Here Comes the Bride

by Alexandra Ivy

  “And send a message to Blakewell Manor to inform Mr. Blakewell what has occurred.”

  “Anything else, my lord?”

  Simon gave it a moment of thought.

  “You might also inquire if Miss Blakewell has any favorites that Cook can make for her,” he at last decided. “We want her stay to be as comfortable as possible.”

  Unable to suppress his need to assure himself that Claire would indeed survive, Simon turned and vaulted up the stairs.

  Standing below, Mrs. King watched the earl’s hurried retreat with a growing smile. She had a distinct sensation that Miss Blakewell’s visit would prove to be anything but comfortable.

  Eleven

  Simon entered the large bedchamber with blatant disregard for propriety. What did he care if it was proper or not to be alone with a young maiden in such an intimate setting? He had waited what seemed to be an eternity to be at her side.

  Crossing the polished wood floor, he felt his breath catch at the sight of Claire lying upon the vast bed. How fragile she appeared with her raven hair spilling across the crisp white pillows and her tiny countenance marred by an ugly bruise on her temple. An intense, almost frightening surge of pain clutched at his heart.

  He wished to pull her into his arms and protect her from the world, to ensure that she was never harmed again.

  He gave a rueful shake of his head at the direction of his thoughts.

  Gads, but this chit had managed to make a mare’s nest of his usual composure, he acknowledged with a pang of unease.

  A faint sound from the bed had him sternly thrusting aside his absurd fancies as he moved to perch on the feather mattress. As he reached out to softly stroke the satin curls from her forehead, the thickly lashed lids fluttered upward.

  Dazed blue eyes drifted over his dark countenance, clearly baffled by the sight of him so close.

  “What . . . where am I?” she breathed.

  His fingers absently lingered against the warm silk of her skin.

  “Westwood Park.”

  She frowned in confusion. “How did I get here?”

  “In a moment.” He studied the bump on her temple. “How do you feel?”

  “Awful,” she croaked.

  “I fear you appear even worse.”

  “Thank you.” She gave a rueful grimace, only to wince in pain.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  Simon reached to the side table, where a decanter of well-diluted wine had been left. He poured a half glass, then with exquisite care he slid an arm beneath Claire’s shoulders and lifted her to a more upright position. He placed the glass to her lips.

  “Here we are.” He helped her take several sips before setting the glass back on the tray. Sinking back into the pillows, Claire slowly lifted a hand to press against the growing bruise.

  “Oh.”

  Simon flashed her a dry glance. “I am no doctor, but I would suggest that you not press on that amazing lump.” Her hand dropped as she gave a slow shake of her head.

  “What occurred?”

  He regarded her for a long while. “You do not recall?”

  “No.”

  “Locky discovered you in the west woods,” he explained. “You were lying upon the ground with that very nasty lump on your head.”

  Her brows drew together in bewilderment. “How odd.”

  “Do you know why you were in the woods?” he demanded, hoping to jog her memory.

  She paused as she attempted to piece together her rattled thoughts.

  “I remember being at the orphanage and then beginning to walk home,” she said slowly, then she gave a startled gasp.

  “What?”

  “It was Mr. Foster,” she breathed.

  “Foster?” Simon stiffened with fury. Damn that worthless cad. If he had so much as touched Claire, he would have him strung from the nearest tree.

  Claire shuddered. “Yes.”

  “That bloody . . . I should have run him from the estate days ago.” He cursed his own stupidity. “What did he do?”

  The blue eyes darkened. “He just suddenly appeared and blocked the path ahead of me. He blames me for having lost his position.”

  Simon struggled through the reluctance to cause her further distress and the need to discover what precisely had occurred.

  “Did he . . . touch you?”

  It took a moment for her to realize the import of his words. Then a sudden color tinted her pale skin.

  “No, he wanted my pearls.” A familiar, unrelenting expression hardened her features. “But I would not let him have them.”

