Married By Midnight (Pembroke Palace Book 4)

by Julianne MacLean

  Married by Midnight

  Julianne MacLean

  Prologue

  Pembroke Palace, England

  Christmas Eve, 1874

  IT WAS AN intimidating prospect‌—‌to make love on one’s wedding night with a husband one might never see again‌—‌but in a few short hours, the deed would be done.

  After listening carefully to the terms of this curious marriage contract, Lady Anne Douglas had agreed to every demand. Today she would speak her vows before God. She would promise to love, honor, and obey her husband until death parted them, so there could be no turning back.

  Not that she wanted to turn back. To the contrary, this was a first-rate offer and she had been grateful to accept, for she was known far and wide, throughout the whole of England, as damaged goods. At least this bizarre pretence of a marriage would provide her with a generous financial settlement that would guarantee her independence forever.

  Which was why, in a few short hours, she would walk down the chapel aisle to stand at the altar beside Garrett, her future husband, and later she would welcome him into her bed to claim his husbandly rights.

  To ensure it was all legally binding.

  Anne took a deep breath and let it out. Her heart was galloping like a beast, and she worried she might suddenly change her mind, order a carriage, and bolt. Why?

  It was fear, plain and simple...

  Turning away from the snowy landscape outside the window, she paced around the room and labored to steady her nerves. She would not, under any circumstances, entertain the notion that this was a mistake. Just because her betrothed wanted nothing to do with marriage in the traditional sense did not mean she would not benefit from the arrangement. That was why she chose this path in the first place.

  Up until a few days ago, she had been so sure she could manage it...

  A knock sounded at the door just then, and her maid entered with her wedding gown.

  Anne’s stomach churned with panic, and she wrestled with the most overwhelming urge to break free and flee into the raging snowstorm outside, because heaven help her, she had been very irresponsible these past two weeks.

  She should never have allowed herself to fall in love with him.

  Chapter One

  Three weeks earlier

  AFTER THE WORST spring England had witnessed in over a century‌—‌marked by torrential rains, swelled rivers, and flooded fields that destroyed the summer crops‌—‌the country was now frozen solid beneath a hostile blanket of crusty white snow.

  It had been a harsh winter that began in early November and seemed to go on without end‌—‌for there had been no respite from the fierce, bitter winds and constant spray of sleet and snow. And it was not yet half over.

  Sitting by the hearth in her uncle’s stone manor house in Yorkshire, shivering beneath her heavy woolen shawl, Lady Anne Douglas was beginning to wonder if England were cursed, for surely this could not be normal.

  A sudden blast of ice pellets struck the windowpanes, and the dogs began to bark downstairs. Tugging her shawl about her shoulders, she rose from her chair and crossed to the window. She looked down and saw a large black coach pulling to a halt in front of the house. It was a striking image against the pure white landscape. Not to mention the fact that they’d had no visitors for a month‌—‌for who in their right mind would venture out into such abominable weather?

  The dogs continued to bark like ferocious beasts in the front hall while Anne watched two gentlemen in elegant black overcoats and top hats alight from the vehicle and hurry up the steps. One of them carried a black leather portfolio.

  She leaned forward and touched her forehead to the frosty glass, but lost sight of the visitors as they reached the front entrance. There was some commotion below as the door opened and the dogs were put into a separate room, where they continued to bark and growl.

  Who were these men, Anne wondered, and what did they want? It must be an extremely important matter of business to bring them all the way to the outer reaches of Yorkshire on such a bitterly cold day.

  A half hour later, Anne was summoned to the drawing room.

  Her uncle stood before the fire while the two mysterious gentlemen callers sat in chairs with their backs to the door, facing the sofa. As soon as Anne was announced, they rose to their feet, turned, and regarded her with interest.

  She stared back at them with an equal measure of curiosity, mixed with a twinge of concern.

  They were both exceedingly handsome with dark, chiseled facial features, muscular builds, and striking blue eyes. Brothers surely, for not only were they similar in appearance, they wore the same expression of inquisitive intelligence.

  “Well, don’t just stand there,” her uncle said, moving closer and dragging her into the room. “Come over by the fire so our guests can get a look at you.” He shoved her to stand on the threadbare carpet. “She may not be pure, but I daresay she’s appealing to the eye.”

  The gentleman on the left cleared his throat and gave her a look of apology as he bowed courteously. “Lady Anne, it is an honor to make your acquaintance.” He fired an irate glance at her uncle, who blinked at him in the muted gray light fighting its way in through the frosty window.

  “What’s wrong?” her uncle Archibald asked. “Oh. I have not made the proper introductions, have I? Lord Hawthorne, allow me to present my niece, Lady Anne. Anne, this is Devon Sinclair, Marquess of Hawthorne, and his brother, Lord Blake, both of Pembroke Palace.”

  A shiver of apprehension rippled up her spine. These were very auspicious guests indeed. Their father was the Duke of Pembroke, one of the highest-ranking peers in the realm. His palace, filled with priceless art and antiquities, was considered one of England’s greatest treasures. Some said their Italian Gardens were so beautiful they brought even the most cynical, hard-hearted men to tears.

