Lydia Dare Wolf Bundle

by Lydia Dare

  “Molly!” Prisca would wring her neck if she didn’t get to the meat of the matter.

  “Yes, yes. I’m getting to it. He paid me no mind at all.”

  “None?”

  “Not a bit. I even told him I had injured my ankle. And asked him to take a look. I pulled my skirts up around my knees.” She blushed furiously. “But he simply left me alone to go and find someone else to help me. That was when he sent Mr. Hawthorne.” This time, the girl flushed and fidgeted.

  Prisca raised one eyebrow at her. She had a very good idea which Mr. Hawthorne had seen to Molly. “Blaine?”

  “We are discussing your relationship, miss.”

  “Maybe he has changed?” she asked quietly.

  “I would wager on that,” Molly said definitively.

  “Thank you, Molly. You may go.”

  “Yes, miss.” When Molly got to the door, she turned back. “If I may, miss, I’d advise you not to let the past cloud your future.”

  Prisca just nodded and chewed on her bottom lip as the maid slipped out the door.

  If she looked in her mirror, she probably wouldn’t even recognize herself. She prided herself on being confident and composed at all times, but she didn’t feel very well put together anymore. In fact, she was a complete mess. Prisca turned and buried her face in her pillow and let out a muffled scream. It was the only thing she could think to do at the moment, and it did help relieve a bit of pent-up frustration, but only a bit.

  A heavy fist pounded on her door, heavier than Molly’s knock in any event.

  “Go away,” she called.

  “Prisca,” her father intoned. “Open the door.”

  “Papa, may I have a moment, please?” She glanced toward the window. If she wasn’t on the second story, she might be able to jump to her freedom. But there were stone tiles below her. Maybe she’d only break a bone or two. How far could one travel with a broken bone? She hadn’t gotten very far with a twisted ankle. Could she hobble to the stables before anyone caught her?

  Her father called again, “If you don’t open this door, I will break it down. You are not too big to paddle over my knee.”

  Prisca gasped. “Papa, I’m not dressed!” she stalled. In fact, she was only wearing her nightrail. After all, she saw no reason to dress since she didn’t plan to leave her room until the end of time. Besides, it made it easier to wallow in her own self-pity.

  She heard a shuffle outside the door. A clink and a clank later, the door was lifted off its hinges. Only it wasn’t her papa standing on the other side. It was Will. She pulled her wrapper from the end of the bed and slid her arms into it.

  “You should not be here,” she hissed.

  He stalked into her room. “No, you should not be here,” he whispered vehemently. “You should be downstairs, pretending to be an obedient little wife.”

  Prisca snorted. “If that’s what you think you’re getting, you are sorely mistaken.”

  “A man can hope, can’t he?” Will murmured.

  In truth, Will didn’t want an obedient little wife. He wanted Prisca. He always had. With her flashing violet eyes and her soft-as-sable hair. He wanted to touch her alabaster skin. She looked positively sinful, even in a cotton nightrail with long sleeves and a frilly collar. He could think of nothing more than sliding it over her head. Soon. Soon he would have her. Soon she would be his for all time.

  He adjusted the fit of his waistband and shot her a look.

  “Is something wrong with your trousers, William?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

  “Nothing that marrying you won’t fix,” he replied as he turned to her wardrobe and opened it. “What will you wear for our nuptials?”

  “I was thinking of nappies and a bonnet, since everyone seems to think they can decide my fate as though I’m still in leading strings.”

  Will closed his eyes and sighed. “Prisca.” When he opened them, his gaze settled on her angelic face. “Is the idea of marrying me so repulsive?” He crossed the room and tipped her chin up with his forefinger. “If it is, tell me now.”

  Her eyes grew round. “Would it matter?”

  “No,” he admitted. He’d marry her with or without her acquiescence, but having it would be better.

  “I’d not make it that easy for you, Will. You are officially stuck with me. And I’ll not make it an easy alliance. It’ll be work on your part.”

  “I would expect no less,” he said as he lowered his head to kiss her. She turned her face away at the last moment, and he caught her cheek.

