He did not attempt to fool himself. He knew that as a Worthington, he had always been somewhat slapdash in his efforts to be a law-abiding man, even when he had been his old self. Such uprightness did not seem to come naturally to any of them, except perhaps for Dade.
Lysander examined his eldest brother from across the dinner table. Dim memory told him that even when he’d been the real Lysander, he never truly understood Daedalus Worthington.
Mrs. Philpott dished a bit of blood pudding on the plate before Lysander. He turned his gaze down at it slowly. Although meals had improved around Worthington House since Elektra had married so well, Lysander remained unmoved by the savory aromas surrounding him.
Yet he tried to sit down to at least one meal a day with his family. Although he had little interest in food, he still felt the sting when tearful worry filled his mother’s eyes. His father, normally oblivious of anything other than his own scholarly musings, was razor sharp when it came to Iris. Archie’s bushy eyebrows would climb and his forehead would wrinkle with concern, his vague blue eyes sharpening as he gazed at Lysander. So there they would be, both his dreamy, dotty parents, gazing at him intensely as they counted the forkfuls he put into his mouth. Lysander had little choice but to chew and swallow until they were reassured he was eating, whether the food interested him or not.
It seemed their watchfulness was paying off, for he did feel a bit better after a meal. Easier, more relaxed, as if a bit of the tumult in his mind was silenced for a time, giving him a tiny measure of peace. So he ate, though even the finest food tasted like sawdust. He tried to answer sensibly when someone spoke to him. His responses often came out in short blurts. He had trouble finding the proper words. For the most part, his family let him be, accepting him for who he had become.
Lysander felt a dusty gratitude for that, even as he dimly mourned the loss of how things had once been.
Of all his family, Elektra had been the easiest for him to spend time alone with. Her absorption in her mission to save the family from its poverty had reminded him of a rather military dedication. It made sense to him. They were like soldiers together, and she was his commanding officer. She gave him clear instructions but did not seek to comfort or change or distract him in any way.
Of course, she had worried over him, but her way of imparting that worry had been to involve him in her quest, to give him some direction in which to march. His relief had been so great that he had not questioned a single order. And they hadn’t done anything too terribly deplorable. It ended well. The wealthy man they had kidnapped fell in love with his captor and made her his bride.
But Elektra’s mission parameters had changed when she married Aaron. She and her husband left Worthington House in London to rebuild the family’s rotting estate in Shropshire. Lysander had regretted that he could not accompany her on her new venture, but he was not a builder, nor would he have been of use at running any sort of restoration effort on her behalf. After all, that would likely have involved speaking to strangers. As Elektra well knew, Lysander did not—could not—speak to those outside the family.
So he stayed behind, and as he looked around the Worthington table now, he knew he was seeing a family in flux. In addition to Elektra, Lysander had watched Callie and Ellie marry and leave. Castor won Miranda and stayed, adding a baby to the family. Orion and Francesca traveled in their biologist pursuits. Poll took his broken heart and left the family home to his twin, Cas, and the woman they had both loved. Lysander had felt sympathy for his brother, but, when the opportunity came to comfort Poll, Lysander had not found the words. As usual.
Life went on. Lysander got up each day and he dressed and he ate and he sometimes pretended to read, although the words swam upon the page, even words he recalled that he used to love. It was easier to pretend, to go on as if all was well. And if sometimes he woke in the night with icy terrors and shattering nightmares, he usually managed to keep his shaking, sweating recovery to himself.
Lysander studied his brother Daedalus. He sat across the table, pushing peas about the plate, pretending to eat. Lysander knew he had not taken a bite in half an hour. He was thinking of Bliss. It was obvious. Dade and Bliss had a special bond, one that Lysander had watched develop over the months. They were not like the rest of the madcap Worthingtons. They even resembled each other more than the others and were far fairer than the rest of the family, especially when compared to Lysander’s own darkness. But what bonded them most were their temperaments. Both Bliss and Dade were more steadfast and less impulsive than the others. More placid and analytical.
