The Bad Luck Bride for comp

by Jane Goodger

  Henderson took a step toward her and she held her breath. Slowly he brought one hand up, index finger extended. He hesitated before placing the pad of his finger gently against her lower lip. Alice looked up into his eyes, but he was concentrating on where he pressed that finger against her, his eyes dark and hooded. “Or I could kiss you here. Now.”

  Alice swallowed. “Henny,” she whispered.

  He drew her lip slowly down, his body so close to her she could feel the heat of him, feel his light, brandy-tinged breath against her face. His expression grew hard, the muscles along his jaw bunching, and Alice swore she’d never seen him look so handsome. Her body swayed slightly, bringing them closer, putting a bit more pressure on her lip, and the very tip of his finger slipped into her mouth. Alice couldn’t have said why, but she touched her tongue against his flesh, and he drew in a quick, harsh breath. “God, Alice.”

  He slowly trailed that finger from her lip, down her chin and to her sensitive neck, stopping at the white lace of her nightgown. For one breathless moment she thought he would push further, but instead he brought his hand behind her neck and pulled her toward him until their lips were nearly touching. And then he was kissing her, tasting her, and Alice brought her hands up to his shoulders, clinging, for she wasn’t certain her legs could hold her. His breathing was harsh against her cheek and it seemed as though every inch of her body was filled with the need for something she didn’t fully understand. She only knew she wanted more and more and more. Her breasts ached, and it felt so good to press against him, to relieve some of the tension that was building. When his hand moved from her back to brush lightly against one breast, she moaned and he deepened the kiss. Lost was any cognizant thought that what they were doing was wrong. The only thing she could think was Yes, this is what I want. This is how I want to feel.

  He pulled at her erect nipple, and Alice felt a flood of heat and warmth between her legs. His clever tongue began a subtle rhythm against her own. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to press her center against the hard ridge of his arousal, seeking to take away the edge of her desire, to do something to give her body relief. And so when he abruptly pulled away, stepping back four full paces, she stumbled toward him before she realized with every step she took, he retreated.

  “Alice, if we don’t stop now, I don’t know if I’ll be able,” Henderson said harshly.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shook his head. “No, don’t be. This was my fault. I should have just gone upstairs and gone to bed. I knew… I knew I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

  “Why?”

  Henderson dipped his head and stared at the floor. “I have no right to touch you, not like that.”

  * * *

  At breakfast the next morning, Henderson found he could hardly look at Alice. He feared everyone at the table, including Mrs. Hubbard, would know he was thinking not so pure thoughts about the elder Hubbard daughter. It was difficult enough to hide his love for Alice; he would likely be even less adept at hiding his lust. He was thankful, then, when a footman quietly delivered a note scrawled on thick vellum bearing the Berkley crest. Saying a silent prayer, he opened the note and smiled grimly. The new Lord Berkley would see him that afternoon. If the meeting was successful, something he had little hope for, he would work with Berkley to gather more support. If it was not, Henderson had no idea what he would do. Without someone like Berkley behind him, he had little influence over the great men who could make a difference. He knew he’d been lucky even to gain an audience with all eight men on his list.

  “Good news, I hope,” Elda said, before taking a sip of their very fine tea.

  “Indeed it is, Mrs. Hubbard. I have gained an audience with the new Lord Berkley.”

  “Ah. Alice did mention something about him being at Costille. Of course I knew the old earl quite well, but his son is a stranger to me. He hasn’t been in St. Ives in years, from what I gather.”

  Christina put her fork down, and Henderson had a feeling she was about to impart some great gossip. “Isn’t he the one who murdered his wife? Threw her from the castle’s tower?” Her eyes lit up as if murder were the most wonderful breakfast topic.

  “Christina, really,” Elda said, frowning heavily at her younger daughter, who had the good grace to dip her head, though Henderson had a feeling she didn’t feel particularly contrite about spreading such gossip.

  “The truth of the matter is,” Elda said, sliding her gaze to Henderson, “that his wife did die from a fall during a house party. Several witnesses vouched that Lord Berkley was in an entirely different part of the castle when she died.”

