At the Duke's Wedding (A romance anthology)

by Caroline Linden

  The laughter stuck in her throat died. Cleo didn’t move, her fingers clenching in the folds of Gareth’s shirt. Mr. Blair had returned, which meant Helen must have as well.

  Oh, Lord.

  Gareth just kept smiling down at her. “Does he? Excellent. Where is he waiting?”

  “In the stables, Your Grace. With Miss Grey.”

  “Ah. Tell them I shall be with them directly.”

  “Yes, sir.” Cleo could hear his footsteps faintly, going down the hall. Gareth still wore the slight grin of a cat who knew where the cream was hidden, and she didn’t know why. Part of her longed to run out to the stables and hug Helen close before shaking her and demanding an explanation, and part of her didn’t want to face her sister for years. She had just made love to her sister’s fiancé. Even though Helen hadn’t wanted to marry him, she might still be shocked and horrified to hear how quickly he had turned to Cleo.

  And now there wasn’t much time for her to talk to Gareth before facing Helen. What did he want from her? Making love was one thing, but there were no promises between them. Cleo wanted more. She didn’t want to give him up to anyone, ever again.

  She wet her lips. He was still inside her, his hand still curved around her hip. With a little wriggle, she unhooked her leg from around his, easing her weight back to the ground. With a soft sigh, he slid free of her, his hands steadying her waist as her knees wobbled. She smiled uneasily, smoothing down the skirts of her gown as Gareth repaired his own clothing. She wasn’t sure she could stand under her own power. Even now, aftershocks of pleasure left her muscles lax.

  “Cleo.” His hand cupped her face, making her look at him. Gareth smiled. “You look so grim, darling. Was I that rough?”

  Her mouth fell open. “No! You know you weren’t. It was wonderful. But Gareth—” He cut her off with a long kiss, and when he lifted his head Cleo had forgotten what she’d been saying.

  “All will be well,” he said. “Trust me.” She gazed up at him, afraid to ask. “You look as though a great problem troubles you,” he added.

  She was surprised into a weak laugh. “A great problem! This is a rather out-of-the-ordinary problem, I think ...”

  “Yes, I might have ruined this gown beyond repair.” He gave it a frown. “Although it’s not my favorite.”

  She blushed. “My mother chose it.”

  “No wonder,” he muttered. “I won’t apologize for ripping it, then.” Still, he turned her around and fastened what buttons remained. “Will you come with me? I expect your sister will want to see you.”

  “What are you going to say to them?” she asked softly. His fingers moving so gently over her back had sapped her will to argue.

  “I think your sister and my cousin explained themselves very well in the notes they left. I can’t think what they might have to add to that.”

  Cleo blinked and whirled around. “Your cousin left you a note as well?”

  “He did.”

  “Then you knew before I told you that Helen had run off?”

  “I did.”

  “You might have told me,” she protested.

  He grinned. “But I desperately wanted comforting, darling.” He kissed her. “Let’s go see what they have to tell us, shall we?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Gareth felt at great charity with the world as he and Cleo walked toward the stables. He held her hand in his; she had looked a bit self-conscious at first, but she made no effort to pull away. There was a beautiful flush on her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled as they had the morning she first arrived at Kingstag, when lightning had seemed to strike him in the head.

  A servant lingering near the front gate ran forward to meet them and say that Mr. Blair was waiting in the rear tack room, where Jack Willoughby had established his gentlemen’s refuge earlier. As they headed there, they passed Jack’s shiny black phaeton, now covered with dust and being fussed over by a number of grooms. Cleo darted a curious look at him, but Gareth just shrugged. He had a feeling Hippolyta had helped the lovers in their escape and in their inexplicable return.

  The instant they stepped through the door, Helen Grey jumped up from the bench. She was wearing traveling clothes, her hair swung in a braid down her back, and her eyes were haunted. On the bench behind her, James Blair sat with his hands on his knees, his head hanging as if exhausted. Helen took a hesitant step forward, eyeing them almost fearfully.