  Simon’s burning anger was in no way eased by her proud boast. Good God, was this female touched in the head? Did she even realize the danger she had placed herself in?

  “You fool,” he growled in exasperation. “You should have given them to him. What are pearls when your own life is in danger?”

  Not surprisingly her chin jutted upward at his chiding. He had already learned that she would rather have her tongue removed than admit she might have been in the wrong.

  “These pearls belonged to my mother.” Her hand lifted to the delicate necklace hung about her throat. “I am certainly not handing them over to that villain.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” he gritted out, then, with an effort, he swallowed his words of reprimand. For now he wished to concentrate on his unsavory steward. “Did he strike you?”

  Her fingers returned to press lightly against the lump. “I do not believe so. I began running from Mr. Foster, but before I could reach the edge of the woods I tripped over something in the path.” She paused before giving a vague shrug. “I remember nothing after that.”

  Simon briefly considered her explanation. The fact that Claire was alive and her pearls still intact revealed something had managed to sway Foster’s evil intent. He would not willingly have walked away from the maiden he blamed for his downfall or the necklace that would seem like a fortune to a man in his position.

  Once again he cursed himself for not considering the danger in allowing him to remain in Devonshire. With a bit of money and a few favors called in, he could no doubt have had the scoundrel deported.

  Which was precisely what he intended to happen when Foster was caught, he told himself fiercely. That was, if he didn’t hang him first.

  “Foster must have been frightened that he had managed to kill you, or perhaps he heard Locky approaching,” he muttered.

  Her fingers slowly dropped. “Is it very bad?”

  He drew in a deep breath and attempted to ease the tension clutching at his muscles. Soon he would discover Foster and make him pay dearly for daring to harm this woman.

  Very soon.

  “I have been assured that you will live.” He deliberately lightened his tone.

  “I apologize if I have given you any trouble.”

  He could not prevent a sudden laugh. “When are you not giving me trouble, my little cat?”

  “Please do not call me that.” Her lashes fluttered in charming confusion before abruptly widening in dismay. “Cat. Oh. Portia.”

  He tilted his head to one side. “Pardon me?”

  “My kitten,” she cried. “I must have dropped her when I fell. Do you have her?”

  Simon gave a rueful shake of his head. The kitten had been the last thing on his mind when she had been carried in. Indeed, he had forgotten all about his impetuous gift. Now he was certain he would be reprimanded for his perfectly reasonable oversight.

  “No, I am afraid that Locky found only you.”

  With thorough disregard for her weakened condition, Claire struggled to lift herself off the bed.

  “I must go and retrieve her.”

  Simon hastily grasped her shoulders to firmly press her back into the pillows.

  “Do not be absurd, Claire, you cannot leave this bed.”

  “But I must,” she fretted. “Poor Portia is far too young to survive on her own.”

  “I will
send a battalion of servants to scour the woods with a stern command they are not to return without dear Portia.”

  She eyed him in suspicion. “Do you promise?”

  “Yes, I promise.”

  She reluctantly relaxed back into the pillows, but Simon oddly found his hands lingering.

  “I hope she is not injured.”

  “I am certain that she is in better condition than yourself,” he said in dry tones.

  “How can you be so indifferent?” She favored him with a chiding frown. “She is so tiny.”

  Simon found himself decidedly vexed at her charge of indifference. It was not his fault that she had been tramping through the isolated woods without so much as a maid.

  “At least she possesses more sense than her mistress.”

  Her mouth thinned with displeasure. “I beg your pardon?”

  “What the devil were you doing in those woods by yourself?”

  “I was walking home.”

  “And you are so destitute that you cannot afford a carriage or even a maid to walk with you?”

  She shrugged off his clinging hands with obvious pique.

  “It is only a short distance.”

  “Clearly it is far enough to be of danger to a young maiden on her own,” he pointed out with indisputable logic.