Lysander took a sip of wine, questioning his own reasoning. Hadn’t Bliss just run away to marry someone she’d known only a few months?
Perhaps she was more of a Worthington than he gave her credit for.
• • •
“ARE YOU QUITE well, Dade?”
“Of course, Archie. I’m fine.”
Apparently, Dade had been so distracted that even his vague and dreamy father had taken notice. He shoved a forkful of blood pudding into his mouth, smiling reassuringly at the rest of his clan, though his own thoughts were anything but calm.
He could not stop thinking about Bliss. How could he have allowed her to make such an awful mistake? How could he have let her roam so freely that she could arrange a secret marriage?
It was true that Iris had been an accessory to the crime, but she was not at fault. Bliss knew perfectly well that Iris was a useless chaperone and that was why she had chosen her to accompany her to a secret midnight wedding.
To the wrong man, as it turned out. It was a development that Iris found delightful, better than a play, she had said!
And then there was Neville. Dade had come to know and trust the younger man, though, blast it, he had not thought Bliss a good match for him. Worthingtons had a tendency to plow right over people who did not possess spines of granite. Neville was as upright and decent a man as Dade had ever known, but his decency meant he sometimes compromised his own interests.
Dade’s concern had been that Bliss—and her relentless practicality—would have flattened the young duke.
So whom had she married instead?
Neville had previously shown a tendency to wax admiring on the topic of his half brother, extolling his integrity, hard work, and loyalty, among other characteristics. Dade had listened to such high praise on many occasions. For that reason alone, he tried to believe that Pryce would not actually harm Bliss.
Dade had always assumed that Worthington women could look after themselves. Elektra was fiercely self-reliant and Attie—well, Attie was downright bloodthirsty. Even gentle Callie was handy with a sword. And only a month ago at a family picnic on the estate in Shropshire, Dade had watched Bliss shoot clay pigeons from the sky like a champion.
So it wasn’t Pryce’s character that bothered Dade. It wasn’t fear for Bliss’s safety. It was that Dade should have known.
This was his fault. In the face of Bliss’s unruffled calm, and her seeming lack of ambition, he’d failed to notice the steely determination that would drive a young woman to make such an awful bargain.
And what of poor Neville? What must he be thinking? Neville, however, was not Dade’s problem. Bliss was a Worthington, and all the Worthingtons were Dade’s problem.
Bloody hell—he’d taken his eye off Bliss, assuming she was the least of his worries for the time being. Instead, he’d been preoccupied with the two most troubling of his siblings. Lysander was still a silent dark shadow of a man. Attie was poised to bloom into a beautiful young woman who was far too brilliant and far too undisciplined to be let out of the house without an army of keepers.
And what about Poll? The family hadn’t heard from him in a month. The family had considered running out after him. Castor couldn’t do it, however, not with the new baby and a wife who never had any rest. It was certain that Archie was useless in such an endeavor. Lysan
der was quite willing but too unstable. And so it was left to Dade.
It seemed that it was always left to Dade. He had been playing shepherd to this flock of wayward sheep for so long. Orion had been a steadying influence for some time, but he was gone now, too.
Finding a way out of Bliss’s predicament was up to him.
Thoughts of legal annulments and possible charges of fraud swam in Dade’s mind. There must be a socially acceptable—i.e., legal—means to free Bliss from her midnight error. A non-Worthington method.
He let his head fall to his hand. God, he was tired. Thirty-one years old and he felt as if the weight of the world—or at least, of Worthington House—rested on his shoulders. Dotty parents, madcap siblings, a crumbling house. Those were his inheritance. Being the eldest son was supposed to be a good thing, wasn’t it?
He had failed. He had been so busy trying to manage Attie’s wildness, monitoring Lysander’s slow recovery, and worrying about Poll’s wandering, that he neglected the one person he had relied on. Bliss had been his confidante and helper. She had been the only other sane and stable person in this house!
