The Scoundrel Takes a Bride

by Stefanie Sloane

  “We never meant for this to happen. You must believe me,” Sophia begged.

  “You know, I do believe you. And that’s what makes it worse. If you’d purposely set out to deceive me, then I would have every reason to be angry. But I know the two of you too well. You’d never do such a thing—not even you, Nicholas. I’m sure you both struggled to come to terms with your love.”

  Nicholas reached out and took Sophia’s hand, grasping it tightly. “What can we do, Langdon? How can we make amends?”

  He watched his brother, wanting so badly to do something to make things right.

  “You will marry, of course,” Langdon replied, turning back to face them. “With my blessing, so I don’t appear a complete ass. And you will abandon the murder case, forever. I’ll have your word. That is what you can do—the both of you.”

  Sophia squeezed Nicholas’s hand, beginning to cry. “Are you sure, Langdon?”

  “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” he replied.

  July 10

  PETWORTH MANOR

  “Here, now, that is still my job, isn’t it?”

  Sophia looked up from the pearl bracelet she’d unsuccessfully attempted to fasten four times. “As long as you’ll have me, Lettie.”

  Sophia’s dear friend smiled at her as she crossed the room and joined her. “Oh, you won’t be rid of me so easily,” she said, reaching for the two ends of the antique piece. “Mr. Bourne does not scare me. Never has, and never will.”

  Sophia chuckled at the woman’s wit. “And what of the ton? News of our marriage will set society tongues wagging the moment it reaches London. You’ll be in service to the infamous Bournes.”

  Lettie picked up one of Sophia’s pearl drop earrings from the dressing table. “Is that why you two decided to have the ceremony here, at Petworth Manor? To hide from the scandal?”

  “It is a scandal, isn’t it?” Sophia asked dubiously, pulling her hair back away from her ear.

  “Honestly? Yes,” Lettie answered simply. “As far as the ton categorizes such things. But I’ve never been overly concerned with their opinion—not when it comes to your happiness, anyway. And you shouldn’t be, either.”

  Sophia stood still while Lettie affixed the platinum-set earring onto her lobe before letting her hair fall back into place. “Is that so? Then I’ll tell you something: returning to Petworth was a defining moment for me—and Nicholas as well. This house and the grounds …”

  She paused, searching Lettie’s face for understanding. “It may sound mad, but Petworth held the key to my memories—every last one that I’d kept at bay for the past fifteen years. Many were agonizing, as you already know. Still, when we returned to London, snippets of my life here at the manor began to surface—happy times with my family and friends, some of the happiest of my life. And I realized that facing the worst of my past had unlocked the very best. I can no longer live life looking behind me.”

  “Then you’ll let the search for your mother’s killer go?” Lettie asked, locating the second earring.

  “I told Langdon that I would—”

  “That does not answer my question,” Lettie interrupted, gesturing for Sophia to hold back her hair. “You are prepared to give up everything you have worked for nearly your entire life? And finally allow yourself to be happy?”

  It sounded much more monumental when Lettie put it in such a way. And a small part of Sophia paused, wondering if she had thoroughly thought things through.

  “Would you think less of me if my answer was yes?”

  Lettie stood back from Sophia, the beautiful pearl earring dangling from her fingers and tears in her eyes. “Oh, Sophia, I would think less of you if your answer was no. It takes far more courage to change course than continue along the same path, hoping for the best but fully expecting the worst. Mr. Bourne loves you with all of his heart—and from what I can tell, you feel the same.”

  Sophia felt the telling sensation in the back of her throat that always preceded tears. She nodded in agreement. “You are going to make me cry and I haven’t even left my room.”

  Lettie started fastening the second earring. “Well, it would not be a proper wedding without tears, my lady. Not proper at all.”

  “Might I loosen it? It’s choking the life from me, sir.”

  Nicholas looked down at Mouse, who was grimacing as he attempted to destroy his cravat with one hand. “Welcome to manhood, young Mouse,” he replied, adjusting the sling that held the boy’s broken arm. It would heal in time. Still, Nicholas would never forget how lucky they were that he’d not been killed. Even the doctor could not quite believe how few injuries the boy had sustained as a result of his jump from the second-story window.

