The Wedding Gamble

by Julia Justiss

  “Trailing you about town today, and missing you at every opportunity, seems to have addled my wits.

  “No matter. Let me see if I can do this properly.” He swept up her hand and dropped to one knee. “My dear, my respect and admiration have grown and deepened. Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  Sarah stared at him. Like nonsense syllables babbled by a babe, his words didn’t make sense. She must be hallucinating—lack of sleep and endless worry had affected her brain. That had to be the reason she thought she heard the Marquess of Englemere proposing to her.

  “No, ’tis ridiculous. You can’t be asking me to marry you.”

  “Nonetheless, I believe I just have. Twice, in fact. Though I admit, I made a botch of the first attempt.”

  “But why?”

  “Why not? You need to marry, do you not? As do I…”

  Dear Reader,

  Heroes come in many forms, as this month’s books prove—from the roguish knight and the wealthy marquess to the potent gunslinger and the handsome cowboy.

  The widowed Marquess of Englemere, Nicholas Stanhope, will steal your hearts in The Wedding Gamble by Julia Justiss. This book won the prestigious Golden Heart Award in the Regency category, and we think that Julia is one of the best new writers in the field. Be prepared to laugh and cry in this anything-but-typical “marriage of convenience” tale of duty, desire—and danger—when two friends so perfectly suited must deny their love….

  You must meet Sheriff Delaney, the smooth, mysterious ex-gunslinger who inherits a house—and a young widow—in The Marriage Knot by the talented Mary McBride. And in A Cowboy’s Heart, an adorable Western by Liz Ireland, the magnetically charming wrangler Will Brockett uncharacteristically finds his soul mate in tomboy Paulie Johnson.

  Fans of roguish knights be prepared for Ross Lion Sutherland and the lovely female clan leader he sets his sights on in Taming the Lion, the riveting new SUTHERLAND SERIES medieval novel by award-winning author Suzanne Barclay.

  Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historicals® novel.

  Sincerely,

  Tracy Farrell

  Senior Editor

  JULIA JUSTISS

  THE WEDDING GAMBLE

  JULIA JUSTISS

  wrote her first plot ideas for twenty-seven Nancy Drew stories in the back of her third-grade spiral, and has been writing ever since. After publishing poetry in college, she served stints as a business journalist for an insurance company and editor of the American Embassy newsletter in Tunis, Tunisia. She followed her naval-officer husband through seven moves in twelve years, finally settling in the Piney Woods of east Texas, where she teaches high school French. The 1997 winner of the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart for Regency, she lives in a Georgian manor with her husband, three children and two dogs, and welcomes mail from readers. Reach her at Rt. 2, Box 14BB, Daingerfield, TX 75638.

  In Memory of

  Marsha Ballard

  Critique partner and friend.

  We shared the dream.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Prologue

  “Just because that opera dancer got her clutches into you your first year on the town—” Edmund Stanhope paused to shoulder his creel “—doesn’t mean all women are mercenary.”

  “You’re dumber than a trout.” Nicholas Stanhope, Marquess of Englemere, picked up his fishing rod and gave Edmund a mock-pitying look. “Take care, baby brother. A wench can bleed you dry faster than a Captain Sharp.”

  “Cynic.” Shaking his head, Edmund kicked the hall door closed and set off across the rain-drenched lawn.

  “Perhaps,” Nicholas muttered as he followed in his brother’s matted footprints. “Though I have excuse enough.”

  Rising sun gilded the grass and set off diamond sparkles among the dripping trees. They reached the lawn’s edge, and leaving behind the stately bulk of Englemere Hall, turned onto a narrow wooded path.

  Nicholas picked his way around the boughs strewing the trail, mute testaments to the violence of the previous night’s storm. “About the wench,” he continued, keeping his tone light. “Do try to remember, once she lands you, not to pay the trollop more than she’s worth.”

  “She’s not a trollop, and I won’t have you speak of her so!”

