Three Times a Bride

by Catherine Anderson

“Do you still want to build in Dartmoor?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I like it here, and so do you. And Dain and Jessica are near.”

  “We’ll need a larger house if we’re going to raise a family,” he said. He glanced behind him at the modest manor house. “I suppose we could add a wing. It would not be very grand. But Rawnsley Hall was grand and it felt like an immense tomb. Couldn’t wait to get out of there. At present, in fact, I am strongly tempted to forget about repairs and raze the whole confounded pile.”

  “You don’t like it, but your heir might,” she said. “If you rebuild, you might give it to him as a wedding gift.”

  He lightly caressed her belly. “Are you sure you’ve a boy in there?”

  “No, but we are bound to have one eventually.”

  “Even before I realized there would be an ‘eventually,’ I knew I should be just as happy if it were a girl,” he said.

  “Ah, well, you have a soft spot in your heart for females,” she said. “But you also seem to have a way with little boys, and so I am not anxious either way. You will make a doting, devoted papa. Which is a good thing,” she added with a little frown, “because the women of my family are rather negligent mothers. But then, they are always breeding, you see, which is distracting.”

  “Then I shall look after the children,” he said. “Because I should like a great many, and you will have the additional distraction of hospital matters.”

  She stroked his hair back. “You have a gift for thinking ahead.”

  “I’ve been blessed with a great deal to look forward to,” he said. “Watching the hospital rise from the ground, for instance. Discovering what modern medical ideas and principles can and cannot achieve. The possibilities. The limitations.” He shook his head. “It amazes me how much I’ve learned about medicine in these last weeks, and how interesting it turns out to be. It even has a sort of poetry to it, and its own logic and riddles, like any intellectual pursuit. And there is the same wonderful feeling of discovery as mysteries are solved. I felt that today, when Eversham explained where your notes had led you.” He kissed her forehead. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “You should be proud of yourself,” she said. “You did not put obstacles in my way, though you wanted to—to protect me from myself. Instead, you tried every possible way to help me solve my riddle—by writing to Borson and sending for Eversham.”

  “Eversham is not like any other doctor I’ve encountered,” he said. “He certainly does have his own ideas. While you were washing your face, I asked him why he had accepted you as a colleague. He told me that in olden times, women were the healers in many communities. But their arts, to ignorant folk, seemed like magic, which was associated with the Devil. And so they were reviled and persecuted as witches.” He chuckled. “And so I realized I had been right from the first. I had wed a witch. And he was right, too, for you are a healer. You’ve healed my heart. That was the part that was ailing.”

  She curled her fingers round his neck. “You’ve healed me, too, Cat. You made the doctor part and the woman part fit together.”

  “Because I love both parts,” he said softly. “All your parts. All of you.”

  She smiled, the sweet everlasting smile, and weaving her fingers into his hair, drew him down and kissed him, slowly, deeply, lingeringly.

  While he lingered with her in the warm forever of that moment, the narrow red arc of the sun sank behind the glowing hill. A faint thread of light glimmered on the horizon. The night mists stole into the hollows and crevices of the moors, and the shadows swelled and lengthened, shrouding the winding byways in darkness.

  The sharpening breeze made him lift his head. “A beautiful Dartmoor night,” he murmured. “At moments like this, it is easy to believe in magic.” He met her soft gaze. “You’re magic to me, Gwen.”

  “Because I’m your witch, and you are my devoted familiar.”

  “So I am.” He smiled down at her. “Let’s make a spell, sorceress.”

  She frowned her endearing medical frown. “Very well. But first you must help me find some eye of newt.”

  He laughed. Then, cradling his bride in his arms, the Earl of Rawnsley rose, and carried her into the house.

  LORETTA CHASE holds a B.A. from Clark University, where she majored in English and minored unofficially in visual art. Her past lives include clerical, administrative, and part-time teaching at Clark and a Dickensian six-month experience as a meter maid. In the course of moonlighting as a corporate video scriptwriter, she fell under the spell of a producer who lured her into writing novels…and marrying him. The union has resulted in more than a dozen books and a number of awards, including the Romance Writers of America’s Rita® Award. You can talk to Loretta via her email address Author@LorettaChase.com, visit her website at www.LorettaChase.com, and blog with her and six other authors at WordWenches.com.