  Sophia had called it a miracle. And Nicholas had to agree—just not when anyone else was around.

  But on a day such as this, with the sun shining down on Petworth Manor, and the lake a ridiculously beautiful shade of blue, Nicholas was forced to consider whether God’s wedding gift to him was not just one miracle, but a series of them.

  Singh rushed up the aisle toward Nicholas, his traditional long silk banyan robe rustling in the gentle breeze. “Sahib, I have been told that Lady Sophia and Lord Carrington have left the main house,” he announced, excitement twinkling in his eyes.

  “Why don’t he have to wear a noose?” Mouse asked, looking at Singh with envy. “I think I’m owed something for being lied to about Lady Sophia, after all.”

  “You are a proper English boy now, young Mouse, to be brought up the son of sahib and Lady Sophia,” Singh replied, placing his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “It is ‘Why does he not have to wear a noose?’ And it is not polite to accuse another of lying.”

  Mouse eyed him suspiciously, though his fondness for the man shone in his eyes. “You didn’t answer my question, Mr. Singh.”

  “Perceptive, young Mouse. And an answer is unnecessary at this juncture. Come, we must find our seats,” Singh urged, gently pushing the boy forward to where the household staff and Mrs. Kirk sat on chairs from the manor brought down to the banks of the lake.

  The pounding of horse’s hooves, accompanied by the rattle of wheels, sounded just beyond the trees separating the lake from the surrounding land. Nicholas looked with relief at Singh. The vicar had finally arrived.

  Some moments later, the thick tree branches parted and Langdon appeared, followed by Lord Carmichael and the vicar.

  “I am sorry for my lateness,” the short, wide man apologized, walking quickly to where Nicholas stood. “The wheel on my cart broke some distance from Petworth Manor and I was forced to walk. Thankfully, Lords Stonecliffe and Carmichael came upon me, or we might not have had a wedding to celebrate.”

  “This way, Vicar Hawkins,” the housekeeper trilled, standing from her seat across the grassy expanse and beckoning the man toward her. “Just a few details to discuss, you see.”

  Lord Carmichael cleared his throat. “I believe I will take my seat. First, though,” he said, offering his hand to Nicholas, “congratulations, Bourne. I do hope you plan to devote yourself entirely to Sophia’s happiness.”

  He referred—in part, at least—to Lady Afton’s case, the subtle warning delivered in classic Carmichael style.

  Nicholas offered him an astute stare. “I would be angry, Carmichael,” he began, taking the man’s hand in his, “if not for the fact that I plan on doing just that.”

  “Good to hear, Bourne.” He tipped his hat in recognition and left in search of a seat.

  Nicholas watched Carmichael walk away, then turned to look at his brother. “Will you stay?”

  “I said I would, didn’t I?” Langdon answered brusquely. “It would not do to have the servants gossiping about my absence.”

  Nicholas shook his head. “That is not why you’re here. You are here because you are a decent, noble man.”

  “As are you, brother,” he replied, his gaze sweeping the lake and beyond. “Sophia would not have fallen in love with you if you�
�d proven yourself to be anything else.”

  “Thank you,” Nicholas murmured.

  “I love you, Nicholas. I always have and this will not change things,” Langdon said as he looked out over the land he’d nearly owned. “Still, I will require time.”

  “Take all the time you need, brother. I owe you that, at the very least.”

  31

  “Do take care with her dress, my love,” Elena instructed Dash from her place next to Sophia.

  Dash stood outside the Afton carriage in the Petworth Manor drive. His valiant attempt to arrange Sophia’s wedding dress had not proven particularly fruitful. “Would it truly be a tragedy of monumental proportions if the gown somehow managed to be caught in the carriage door?”

  “Yes!” Elena cried.

  Dash grinned with impudent pride. “You, my dear, are far too gullible.”