  Astonished at Edmund’s vehemence, Nicholas nearly tripped over a fallen branch. Alarm coursing through him, he fixed his gaze on his brother. “’Tis a lady, then, who’s caught your eye?”

  “A lovely one, Nicky. Fair, blue-eyed and innocent as an angel.” His earnest look faded to a frown. “Her father is the dupe of the Captain Sharps. Forever gaming, and never winning. I fear the debt-ridden bastard means to auction Angela off. I might have to bolt with her.”

  “You mean marriage?” Nicholas whistled. “All the more reason for caution, then.”

  Edmund opened his mouth as if to retort, then closed it. After a moment he said, “She’s nothing like Lydia.”

  “Lydia was nothing like Lydia when first I knew her,” Nicholas replied grimly. “I promise you, Edmund, no matter how enchanting her face, you’ll never know what’s really going on inside that lovely head. How can you be certain about her? Forgive me, brother, but you’re rather young, and have hardly seen anything of the world yet.”

  “I’ve seen enough to know what I want,” Edmund said quietly. “Besides, if I marry and set up my nursery, ’twould take the pressure off you.”

  “Don’t be immolating yourself on the altar of matrimony to save my hide.” Nicholas forced a smile. “I admit, since Lydia’s death I’ve more or less handed over the duty of the succession to you. I’d not have you rush into it, though.”

  “I’m not rushing—I’ve thought carefully about this. Besides,” he added, flashing Nicholas a grin, “surely you can’t rest easy with only my poor mortal self standing between your title and Cousin Archibald.”

  “The Odious Archibald?” Nicholas shuddered. “Last time I saw him, he was swathed in lavender from head to toe. Tried to borrow some blunt from me too, the quiz. Indeed, if they distanced Archibald from Papa’s honors, I might grow rather fond of a passel of grubby nephews leaving handprints on my Hessians.”

  They heard the roar of the river even before they reached the path’s end. The Wey, flowing fast and full of floating debris, foamed high against its banks.

  “Better not fish the point.” Nicholas raised his voice above the din. “The stream’s been undercutting that old stump.”

  “Growing cautious as well as ancient, my lord Englemere?” Edmund called back. “I always fish the point.”

  “Well, don’t blame me if you sink up to your elegant thighs in muck.”

  Chuckling, Nicholas watched his brother straighten the creel on his back and slowly approach a jagged stump that jutted out over the stream. Reaching the edge, he sent Nicholas a triumphant smile.

  A portion of the bank beneath the stump crumbled. Before Nicholas could even shout a warning, the old trunk shifted downward.

  Clawing at the downed tree’s weather-worn smoothnes
s, Edmund scrabbled for balance. He twisted off his creel, teetered on one foot—and tumbled sideways into the water.

  In the flash of an instant, Nicholas saw his brother’s head strike the sharp stub of a projecting root. Saw blood against the dark hair before Edmund went under.

  His heart stopped, then hammered in his chest. He threw down his fishing gear and raced toward the river.

  Shedding his jacket as he ran, Nicholas slid and stumbled up the potholed bank beside the stump. More earth dissolved under him as he tugged frantically at his boots and watched for his brother to surface. When Edmund bobbed up, he jerked the second boot off and dived after him.

  He came up sputtering, grit in his mouth and his eyesight blurred by muddy water. The current swept him blindly onward, scraping him against a hidden boulder as he dug at his eyes with his knuckles. Then his vision cleared and he spotted Edmund.

  A whirlpool of swirling debris caught him. He fought free, battled downstream, grabbed Edmund and jerked the supine head out of the water. Clutching his brother’s body, Nicholas let the torrent carry them over the rocks to the pool below, then struggled ashore.

  Exhausted, he dragged Edmund onto the slimy bank, the wet-dog stench of soggy vegetation filling his gasping lungs. With shaking fingers, Nicholas turned the head to the side and pushed with all his remaining strength against his brother’s chest. A trickle of muddy water drooled from the slack lips.

