His Brother's Bride (Historical Regency Romance)

by Rose Gordon

  “Whoa,” he said to the horses, bringing them to a stop just outside the stable. He jumped down and led both Thunder and Lightning into the stable by the reins.

  “I'll put them away,” Adam, the stable hand, said halfheartedly as he reached for the reins.

  “No, thank you,” Henry said automatically. While most gentlemen thought only of riding horses, Henry believed taking care of them should be just as important and hated to allow anyone to care for his horses if he could help it.

  Quickly, yet carefully, he unsaddled both mares and rubbed them down, then led them to their stalls and rewarded them with oats.

  He nodded once to Adam, then left to go find Laura. She was probably grateful for his absence and the opportunity it gave her to unpack her more delicate items without him being underfoot.

  He scowled. Who knew what other items she might have brought with her? When he'd stayed with her family in New York, she seemed rather fond of gaudy trinkets and decorations. Heaven only knew what she'd decided to bring with her: miniatures of her family with bejeweled frames, a gold bust in the shape of her former husband, a mirror with feathers glued all around it, a pink lacy counterpane. He curled his lips up in disgust. She was certainly the type who might enjoy torturing her husband with such ghastly items.

  Henry stepped onto the stone porch of the dowager's cottage and stomped the mud from his shoes, then opened the door. “Mrs. Swift?”

  Nothing.

  “Mrs. Swift,” he called again, closing the door behind him; the door was old and didn't open and close as easily as it once had, so he gave it a little shove and the stubborn door shut with an ear-piercing screech. He wandered through the front of the cottage. It wasn't very large. A kitchen and small dining area were on one side and a large parlor was on the other. Upstairs were the bedrooms. Laura was likely up there unpacking.

  He shook his head at his own ignorance and climbed the stairs. “Mrs. Swift?”

  No answer.

  He frowned. Where was she? The door to the first room that could be either a bedroom or a small sitting room was wide open, so he poked his head inside. Nothing. He went to the next room where the door was slightly ajar. “Mrs. Swi—” His words died on his tongue at the sight laid out in front of him.

  There was no gut-wrenching artwork or hideous baubles. Instead, a young lady with soft, chestnut hair, porcelain skin and a petite frame lay, sleeping in his bed.

  ~Chapter Four~

  Laura jerked straight up in the middle of the bed. Her muscles were tense and her unfocused eyes felt as if they were about to pop right out of her skull.

  She took a deep breath to calm her racing heart. It's not real. It was only a dream. It's not real. He's gone. Though the words played over and over in her mind, it did nothing to calm her. There had been a noise. A very real noise. Someone was in here with her.

  She blinked to let her eyes adjust to the dark room, her fingers curling into the sheets. She was in Henry Banks' bed. She remembered as much now as her eyes took in the moonlit surroundings. But knowing she was in Henry's bed, as opposed to Robbie's, did nothing to ease her nerves.

  With a swallow, she climbed out of bed and scowled. She remembered lying down for a little nap after unpacking her things because Henry hadn't returned yet, but she hadn't planned to go to sleep for the night in her morning dress. She lifted her arms, grateful for the way it relieved the pressure on her back from her corset, if only for a brief moment, then she shook out her skirt. In the morning—whenever that might be—she'd walk to the main house and see if there was a female servant who could help her out of her corset. But for now, she was too hungry to let something like a tight corset stop her from a trip to the kitchens.

  Walking slowly so not to make too much noise and wake Henry (or stub her toe), Laura navigated the old wooden staircase then down the stone hall toward the kitchen, commanding herself not to squeal or make sudden movements as a result of how cold the floor was beneath her feet.

  Cling. Clang! Bang! BANG!!!

  Laura straightened instantly. What was going on in the kitchen? It sounded almost as if a shelf of pots and pans had fallen to the floor. Slowly, she leaned her head forward just enough to peek one eye around the doorway to look into the kitchen.

  Henry.