  He held the skirts in one hand and pulled the door with the other, slamming it shut only a moment after removing his arm. “You see? We men can be useful.”

  “ ‘Can’ being the operative word,” Elena whispered to Sophia.

  Dash climbed up to the box and joined the driver. “To the lake, Joseph Wends, and with care if you please.”

  “Aye, Lord Carrington,” the elderly man replied with a laugh. “ ’Tis no other way I know.”

  Sophia smiled at the old driver’s lilting voice, glad that he could be part of her day.

  “Sophia?”

  “Yes,” she replied, still thinking fondly on Mr. Wends’s presence as she turned to look at Elena.

  “Is there anything …” Elena paused and demurely cleared her throat. “That is to say, do you have questions regarding …”

  The woman’s fair skin began to glow with embarrassment.

  “Oh!” Sophia cried as understanding dawned. “Regarding marital relations?”

  Elena sighed with appreciation. “Precisely. To be frank, I had no idea whether Mrs. Kirk—”

  Sophia could not help herself this time. She took Elena’s hand in hers and giggled. “There are books for such things, and from what I understand, a certain inborn understanding will present itself at the necessary time. But I thank you for the kindness.”

  “Books, you say?” Elena asked sheepishly.

  Sophia arched a brow. “Oh yes.”

  Both women fell victim to a fit of laughter then, the sound of their shared amusement reaching the men.

  “Better a laughing bride than a crying one,” Mr. Wends opined loudly.

  Sophia covered her mouth with the palm of her hand and waited for the tickle of mirth to cease.

  Elena sighed with contentment, one last bubble of laughter escaping her lips before she settled back upon the seat cushion.

  Sophia peered out the window at the giant chestnut trees that lined the drive. “I do have a question for you, come to think of it.”

  “Of course,” Elena replied. “After I fumbled the last topic so badly, I owe you at least one good answer.”

  “Tell me,” Sophia began, “has Dash succeeded in building a new life with you—one free from those things that had consumed him entirely before you met?”

  “It is a bit of a daft question, isn’t it?”

  Sophia blinked and abruptly turned her head, unsure if she’d heard the woman correctly. “Did you just question my intelligence?”

  “No, not in general,” Elena answered. “And it is an assumption that Dash made as well, so you are in good company. Honestly, though, the very idea that one could simply throw over essentially what they’ve lived for as if tossing out an old dress and embracing an entirely new life without any bumps along the way? I am sadly mixing my metaphors, but you do understand what I mean, don’t you?”

  “Eventually, the bumps and the old dresses smooth out?” Sophia pressed.

  Elena sighed good-naturedly. “You are quite like Dash, aren’t you?”

  Elena’s words were both disappointing and elating at the same time. For as long as she could remember, Sophia had assumed her life would flourish and thrive once she’d found the person responsible for her mother’s death. It was quite a lot to ask of her future and, she realized now, impossible to fulfill. “Then there will always be difficulty, no matter what I choose?”

  “Precisely!” Elena exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “No matter how dedicated we are to building the perfect life, there will always be bumps and old dresses. After our first fight, Dash was terrified that he’d somehow failed to do everything that he should, despite the fact that he’d all but left the Corinthians and moved to Verwood with me.”

  “So I should lower my expectations?” Sophia said, her lips tilting up into a smile.

  The woman considered Sophia’s words and nodded. “In a manner of speaking, yes. Life was always going to be difficult at times, even if your mother had not been taken from you. Because it is the bumps and old dresses that force us to grow and come into our own. It is how you found Nicholas, and I discovered Dash.”

  “How did you become so wise?” Sophia asked, returning her gaze to the window.

  “My share of bumps and old dresses, Sophia.”

  A second carriage sounded just beyond the trees. “That will be Carrington and Sophia,” Nicholas said to his brother, straightening his cravat.

  “Carrington?” Langdon asked. “Where is her father?”

  “Lord Afton sent word that he was too ill to attend,” Nicholas explained, not bothering to hide his disappointment.