  Scandal’s Bride

  Samantha James

  One

  London, 1820

  Had she known what fate awaited her, she’d never have kissed him.

  But Lady Victoria Carlton, only daughter of the marquess of Norcastle, did not act out of a mere frivolity of nature. Oh, no. In all truth, she was desperate to seek an end to her predicament.

  She was convinced her only hope lay in scandal.

  Unfortunately, there was precious little time. Papa had informed her this very morn that she must choose a husband by midnight to night.

  Or else he would.

  It was not an idle threat—of this, Victoria was very certain. Much to Papa’s vexation, she had passed through several Seasons, turning down each and every one of the marriage proposals that had come her way. But now Papa’s patience had come to an end. He’d received three proposals during the last fortnight. He was usually not a tyrant, but when in one of his testiest moods, he was an imposing figure—there was simply no crossing him. And since she had no engagements other than the Remingtons’ ball that evening, it must be soon. Very soon…

  The ball was a typical gala affair. A din of voices rose in the air. Dozens of couples swirled across the floor in time to a lively waltz. The ballroom and adjoining salon had been decorated with huge clusters of pink and red roses.

  With a deep curtsy, Victoria laughingly retreated from the arms of her latest dance partner. Her steps carried her to the edge of the salon, near the terrace doors. It wasn’t so crowded there, and she needed time to think. Good heavens, time to act, for only a few hours remained before midnight.

  There was a touch on her arm. Victoria turned to her good friend Sophie Mayfield. Two years her junior, Sophie had just come out this Season. Sophie gazed at her, her brown eyes softly beseeching. “Victoria, I beg of you, please do not do this. Perhaps your father is right. Perhaps you should have chosen a husband long ago. Certainly it’s not from a lack of suitors—”

  “Pompous and selfish young bucks dazzled by the size of my dowry, and none of whom I cared to spend the rest of my life with.” A finely arched blond brow rose high as she spoke. Though her tone was light, the strength of her resolve was not.

  She had entered her first Season with stars in her eyes and romance in her heart—with the dream of catching a dashingly handsome young man, of having him fall madly in love with her. Vivid in her mind was the certainty that marriage would follow, and they would live out the rest of their lives in blissful enchantment.

  Another dear friend, Phoebe Tattinger, had shared that very same dream.

  It was Phoebe who found her prince first. She’d tumbled head over heels in love with Viscount Colin Paxton the instant they met. Victoria did not envy Phoebe her good fortune—no, not in the least! How could she, for never had she seen Phoebe so happy! She discounted the rumors that Colin’s proposal stemmed from his desire to marry an heiress, though Phoebe was indeed an heiress. Colin loved Phoebe—she was as certain of it as her friend.

  Phoebe’s joy had not lasted even three months after the wedding.

  A pang swept through Victori
a. She tried not to remember, yet she couldn’t help it.

  She and Phoebe had been out walking in Hyde Park one day; Phoebe had only recently learned she was with child. For that very reason they’d stopped to rest, sitting on a secluded bench with a view of the pathway, where they could watch the members of the ton strut and parade their fine feathers on this sunny spring morn.

  A man and woman passed by. ’Twas very clear both gentleman and lady were of an amorous inclination. One lace-gloved hand lay tucked into the gentleman’s elbow. The other was snugly enfolded within his. Even as they watched, the couple stopped, touching their lips together in a sweet, binding kiss.

  Phoebe had laughingly commented. “It must be the air in London, Victoria. Everyone is in love these days—”

  But all at once her voice choked off. Victoria’s regard snapped back to the pair in question.

  The man was Colin, Phoebe’s husband.

  Never in her life would Victoria forget her friend’s expression. She had watched as Phoebe’s heart shattered into a million pieces. She’d held her while Phoebe cried throughout the day. And she had waved good-bye when Phoebe departed for the country two days later.

