She gazed at him as he sat across from her in the dark carriage. The moon’s emergence in the rain-washed sky gave them some light. Yet Mr. Pryce, perhaps suitably, sat in shadow.
Bliss folded her hands in her lap and cleared her throat. “Sir, I—”
“I am no sir, so if you must address me, you may address me as ‘Captain.’”
“Very well. Captain Pryce, I would like to know how you came to be standing in the chapel tonight instead of your brother.”
“Half brother. The Duke of Camberton and I share only a father.”
He called Neville his half brother? Bliss filed that fact away under Useful Knowledge. “Do you plan to continue to correct me, or is it possible you might soon answer my question?”
She could not see him, but she heard him shift in his seat. Excellent.
Bliss was well aware that the world saw her as mild-mannered. In fact, she cultivated that air of placid composure. It served as a useful cover for her ruthless patience. In all her life, no one had yet managed to outwait her, outlast her, or outplot her. She doubted that this Captain Pryce would provide any challenge whatsoever.
She knew Neville’s half brother was a sea captain. It followed, then, that he was adventurous and fond of acts of daring. After all, what could be more audacious than sailing the vast seas in a fragile wooden vessel? In her experience, those who sought danger attended poorly to the arts of patience and planning.
He had already ruined one plan of hers. Yet a Worthington remained agile in thought and purpose at all times. She needed a new plan.
He let out a breath. “Your letters were intercepted. Neville has neither received nor answered any of your manipulative notes.”
To hide her reaction, Bliss looked down at her hands in her lap. Neville had never agreed to wed her?
She resolutely decided to believe that he would eagerly do so, given the chance. “I see. Yet I adore Neville. Neville adores me. How do you think he will react when he learns of your trickery?”
The man across from her shifted once again, straightening in his seat. His movement disturbed the air and brought the warm scent of India spices and the tang of salt water to her senses once more. At the same moment, she realized that although Mr. Pryce sat in shadow, she herself was entirely illumined in moonlight. Ah. Confusion to the enemy. Men did tend to become somewhat more simpleminded when bosoms entered the arena. She began to tug at the knotted ties of her cloak.
“I’m sure he will come to understand . . . eventually.” The way he cleared his throat belied that assurance. “The Duke of Camberton is no longer your concern, Mrs. Pryce. He is now your half brother as well.”
That would not do at all. Perhaps it was time to attack. “Do you always answer a question with an unrelated statement of fact?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Do you always propose to marry men you don’t know in the middle of the night in secret?”
“Neville and I have been acquainted for several months. He is a dear friend to my cousin Elektra’s husband. They went to school together.” She continued to tug at her cloak ties, as if fretted. “I would say it is you who does not know him, for you to shatter his dreams of happiness with lies and subterfuge.”
He snarled at that. “Such accusations from a confidence trickster such as yourself! After all, you schemed to advance from a country nobody to a duchess in a single Season. I could almost applaud your ambition if not for the fact that you turned your avarice toward a member of my family. You are nothing but a—”
Bliss gave her cloak ties a last stealthy yank. The heavy damp wool fell away with a sodden rustle.
Captain Pryce stopped speaking.
• • •
MORGAN WAS TRYING valiantly not to swallow his tongue. Good God, she was breathtaking.
Over the past half hour, Morgan had forced himself to become accustomed to the lovely face and the shimmering hair. He ought to have been ready for the rest of her.
And yet he found himself most unprepared.
She had the figure of a goddess—and no trifling, insipid marble goddess one might place in one’s foyer. No, this woman was a goddess of some primitive culture inclined to the worship of generous bosoms.
Morgan had to admit to a personal preference of his own in that area, and the vision of her luscious breasts, captured most demurely in a shimmering lace bodice, rising and falling in the moonlight, was most disconcerting.
Oh, that figure! Over his pounding pulse, Morgan recalled how a drunken Neville had outlined an overly curvaceous female shape in the air.
The boy had been spot-on.
Morgan looked away from the temptress who sat no more than an arm’s length from him.
His wife.
Beautiful, delectable wife, at that.
Lying, manipulative wife.
It was possible that he had taken on more than he was prepared for. Then again, he intended to remain in port for only a matter of days. Now, with his mission accomplished and the imminent transfer of title to the Selkie Maid to his name, a fortnight at the most.
At the moment, his brooding silence seemed to make no impact on her. She perched on the cushions as if she sat upon a throne.
Morgan felt a childish urge to order the driver to gallop to disrupt her poise. But although he had no sympathy or concern for her comfort, he did try not to be a complete arse most of the time.
Besides, her figure would no doubt jiggle enticingly in the moonlight. It would not do to arrive at his house aroused.
He’d been far too long at sea. He ought to get himself to Mrs. Blythe’s House of Pleasure forthwith!
You are a married man. Married. Forever. With vows and all.
Morgan smiled sourly to himself. Vows meant a great deal to him, unfortunately.
He had made a few dubious decisions in his career as a ship’s captain for the White Rose shipping fleet. Necessary, sometimes, but traveling on the knife edge of underhanded. After years of shading both sides of the fine line of honor, a moment had struck when he had to make a decision to either cross that line, and become a different sort of man, or step away from it forever.
