His Forgotten Fiancée

by Evelyn M. Hill

  He nodded, then turned to Gemma. “Are you able to walk back, Mrs. Knox?”

  “Oh, yes.” She tucked her hand into his elbow. “What an exciting day.”

  Did Helena imagine it, or did the gentleman glance at her and smile? The evidence vanished as if washed by the raindrops pelting from the leaden sky. With a click of his tongue, he urged the horse to a walk.

  “In my haste, I did not wait for a proper introduction.” He tilted his head to Gemma. “Perhaps you would be so kind, ma’am?”

  Gemma’s hand flew to her face. “I beg your pardon. In all the activity, I forgot.”

  She then spoke his name, but Helena had guessed it the moment he appeared. How many landed neighbors of a certain age did Tavin and Gemma possess? His name was familiar to her. She had spent the past two weeks clinging to it like the rail of a rotting bridge over a turbulent river. Clutching it because, while she didn’t quite trust its safety, it was the one hope she had to get to the other side.

  He was John Gordon, the Lord Ardoch. The stranger she had come here to marry.

  * * *

  In less than an hour John Gordon, Lord Ardoch, had returned home, changed into dry clothes and ridden back to his neighbor Knox’s house, and been shown with all haste into the blue-papered drawing room. Not one of his London cohorts in Parliament would dare call him inefficient, and if ever a matter demanded expediency, this was it. The task ahead was critical.

  Unfortunately, it was also distasteful. Not the marriage, exactly, but the other part. Coming to terms with Lady Helena Stanhope’s father.

  “And the deed can be accomplished by when?” The powerful Duke of Kelworth stopped pacing a trail into the thick Aubusson rug and leveled John with a glare. Other men quaked under such a stare during parliamentary discussions at Westminster. But not John, which perhaps accounted for Kelworth’s bristling manner toward him.

  His future father-in-law. He stifled a grin. His peers in Parliament would drop a collective jaw when they found out John had married Kelworth’s daughter. Romeo and Juliet made a less surprising match.

  “I must post the Banns first, Your Grace.” John sipped his coffee. Bitter, as he liked it.

  “That will take too long.” Kelworth shoved thinning blond hair from his broad brow in an impatient gesture. “This is Scotland. Marriages are performed by blacksmiths and butchers. Can’t the deed be done today?”

  The deed, as if his daughter’s marriage to him was naught but a transaction. Most dukes expected a better match for their eldest daughter than John, true. No doubt Kelworth would have preferred a Tory, too.

  “It could, but your daughter deserves better, and I’ve my own bairns to consider. A wedding in the kirk is best for everyone. I’ll make special arrangements for all the Banns to be read at once during divine services this Sunday, and we can be married Monday.” He set his coffee on the filigreed table. “By this time next week, it will be over.”

  For better or for worse.

  A pinprick of guilt needled John. He was betraying his late wife’s wishes by marrying again—she’d never said those precise words, but he’d understood her meaning. Catriona would understand him marrying this way, though, wouldn’t she? Because it was not for love?

  A brief knock on the door drew their gazes. The butler opened the door, admitting a rush of cool from the hall and a wide-eyed Lady Helena. “Forgive my intrusion.”

  John hopped to his feet. Kelworth stood, too. “No intrusion, daughter. The matter is settled. Ardoch is on his way out.”

  “I should like an audience with him before he leaves.” Her words were for her father, but her clear gaze fixed on John.

  “Well, then.” Kelworth started to sit down.

  “A private one.” Her thumbs fidgeted.

  “I should be honored, Lady Helena.” John was eight-and-twenty, no green lad, but the idea of being alone with Lady Helena sent his heart thunking in his chest.

  Kelworth’s brows met in a fierce line and his face purpled, like he had choice words to sputter. Instead he succumbed to a fit of coughing.

  John stepped forward. “Your Grace?”

  Helena rushed toward him, wincing with each step. “Papa—”

  “I’m well. Don’t fuss.” A few more coughs, and Kelworth’s coloring returned to its normal hue. He stepped away from Helena’s outstretched hand, avoiding both of their gazes. “Five minutes.”

  The moment the door shut behind Kelworth with a soft click, Helena hobbled toward John. He hastened to her side, arm extended. “Mayhap you shouldn’t be walking yet.” His wife would have stayed in bed for a week or more after taking a fall. But Helena was not Catriona, was she?

  He shoved the dangerous thought aside and assisted Helena into the fireside chair vacated by her father.

  “I’m already much better. ’twas just a twist.” She’d changed clothing since her tumble into the ha-ha, and her high-neck gown of white covered her, throat to wrist. She looked the model of modesty.