Bliss. He’d thought she was just like him. He’d thought she could always be counted on to choose wisely. She’d always seemed so calm!
Apparently, Bliss was a true Worthington after all.
Chapter 22
IN a severely stylish shop in the finest shopping district in London, a man known to his friends as Button, but to the rest of the world as the great Lementeur, caressed the fine cornflower blue silk and stared at the clock. He was becoming truly worried about Bliss Worthington—er, Pryce. Yes, that was right. Her ball gown fitting had been scheduled for a quarter hour ago, yet she had not arrived or sent word of delay.
It was terribly unlike Bliss Worthington—er, Pryce—to be late for an appointment. In fact, she had been precisely on time for each of their prior fittings. Bliss was perhaps the most punctual of all his clients.
Button’s assistant, Cabot, peered through a crack in the dress shop’s thick velvet drapes to scout the street outside. “Are you sure she said three o’clock?” Cabot glanced over his shoulder and regarded Button. “I fear there is no sign of the rather distinctive Worthington carriage.”
Button could not help laughing at Cabot’s choice of words. The Worthingtons were indeed an unusual clan. They lived in a ramshackle mansion. They traveled in a moldy hack pulled by decrepit horses. And yet they moved blithely through the most elite circles. Bliss, a cousin to the London Worthingtons, had never once inquired about the cost of her many custom gowns.
Yet seeing one of his creations draped on her arresting frame was one of Button’s greatest satisfactions.
The question remained: Where could she be? It was no small source of irritation to Button when appointments were not honored. As everyone who was anyone knew, Lementeur’s personal services were in such demand that when girls were born into Society, their mothers rushed to put their names on the dress shop’s waiting list. A missed appointment not only meant lost profit for Button—it meant a lost opportunity for a deserving new customer.
“A carriage has arrived,” Cabot announced. “But it carries the crest of the Duke of Camberton, so I doubt it is our Bliss—unless the duke is a particularly forgiving chap.”
Button raced to the window to join Cabot, curious indeed. News that Bliss Worthington had run off to wed the duke’s bastard brother instead of Lord Neville Danton himself had become the talk of London. Today’s gossip pages had been atwitter with news of Bliss and her dashing sea captain.
Button felt a wave of forgiveness for Bliss. Captain Pryce was reported to be a charismatic fellow. She was a newlywed, after all, and likely distracted. Button spared a sigh of envy.
The carriage door opened and out stepped a lady’s maid.
Cabot glanced at Button. “Do we know her?”
“I don’t believe we do.”
Behind the maid appeared a woman. Smallish, slender, with dark hair, and attired in a gown of rather drab pastel gray muslin. Button saw through the unattractive dress to the young lady beneath. She possessed a graceful way of moving. Almost as if she danced each motion. How intriguing! “I am certain I don’t know her.”
“Hmm.” Cabot tipped his chin. “Graceful. Lovely eyes. Whoever she is, someone absolutely must tell her to avoid that tired shade of gray.”
Button smiled. “I know just the man for the job.”
The young lady was apologetic upon entering, and glanced about the shop with quick, unsure turns of her head. She became flustered while admitting she did not have an appointment, and hoped she had not interrupted other customers.
Button thought her concern for others charming, and despite the simple cut of her dress, he suspected this unplanned visit would be fortunate for all involved. There were two reasons for his optimism. One, the girl had arrived in the Duke of Camberton’s carriage. And two, she positively reeked of wealth.
It was not an overt display. On the contrary. Button sensed none of the condescension that sometimes oozed from ladies of privilege. Nor did she boast of a familiarity with fashion. The young woman simply had impeccable manners, kind eyes, and the carriage of someone who had never doubted her position for one moment of her life.