  “Suicide.” This quiet and devastating word came from Alice, said more into her plate than to anyone at the table. She lifted her head, and a slight tinge of red marred her pale cheeks, as if she hadn’t meant for everyone at the table to hear her. “They said it was suicide.”

  Elda shook her head. “That is not something to be repeated, Alice. The magistrate declared her death a terrible accident. Suicide. Better to be a murder than that.”

  Henderson cleared his throat. “At any rate, I’m meeting the man this afternoon to discuss famine relief. Do you know when the old Lord Berkley died? The butler at Cavendish Square wore a black band but I saw no other evidence of mourning at the London house. When I went to Costille, however, it was shrouded.”

  “I didn’t know he had passed until we arrived here,” Elda said. “I imagine it must have been fairly recent, though, for I don’t recall reading about his death in the Times when we were in London. I would have said something to you when I saw your list. I fear you’ll find little help in that quarter, Mr. Southwell. Lord Berkley has not been involved in politics at all; that was his father’s domain. From what I gather, he has spent a great deal of time in America. Chasing cows, I think. He was a bit of a ne’er do well, an embarrassment to the old earl.” Elda tsked softly as she spread marmalade on her scone.

  Deeply discouraged by Lady Hubbard’s words, Henderson wondered if he should keep his appointment. Even if the new Lord Berkley was amenable to trying to help, what sort of influence could he possibly have on the men who made decisions about famine relief?

  * * *

  “They say he murdered her and that the only people who could vouch for his whereabouts were his closest friends. The old Lord Berkley never got over the scandal of it and some say it killed him.”

  Sometimes when Harriet spoke so melodramatically about a murder, it was difficult for one not to roll one’s eyes, Alice thought. The four of them—herself, Harriet, Eliza and Rebecca—were all together for the first time since Alice’s return from London. It was so good to see them all, to gossip as they always had, to laugh. No one could brighten her day the way her friends did, and she’d missed them all dearly when she was in London. They pretended to meet to knit together, but the true purpose of their gatherings was to gossip. Harriet had it down to an art form and often led the discussion as she was this day. That’s why it was so difficult to understand how someone so lively could become so subdued in social situations.

  “Why would he murder her?” Eliza asked, her pale blue eyes wide. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear, a habit encouraged by the fact her wildly curly hair was often coming unsprung from whatever hairstyle her maid had attempted that day. “One must always have a motive.”

  Harriet shrugged. “I haven’t heard anything that would inspire murder. Still.”

  “Still what?” Alice asked on a laugh. “Still it wouldn’t be nearly as entertaining to talk about Lord Berkley if he wasn’t a murderer?”

  Harriet made a face, but said, “Of course.”

  “Didn’t you tour Costille once, Harriet?” Rebecca asked. “Did you see the tower where it happened?”

  Harriet nodded. She was in her element, and Alice settled in to hear a detailed accounting of the home where Lord Berkley resided. Harriet had an uncanny memory, like nothing Alice had ever witnessed before. If
she saw it, read it, heard it, she remembered each detail so well, Alice had long stopped questioning her.

  “We only toured the public part of the house, of course, but the Lawton family has maintained it wonderfully. We were even able to explore the dovecote, though they don’t use it as such now, just back in the fifteen hundreds. Can you imagine something three centuries old?”

  Eliza shuddered. “I shouldn’t like to live in such an old place. Imagine all the ghosts that must be wandering about.”

  “Including his dead wife,” Rebecca said, her brown eyes twinkling.

  “Stop it, all of you,” Alice said, laughing.

  “You must admit, it is rather exciting that Lord Berkley is back after all these years,” Harriet said. “The old lord was such a stodgy curmudgeon.”

  “Who’s to say the new lord isn’t much the same?” Alice asked. “At any rate, I hope he is not a maniac, for Mr. Southwell is on his way there today.”

  Harriet lifted her head at the news Henderson was in St. Ives, and Alice made an effort to keep her expression bland, even as she felt her cheeks blush remembering their kiss. Her breasts suddenly felt heavy, her nipples ached, and only because he was the topic of conversation. What was wrong with her?