At that moment, Morgan had decided enough was enough.
A bastard might be many things, and Morgan was most of them, but while he had breath in his body, he could still choose to be a man of his word.
And he had just given his word to cleave to this woman only, now and forever. Well, if that wasn’t just perfect. His choices were this faithless vixen, or an eternity of monkish celibacy.
He closed his eyes against his new bride’s spectacular beauty and let this morning’s conversation roll through his mind.
“It is for his own good,” Lord Oliver had insisted. “That criminal female has dazzled him to blindness! If Neville knew of this secret wedding, I don’t doubt that he would agree at once!”
Fresh off his ship, Morgan had run a hand through his overlong hair, and considered his half brother’s predicament. “Why do you not simply expose her efforts?”
“I believe she would only try again in some other manner, one which I might not discover in time. The only way to remove her permanently from Neville’s ardor is to, in effect, turn her into his sister.”
Morgan had to admit that his uncle had conceived a clever solution. The Worthington woman would be as forbidden to Neville as a sibling. Even if Morgan died and left her a widow, English law prohibited a widow from wedding her late husband’s brother.
And it wasn’t as though he, Morgan, cared about marriage one way or the other. His life was at sea. If he had a wife, she would remain in England where he would scarcely ever see her.
Morgan had hesitated as he mulled over his uncle’s words. Then Oliver offered the one thing Morgan desired in all the world.
“If you do your brother this kindness, I will reward your commitment to the good of the f
amily by granting you full owner’s status on the Selkie Maid.”
Morgan had been thunderstruck. To be sure, he was the most successful captain in the fleet and had made enormous profit for the concern. Yet Lord Oliver had always withheld the reward of ownership.
Morgan knew that in truth, the Duke of Camberton owned the fleet, and that was now Neville. The former duke, Morgan and Neville’s father, had begun the White Rose fleet with a single ship won in a card game. According to family legend, he had handed over the ship to his younger brother with a laugh and an offer. “Make a profit in a year’s time, and I’ll buy you another one.”
Young Oliver had taken his ship, and his next ship, and the one after that. He had turned the White Rose into the most profitable concern in the vast network of the Camberton wealth.
Morgan could understand why Lord Oliver felt himself to be the sole proprietor of the fleet. But the fact remained that the ships were gained with the duke’s gold, and they belonged to Neville.
Morgan had often considered making his case to Neville himself. He was sure his younger half brother would have granted him a ship. But it would have led to a confrontation between Neville and Lord Oliver.
And Neville had never been one for confrontation.
So there it was. Morgan had saved Neville and now would have his own ship. And, apparently, his own bride as well.
It was worth it.
He only wished he knew what to do with her.
Chapter 5
AT Worthington House, candlelight warmed the book-littered drawing room, giving the worn, shabby furnishings a homey charm they never managed to achieve in full daylight. Iris entered with her usual dramatic style. “Hello, my darlings! Oh, what a night! The wedding was so exciting!”
Atalanta Worthington bit down upon her lip in anticipation. If her mother’s flamboyant gestures were any indication, her tale should be wildly entertaining.
As usual, the entire Worthington clan had gathered together after a late dinner, scattered about on sofas, hassocks, and armchairs, sipping tea or brandy into the wee small hours. Even Attie, the youngest, was never told to go to bed and often read until dawn.
Daedalus, Attie’s eldest brother, did not bother to look up from his evening newssheet. “Yes, Iris. I’m sure it was.” Dade turned a page, scanning the print.
“Oh, indeed! The secret wedding included a secret groom!” Iris sighed dreamily. “Shakespeare himself would have found it riveting!”
Castor shot an exasperated look at his eldest brother, then rose to greet his mother with a kiss on the cheek. “And what secret wedding would that be, Iris?”
Castor’s wife, Miranda, smiled wearily from her chair where she engaged in the eternal jiggling of little eight-week-old Aurora, who had been born a true Worthington and never slept a night through.
Attie didn’t much pity her sister-in-law, however, as all the Worthingtons did their fair share of baby jiggling.
“Was the wedding from a play?” That was Attie’s father, Archie, looking up from his book and perking up his ears. “I don’t recall any of Shakespeare’s plays with both a secret wedding and a secret groom!”
“Oh, it was vastly better than a play!” Iris fairly swooned onto the sofa next to her husband. “The drama of it all! A shadowy chapel, a stormy night, a leaky roof, and a mysterious, cloaked stranger waiting at the altar!”
Attie looked askance at her mother. “Neville couldn’t be mysterious if he tried,” she stated flatly.
That got Dade’s attention. “Neville? As in ‘the Duke of Camberton’ Neville?” He laid his newssheet down on a table. “Neville was in a play about a secret wedding? In a storm? Under a leaky roof?”
Attie snuggled her bottom deeper into the hassock on which she perched. This was going to be most diverting. And here she’d worried she would have to set fire to something in order to dispel her boredom.
“Bliss eloped with Neville tonight,” Iris sang out.
“What?”