  “That will take work as well,” she taunted him.

  Will had no doubt he affected her. He could hear her heartbeat as it sped up. “I’ll look forward to the challenge.” He glanced toward her wardrobe. “Will you dress and come downstairs now? Or do I have to remove your nightrail and dress you myself?”

  She responded, as he’d hoped, with a gasp. “Dress me? And here I thought you were simply an expert at removing a lady’s clothes,” she replied tartly.

  Will frowned at her. “How long will it take you to ready yourself, Prisca?”

  “Not long,” she replied airily, which only made him suspicious.

  If she was going to be accommodating, she’d have done so long before now. “See that it doesn’t.” Will let her go and walked to the doorway of her room.

  “I can’t change clothes with the door removed from my room, Will.” She smiled sweetly at him. Too sweetly. Something told him he would rue the day she smiled at him like that.

  He stepped outside the room and propped the door against the frame, but he didn’t slide the hinges in place. He might need to get back in there.

  He skipped down the steps, relieved that she’d given in without him having to throw her over his shoulder. Although, that might have been fun, too. He scratched his jaw.

  Waiting for her, Will stood in the front entryway, talking with his family, Sir Herbert, and the Hawthorne brothers. The baronet’s lips formed a thin, pale line when he heard Prisca’s bedroom door crash against the wall. Will could just imagine her shoving it from the doorway, then standing back and wiping her hands together, smiling at her good work.

  “Are you sure you want to marry our sister, William?” Emory asked, as he bit back a smirk, not that Will could cry off if he wanted to.

  Everyone looked to the top of the staircase when they heard soft footsteps. Lily and Elspeth both gasped. A fit of coughs attacked Simon. The Hawthorne brothers all snickered. And Ben had the nerve to chuckle out loud until Elspeth elbowed him in the stomach.

  His soon-to-be wife, his lovely Prisca, stood at the top of the cantilevered steps. Not an inch of her body showed. She was draped in black from her head to her toes. From the heavy black veil she wore to the unattractive black bombazine dress, she looked every bit the widow in mourning.

  And all Will could do was wonder who would survive the night—him or her.

  “For God’s sake, Prisca,” Darius Hawthorne grumbled under his breath.

  Garrick cleared his throat.

  “Sorry,” Darius muttered.

  Will took a deep breath. He could envision her violet eyes sparkling mischievously behind the veil. She obviously wanted some sort of reaction from him. Well, he was determined not to give it to her. After all, she already held more power over him than she should.

  He steeled his expression to one of nonchalance and lifted his hand toward the staircase, waiting for her. “Ah, Miss Hawthorne, so glad you could join us.”

  Wordlessly, Prisca descended the steps and then brushed past him into the yellow parlor, ignoring his outstretched arm. Will’s fury began to mount. She was intentionally goading him, seeing how much of her belligerence he was willing to take. In a few short minutes, she’d be his wife, and they’d have a long discussion about how they would go on from here. Will just had to make it that long. It wouldn’t do to lose his temper in front of her entire family or his either, for that matter.

  Will watched everyone quickly take their pl
aces, as though afraid that any sort of delay on their part would give him a reason to bolt. Prisca stepped up to Garrick and planted her hands on her hips. “I expected a bit more loyalty from you.”

  The vicar looked across the sea of faces to their father and gulped. “You don’t have much of a choice, Prissy. It’ll be me or someone else.”

  She folded her arms across her chest but said nothing in response.

  Will swallowed uncomfortably. For years, he’d hadn’t allowed himself even to hope that Prissy could be his, and yet she would be his wife in a matter of minutes. The idea was both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. He took a steadying breath and then crossed the parlor’s threshold.

  Prisca stared at Will through the black veil and she shivered. Her husband. William was going to be her husband. She was relieved that no one could see the tears in her eyes or the fear she was certain was there. Since she was a girl, the mere presence of William Westfield had filled her head with romantic notions.