  “Mr. Southwell is in St. Ives?”

  “Here we go again,” Rebecca said, pressing her lips together in an obvious attempt not to laugh aloud. “You’re not going to make a cake of yourself again, are you, Harriet?”

  Harriet sniffed. “I was but a girl with a silly crush and can be forgiven for falling for a handsome young man. And of course I’m going to make a cake of myself. Why wouldn’t I? I’m certain he would be sorely disappointed if I did not.”

  Alice laughed. “Henderson is not quite the flirt he was when you all last saw him. He’s grown up a bit himself. He’s far more serious now than he was before. In fact, the entire reason he is in St. Ives is to solicit assistance in raising awareness of the famine in India. He’s quite passionate about it.”

  “You mean to say he’s not here to see me?” Harriet asked in mock despair.

  “Alas, the only reason he is in St. Ives at all is because this is where Lord Berkley is at the moment. I daresay he’d already be on his way back to India had he concluded his business in London.”

  Conversation lulled for a time, and the room was silent but for the clicking of their needles.

  “I always thought he might have a tender for you, Alice.” This from Eliza, whose quiet nature hid a sharp intelligence.

  Alice let out a forced laugh, that thankfully sounded as if it were filled with genuine amusement. “Did you? Why ever would you say such a thing? I can assure you, Henderson thought of me, when he did, as an annoying little sister.”

  The needles clacked, but Alice could tell the others were waiting to hear why Eliza thought Henderson might have romantic feelings toward her.

  “Do you remember the Smythe ball?”

  Alice wrinkled her brow, trying to think back on that event nearly five years prior. She could remember nothing unusual that had happened. She couldn’t even recall whether Henderson had danced with her that night, as he often did. Joseph was always making certain his friends asked her to dance, even though she’d hardly been a wallflower. “I suppose I remember it. It was like any other ball, was it not?”

  “You were dancing with William Powers. The waltz. I was at the refreshment table with my mother, and I happened to look out to see you dancing with him. And then I saw Henderson. He was looking at you, too, and I shall never forget the look on his face. It was…singular.”

  Harriet raised an eyebrow. “Singular? Yes, I can see how you would immediately believe Henderson was in love with Alice. Really, Eliza.”

  Eliza pursed her lips together, obviously annoyed by Harriet’s dismissal. Of all her friends, Eliza and Harriet were the least friendly to one another. Alice wondered if Harriet was actually jealous of whatever imagined look Henderson had given her. Did she actually believe herself in love with Henderson? Alice had always thought it had been a lark, a silly game, not something that involved any true feelings for him.

  “Yes, Harriet, singular. It was despair and longing and fierce joy, all wrapped into that one singular expression,” Eliza said bitingly.

  Despite her vow to remain uninvolved, Alice felt her cheeks heat.

  “Are you certain it wasn’t indigestion?” Rebecca asked, sounding for all the world as if this was a serious inquiry. Rebecca was like that. One could overlook her, as she wasn’t much of a chatterbox, but when she did speak, she was often remarkably funny.

  “Quite certain,” Eliza said, laughing. “At any rate, that look stayed with me.” She shrugged delicately.

  “I’m sure you were mistaken,” Alice said. “I’d know, wouldn’t I, if Mr. Southwell was in love with me? I can assure you, he was not. I think poor Mr. Southwell would be mortified by this conversation.”

  “Yes, we’ve much more important things to discuss,” Harriet said, giving Alice a quelling glance. “Such as why on earth Lord Northrup is even at this moment gallivanting off to Scotland, free as a bird, when I daresay he should be strung up somewhere, perhaps dangling over a pit of venomous snakes.”

  “Harriet,” Alice said with a note of warning.

  “We are all just worried about you,” Eliza said, putting aside her knitting and any pretense that the girls were there for any reason other than to find out about Lord Northrup. No doubt her three friends had already convened and discussed in detail how the events had transpired.