  Something they both knew to be an overstatement.

  He pitied her and her mistaken choice to trust the wrong gentleman, and it was clear from her demeanor that she regretted it. But here she was, paying the price, without tears or wailing, and he couldn’t help but admire her resolve. He took the seat beside her.

  “How may I put you at ease?”

  “You already have, more than you know. Agreeing to a, er, convenient marriage to me, sight unseen?”

  In a fit of madness four weeks ago, he’d confided to Tavin how much he wished he had a wife—for the children’s sake but no more—but he’d expected nothing to come of his admission other than relief at sharing his burden with a friend.

  Tavin, however, knew of a female who sought a husband—who was rather desperate for one, as it turned out. When John learned the lady was amenable to a marriage in name only, he couldn’t help but believe it an answer to prayer.

  “You agreed to the same. We both have our reasons.”

  “As to that.” She swallowed. Pinked like a cherry. Looked everywhere but at him. “Papa wished to rush the wedding in the event I was in a d-delicate state.”

  Oh. “I assure you, it doesn’t matter to me if you are with child or not.”

  “I’m not. In a delicate state, that is. If you’re to be my husband, you should know.”

  So she had no need of an immediate marriage, after all. Did that mean she wished to break their arrangement altogether?

  Of course she did. Who would wish to bind herself to a stranger and raise his children?

  Disappointment soured his stomach. He needed a wife. No one could replace Catriona for the children, but they needed someone. Needed her now, because he had failed so miserably.

  But that wasn’t Lady Helena’s problem; it was his. He forced a smile. “I see. Fear not, Lady Helena. I shall speak to your father and tell him we decided to break our arrangement.”

  “No, you misunderstand. I’m willing to marry you. But you deserved the truth first. If you do not wish to marry me now that you’ve met me, however, I understand.” She looked into the hearth, presenting him with her profile. Her blue eyes flashed silver in the firelight until the fringe of her dark lashes lowered, allowing him the freedom to truly look on her. She was dainty, from her fingers to her pert nose. Tendrils of blond hair escaped the pins at her crown to curl about her temples.

  She was lovely, his bride-to-be. But frightened, too. Her fingers clutched the armrests of her chair.

  She need never be frightened of him. “Our convenient arrangement might be unusual, but it suits me well,” he said. “We may marry Monday, if it pleases you.”

  “It does.”

  This was nothing like his first proposal. His heart had skittered like a snared rabbit’s that winter day nine years ago when his father arranged for him to speak to Catriona. They were both nineteen, the
same age as Helena was now. A bit young, but his parents desired him to marry at the earliest opportunity. He must produce heirs, as many as possible, because children, as his family knew all too well, were fragile. And heirs were an absolute necessity.

  He didn’t resist his father’s direction to marry Catriona. She was a fair lass with a kind demeanor. He’d called on her at the appointed hour and asked for her hand. She had smiled, he had smiled. He gave her a chaste kiss afterward.

  Now, betrothed once again, there were no smiles. No kisses, chaste or otherwise, would ever exist between him and Lady Helena. This was a business transaction, no more.

  But they were in agreement. Relief soothed his stomach like a healing tonic, yet a niggling of fear would not be displaced. Would he come to regret this? Would she?

  Her eyes were large, as if she expected something. Perhaps he should kiss her hand, if not her lips.

  He stood and bowed instead. The scent of clean linen and rosewater emanated from her, fresh and feminine and more appealing to him than it should be. “Thank you, Lady Helena.”

  “Are we to forever thank one another for our sacrifices?” Her smile was weary. “We shall help one another. But there is one more thing we should discuss.”

  A token of his pledge, perhaps? Surely this duke’s daughter would expect something expensive. A small price to pay, he supposed, for what he asked of her. He fingered his signet ring. “Anything.”

  “I wish to meet your children before we make an announcement.”

  Of course. That should have been obvious. What sort of father was he, to commit to marrying a stranger before he saw how she behaved with his children?

  A desperate one, that was the sort of father he was. And he saw no other way to nurture his four charges than to provide them with a well-bred maternal figure to see to their needs. Tavin’s recommendation of his cousin Lady Helena’s character—disregarding the one grave error that brought her here—gleamed like a polished gemstone. She was a lady of breeding and bearing: educated, refined and gentle with her younger sisters.

  “Tomorrow? It would be my pleasure to introduce you.” His niece and three children were quick-witted and mannerly.

  No doubt she’d love them on sight.

  Copyright © 2018 by Susanne Dietze

  ISBN-13: 9781488087165

  His Forgotten Fiancée

  Copyright © 2018 by Mary E.B. Carson

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