  Clad in a white shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a pair of grey trousers and his black leather boots, he was standing in front of the stove with his back toward her.

  He muttered something, a curse, if she had to guess, and then bent down to pick up the two pans that had fallen to the floor. He gently set them down on the counter as if he was now suddenly worried about the amount of noise he was making, then turned his attention back to the pot in front of him.

  He lifted one tanned hand and raked it through his blond hair, whistling.

  Smoke, or perhaps steam, billowed up in front of him, creating a thick, grey cloud. He released the wooden spoon in his right hand and opened the window in front of him, clearing the room almost instantly.

  Laura shivered. While the floor was colder than she'd have liked, the breeze that the open window had allowed in made her very grateful to be inside. A lump formed in her throat and she immediately pushed away the thought. She was warm and safe inside a building tonight; that's all that mattered. Her past was no longer her future.

  Henry brought the wooden spoon up to his lips, presumably to taste whatever it was he was cooking, and then dropped it into the pot with a loud ker plunk. Coming up on his toes, he reached toward the row of bottles on the top shelf to his right and grabbed one that was full of some sort of black spice. He uncorked the bottle and gave it a slight shake over the top of the pot, then set the spice bottle on the counter next to him and stirred the pot.

  “Do you plan to stare at me all night, or do you think you might join me at some point?”

  “It depends,” she said, stepping fully into the doorframe.

  “On?”

  “How much poison you just put in that pot?”

  He shook his head and chuckled. “Now why would I do such a thing?”

  Because you don't like me and it'd be the fastest way to get rid of me? She forced a shrug. “I don't know. You probably wouldn't, but Henry would.”

  “Then I suppose it's a good thing he's not here, isn't it?”

  Laura swallowed and made her way to the crude table and chairs in the corner of the dining room. “Where is he?” That was a fair question in her estimation. Obviously he was in the room, but she was owed an explanation of why Elijah wasn't the one taking her on horse rides and pretending to court her.

  “My brother married last month,” Henry said smoothly.

  Laura nearly laughed. What a good spy he must have been to always know how to word a response so not to lie or lay a snare for oneself. “I see. And was it a marriage such as ours?”

  Henry turned and met her gaze. “No. It was a love match.”

  Laura commanded her lips to smile, even if it was wobbly. She loathed the words love and match, particularly when they were right next to each other in a sentence. What a carriage full of nonsense the very idea of a love match was. Of course, young girls of seventeen were wont to believe in such utter claptrap. How else would one explain a whirlwind courtship and a hasty marriage to a gentleman one hardly knew other than to believe in such rubbish as a love match? She twisted her lips bitterly. She should have known it was a farce.

  “Does the idea of Henry having a love match bother you?”

  “Actually, it does,” she muttered. Elijah might be very happy with a lust match, because truly, that's all it really was: lust that influences two people and draws them together; but she'd eat her own paste-bejeweled slipper if Henry ever had any semblance to such a match, especially if he himself claimed it to be a love match.

  Henry set a bowl down in front of her, then another in front of himself. “Why does it bother you so much? Are you disappointed he's not here to woo you?”

  She snorted. “Do you thi
nk he'd want to be here instead of with his wife?”

  “No.” Henry ladled some broth and put it in her bowl. “I'd imagine he's rather happy to be spending time in Italy with Amelia.”

  “Of course.” Because it was much easier to go where your lust led you than to honor the commitment you made. She closed her eyes. She must stop thinking of him. It had been six years since she'd seen her late husband or had to attend an afternoon at a sewing circle filled with ladies he'd been unfaithful to her with. The shame, the embarrassment, and most of all, the sting of betrayal shouldn't hurt this much. But it did. And while she'd come to expect such base and immoral behavior from Robbie and his carnal cravings, she'd have never pegged Elijah as one to abandon his commitment to another in favor of fleshly pleasure. She willed her hand to stop trembling and brought a spoonful of soup to her lips. “It's delicious.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “Well, I am!” she said before taking another spoonful. “Is that chicken?”