  Without a word, Cleo opened her arms, and Helen fell into them, breaking into ragged weeping. The sisters held each other close. Blair’s expression twisted in anguish before he averted his face. Both were the picture of misery.

  “I’m sorry,” Helen sobbed. “I’m so sorry, Cleo. I didn’t mean to cause trouble, but I was so unhappy and it seemed like the best idea ...”

  “Are you hurt?” Cleo pulled back to scrutinize her sister’s face, red and puffy and tear-stained. “Are you well?”

  She nodded. “I’m fine. We—James and I—we’re both well. It’s just—it’s just—”

  James Blair rose to his feet. “We both knew it to be wrong,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Wessex—Mrs. Barrows—I cannot apologize enough for what we’ve put you through. It was entirely my doing. I convinced Miss Grey—”

  “No! I convinced him!” Helen grasped her sister’s hands. “It was my idea, all mine! I couldn’t go through with it. Cleo, you told me my happiness was in my hands and you were right, you truly were. I found James yesterday and forced him to take me away last night—”

  “You did no such thing,” said Blair tenderly but wearily. “Helen ...”

  “It seems to me,” Gareth said mildly, interrupting them, “that the more important question is why one of you had this idea, and why the other consented.”

  Helen raised her chin as she finally faced him, but he could see her hands shaking. “I am very sorry, Your Grace,” she said haltingly. “I ... that is, I had a—a change of heart. I ... fancied myself in love with Mr. Blair ...”

  “It was the duel,” Blair interrupted. “Bruton was willing to let his cousin shoot him rather than give up the girl he loved. I was his second, Wessex, and it went to my head—seeing his joy and relief when Miss Lacy threw herself into his arms ... And when you said you would wish Bruton well, I lost my grip on reason.” He gave Helen another hopeless look. “I’ve been in agony since the Greys arrived. I tried to forget my feelings, and I never wanted to betray you, but after the duel ... I didn’t know how I could bear to see you marry Helen.”

  “And running off was much safer and preferable to a duel, don’t you see?” Helen pleaded. “I couldn’t let him risk being shot.”

  “Indeed not. Blair is a capital fellow, and I would hate to see him wounded,” agreed Gareth. “He’s quite the most decent man I know. I congratulate you on your excellent taste.”

  Helen glanced at Blair in bewilderment. He seemed equally dumbstruck. Gareth wanted to shout with laughter at the look on his cousin’s face.

  Helen wet her lips. “But it was an abominable thing to do to you ...”

  “Not when weighed against the ills of marrying a man you could never love.” He paused. “You couldn’t, could you?” It was more a statement than a question, and Helen’s eyes welled up again as she slowly shook her head. “Then you’ve done us all a great favor,” he said gently. That had been his last trace of worry, that Helen might somehow have honestly regretted running off. If she had declared she was ready to carry on with the wedding, he would have had the very devil of a time.

  “You’re not angry?” asked Blair in disbelief. “Wessex, I ...” Words seemed to fail him; he shook his head in stunned silence.

  Gareth smiled, darted a warm glance toward Cleo. “Angry? Not at all. In fact, I have rarely been happier. And it is all due to you, Miss Grey, for having the courage to defy propriety and follow your heart. And to you, James, for going with her. My only wonder is that you came back so soon. Are you married yet?”

  “No,” said Blair in a dazed voice.
>
  “Do you still wish to be?”

  “Yes!” burst out Helen, which seemed to break her beloved’s trance.

  “The marriage contract—”

  He shrugged. “I don’t think we’ll have any difficulty about that. Sir William, I am sure, can be made to see reason.” Especially if Gareth gave him no choice.

  “The guests,” said Helen hesitantly.

  “Oh yes, I suppose we’ll have to tell them. I’ll send my mother to the church.” Everyone stared at him in disbelief. “If she won’t go, I’ll have Sophronia step in,” he added. “She’d delight in calling off a wedding.”

  Cleo made a noise suspiciously like a smothered laugh. It made Gareth smile wider. He loved being able to make her laugh.

  The runaway lovers exchanged a glance, then Blair stepped forward.

  “Wessex,” he said humbly. “I must apologize. You would have been well within bounds to call me out over this.”

