A Rogue to Avoid (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 2)

by Bianca Blythe

  It was spectacular.

  Ivory columns stretched into the air in perfect symmetry, adorning an equally symmetrically pleasing manor house.

  “This is new,” she said.

  Gerard nodded. “My mother commissioned it.”

  “Oh.”

  “Lairds generally do not have homes so far from Scotland.”

  “I’d wondered,” Cordelia confessed.

  “My mother complained, and well, my father desired to appease her.”

  “But it wasn’t enough,” she said softly.

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “It must have been expensive,” Cordelia mused.

  “Aye,” he said. “The Rockport coffer is rather smaller now.”

  “It can be nonexistent for all I care.” She squeezed his hand and stepped from the coach.

  Footsteps sounded behind her. “What are you doing, miss?”

  She swung around.

  A large man, the type who could be compared to castles or mountains, narrowed his eyes. “We don’t like intruders here.”

  “I’m not actually an intruder,” she said.

  “Now how can I be sure of that?” The man barked.

  Gerard was at her side at once.

  The brawny man peered at him. “We don’t generally find male intruders here.”

  “Are you saying there’s a preponderance of female criminals in this district?” Gerard asked.

  “Gerard!” A deep voice called out.

  Sir Miles.

  The man strode toward them. He was dressed elegantly, like the finest Corinthian. If she hadn’t known that Sir Miles was Gerard’s half-brother, she wouldn’t have believed them related. He held a pall mall stick in his hand. He beamed. “How delightful to see you here!”

  The two brothers embraced, and emotion seemed to exude between them. Sir Miles turned and shouted to some people behind him, and Cordelia recognized the rest of Gerard’s family.

  “You know this couple?” The massive man said, his voice still suspicious.

  “This is my brother.” Sir Miles hugged Gerard again. “The Marquess of Rockport.” He smiled. “I hope Jeremiah hasn’t been giving you trouble. He’s my protector.”

  Gerard blinked.

  “I am a very famous man,” Sir Miles said. “And I refuse to be trapped by any woman.”

  “I’ve caught them hanging in trees,” Jeremiah said proudly.

  “They want to trap me into marriage,” Sir Miles said. “You must understand the onerousness of that.”

  “Well . . .”

  Sir Miles widened his eyes and stared at Cordelia. “Forgive me. I’m so sorry.”

  Some servants ventured outside. Their eyes widened when they saw them, and soon more rushed from a small entrance and lined outside the manor home, brushing their attire with a frantic motion that Cordelia should be imitating. Instead she smiled.

  The younger ones retained their general stiff expression, but older ones smiled.

  Gerard cleared his throat. “Let me present my new marchioness.”

  The servants dipped into deep curtsies and bows, and Gerard greeted them with the formality required of his position.

  He stopped before an older woman with a pleasant round face. “Mrs. Finton.”

  She beamed. “My dear boy. You remember me. I thought I would never see you again.”

  “Forgive me for never visiting.”

  The woman turned to Cordelia. “This is your bride?”

  He nodded gravely and placed his hand on Cordelia’s back. “My darling lass, please let me introduce you to my housekeeper.”

  “And former nurse,” the housekeeper said.

  “Please see that my bride is comfortable,” Gerard said. “We have had a very long journey.”

  Cordelia relaxed as the housekeeper chatted amiably and led her through the modern house.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Cordelia awoke.

  The bed no longer rocked, and a large bay window spilled golden rays over the floorboards.

  She sighed in contentment and rolled over the soft sheets.

  And something else—something warm lay beside her.

  Gerard.

  She glanced at him. His thick eyelashes swept downward, and the soothing rhythm of his breath caused her heart to lurch with more joy than the finest concerto.

  Today they would wed.

  Energy danced through her, and she slipped from the covers, aware that Gerard’s presence verged on the scandalous. Unmarried couples were not supposed to share beds. Even married couples rarely shared beds, at least if they possessed any status. She doubted that Highgate Manor lacked rooms.