  “Come on, bantling, help me!” Over and over he slammed his linked hands against his brother’s chest, blew air into the unresponsive mouth. Long after any rational hope died he continued, his tired muscles burning and tears blurring his brother’s face into a grotesque kaleidoscope of white skin, blue lips and river muck.

  Sometime, moments or hours later, he pulled himself to his feet. As golden sun peeped over the treetops, he hefted Edmund’s body onto his shoulders and stumbled toward the distant towers of Englemere Hall.

  Chill wind whipped the scarf at Nicholas’s neck and threatened to dislodge his curly-brimmed beaver. Pulling his greatcoat closer, he watched the slight, black-robed figure of his mother, the Dowager Marchioness of Englemere, as she arranged the bouquet of sweetbrier roses on the simple marble gravestone.

  “Please, Mama, come along now. You’ll catch a chill. Edmund wouldn’t want that.”

  “In a moment, Nicky. Just one last prayer.” The dowager dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “By now—” she made a gesture toward the three graves flanking the dank raw earth before her “—one would have thought I’d be prepared for the uncertainties of life. Still, it is so hard to accept.”

  “If I’d reached him sooner,” Nicholas replied, his throat tight, “maybe I could have—”

  “Nicky dearest, you mustn’t torture yourself!” She reached over to grasp his arm. “You did everything you could. I know that.”

  His jaw set, Nicholas helped her rise. “Come back to the Hall now, Mama. Your fingers are frozen. Martha will have a hot brick waiting.”

  “Oh, Nicky, don’t fuss. I must go back, I know. I just wish that wretched Amelia would leave.” She gave him a slight, sad smile that caught at his heart. “It’s been ten days since the funeral, and still she lingers. With my Edmund barely cold in his grave, she has the effrontery to refer to that foppish son of hers as ‘the heir.’ It’s almost more than I can bear, her snooping about, mentally rearranging furniture and redecorating rooms. Can you imagine, she told me the library would be much handsomer done up in puce. Puce! I cannot credit what possessed your uncle to marry that vulgar, jumped-up cit’s daughter.”

  Nicholas smiled grimly. “The Odious Archibald already touched me for a loan. Wouldn’t look right for the Stanhope heir to fall into the clutches of the cent-percenters, he said.”

  His mother’s eyes widened, and he patted her cheek. “Don’t fret, Mama, I have no intention of pensioning my cousin. Nor do I plan for him to remain much longer my heir.” With a sigh, he turned his face away. “I may have been avoiding my duty these past four years, but only Aunt Amelia could be cloth-headed enough to think I’d eschew it.”

  The mittened hand on his arm tightened. He heard a rustle of silk, and knew his mother looked up at him. He couldn’t bring himself to meet her concerned gaze.

  “There’s been so much pain in those years, for all of us. Give yourself time, Nicky. There’s no need to rush.”

  He winced at the unconscious echo of his words to Edmund. Taking a ragged breath, he squeezed her fingers. “What good would waiting do, Mama? No, ’tis time to go forward.”

  Gently disengaging his hand, Nicholas placed it on top of the hastily carved headstone. “I swear to you, by next Season’s end, I shall bring home a bride.”

  Chapter One

  Sarah heard the angry voices as soon as she entered the library hall. Or voice, she amended, frowning. Though she could not make out the words, the high pitch of the feminine tones warned The Beauty was in a rare temper. How could Clarissa be tiresome enough to quarrel with her fiancé on the very morning of their betrothal ball?

  Coming around the corner, she nearly collided with a footman, his ear to the door and a grin wreathing his freckled face. Seeing her, he sprang back.

  She raised a quelling eyebrow. “I believe Timms sent you to polish the silver, James. If that is complete, Cook needs you to help Simmons bring up the wine.”

  His face reddening, the young man bowed himself off. Sarah watched him retreat, thinking ruefully that the delicious details of Clarissa’s latest outburst would be all over the servants’ hall by luncheon.