  “What good would that do?” he asked, surprised. “You’re my right arm, James. You might have told me earlier you had feelings for Helen, but—” he shot Cleo another glance “—in the end your timing was nothing less than perfect. Allow me to wish you great joy.” He shook hands with his cousin. Helen hurried to his side, and he raised her hand to his lips. “And of course, since you’re to be married,” Gareth went on, “I must make you a wedding gift. A manor house, I think, somewhere nearby. You must be able to visit often.”

  All three of them regarded him in shock. James just nodded, his jaw working as if he couldn’t speak. Helen covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes wide with hopeful joy. Gareth clapped James on the shoulder. “I don’t believe anyone else knows you’ve returned,” he said meaningfully, “but don’t take Jack’s carriage this time. There’s no reason to drive Hippolyta into the ground when the archbishop himself will be here. I suggest concluding your courtship in more ... comfort.”

  Blair blinked a few times, then began to grin. “Wessex, I shall be in your debt forever,” he said, before grasping Helen’s hand and pulling her out of the room. Gareth watched them go and even raised a hand in farewell.

  “That was extremely generous,” said Cleo in the quiet that followed.

  He nodded.

  “You want them to be happy together,” she said, amazed.

  He nodded again.

  She bit her lip. “What will you tell the wedding guests?”

  He lifted one shoulder. “That I won’t be marrying your sister. It’s fairly simple.”

  She studied him. “What will your family say?”

  He cocked his head to one side, a slight grin tugging at his mouth. “My mother, I expect, will be delighted. She wants me to be happy, and I would never have been happy married to your sister, as charming and lovely as she is.” He started pacing toward her deliberately. “My sisters will be thrilled at the excitement of it all, particularly as they will still have Helen as a cousin. Sophronia may be put out, I grant you, at the absence of scandal and uproar, but she knew the first night that Helen and I were never meant to be.”

  “What did Mr. Blair’s note say?” she asked, even as a soft blush stained her cheeks. “Why didn’t you tell my parents when you found it?”

  “Good Lord, why would I do that?” He grimaced. “Your father might have tried to do something foolish, like stop them.”

  “Stop them! But they were already gone—” She stopped abruptly, her eyes widening. “When did you find it?”

  “Last night,” he said. “About two hours after dinner. I couldn’t sleep and went to my study, where James had left it. I daresay they couldn’t have got much past Dorchester by then.”

  “Last night!” she gasped.

  Gareth nodded. “I knew they would need as much time as possible to get well away. I had gone to my study to plot how I could persuade your sister to jilt me. You might imagine my relief upon discovering that she had already worked out how to do it. All I needed to do was stay quietly in my study.”

  She appeared unable to speak. Gently he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, loving the way her body softened against his until they fit together like two halves of a whole.

  “If they hadn’t run off, I don’t know what I would have done,” he whispered. “Do you know, I saw my place in hell waiting for me as the wedding day approached. That’s what I would have earned, marrying your sister when all I could think of was you. Especially like this,” he added, casting a suggestive glance down at her ripped gown.

  “When?” she asked softly. “When did you start thinking that?”

  Gareth shook his head. “The moment you stepped out of the carriage a fortnight ago.” She looked at him suspiciously. He nodded. “Oh, yes, lightning struck as you stepped out of the carriage. Toppled one of my oldest oaks to the ground, don’t you remember? Split it right down the middle, and the whole thing fell. Much like my heart did when you looked at me.”

  “You don’t believe in love at first sight!” she protested. “You said so the other day!”

  “No, I don’t, which is why I looked again, and again, and again, until I was quite sure I would go mad from it. I just knew.” He nuzzled her neck, his mouth skimming over her collarbone and up the side of her neck. “When did you start?”

  The blush that colored her face, all the way down to her neckline, was brilliant. “Almost as soon. But of course I knew it was wrong—you were betrothed to my sister ...”

  “But not any longer.” He paused. “Are you not pleased she’s marrying Blair?”