  Colin remained in town, where he continued his association with his ladybird, the Lady Marian Winter, a widow.

  Since that day, Victoria had lost count of the women who had been associated with him. For the most part, Phoebe remained in the country. Victoria had seen her only a few times since that horrible day, but the change in Phoebe was sobering indeed. She was no longer lively and vivacious. There was no light in her eyes, no dazzle in her smile, where before there had been sunlight bursting in her heart and soul.

  Slowly, her attention was drawn back to Sophie. “Oh, come now,” Sophie was saying. “Victoria, when I think of your suitors—why, none have been so terrible! And this very moment, your father has offers from three prospects. What about Viscount Newton—”

  Victoria’s generous mouth had turned down. “A man whose arrogance I cannot abide,” she finished succinctly.

  “Well, then, what about Robert Sherwood?”

  “A cad, Sophie, and you know it as well as I.”

  “But there’s still Lord Dunmire’s youngest son Phillip—”

  “Boorish and dull, Sophie. I should grow weary of my own voice were I to marry him. And I’m told he gambles to excess.”

  “Victoria, I beg you reconsider.”

  “There’s nothing you can say to change my mind, Sophie.”

  “But your reputation will be ruined—”

  “Quite,” Victoria pronounced grimly.

  Sophie sighed. “’Tis because of your friend Phoebe, isn’t it, that you refuse to marry? But I would remind you, Victoria, not all men are scoundrels such as her husband.”

  “I’m quite aware of that, Sophie. Indeed, there are times I enjoy their company very much.” It was true. Oh, she laughed. She danced, but she was no longer the innocent she’d been when she entered her first Season.

  Her chin came up. “But I would remind you that you are only in your first Season, and I am not so naive as I once was. I have borne witness to countless infidelities—husbands with mistresses, wives with lovers. I’ve seen fortunes lost and amassed with the turn of a card. The ton is filled with despicable men whose vices are exceeded only by their monstrous ego.”

  “And so you will never marry?” Sophie remained unconvinced.

  Victoria’s gaze turned cloudy. “I would never bury myself in the country as Phoebe does,” she said slowly. “But long ago I abandoned my foolish notions about love and marriage. I’ve learned that marriages are made to gain money, power, position, or land—perhaps to breed an heir—perhaps any and all of these.”

  Sophie fluttered her fan in utter distress. “But you will spend your life alone, Victoria, with no husband, no children. Why, I find the thought simply unbearable!”

  Victoria said nothing. She couldn’t deny that Phoebe’s painful experience had left its mark, for she had no wish to suffer a betrayal such as Phoebe had done. She would not allow any man to use her as a pawn, for his own gain…

  Her heart twisted, for there was a part of her that was torn in two—a part of her that could not disdain love entirely. Her parents had loved each other, something she never doubted for an instant. Though it had been nearly ten years since Mama died, Victoria still remembered shared, subtle glances between them, a lingering touch on the shoulder that spoke with such eloquence…

  If she were ever to wed, it must be to a man she could love enough to trust…ah, but could she trust enough to love?

  She had no answer.

  She knew only that she could not spend her life as Phoebe did, in melancholy despair, hopelessly in love with a man who shared nothing of her feelings…never being loved in return…

  She would not.

  She would far rather spend her life alone.

  But now Papa was insisting she marry…oh, she truly did not wish to defy him!

  And so she turned her attention back to her mission, which was simple. Were she embroiled in scandal, her suitors would want no part of her—neither those present nor prospective. As for Papa, surely he would consider her totally beyond redemption and would at last cease his efforts to see her wed.

  Twisting her white lace handkerchief between slender gloved fingers, Victoria directed a fervent prayer heaven-ward. Forgive me, Mama. Her poor dead mama would be horrified at what she proposed to do, yet Victoria could see no other way. All she needed was a gentleman to help her carry out her plan, such as it was.