  Sighing, she grasped the handle in front of her. A smile pinned to her lips, she knocked lightly and entered.

  In that first instant, she saw Clarissa’s flushed face, Lord Englemere’s back and a missile flying toward her. Instinctively she ducked. The object whizzed past to strike and shatter the vase behind her. As Sarah straightened, Clarissa stormed toward the door, thrusting aside her fiancé’s outstretched hand.

  “Beast! How could I have agreed to marry you? You’re a detestable tyr-rant!” Bursting into tears, The Beauty brushed past Sarah and fled sobbing down the hall.

  Sarah stole a cautious look at the man who had just been subjected—if the small sample she’d witnessed were any indication—to one of The Beauty’s famous tantrums. Similar disagreements with Clarissa’s mother normally left that unfortunate lady collapsed upon her couch. And afterward gained Clarissa whatever she wanted.

  Her fiancé appeared made of sterner stuff. Evidently Clarissa had neither cowed him nor reduced him to red-faced embarrassment or white-eyed fury. He stood motionless, and Sarah could not glean from the sober face he’d turned to the window any hint of his thoughts.

  Grudging respect stirred, followed by the reflection that if his lordship were as shrewd as he appeared, Clarissa was a looby to be flaunting her temper before the wedding ring was yet on her finger.

  Uncertain how best to break the silence, Sarah knelt to tend the broken vase. She saw in the shards a glint of gold, and her fingers froze. She couldn’t have. The large ruby winking up at her informed her Clarissa could indeed.

  Fury displaced shock. Did that wretched girl expect her to smooth this over? When Sarah caught up with her—!

  The polished boots beyond her shifted, jolting her back to the present. Swallowing her anger, she raked the rubble under the hall table and slipped the ornate ring beneath her cuff. Rising, she searched for the proper phrase. How does one tactfully return to a gentleman the betrothal ring his intended has just pitched at his head?

  He turned and studied her, as if trying to assess her place. Even while anxiously weighing apologies, she had to appreciate what a work of perfection he was.

  The coat of dark green superfine fit without a wrinkle over his broad shoulders, with nary a crease to show impatient hands had pulled at his immaculate sleeve. Nor had impetuous skirts dragged across the spotless Hessians disturbed their shine, or left a speck of lint on the tan inexpressibles mo
lded over those muscled thighs.

  The only sign of disorder was a lock of dark hair hanging upon his brow. She felt a ridiculous desire to brush it back, and almost laughed. The richest prize currently gracing the Marriage Mart, the widowed Marquess of Englemere had no need of her help.

  When he smiled, as he did now, she had also to acknowledge him the handsomest man of her acquaintance. As she’d thought upon first seeing him years ago…She pulled her thoughts together and smiled cautiously back.

  “Lord Englemere, I must apologize! With the ball, I’m afraid the whole household is rather…upset, and—”

  “Miss Wellingford, is it not? I met you at Lady Rutherford’s ball. Wearing something, ah, white.” His smile deepening with a hint of humor, he bowed.

  His unruffled composure, after what must have been an unpleasant scene with Clarissa, surprised her. She dipped a curtsy, her respect deepening as well. Perhaps more lay behind his typically bored aristocratic facade than she’d credited. Though if so, why had he offered for Clarissa?

  Dismissing that disloyal and irrelevant thought, she nodded. “Yes, I remember. Lady Beaumont escorted us.”

  “Clarissa wore her usual flame red. ‘Fire and Ice,’ the ton calls the two of you. Having just been burnt, I could use some cooling. Is that what you were sent to do?”

  Taken aback, she evaded his too perceptive gaze. She could hardly admit that Clarissa’s abigail, lingering outside the door, had heard the quarrel and come flying to find Miss Sarah before her mistress did “something awful.”

  “Some ‘cooling’ refreshment, then, my lord?” she evaded. “Sherry? Or would you prefer brandy?”