  She ambled across the room and stepped over sumptuous oriental carpets. The vibrant silk and wool threads seemed to sparkle under the light. Richly colored paintings in gilded frames scattered the room. She wondered if the marquess’s sister-in-law had painted some of them. The man had such a pleasant family, and she desired to join it.

  She smiled and glanced at his still sleeping form. She desired this day to be perfect.

  She dressed quickly, lest some helpful maid intent on lighting a fire interrupt her. The brown dress Gerard had procured from the inn may not be the most flattering, but the fact that she did not require a lady’s maid to assist her provided some merits.

  She exited the bedroom and ambled through the long corridor. The interior managed to equal the exterior’s beauty, and the walls were painted a cheerful coquelicot. Gilded chairs lined the corridor as if knowledgeable that a visitor might require a place to appropriately marvel at the chandeliers that dangled at regularly spaced intervals.

  Nothing though signified that a Scotsman had built the home, and she chilled at the in-no-manner-understated-opulence. Had maintaining this place caused Gerard’s mother take on a debt from her father? Had the maintenance of their Hampshire estate caused her father to find money through more nefarious means?

  Footsteps sounded, and Miss Carmichael ascended the stairs. She beamed. “Wonderful! You’re awake!”

  Cordelia smiled. “Forgive me for retiring so early yesterday.”

  “Nonsense. Lord Rockport told us all about your adventures.” Her eyes shone. “You really went on a ship all the way from Cumbria to Kent?”

  “Yes.”

  “You must tell me all about it!” She clapped her hands together. “Would you like to go to Canterbury with me? Mother will be so upset if I come back to America without having done any shopping.”

  Cordelia paused. She glanced toward Gerard’s room. They’d spent so much of their time together, that it seemed strange to leave the home without him. But they’d left Oggleton in Cumbria, and now she had a wedding to prepare for.

  The answer was easy. Remaining reclusive was in her past. “That sounds delightful. Thank you for inviting me.”

  Large windows bordered the staircase, and golden light splattered onto the steps. The sky was bright, with not a single cloud to taint the blueness. Nothing would keep their day from being wonderful.

  “My brother’s in the library,” Miss Carmichael said when they reached the landing. “I’ll tell him about our plans. Percival!”

  Cordelia widened her eyes. She was accustomed to more formality when referencing family members. Something in their ease made her smile.

  “Louisa?” The Duke of Alfriston strode over the marble floor, cane in hand.

  “We’re going into Canterbury,” Miss Carmichael declared. “Tell Lord Rockport that he’ll see his bride at the cathedral at eleven.” Miss Carmichael turned to Cordelia. “Did you know that your fiancé rode to meet with the archbishop last night to arrange it?”

  Cordelia smiled, and Miss Carmichael and she exited the manor house. They soon arranged for the driver to escort them to Canterbury. The horses trotted over the gravel, crunching their hooves over the pebbles, and Cordelia relaxed onto the seat. The cathedral’s towers loomed over the trees, beckoning them to the center of the market town.

 
The town was charming in its fashion. The streets were perhaps somewhat too narrow, and the sides of the streets lacked the cleanliness found in Mayfair. But that did not matter.

  She was relaxed after visiting two jewelry stores, and still relaxed after visiting the milliner. Miss Carmichael chatted with her about Gerard, and she found herself laughing and chatting back.

  Cordelia was rather less relaxed when they exited the ribbon shop. A black coach was parked outside the store, and the crests on a coach rather reminded her of—

  She shook her head. It wouldn’t be her family’s coach. She was merely being paranoid. Just a natural reaction to being so close to marriage and securing her future.

  That was all.

  She approached the coach. But the golden crest did resemble her family’s crest. And the primary colors on the wheels did resemble her family’s—

  She swallowed hard.

  Her family’s carriage.

  Was here.

  In Canterbury.

  Even though she’d last seen her family’s coach all the way in Harrogate.

  She took Miss Carmichael’s arm and yanked her back toward the ribbon shop. She strode purposefully, but her limbs shook.

  “My dear!” Miss Carmichael’s eyes widened, and Cordelia attempted to give her a confident smile, the carefree kind that people without murderous fathers tended to display.