  Hadn’t she recently heard the gardens were damaged?

  But what were these illustrious gentlemen doing here at her uncle’s manor house, three weeks before Christmas, so far from their home in the middle of a raging snowstorm?

  She lowered her gaze and dipped into a curtsy. “Good afternoon.”

  When she met the marquess’s cool blue eyes again, he inclined his head at her, as if studying her temperament.

  “Your uncle speaks highly of you,” he said.

  I doubt that.

  She had the good sense, however, not to speak her mind.

  Lord Hawthorne gestured toward the sofa. “Will you please join us?”

  Her gaze darted back and forth between the two guests and her uncle. They were all staring at her as if she were some sort of odd novelty in a glass case.

  “Please, Lady Anne,” the other one said, as if he recognized her reluctance and wished to set her at ease.

  She studied Lord Blake for a moment, experienced an inexplicable whisper of calm, and took a seat.

  “We understand you spent the past four years caring for your ailing grandmother,” Lord Hawthorne said. “A dutiful and selfless pursuit,” he added.

  “It wasn’t duty,” she explained. “It was love.” Her late grandmother‌—‌God rest her dear, sweet soul‌—‌had been the one person who never judged Anne or mistreated her after her terrible fall from grace.

  “We are sorry for your loss,” Lord Blake said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Lady Anne was an excellent nursemaid and companion,” her uncle added. “As I said before, she may not be pure, but she is loyal.”

  Anne regarded the marquess steadily. “Do you wish me to be a companion to someone?”

  A hush fell over the room. “No,” he replied. T
hen he turned his eyes to the baron. “May I request a moment alone with Lady Anne,” he asked, “so that we may discuss this proposition in detail?”

  “There’s no need for any further discussion,” Archibald replied. “I have already accepted on her behalf. We need only make the arrangements, though I would like to have my solicitor involved.”

  Anne frowned. “Your solicitor, Uncle? What sort of proposition did you agree to? If it concerns me, am I not to be consulted?”

  Another tension-filled silence descended upon the room, this time heavy as lead.

  Lord Hawthorne stood. “I must insist that you excuse us, sir. It is imperative that your niece understands the particulars. We will speak with her in private.”

  At long last, her uncle rose from his chair. “If you insist, Lord Hawthorne, I must defer to your wishes. But rest assured that your proposal will not be refused. It will happen, whether she likes it or not.”

  As soon as he left the room, Anne challenged the two men. “What, exactly, will happen?”

  “Nothing, if you do not wish it,” Blake replied. “I assure you, Lady Anne, we are not tyrants, and we have other prospects if you refuse‌—‌which is your right‌—‌but we wish you to know that you are at the top of our list.”

  “What list?” she asked, nearly horror-struck by the possibilities.

  There was a quiet pause until, at last, Hawthorne answered the question. “We require a practical young woman to marry our brother before Christmas,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He took a moment to explain. “Our brother needs a wife, but he does not desire a love match, nor does he wish to enter the marriage mart and begin a complicated courtship. He simply wants a contractual arrangement with a woman who understands the situation and desires the same sort of freedom.”

  “What sort of freedom are you referring to?” she asked. “I do not understand.”

  “No, of course you do not,” Hawthorne replied. “I fear we have not explained ourselves adequately. Please allow me to tell you everything. This time I shall start at the beginning.”

  “Did I hear you correctly?” Anne said. “Your father is going mad?”

  She could not believe it. The Duke of Pembroke was one of the greatest aristocrats in England. The family had a celebrated history, like no other. The Duchess of Pembroke enjoyed an intimate friendship with the queen.

  “That is correct,” the marquess replied. “He believes all four of his sons must marry before Christmas in order to thwart a family curse.”

  “What sort of curse?”

  Appearing uncertain how best to explain, Hawthorne paused.

  “In the spring,” he said, “our father believed we would all be washed away in a flood. Now we are in danger of freezing to death, and he expects the palace to shatter like glass if this weather continues. Under any other circumstances it would not matter, except that he has changed his will to disinherit us if we do not respect his wishes. Thankfully, Blake, Vincent, and I found matrimonial bliss earlier this year, but there is one more.”

  “Another brother? What is his name?”

  “Garrett. He is the youngest, and has been living abroad for a number of years. Until very recently, he refused to yield to our father’s demands, for he is not exactly...compliant. But we received a letter from him eight days ago. He has finally agreed to come home and fulfill his duty. He is ready to take a wife and secure all of our inheritances. There is also a substantial sum of money he will receive on his wedding day if he marries in time, so he is motivated.”

  Anne could not help herself. She laughed out loud. “Why in God’s name have you chosen me? Surely the son of a duke could have any woman he wanted.”

  “As I said before,” the marquess replied, “he has no interest in a love match. He wants a woman who will not need to be romanced‌—‌a practical woman who will agree to perform a charade, so to speak, and who will leave Pembroke Palace when he returns to Greece, shortly after the wedding takes place.”

  “We will live separate lives?” she said, to confirm her understanding.