With a sincere curtsy, she introduced herself as Katarina Beckham, houseguest of Lord Oliver Danton and his nephew, the duke. In the next breathless sentence, she conveyed an urgent need for a ball gown to wear to the Fletchers’ event a mere two days away.
Cabot shot him a sideways glance accompanied by a lift of one eyebrow. Button knew it was the look of a man who appreciated the intersection of commerce and art as much as he himself did. With his assistant’s agreement, Button graciously accepted the challenge. “I do have a few sample designs made up that could be fitted to you quite quickly. Mere thoughts on paper tried out in silk—but you may find something to your taste.” Oh, this was going to be such fun! His fingers twitched.
“Oh! I am ever so grateful, sir. I brought dresses with me from home, but I have discovered they simply will not do here in London! But—” The young lady’s cocoa brown eyelashes lowered with something akin to shame. “You see, I met someone today, a lovely woman, one of your customers, and she was so stunning, so naturally beautiful and so exquisitely dressed, that I worry I could never do one of your gowns justice.”
Yet again, Button and Cabot found each other’s gaze. Button felt the corner of his mouth twitch. “I am thinking . . .”
Cabot nodded emphatically. “By all means, yes. The plum violet.”
While Cabot retreated to the workroom, Button insisted that Miss Beckham and her maid relax on the velvet settee near the rear window of the shop. Button served the tea he had prepared for Bliss, and sat about getting to know his new customer.
Unfortunately, Cabot had not returned in time to hear the young lady say, with an almost humble shyness, that she happened to be an heiress to a Barbados sugar fortune. “My mother sees this as my one chance to make a suitable match.”
“Oh, how perfectly splendid!” Button rose from his chair. “Would you pardon me for a moment, ladies?” He walked calmly toward the back of the shop, then poked his head through the workroom door. Though he didn’t see Cabot upon first glance, he whispered his request. “Bring seed pearls, oh, and the opals!”
Cabot’s head popped out from behind a storage shelf. The surprise on his face nearly caused Button to laugh. “The opals? And seed pearls? And the plum violet?”
Button nodded. He understood his assistant’s disbelief, for such a combination of materials would create a gown worth a small fortune. They had been saving the rather precious bolt of fine imported satin for a special commission, as not every woman could wear such a bold, intense color—or afford the first-rate quality. The slender, dark-haired Miss Beckham had provided them with the perfect canvas.
“But the opals?”
Cabot whispered back. “Are you quite certain?”
“Two words. Sugar. Heiress.”
The corner of Cabot’s mouth twitched. “I shall bring every opal in the shop.”
Six months prior, he had purchased a strand of hundreds of small Turkish opals from a London importer. They were exceptional in their gloss and iridescence, sending off subtle sparks of purple, blue, orange, and red. At the time, Button had worried about the dear price, but as of today, he was certain his assistant had made a wise purchase.
Button returned to the front of the shop. He asked Katarina to come stand with him before the huge mirror, noticing that she did not allow her gaze to connect with her own reflection. It occurred to him that he should ask which of his exquisitely dressed customers Miss Beckham had encountered earlier that day. He needed to know what motivated this spontaneous trip to his shop.
“Her name was Mrs. Bliss Pryce.” Miss Beckham’s gaze flashed at him in the mirror.
“Ahhh.”
“And I thought perhaps with one of your gowns I might . . . Oh, I must be mad! Never mind all this. I shall return to Camberton House immediately.” She turned away from the mirror but managed only one step before Button corralled her. He guided her back to her position before the mirror, once more face-to-face with her reflection.
“There, there, my dear.”
Button patted her shoulders reassuringly and gave her a smile. Meeting Bliss Worthington would give any lady a moment of self-doubt. Yet, though the encounter might explain the lack of confidence, it did not justify it.
“Now—”
Miss Beckham shook her head, interrupting Button before he could continue. “I apologize, Mr. Lementeur. ’Tis a terrible vanity of mine, to worry so over being plain, and I wish that it did not matter to me.”
Wedded Bliss Page 17