  Predictably Claire refused to admit her fault and instead regarded him with a mutinous expression.

  “If you had never hired such a man as Mr. Foster, I would not have been in danger.”

  The sheer injustice of her accusation nearly stole his breath. For-God’s sake, was it not bad enough that she had nearly frightened him to death without attempting to place him at fault?

  “You cannot possibly blame me for your own bloody-minded stupidity.”

  “You did hire the man.“

  Simon rolled his eyes heavenward. “Why can you not just admit that you were wrong to be tramping about the countryside on your own?”

  The blue eyes flashed. “I certainly will not.”

  “You are a fool.”

  He could almost hear her teeth clench in fury, and he felt a certain satisfaction in having pricked her composure.

  “I hardly think that is any of your concern.”

  “You made it my concern when you nearly got yourself killed on my land.”

  “Well, I will not trespass on your hospitality for long.”

  Once again she .attempted to struggle upright, and once again he firmly pressed her back onto the pillows.

  “Actually you will be trespassing on my hospitality for at least the next two days.”

  He felt her stiffen in wary disbelief. “What?”

  “The surgeon has insisted that you not be moved for at least two days.”

  “But that is impossible,” she breathed with an unflattering hint of horror in her tone. “I cannot remain here.”

  Simon smiled with mocking amusement. If he had ever considered himself as irresistible to the fairer sex, this vixen had certainly disabused him of such a ludicrous notion.

  “You most certainly can and will,” he retorted.

  “But . . .“

  “Yes?”

  She worried her full bottom lip before lifting her hands in a restless motion. “I would feel much more comfortable at Blakewell Manor.”

  “Perhaps, but the surgeon has commanded that you remain here, and that is precisely what you will do.”

  For a moment their gazes locked in a silent battle as Claire struggled to control her willful temper.

  “You, sir, are a bully,” she at last muttered, her expression reminiscent of a sulky child’s.

  “And you are a stubborn wench,” he retorted, then, with a shake of his head, he heaved a rueful sigh. Blast the aggravating chit. She made him behave as if he were no more than twelve. “Ah, Claire, I believe that you could annoy a man to his grave.”

  She gave a faint snort. “You are a fine one to talk.”

  “Let us agree that we are both ill natured, overly proud creatures with a habit of expecting others to bend to our will,” he conceded. “Let us also agree that we are more or less stuck with each other for the next two days.”

  “I am not ill natured.”

  He chuckled at her petulant tone. What would this woman think if he were to tell her that on a dozen different occasions he had had cunning females attempting to be thrown from their horses or twisting their ankles outside his home to gain access to his presence?

  She would no doubt inform him they were batty.

  “Can we attempt a cease-fire for the duration of your stay?”

  Her thick lashes dropped to hide her eyes. “It appears that I have little choice.”

  “Do not fear, Claire, you shall soon be mended and well away from my annoying presence,” he drawled, then slowly rose to his feet. “Now, I suppose I should begin to organize the rescue mission for Portia.”

  Her lids abruptly rose, and Simon felt an odd twinge in the center of his chest at the hint of vulnerability in the blue-velvet depths.

  “My lord . . .”

  “Simon,” he softly corrected her.

  “Simon,” she conceded as she plucked at the sheet covering her slender frame. “I am sorry.”

  He stilled at her startling words. “Sorry?”

  “I do not mean to appear ungrateful,” she forced herself to say. “It is just that I dislike imposing upon you.” Barely aware he was moving, Simon leaned down to brush her cheek gently.

  “There is no imposition between friends, Claire.” His gaze probed deep into her wide eyes. “And for all of our enjoyable skirmishes, I do hope that we are friends.”

  There was a pause before she slowly gave a nod of her head.

  “Yes.”

  With a decided effort Simon resisted the urge to taste the sweet temptation of her lips. For the moment she was wounded and in need of his mercy. Only the most dastardly cad would take advantage of her momentary weakness.