  “That is correct, but you, too, will have freedom. With the allowance Garrett receives as a wedding gift, and the inheritance due upon our father’s death, he will provide you with a lifetime annuity. You will be free to live wherever you please. You could purchase a house in London, for example. Or perhaps you would prefer the country. Either way, there will be funds for a very comfortable living with a house full of servants‌—‌for the rest of your life.”

  Anne took a moment to consider all of this. It was not an unattractive offer. Quite the contrary, she felt as if she had just discovered a buried treasure in the garden. It did not seem real.

  “What about children?” she asked. “Would I be expected to bear him sons?”

  “No. He is the youngest of four. I am the eldest and my wife and I are already expecting a child.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.” He paused.

  “Will the marriage have to be consummated?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “It must be legally binding to fulfil the terms of our father’s will.”

  Anne swallowed uneasily. “What if I become pregnant?”

  Lord Blake cleared his throat uneasily. “All of that is outlined in the contract. If a child is conceived, you may choose to raise him yourself, or relinquish him to the care of our family, whereby he would be raised at Pembroke.”

  Anne gazed toward the door and wondered if her uncle was outside, listening to these details.

  “Do you require time to consider it, Lady Anne?” Lord Hawthorne asked. “Because if you wish to accept our proposition, we have the contracts already drawn up. If you are not inclined, however, we would prefer to know immediately so that we can move on to the next candidate as quickly as possible.”

  She glanced at Lord Blake, who tapped his finger on the leather portfolio that rested on the table beside him. “The contracts are right here, my lady, awaiting your perusal.”

  “You don’t waste time, do you?”

  “No,” he said. “Christmas is not long off. We have only three weeks to satisfy the terms of the will.”

  She rolled the idea over in her mind. “Mmm...I do see the basis for your impatience. If there is no wedding, you will all be cursed. Financially, at least.”

  “Indeed.”

  She folded her hands together on her lap. “What if your brother does not approve of me? Does he know about my sordid past? My shocking reputation?”

  She had no illusions about her reputation and her marriage prospects, for she had done the unthinkable four years ago when she ran off to elope with her handsome young tutor. Since then, she had given up all romantic fantasies about her future. Until this moment, she had been fully prepared to live out the rest of her days as a spinster.

  “He has already indicated that any past scandals are not relevant,” Hawthorne replied.

  “He cares only for the money,” she surmised. “And his freedom.”

  “That is correct.”

  “But why me? Why am I first choice?”

  They hesitated. “Because we know our brother. He prefers women with dark features. He finds them attractive.”

  Anne scoffed. “I thought he didn’t want romance.”

  “Correct. We simply don’t want to give him any reason to change his mind. That is all.”

  She thought about it another moment and imagined herself remaining here with her uncle for the rest of her days.

  “Money and freedom can have their uses.” She eyed that mysterious black portfolio with growing interest. “I do wish to take a look at your offer, Lord Hawthorne. Will there be any room for negotiation?”

  The marquess raised an eyebrow in surprise, while his brother quickly opened the leather case.

  Chapter Two

  Seven days later

  IN THE CRISP early evening air, a heavy crested coach, conveying Lord Garrett Sinclair from the train sta
tion, rumbled up the steep hill on its final approach to Pembroke Palace. The young golden-haired lord, who had come all the way from the Greek island of Santorini, was sound asleep inside.

  There was neither a breath of wind, nor a single cloud in the sky. The moon’s bluish glow glistened upon the ice crystals that shimmered on the surface of the snow, while the sound of the coach wheels rolling over the frozen rutted road remained the only disturbance.

  When at last the vehicle passed under the impressive triumphal arch and the horses’ hooves clattered over the icy stones on the cobbled court, Lord Garrett woke with a start and sucked in a deep gulp of air.

  The dream was always the same... The relentless roar of the wind in the sails, the taste and grit of the salt on his lips, Johnny’s small wet hand slipping from his grip...

  Like every other night since the accident, it woke him, haunted him, tortured him‌—‌like a violent, spiteful ghost.

  Drenched in sweat, shivering in the chill of this punishing English weather, Garrett sat forward and worked to calm his breathing. When would it end? he wondered. Not just the weather, but this terrible torment inside of him. Would he know happiness again? He prayed to God that this Christmas would deliver a gift, a reprieve from the agony he’d endured since spring. Otherwise he wasn’t sure he could go on living.

  Sitting back, desperate for a distraction from the memory of that day on the water, he cupped his hands to the cold glass and peered out at the courtyard and palace, brightly lit up in the night.

  Not much had changed since he quit this house seven years ago. It was still the same ostentatious braggart of wealth and social position‌—‌a sickening display of showy baroque architecture with giant towers and turrets, a commanding clock tower over a massive portico at the entrance, and enough steps to intimidate even the most privileged aristocrat‌—‌not to mention any decent common man of typical upbringing.

  All this belonged to his family alone, while thousands of decent, hard-working people starved in the poverty-stricken streets of London. He wanted no part of this world, yet he needed the funds that his father had offered out of the strange depths of his madness. Garrett had come home to do what he must in order to attain them and put them to good use.