  She’d daydreamed about becoming his bride for almost half her life. But not like this. She wanted his love, not his sense of duty, though it was surprising to know he even had one.

  Or did he love her? Why couldn’t she remember that blasted proposal? Perhaps he’d professed his undying love and devotion. Perhaps that’s why she’d accepted, why she’d shared his bed. Prisca snorted at her own foolishness. Will would never say such a thing. So what had he said? How had he proposed? She’d asked herself those same questions for days.

  Garrick cleared his throat, as though he was ready to begin the ceremony. Traitor.

  Will closed the distance between them and took her hands in his. Prisca winced, hoping he couldn’t tell she was trembling. If he did, she hoped he’d believe it was her fury and not nerves.

  Garrick opened his Bible and met Will’s eyes. “In Proverbs we read, ‘Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing.’ I do hope, Lord William, that this will be a good thing for you both.”

  Will inclined his head in agreement, and his hands tightened around Prisca’s.

  Garrick took a deep breath. “Do you, William Thomas Farrell Westfield, take Prisca Elizabeth Hawthorne to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness or in health, to love and to cherish ’til death do you part?”

  “I do.” Will’s quiet answer whispered across Prisca’s heart.

  Garrick turned his attention to her and smiled supportively. “And do you, Prisca Elizabeth Hawthorne, take William Thomas Farrell Westfield to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness or in health, to love, honor, and obey ’til death do you part?”

  Behind her, one of her brothers—she would wager it was Pierce—snorted when the word obey was uttered. She froze and stared at Garrick. He nodded for her to speak, but she didn’t have a voice.

  “Prisca!” her father hissed at her side.

  She swallowed, and her father nudged her. “All right!” she snapped, glaring at him through her veil. It was a good thing he couldn’t see her eyes.

  “Do you need me to repeat it, Priss?” Garrick asked softly.

  She shook her head. “I… I…” Will’s hands tightened around hers, and she looked up at him, at the uncertainty in his light eyes. How she wished there was a way out of this. She closed her eyes tightly, ignored the tears that trailed down her cheeks, and wrenched the words from her soul. “I do,” she whispered. What other choice did she have?

  It seemed as if everyone released the same breath all at once. Garrick smiled with relief. “William, you may kiss your bride.”

  Will released her hands and lifted the veil from her face. His light-blue eyes widened as he looked at her, and then he carefully brushed her tears away with the pads of his thumbs. When he softly touched his lips to hers, Prisca wanted to cry even harder. How would she ever protect her heart from him now?

  Applause broke out behind them, and Will raised his head. His blue eyes seemed to glow with some sort of promise, and Prisca shivered. Almost immediately, they were torn apart. Her brothers swarmed around Will, and the Westfield women swept down upon her.

  “Alice had the Westfield staff ready the dower house for you and Will,” Lily rushed to tell her.

  The quaint Georgian house not far from the main Westfield estate? No one had lived there for as long as Prisca remembered. “The dower house?”

  “As newlyweds, she thought you might prefer to have your own space for a while.”

  More likely it was so their constant bickering wouldn’t grate on everyone else’s nerves. “How thoughtful,” Prisca muttered, though the thought of being alone with Will sent butterflies scattering about her belly.

  Nineteen

  WILL WATCHED PRISCA FROM ACROSS THE ROOM AS she spoke with Lily and Elspeth. She looked utterly ridiculous in her black gown and black veil, but she certainly knew how to get her point across.

  She caught his gaze and her eyes narrowed with suspicion, as though she wondered what was on his mind. If she only knew, she would hide her face in embarrassment. All that Will could think of was removing her ridiculous clothing piece by piece, until all of her silky skin was exposed. He wondered if she wore black garters beneath that dress. Very soon, he would find out.

  “If you keep looking at her like that, she’s likely to melt into one big puddle on the floor before you even get through your wedding night,” Ben said quietly from where he stood by Will’s side.

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” Will tried to look shocked. Ben’s chuckle told him he had failed miserably. “Did you know the Duke of Blackmoor couldn’t even sit through his wedding breakfast without picking up his new wife and carrying her upstairs to start their honeymoon early?” It was always best to shift the attention to another brother when one wanted to avoid a particular topic.