  “Of course I am!”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” she exclaimed. “Why, because they’re in love!” He raised an eyebrow. “And,” she hesitated only a moment, “and because if you didn’t marry Helen ...” She paused again. “Then you would be free.”

  “Yes.”

  “And—” She wet her lips. “—and then it wouldn’t be wrong of me to want you.”

  “Oh, no,” he answered at once. “That would never be wrong of you. In fact, I was hoping you might keep on wanting me for the rest of your life.”

  Later, Cleo told herself she would remember that moment for the rest of her life. The scent of oiled leather and horses, the faint buzz of bees in the shrubbery outside the window, the morning sun slanting across the dusty floor. And Gareth, looking at her as if he had never seen anyone half so wonderful. She couldn’t stop a small smile. “Is that a proposition?”

  He laughed. “Proposition? My darling, I’m at an end to propositions. I made my last offer of marriage in a letter addressed to your father. May I make this one myself?” And he sank to one knee as he spoke. Cleo thought she must be goggling at him like a fool. “My darling Cleopatra,” he began, then paused. “Are you truly named for Cleopatra?”

  “Yes,” she said dazedly. “And Helen for Helen of Troy. Father has classical fancies.”

  “Ah.” He cocked his head to one side. “I wish I’d remembered that sooner.”

  “Why?” Cleo still couldn’t quite take in that he was on his knees before her. Even Matthew hadn’t proposed on bended knee; he’d asked her over his shop counter, which had been romantic enough, but nothing like this.

  “It would have made things clearer,” he said. “My parents named me Anthony, after all. Anthony never married Helen of Troy.”

  She cleared her throat. “He never married Cleopatra, either.”

  “This Anthony will,” Gareth declared. “If she’ll have him.”

  Cleo gazed down at him, his brooding dark eyes fixed on her, his thick hair still ruffled from their activities in his study. “Shall I roll myself in a rug and have myself delivered to your rooms?”

  “Make certain it’s a soft rug,” he retorted, “for I would unroll it before the fire and not let you off it for an hour.”

  Cleo pretended to think. “I may have such a rug, in the shop ...”

  His eyes ignited. “That sounds like yes.”

  This time her smile was wide and unrestrained. “Because it
is. A hundred times yes.”

  -o0o-

  About the Author

  Caroline Linden was born a reader, not a writer. She earned a math degree from Harvard University and wrote computer software before turning to writing fiction. Ten years, eleven books, two Red Sox championships, and one dog later, she has never been happier with her decision. Her books have won the NEC Reader’s Choice Beanpot Award, the Daphne du Maurier Award, and RWA’s RITA Award. Since she never won any prizes in math, she takes this as a sign that her decision was also a smart one. Visit her online at www.carolinelinden.com

  How Angela Got Her Rogue Back

  By Katharine Ashe

  Chapter One

  “Pride and Prejudice ... and Zombies ... graphic novel?” Angela Cowdrey muttered and flipped through the slick pages. “What’ll they think of next?”

  “Dark Avengers! Yesss!” Her friend Cyndi’s teenage brother smacked his palm on a comic book to the beat of the musical monstrosity blaring from his earbuds. The book’s cover was awash in blood spatters and fangs.

  “Dark Avengers, obviously, Ange.” Cyndi gave her a sideways grin and ran her rainbow-colored fingertips through the box of buttons on the comic-book store’s checkout counter. “Someone’s gotta kill all those zombies.”

  “I thought Elizabeth and Darcy were covering that.”

  Cyndi plucked out a button proclaiming “School Sucks – WONDER WOMAN SWALLOWS” and held it to the lapel of Angela’s peacoat. “What do you think?”

  “Is there no honor and decency in the world today?” Angela tucked the zombie novel back on the shelf and pulled out another. “Shapeshifters IV: Jesus vs. the Brontë Sisters. Hmm. Guess that answers my question.”

  “Don’t take it so hard.” Cyndi shrugged. “It’s just trash.”

  Angela glanced at the clerk slumped on a stool behind the counter. A copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy was open over his knee. He was oblivious.

  “I’m not taking it hard,” she said. “I’m thinking I should read this stuff.”