  “There is no need for your worry. I am perfectly well and quite content to be back in St. Ives where I belong.” Her friends all looked doubtful, and Alice didn’t know what she could possibly do to convince them otherwise. “Truly.”

  “Have you heard from him?” Eliza asked softly, as if the words would somehow hurt her.

  “No,” Alice said, trying to keep any emotion from her voice. While she hadn’t loved Lord Northrup, she had been quite fond of him, and the fact he hadn’t even bothered to write her a note of apology or explanation did hurt. It was almost as if he hadn’t liked her at all, that his claims of love—and he did claim to love her more than once—were completely untrue. “And I don’t wish to hear from him,” she lied. All three friends stared at her, clearly not believing her.

  “Oh, very well. Yes. I am bothered that he hasn’t written. Are you all happy?”

  “Of course not,” Eliza said. “We’re just worried.”

  “One would think you’d all be used to this by now,” Alice said, trying at humor. “The Bad Luck Bride strikes again.” Her friends didn’t laugh, and Alice let out a long sigh. “Would it make you all happy if I were to start weeping?”

  “Yes,” Rebecca said.

  Alice shot her friend a withering look. “All right then,” she said. “Boo hoo. Sob. Sniff, sniff. There, are you satisfied?”

  They all laughed.

  “I was upset, but I’m perfectly well now. If Lord Northrup walked through that door right now, I wouldn’t even rise to greet him. My heart would not pick up a beat. My cheeks would not turn red.”

  “Did that ever happen?” Eliza asked.

  “Yes,” Alice said. But she didn’t say that all those things happened when another man entirely walked in the room.

  * * *

  Most of Costille Castle had been built in the early seventeen hundreds, though the remnants of the original castle, a monstrous tower that seemed completely out of place in the Tudor style manse that was built around it, rose above the stone and granite, a monument to power if not grace. Henderson walked through the smaller of two towers, its stone arch unchanged in three centuries, and into a courtyard now surrounded by the more modern home. Though “modern” was not a word most would use to describe the ancient architecture. Mullioned windows, narrow and tall, had been carved into the great slabs of stone. High above, he could see the top of the main tower, and it was easy to imagine
archers standing at the ready, guarding the castle from marauders.

  Henderson walked to a massive oak door, its hinges made of thick iron, and pulled back on a knocker in the shape of a steed’s head. Letting it drop, Henderson couldn’t help but smile at the loud, echoing sound that could no doubt be heard throughout much of the house. What a marvelous place this was, he thought, looking down at the granite beneath his feet, slightly worn by centuries of footsteps. His grandfather’s home was newly built, and while a grand place, it didn’t hold the tangible history of this keep.

  The heavy door swung open, revealing a butler with a rich shock of white hair gleaming in the shadows of the entryway.

  “Mr. Southwell here to see Lord Berkley. I have an appointment.” He handed over his card, which the butler took before backing up and allowing him entry. Henderson stepped into the cool interior, marveling at the thickness of the ancient walls, and stopped dead. The inside of Costille was completely unexpected. What he had expected was ancient splendor but what he saw was modern and extremely feminine furnishing. The walls were covered with flowered wallpaper, the floors were a pinkish Italian marble, the ceiling heavily carved and ornate with gold leaf accents. Everywhere he looked were embellishments and color—pink, yellow, red—a cacophony of floral décor. It was almost as if someone had gone into a hothouse, gathered up all the petals of all the flowers within, and thrown them into the air. As he followed the butler down the wood-paneled hall, he took in the ornately etched gas light fixtures, the frescoed ceiling depicting little cherubs flying in and out of puffy clouds, and was, frankly, baffled by what had been done to the old place. It resembled more of a brand new, and rather tacky, hotel than an ancient medieval keep.

  The butler opened the door to a similarly decorated study, where the new Lord Berkley sat on a pink-cushioned chair behind a gold leaf desk carved with cabbage flowers. Berkley stood as Henderson entered, and his first impression of the man was that he did not fit his surroundings. He was big and burly, with hard chiseled features and dark gray eyes that one could only describe as menacing.