  The only problem was who. In all truth, she couldn’t quite summon the nerve to approach a gentleman with whom she was already acquainted. It must be a stranger then, for she knew she’d never have the courage to face him again. With that singular thought high aloft, she scanned the sea of bodies. Faith, but there must be someone…

  A figure brushed by, elegantly clad in black. The man was tall, long of limb and broad of shoulder, a study of lean, masculine grace. Victoria caught her breath, for it was as if he’d been lifted from the very essence of her mind—from those dreams she’d cast aside long ago. Her gaze followed him as he passed through the terrace doors and out into the shadows of the gardens.

  Something leaped in her breast. There would be no better time. There would be no better man. Anticipation sparked within her. If all went as planned, by midnight her fate would at last be her own.

  She turned to Sophie and saw that Sophie had again gleaned her intent. Her friend looked ready to cry.

  Victoria lightly squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t look like that,” she scolded gently. “I shall be fine, you’ll see. You have only to come to the terrace in a few minutes’ time, but make sure someone is with you as well. And don’t forget, you must pretend to be horrified at finding us—”

  “I will be horrified!” Sophie’s eyes were huge. “Victoria, when I think of what you are about to do…throwing yourself at a gentleman…”

  “Shhh,” Victoria cautioned, then summoned a smile and pinched poor Sophie’s cheek. “Wish me luck, love.” With that Victoria turned and fairly flew through the terrace doors.

  It was a moment before her eyes adjusted to the dimness. The man stood perhaps ten paces distant. His hands were locked behind his back, his dark head slightly inclined as he stared out into the night. Victoria had to force her feet to do her bidding. But a rustle of skirts warned of her presence. Before she could say a word, the stranger spun around just as she came to a halt.

  Wide sapphire eyes met those of steely gray. Victoria’s eyes flew wide, and she clutched at her skirts. It was all she could do to stand her ground. Her heart knocked wildly, both in fear and anticipation. All sense of reason fled her mind. The moment was upon her, yet she knew not what to say. She knew not what to do.

  It was he who spoke first. “If you’re looking for someone, I fear you’re destined for disappointment. I’m the only one here.”

  “Oh, but I’m hardly disappointed. Y
ou’re the very one I sought.” The words tumbled forth before she could stop them. Victoria colored as she realized how rash—and how audacious—she must surely sound. But she couldn’t tear her gaze from his face. She was tall for a woman, yet he was half a head taller than she. And he really was stunningly handsome, with winged brows as black as his hair, and a square, masculine jaw. His eyes were most unusual, like clear crystal with a glimmer of silver. She found herself thinking that he would be quite irresistible if only he smiled…

  But now it seemed she was the one who merited a closer look. The stranger proceeded to inspect her from the shining blond coronet atop her head to her narrow, slippered feet. Though Victoria had always prided herself on her ability to remain unruffled no matter the circumstances, there was a sharpness to this man’s gaze that rendered her distinctly ill at ease.

  A dark brow hiked upward. “Indeed,” he responded coolly. “To my knowledge, we’ve never met.”

  “No,” she agreed. “We have not.” Her mind was turning frantically. However was she to accomplish her mission without sounding like a brazen hussy?

  “You sought me out, yet you don’t know who I am?”

  “Yes. You see, I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “A favor. Of a man you do not know.”

  “Precisely. You see, I find myself in a situation only you can help me with.”

  His eyes narrowed. “How so?”

  Victoria forced a light, buoyant laugh, even as she battled the urge to turn and flee. “Men are very fond of gambling, are they not? Well, you see, my friend Sophie proposed a rather outrageous dare, a dare I simply could not refuse. She dared me to kiss the first stranger I met to night. And so, kind sir, I wonder if you are willing to oblige me.”

  The moment was tortuous. Victoria held her breath and waited.

  Nor did she have long to wait.

  “Oblige you? Ah, but we have not met, have we? You have no idea who I am. I haven’t the faintest idea who you are, and I do believe it’s best we keep it that way.” His smile was cutting. “In short, my lady, I think it best if I remove myself from your silly, schoolgirl schemes.”