  “Do not think too harshly of him. Not every man is as strong as you and I, Nicholas,” Langdon told him, with a smile. Then, turning a little, he pointed to the aisle and said, “Now it is time for me to find a seat and for you to join the vicar, I believe.”

  Langdon left first, walking to take the empty seat next to Carmichael.

  Nicholas followed after his brother.

  The vicar looked past Nicholas and his eyes grew wide with pleasure. “Come along, Mr. Bourne. Your bride has arrived.”

  Nicholas turned around and walked the last few steps backward, the sight of Sophia on Dash’s arm making the world melt away.

  “Here, Mr. Bourne,” the vicar urged, his plump hand pulling Nicholas into position.

  The music of a single violin filled the air, though Nicholas could not be sure if it was real or his imagination. All that was real to him was Sophia.

  Sophia. The one he had loved for so long. The one who had belonged to another. The one he had never dared to dream would be his.

  She was the woman walking down the aisle toward him. Her dress, a frothy concoction of silk and antique lace, shimmered in the sunlight as she took each step forward. Her hair was pinned up, partially exposing the dainty pearl earrings that had once belonged to her mother. And her face … Her lips were curved upward in a small smile that Nicholas knew was only for him. And her eyes possessed the very love and devotion that he felt pulsing within his heart and soul.

  She was no more than two steps from Nicholas. Still, he could bear the wait no longer. He moved forward and reached out to take her hand.

  Dash grinned at Nicholas, shaking his head as he released Sophia and stepped back to take a seat next to Elena.

  Nicholas lifted their linked hands and kissed Sophia’s palm before looping her arm through his and turning back to the vicar.

  “We are ready,” Nicholas told the stout man, looking at Sophia. “Are we not?”

  Sophia stifled a small laugh at his nerves, resting her head momentarily on his upper arm. “For the future?”

  “Not precisely,” Nicholas drawled, his heart disgustingly full. “For our future.”

  “Together?”

  “Forever,” Nicholas insisted, tightening his hold.

  Sophia raised her head and captured him with a fierce look of possession. “I would not have it any other way.”

  For Junessa Viloria, my brilliant editor.

  You are one in a million, with kindness, grace,

  talent, and intelligence to spare. />
  I don’t know how you do it all.

  But you do it so, so well.

  ~XO, S

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The following is a list of people so awesome, so powerful, so ridiculously talented and insightful that, should they ever all be in the same room at one time, the world would explode, sending confetti, unicorns, and rainbows flying everywhere: Jennifer Schober, Franzeca Drouin, Lois Faye Dyer, Randall, and the Girls.

  BY STEFANIE SLOANE

  The Devil in Disguise

  The Angel in My Arms

  The Sinner Who Seduced Me

  The Saint Who Stole My Heart

  The Scoundrel Takes a Bride

  Read on for an exciting excerpt from

  THE DEVIL IN DISGUISE

  Stefanie Sloane’s Rita Award-nominated

  Regency Rogues novel

  Published by Ballantine Books

  Available wherever books are sold

  LONDON

  April 1811

  Lady Lucinda Grey had not precisely decided what she would do if the overly eager Matthew Redding, Lord Cuthbert, compared her eyes to the Aegean Sea. Or the most brilliant of sapphires. It had all been said before and—Lucinda admitted with a stab of regret—in much more creative ways than poor Lord Cuthbert could ever dare dream.

  “I shall faint, I believe,” she said succinctly, straightening the Alençon lace fichu neatly tucked into her jonquil gown.

  Lord Cuthbert stopped ogling Lucinda’s bosom abruptly, a look of confusion clouding his round face. “I beg your pardon?”

  Lucinda realized her earnest suitor clearly felt he’d reached the point in his seduction where she should have been dizzy with anticipation and too caught up in the moment to speak.

  “Lord Cuthbert, I do apologize,” she offered, taking advantage of the moment to discreetly reclaim her hand from his damp gloved grasp. She slid to the end of the settee, putting two feet of gold damask cushion between them. “Pray continue.”