  Henry nodded. “Yes.”

  She took another spoonful of the spicy soup. “It's very good. Never sack your cook.”

  “If I had one, I'd be sure to take your advice,” he said dryly.

  Laura wiped her mouth. “All right; well then, convince your brother not to sack his cook.”

  “I don't think he'd planned on it,” Henry said before taking a long slurp of his soup.

  Laura grimaced. Just like Henry to be uncivilized. Not that she thought for one minute he was always such a hog at the dinner table; oh no, she'd seen him with the finest of manners. He was only acting this way to scare her off. Well, what a surprise he was in for. If she could tolerate Robbie Swift and his sloppy and bumbling ways for a year and a half of marriage, she could tolerate Henry and his undesirable habits for a few weeks.

  Henry continued to slurp his soup. She flashed him a smile and matched his annoying habit. “Either way,” she said on a slurp. “Just don't let whoever made this soup—” slurp— “leave. At least not—” slurp— “without the recipe.”

  Henry set his spoon down and wiped his mouth. At least he had some table manners, Laura thought, as she stopped slurping the thick broth so she could enjoy its tangy flavor again.

  “If you have a fondness for cooking, I can give you the recipe,” Henry said a moment later.

  Laura lowered her spoon and blushed. She had no idea what to make of his statement. Not two seconds ago, she'd been praising Cook's recipe and demanding the cook never be fired, as if she were going to live out her days here—which she already knew she wasn't; and now he was speaking to her as if he was ready to send her on her way tomorrow. “No. I don't need it written down. But perhaps it can be served at our wedding breakfast.” She sent him her sweetest smile.

  “I'm afraid that won't be possible.” He folded his arms. “The bridegroom can either be in the sanctuary marrying the bride or in the kitchen making soup; he cannot do both.”

  Laura choked on a little chunk of chicken. “You made this?” she asked, gesturing to the bowl of soup in front of her like a simpleton.

  “Why are you so surprised? You stood right behind me and watched.”

  She blushed. “I thought you were just warming it.”

  “Warming it?”

  Her blush deepened as the blood rushed to her head. She could only imagine how she looked but wouldn't doubt him if he suggested her skin was redder than a cherry. “Please, forgive my ignorance. It's very late and I'm not thinking clearly.”

  He nodded slowly, but she didn't dare meet his eyes to see if he believed her or not. “It's all right. I haven't met too many gentlemen who know how to cook, either.”

  She offered him a grateful smile for his kind words. He certainly could have embarrassed her further but had been gracious enough not to.

  “You're welcome to go back to bed. The sun won't rise for at least another four hours,” he said, standing.

  Laura brushed her linen napkin across her lips. “Four more hours. What has you up at this hour?” she said for no other reason than not wanting to leave so quickly.

  He picked up their bowls and brought them to the counter. “That settee is far too short for a man of my size.”

  Dread settled over her, but she felt compelled to offer. “Do you—”

  “No,” he cut her off, turning to face her. “I plan to go sleep in the main house. I just wanted to consume something edible first. When my brother Alex is away, Cook thinks it's perfectly acceptable to make gruel morning, noon and night.” His upper lip curled in disgust. “While I admit it's slightly better than the gruel I had to choke down as a boy, gruel is gruel and I have no fondness for it.”

  “Gruel isn't that bad,” she countered. Truly, compared to some of the meals she'd eaten in the last five years, gruel would be preferable.

  “It is around here.” He gripped the counter behind him with both of his hands so tightly his knuckles turned white.

  “Thank you for the early morning breakfast,” she murmured when it was quite clear he didn't plan to say anything further, rather just stand and stare.

  “You're welcome.” He crossed his arms. “Say, did you have a chance to unpack all of your things before you entered your coma?”

  She forced a smile. “Everything that has already arrived,” she said airily, then forced a yawn and pushed to her feet. “I shall be up and off to bed, then.”

  Henry nodded stiffly.