“Oh my heavens!”
“But how?”
Amid the general outcry of disbelief and confusion—which Aurora exacerbated by wailing loudly at the noise—Iris only smiled mysteriously.
She beamed down at Attie. “You knew, didn’t you?”
Attie nodded. She might have been the youngest Worthington, but she was no slacker when it came to the gathering of information.
Iris pinched gently at the tip of Attie’s nose. “Aren’t you a clever little pickle!”
Attie leaned upon her mother’s knee. “I know everything.” How bothersome to have repeatedly explain that to everyone. As if a thirteen-year-old girl couldn’t be a genius!
Iris waggled one finger at Attie. “But did you know it wasn’t Neville at all up there at the altar? When the vows were done, he pushed back the hood of his cloak to reveal”—Iris paused for dramatic effect—“the Bastard of Camberton!”
Attie’s jaw dropped. Castor’s jaw dropped. Dade went completely ashen, then gradually began to turn a bit purple.
In contrast, the Worthington patriarch blinked vaguely. “Neville portrayed a bastard?” He pondered the ceiling for a moment. “That wholesome lad? Sounds like a bit of poor casting, if you ask me.”
Iris patted Archie on his wrinkled hand. “I agree completely, darling. So true.” She turned back to her children, bathing them all in the glow of her blissful smile. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
Then came what was usually Attie’s favorite part of any venture. The Worthingtons were at their best when the family circled round, ready to form a plan. This time, the plan centered on rescuing Bliss from her mistake.
Dade’s idea was terribly boring. “We shall take it up with the bishop,” he declared. “There must be a law against that sort of trickery!”
Iris clapped her hands. “Oh, wouldn’t that be fun? I do adore a courtroom drama! But, dearest, Bliss did make her vows and did sign the marriage contract, even after hearing the priest say the groom’s name.”
“We could simply kill him,” Castor suggested. Miranda held her hands over Aurora’s tiny ears, but she didn’t gainsay the concept. And Lysander, who had joined them post-chaos, looked vaguely supportive of the idea.
Iris, however, insisted that they wait until Bliss actually asked for help. “After all, perhaps she had this other fellow in mind all along. I liked the look of him.” She hugged Archie’s arm flirtatiously. “He put me in mind of a dashing pirate!”
Since Iris rarely knew what day it was, much less took a defined stance on anything other than the existence of fairies, the Worthington siblings reluctantly agreed to wait—for a brief time.
Attie, however, heard the word “pirate” and slipped quietly from the room, her face fixed in a frown of deep thought.
• • •
CAPTAIN PRYCE’S FOREBODING silence ended when the carriage stopped at last.
When he grunted briefly at her and alighted, Bliss took advantage of the moment to peer through the window at a row of terraced houses.
Hmm. It was difficult to tell much by the light of the moon and the lit streetlamps at the far corners of the block. The houses were all joined at the sides, but by the distance between the front doors, the facades could not be more than one large room wide.
There was no evident poverty, but neither was there sign of evident wealth. These were not the homes of gentry, but neither did they seem hotbeds of criminal activity. They were quite possibly the homes of bakers and butchers and tradesmen.
Her assessment was confirmed by the defiant glare Captain Pryce sent her as he helped her down to the walk. Apparently, he imagined she thought herself too grand for such a place. Was he trying to upset her? Did he think that no woman who aspired to be a duchess would willingly spend a night within such humble walls?
He clearly expected distress, aghast expressions of refusal, perhaps even
a fainting spell or two.
Really, men were so obvious. It never ceased to amaze Bliss how some men preferred women to be categorized like insects and preserved in frames. This one is for marrying. That one is for bedding. Any other, being neither, was either one’s mother or a nun.
Such simple creatures, men.
If Captain Pryce believed that she would be at all discommoded by his modest house and humble neighborhood, it pleased Bliss greatly to disillusion him. Worthington House, though large and rambling, was in profound disrepair. Her guardian’s cottage in Shropshire had been a spare and functional place, for all its many rooms.
How Mrs. Dalyrymple would snort at this fellow if she were here! “Good and plain is good enough for anyone, prince or pauper! Luxury is for the weak, and the hardworking have no need of it!”
Bliss knew from Neville’s admiring tales that Morgan Pryce was hardworking, indeed. It made perfect sense to her that he kept a simple home. What need had he for ostentatious luxury when he remained at sea for a year or more at a time?
• • •
WHEN MORGAN USHERED his bride into his tiny foyer, he felt a pang of regret that he’d not thought to have the place dusted or swept in his yearlong absence. When he’d dropped his trunk upstairs this morning, he found a broken window in the second bedroom. Pigeons had taken to nesting in the furniture over the summer months, and now the chamber was quite unusable.
The fact was that he’d never much cared about the house itself. He simply preferred the quiet of his own residence over the rowdy dockside inns where most sailors passed their time off ship. And although he knew some would consider this abode to be small, it seemed a gracious plenty after the narrow captain’s cabin on the Selkie Maid.
He’d never wanted more than that. He’d certainly never been interested in anything like Camberton House.
Wedded Bliss Page 3