  Soon she would be back in fighting form with her claws intact, and he would satisfy the burning need to hold her in his arms.

  “Rest easy, my dear,” he murmured. “I will ensure that nothing troubles you while you are in my care.”

  Twelve

  Turning back from the window, where a blackbird perched to enjoy the afternoon sunlight, Claire studied the chessboard laid upon the mattress. For a moment she puzzled over the various pieces before slowly lifting her gaze with a sense of amused exasperation.

  “You cheated,” she accused Simon, regarding the darkly handsome countenance with pretended outrage.

  The magnificent emerald eyes widened with mock innocence. “What?”

  “You told me to look at the blackbird in the window and then you moved my rook.”

  “Ridiculous.“ Grasping the chessboard, Simon moved it onto a side table. Then he settled himself more comfortably in the chair pulled next to the bed. “Gentlemen do not cheat. Especially not to best a mere maiden.“

  Claire ignored the deliberately provocative words. In the past day and a half she and Simon had developed a remarkably peaceful companionship. Beginning with dinner the evening before, he had set a mood of easy informality. And, of course, his favor had risen immeasurably when he had produced the tiny black kitten that had merely yawned at Claire’s shriek of delight.

  That morning he had arrived with a tray of breakfast and Aunt Jane, who had promptly disappeared into a far corner with her needlework. They enjoyed a surprisingly spirited discussion on the turmoil in Europe and sweeping troubles of the Corn Laws. He had then set about teaching her to play cards, only to be thoroughly trounced, followed by twenty questions, then chess. He had clearly been unaware that her father had taught her such parlor games since she was old enough to talk. Now she regarded him with a decidedly smug expression.

  “You knew that I was about to checkmate you, and so you cheated.”

  “Infamous.” His gaze swept over her raven hair that was loosely braided and the white lawn dressing gown that
modestly covered her thin frame. There was a darkening to the emerald eyes that she could not know was in aJr preciation to her Madonna-like beauty as she leaned back into the great pile of pillows. “I will not stand aside while my honor is besmirched.”

  “Ha. What honor?” she demanded.

  “Ah.” His hands dramatically lifted to press to his wide chest. “A direct hit.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh at his absurd antics. Really, it was little wonder the gentleman was branded a rake. He possessed far more charm than any gentleman had a right to.

  “You, sir, are a cad of the highest order.”

  “No, merely a badly humiliated gentleman who has been thoroughly beaten at every match I have attempted against you,” he corrected her. “A wiser soul would no doubt retreat from the field in shame, but I, mademoiselle, am made of sterner stuff. I shall eventually discover your weakness.”

  “And what if I have no weakness?” she demanded. He slowly leaned forward and firmly grasped her slender fingers.

  “Then I shall simply enjoy the search.”

  That pleasurable warmth fluttered in the center of her stomach.

  “Ridiculous.”

  “So what is it to be?” he demanded in low tones. “Fencing, boxing, a race about the—”

  His teasing words came to an abrupt halt as a shadow fell across the open doorway. With an unconscious frown at the interruption Claire turned in time to watch the intruder sweep into the bedchamber. The odd feeling of contentment was swiftly destroyed as she recognized the curvaceous form of Lizzy Hayden.

  As always, the widow was richly attired in a bishop’s-blue satin gown that was daringly cut. Her hair, far too pale for nature, was arranged in stiff curls to frame her rouged countenance.

  Entering the chamber, she made a swift inspection of the elegant furnishings, lingering on the cast-silver pier table and mirror and French bronze mantel clock. Her calculating gaze made an equally assessing survey of Lord Challmond, obviously appreciating the broad shoulders beneath the molded coat and aquiline features. For no reason whatsoever Claire found her dislike -of the woman suddenly sharpened.

  Unaware that her fingers were tightly gripping Simon’s, she smoothed her countenance to a cool mask of composure as Lizzy at last turned to offer her a patently false smile of pity.