have the air of someone who preyed on others. Neville spoke of him often and always with glowing admiration. In fact, Neville idolized Morgan and always referred to him as “brother.” The words “bastard” or “by-blow” were never uttered. Furthermore, Neville seemed to believe that Morgan returned his esteem.

  At any rate, Mr. Pryce’s illegitimate birth did not concern Bliss. She was confident she could sort out this entire mess in short order, and did not intend to stay wedded to him one second longer than required to secure an annulment. If he wished, he could prevent that. She must make sure that he would not. Getting the Church to agree was another matter. Still, she felt confident she could manage it once she had Mr. Pryce’s agreement.

  The carriage began moving as soon as Mr. Pryce had settled in his seat across from her. She had not managed to hear the address he had given the driver, but it didn’t matter. She would find out soon enough.

  How odd to think she had been so looking forward to meeting the man whom Neville so admired! And here she was, wedded to him, alone with him, and going toward his—their!—domicile. It occurred to Bliss that perhaps she ought to have left with Aunt Iris. But her sole focus was to learn what could have driven Mr. Pryce into sabotaging her nuptials, and to undo it.