  She bit her lip and stared at him. Something was off.

  He cocked his head in return.

  She narrowed her eyes.

  He narrowed his.

  A shiver skated up her spine and she refused to twitch or shudder at its unwelcome presence.

  He idly tapped his fingers under the edge of the counter, not that she could see it, mind you; there was nothing that could make her want to break his gaze. Instead, she listened to their steady tattoo as if it were the background music to one of those dramatic suspense plays she'd once attended in New York.

  Who would it be? Who'd pull his pistol first, so to speak?

  Henry continued his tapping and started breathing through his nose. Hard. Each breath making his nostrils flare.

  Laura tried not to stare, for if she did, she'd surely give him the gratification of besting her. He was acting this way on purpose, trying to make her crack. But she wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Instead, she did the only thing she could think to do that might give her a fighting chance in this standoff: slowly, so not to laugh and ruin it all, she parted her lips and then poked her tongue out—

  ***

  She wouldn't... She couldn't... She did.

  Henry gripped the edge of the counter and curled his toes up in his shoes as tightly as he could, his eyes unable to leave the image of Laura Swift with her pink tongue touching the bottom of her nose.

  He couldn't begin to explain why, but it had to be the most erotic thing he'd ever seen, as thoughts of her touching parts of him with her long and skillful tongue appeared in his head, sending a jolt of desire straight to his groin.

  He shifted.

  “Ah ha!” she said with a clap of her hands, beaming. “I won.”

  “I didn't realize we were having a competition.” He nearly jumped at the roughness of his own voice.

  “Oh yes, you did.” Her grin grew. “You just hate that you lost.”

  Henry cleared his throat. “Are you going to bed or do I need to carry you up those stairs?”

  Her throaty laughter filled the air. “You'd like that too much. I'll go on my own.”

  “And take your gown off on your own, too?” He shut his mouth with a hard snap as all the humor drained from the room. “I'm sorry. That didn't come out as I'd planned.” He ran his hand through his thick hair and tugged, while half expecting her to give him the scathing retort a lady of her ilk was wont to do when a gentleman said something that could easily be misconstrued.

  “If you could just unfasten the buttons and loosen the strings, I'd be ever gr
ateful.”

  All the air left his lungs in a quick whoosh. He wouldn't have reacted this much if she had leveled a set down on him. He nodded, not trusting his voice.

  He followed her from the kitchen and up the stairs. In her room, he lit the double candle wall sconce closest to the door then turned to Laura.

  She was standing with her back to him, her head lowered a fraction. About three feet in front of her was a mirror; though it was still dark in the room with only two candles giving off a low light, he caught a glimpse of her. It was hard to miss her clasped hands. He thought to whisper something to her to reassure her, but dismissed the idea instantly and began his task of unbuttoning her gown. Words, he'd learned, didn't mean nearly as much as actions. Someone could say they were or weren't going to do something, but it didn't mean anything until they proved themselves with their actions. Even gentlemen. Gentleman's honor, it would seem, was a trait that many no longer trusted, especially those in Laura's situation.

  She was still quite young and a widow with no father or brother to offer her protection. There was no need for anyone, even a gentleman, to be careful of her reputation or even how he treated her. Henry slipped the last button through its hole and then reached for the laces that kept her corset tied. Training his eyes on where his fingers worked hastily to loosen the knots, and chastising himself each time they drifted to her skin, he methodically went about untying her corset.

  “There.”

  Laura's ungloved hand reached around her back, her fingers touching the gaping fabric of her gown and corset. She turned around to face him and took a step backward. “Thank you.”

  He nodded once. “Tomorrow, I'll send a chambermaid over to help you dress.”

  She lifted both brows, puckered her lips, then twisted them, almost as if to say she'd suspected he'd told her there were no female servants at the main house earlier as a means to scare her.

  He ignored her triumphant look and shoved his hands into his pockets, fisting them. “She won't be a lady's maid, mind you, but she can make you somewhat presentable for the day.”