  Everything would be fine.

  Everything has to be.

  “Is everything fine?” Miss Carmichael whispered.

  The words pierced Cordelia. They weren’t fine. Not with her father’s carriage outside the shop. Not when the wedding might never happen. Cordelia wasn’t going to let her father interrupt the wedding. Not after Gerard and she had traveled so far to make it happen. Not when they were so close to securing Gerard’s safety and Cordelia’s happiness.

  Her chest tightened, but she continued to stride toward the back of the shop, passing pastel ribbons and adorable bonnets.

  “My lady!” Shock appeared on the shopkeeper’s face. “Is there something I can help you with? I assure you all our best merchandise is on display.”

  “Just passing through,” Cordelia said, not wavering. She hesitated and then spotted a long black mourning veil. “I’ll take that.”

  The shopkeeper frowned. “But I thought—I was under the impression that you were shopping for a wedding.”

  “I am.” Cordelia grabbed the veil and placed it over her head. She gazed in the mirror, happy to see that her blonde hair was covered.

  “Are you sure?” Miss Carmichael asked. “I’m not familiar with all your British traditions, but…”

  “I’m sure,” Cordelia said. “Most definitely. Charge it to the account at Highgate Manor.”

  The shopkeeper nodded.

  “Please explain what’s going on,” Miss Carmichael said.

  “I have a wedding to attend.” Cordelia exited through the back door into an alley. Never mind. She’d been through worse. If the only thing separating Cordelia from Gerard was a non-maintained road in some shadows, she could traverse it. Even if there were some rather unsavory people there, and a less than pleasant scent.

  “You’re not what I expected,” Miss Carmichael said. “Your reputation is of a woman who cares about appearances.”

  “Are you criticizing my veil?” Cordelia gave a blissful smile, too relieved to see the cathedral’s towers poke over the surrounding buildings to think of anything

  Miss Carmichael blushed. “I wouldn’t dream of—”

  Cordelia laughed. “You mustn’t worry. You’re right, a black veil would not have been my chosen accessory.”

  They strode through the alleyway, winding their way over the assorted piles of filth. Laundry hung from windows, and some children stared at them.

  Miss Carmichael tilted her head. “I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry that your engagement with my brother fell through. I mean, the current duchess is wonderful, but—I think I would have liked to have you as a sister as well.”

  Happiness swarmed in Cordelia’s heart. “I would have liked to have you as a sister too.”

  “I hope I’ll see more of you. Mama is determined to marry me off to heaven knows who. I might end up in England despite my best intentions.”

  “Do what makes you happy,” Cordelia said, her tone more serious “Don’t let anyone stop you.”

  Miss Carmichael nodded. “Thank you.” She tilted her head. “I had no idea so many people used these alleyways. Why, that man is even more dressed up than we are.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why the man who just exited from the carriage with the gold crests!” Miss Carmichael pointed to her right, where a street traversed the alley, and Cordelia’s stomach tumbled downward.

  “Lady Cordelia!” Her father’s voice barreled toward her.

  Chapter Thirty

  The cathedral bells chimed into the clear blue sky. Birds fluttered ahead, cawing and crowing as they darted their feathered wings in elaborate circles. Soon Cordelia would arrive, and they would wed. The Duke of Alfriston had arranged that Cordelia and Miss Carmichael would join them at the cathedral.

  Marriage was something wonderful if it meant living the rest of his life with Cordelia.

  He couldn’t give her the ceremony of her dreams, not in their haste to wed, but he’d make sure that the occasion was as special as possible for her.

  He tugged his tailcoat. He’d subjected himself to his brother’s valet’s administrations.

  Clergymen wandered outside the medieval building. The poor devils didn’t know what they were missing.

  His brother Miles and the archbishop murmured to each other, and the sound of choir boys practicing masked their conversation. Occasionally a clergyman would cast a sympathetic look in his direction: perhaps misguided sympathy that he hadn’t chosen a life devoted to God. Finally Miles rose and strode toward him. “Women are generally late,” Miles said. “I wouldn’t worry.”