  Ben coughed into his hand. “Our brother did that?”

  “He most certainly did.” Will nodded. He was happy to have the attention back on Simon. “In front of everyone. He marched over and scooped her out of her chair. Then carried her up the stairs two at a time.”

  Ben sighed. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Will, but I rushed Elspeth away myself. So, I’d not hold it against you if you wanted to sneak away with your new wife.”

  “Something tells me, dear brother, that Prisca is not going to be quite as willing to be carried away as Lily and Elspeth were.”

  “I don’t see why not,” Ben replied. “She’s a little angry about how all of this occurred. Beautiful gown, by the way. But since you were successful in bedding her once, I don’t think it will be difficult now that she’s your wife. She’s probably waiting for you to scoop her up in your arms.”

  Will winced, and it did not go unnoticed by his younger brother.

  “What is that look for?”

  Will growled. “Leave it alone, Benjamin.”

  Understanding dawned in Ben’s eyes, and his mouth fell open. “You didn’t,” he rasped.

  Good God! Was his duplicity written across his brow? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Ben grabbed Will’s jacket and tugged him to the far corner of the room. “But you told me you were going to… I mean, Emory and the others found you…” He raked a hand through his light brown hair. “Damn it, Will, you told Sir Herbert she could be with child,” he hissed.

  Will looked over his shoulder. No one appeared interested in their conversation. Thank God. Then he turned his glare back on his ever-seeing younger brother. “Keep your voice down. Do you want Simon to overhear you?”

  Ben scoffed. “Simon is the least of your problems, William.” But he lowered his voice anyway. “Does Prissy know? I mean that would account for the dress. But why wouldn’t she tell Sir Herbert?”

  “Because she was so foxed that she passed out, and the next morning I told her we’d consummated the relationship. If she’d known the truth, she would have batted her eyes at her
father and limped on that ankle of hers, and he’d have swept it under the rug.”

  Ben’s mouth dropped open wider than Will had ever seen it, and that was saying something.

  “Don’t stare at me like that. You look like a fish. Close your bloody mouth. Everyone will know something is wrong.”

  “Wrong?” Ben echoed. “Aren’t you always the one who says I don’t think things through clearly? I’d love to hear, dear brother, how you plan to tell your new wife that she is more innocent than she believes herself to be.”

  Uneasiness settled in Will’s stomach. “Very carefully?” he suggested.

  Ben exhaled slowly. “You’d best make sure there isn’t any weaponry in the dower house. I don’t think it’ll be your shoulder she aims for next time.”

  No, knowing Prisca, she’d aim for his favorite appendage a bit lower. “I said I’ll go about it carefully, Benjamin,” he growled.

  “As carefully as you’ve done everything else?” Ben rolled his eyes. “God help you with that then. And what will happen tomorrow when she tells her brothers how you’ve manipulated them?”

  “And just who manipulated whom?” Simon asked from behind them.

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” Will said as he waved his hand nonchalantly. He shot Ben a look.

  “It’s not nothing,” Ben protested.

  “Ben, if you will come down off your pedestal, you will realize that this was the right thing to do.”

  “And completely self-serving,” Ben said, nodding his head. “I thought you’d finally won her over. God, Will, your honeymoon is doomed before it starts.”

  “Don’t you wish you had a magical faerie that could make Prisca tolerate you?” Simon laughed. “Otherwise, she’ll have you sleeping in the guest quarters.”

  “Or worse,” Ben grumbled under his breath.

  Will scratched his chin. He didn’t have a faerie. But he did have a witch. Or at least Ben did. And who would be better at performing magical miracles? “Do excuse me.” He left his brothers and hastened across the room to find Elspeth.

  By the time he’d maneuvered himself though the throng of Hawthorne men to where the ladies stood huddled together, Will felt terribly awkward tapping Elspeth on the shoulder. She turned toward him, a question in her green eyes.