  Gerard chuckled. “Lady Cordelia is not familiar with the vice of tardiness.”

  His brother blinked, and for the first time, Gerard wondered whether the sympathetic looks the worshippers were casting at him might not be just because he’d squeezed into the attire of his younger brother.

  “Right.” Miles’s voice faltered somewhat. “Then perhaps you should know—”

  Ice crept up the back of Gerard’s spine as if he’d found himself on the North Pole, and not in the finest cathedral in the world. “She’s late.”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s probably trying on jewelry.”

  Gerard forced his lips to move upward, but they felt weighted.

  His bride had a reputation for perfection, and he wouldn’t have thought she would start disrupting that reputation on her wedding day.

  “It’s good you’re not worried,” Miles said. “Very admirable.”

  Gerard nodded, but a queasy feeling fluttered in his stomach, even though he’d scarcely felt queasy in the storm at sea, and there should no reason to start when being firmly on land.

  Miles scrutinized him again, and Gerard did his best nonchalant shrug. “There are many things strange about my bride, good man. This isn’t the first thing.”

  A clergyman approached them. “The archbishop is not the type to wait.”

  “Then he will need to learn patience,” Gerard said. “I’m surprised to find him unfamiliar with that virtue.”

  “I only mean—” The man’s face reddened, the color more garish against the limestone architecture.

  Gerard sighed. “Forgive me. I knew what you meant. I do not expect the delay to last much longer.”

  Miles tilted his head. “I don’t associate you with the art of apology.”

  “I wasn’t polite enough.” Gerard settled onto a seat in the cathedral. He stretched his legs over the stone floor. They were in a private section, but he could still hear the murmurs of the faithful in the nave.

  Colored shadows fell on th
e floor from the stain glass windows, and finally new footsteps sounded. They seemed to thunder in the acoustically impressive chamber where even a whispered admonishment would sound imposing.

  He rose and turned his head.

  Only to see the archbishop.

  Not Cordelia. Not his future wife, not his love, not his soulmate.

  The archbishop sat on the pew across from him, crossing and uncrossing his legs beneath his robes. Finally he cleared his throat.

  “She’s thirty minutes late,” the archbishop said. “I’m not sure—”

  “She’ll be here.” Gerard’s voice did not waiver.

  Fifteen minutes later she was still not there. And they were still not married.

  The archbishop and his brother sent anxious looks at him that he pretended to not notice. He pretended not to hear the man clear his throat, and he pretended not to hear his brother ask if he’d experienced this before.

  “Perhaps she got lost,” his brother said reassuringly.

  The tone was condescending, similar to that of a nursemaid assuring a child that their missing, aged pet was tromping around on a farm somewhere.

  Gerard stiffened. “My bride will not be able to miss the two towers on the cathedral jutting into the air.”

  “How clever of her,” the archbishop said soothingly.

  “You do not need to worry.” Gerard gritted his teeth, and the tilt of his jaw inclined with a similar force of that of a petulant child. “I am not worried. She will arrive. Late, but she will arrive.”

  Except an hour later she had still not arrived, even though Cordelia was never late.

  “Is it possible,” Miles said gently, that she may have changed her mind? “Canterbury has a great many roads leading from it.”

  Gerard chuckled, but this time the sound did not come naturally, and the sympathetic gaze of the archbishop seemed to deepen, even though archbishops weren’t supposed to be sympathetic. They were supposed to wrangle money from the king or regent for their parishes.

  Gerard inhaled.

  She wouldn’t leave. Not without telling him. Yet—had she really desired the elopement? Gerard’s chest tightened. The scent of incense seemed thicker.

  She had been staying in a tiny cabin with him. If she disagreed with him—would she have told him? And yesterday she had retired at once? He’d thought her just tired—but perhaps she had been deliberately avoiding him? Perhaps she would think it safer to simply bide her time until she could get away, and keep him happy for now, lest he make her life truly miserable. Perhaps she had doubts about the actual marriage.