The Lucky One (Brethren Of The Coast #6)

by Barbara Devlin

  “Should we give you a moment?” Mr. Catchpole shuffled his feet. “If you would prefer to discuss this in private—”

  “I would not.” Daphne wiped a stray tear, and Dalton wanted to spank her sibling for making her cry. “How could you do it? How could you spoil my special day? You had every opportunity to speak with me, last night, if you had concerns. Why would you hurt me with your shameful behavior, now, of all times?”

  “I am sorry, Daph.” The scamp shifted his weight and shot Dalton a sheepish glance. “I just needed to be sure you were happy.”

  “I was—until you embarrassed me in front of our guests.” When she faltered, Dalton wound his arm about her waist.

  “Are you all right?” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “Do you wish to continue, or would you rather postpone the ceremony?”

  “I will marry you—now.” At her command, he leashed his temper. “And my brother has nothing further to add, so he will stand silent.”

  “Then let us put this vexatious business behind us and continue.” Mr. Catchpole drew a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped his temples. “As I would dearly love to preside over an unremarkable service, just once, in this household.”

  Alex giggled, Jason groaned, and Dalton burst into laughter. Soon, the entire gathering of family and friends collapsed in unrestrained mirth, which reversed the tone Richard had set with his impromptu objection. Just when things quieted down a tad, another fit of hilarity plagued the group, especially when Alex cooed at Jason, and he rolled his eyes.

  “Well, then. It would appear we are, at last, ready to proceed. Please, take your respective places, so we might conclude this most auspicious event, as I am in serious need of a refreshing libation from His Grace’s best stock.” The vicar marked his spot in the text and huffed a breath. “As I was saying, Sir Dalton Philip Arthur Randolph, will thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Will thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health? And forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as you both shall live?”

  “I will.” And so it was done. In that moment, with two simple words, unexceptional on their own, but uttered together as a whole, he had undertaken the single most important commitment of his life.

  While Daphne made her vows, and responded in kind, Dalton gazed into her baby blues and fell under her spell. Yet he could not discern the depth of his affection for her. Was what he harbored for her anything near the powerful connection Dirk enjoyed with Rebecca?

  And then Daphne faced him and pledged, “From this day forward you shall not walk alone. My heart will be your shelter, and my arms will be your home.”

  “And now I pronounce you husband and wife.” Sweating profusely, Mr. Catchpole dragged his sleeve across his brow. “Sir Dalton, you may kiss your bride.”

  Had they married in St. Georges at Hanover Square, he might have moderated his enthusiasm. Given the audience consisted of his immediate and extended family, that knowledge fueled the desire simmering beneath his respectable attire, and he could summon no restraint. Dalton grabbed Daphne, tipped her head, and covered her mouth with his. All but crushing her against him, he suckled her succulent flesh between his lips, and she drove him into frenzy, when she speared her fingers in his hair. Fire erupted in his loins, and he pulled her even closer.

  A hearty chorus of hoots and hollers penetrated the intoxicating aura, and with great reluctance, he retreated from his wife. Then the Brethren ladies surrounded Daphne, and he turned to Dirk and expelled a sigh of relief. “Well, it is done.”

  “Congratulations, brother.” Dirk extended a hand. “How do you feel?”

  “Better than I had imagined, despite the unexpected intrusion.” Dalton scanned the vicinity and realized Richard had left the drawing room. “But it matters not, in the grand scheme.”

  “Most honored guests, may I have your attention?” Damian clapped twice. “What say we adjourn to the dining room for refreshments and an early dinner, so our newlyweds might retire at a reasonable hour, as they have much to be about.”

  “By all means, lead the way.” Strutting to his wife’s side, Dalton offered his escort. “Mrs. Randolph, shall we?”

  “Oh, just the sound of that gives me delicious shivers.” Emanating inexpressible elation, she beamed, as she pressed her palm to the crook of his elbow. “And I will never grow tired of hearing it.”

  “Very well, Mrs. Randolph.” He chuckled, as she squealed with unveiled delight. Ah, it was good to be a husband.

  #

  At her wedding dinner, Daphne basked in the dramatic decorations Damian had ordered for the festivities. Crisp white linens trimmed in old gold bedecked the longest table she had ever seen. And as in the drawing room, huge crystal vases filled with red roses mixed with white lilies rested on every surface, and matching arrangements had been situated at equal distances across the table.

  Running the length of the dazzling chamber, floor to ceiling windows offered unrivaled views of the Channel, and she and Dalton had been placed at the center of the gala. As they took their seats, she attempted to shrug off the depressing thoughts surrounding her brother’s protest, and she noted Richard’s absence with a heavy heart. Yet his was not the only unwelcome surprise, in relation to her nuptials.

  The day before she had departed London, she had received another mysterious missive, which portended doom should she pursue marriage with Dalton. Twice, she had attempted to broach the subject with her one true knight, but her courage had faltered, as she feared losing her husband before they spoke their vows.

  As long as you live, you will never satisfy him as I satisfied him.

  How unfair was it that Lady Moreton’s prediction had haunted Daphne’s slumber, ever since that heated confrontation at the Eddington’s ball? And although the Brethren wives had been all too ready to impart sage advice regarding the consummation, Daphne had not been able to escape the nagging worry that she would fail her cosmopolitan, worldly man of the sea and share her mother’s fate.

  “Hungry, sweetheart?” Dalton drew imaginary circles on her bare knuckles, as the footman held a platter of beefsteaks. “Should I serve you, Mrs. Randolph?”

  “Please, do so.” Every time he called her by her new name, her gut clenched. “As I am quite famished.”

  “Eat plenty, darling.” Dalton leaned near and whispered, “You will need your strength for the night I have planned.”

  “Oh?” She gulped, as a tidal wave of apprehension swamped her. “Pray tell, what have you arranged for us?”

  “Naughty wife, I like your spirit.” The minute her spouse gave his full attention, she discovered the error in her innocent query, and she gulped, as he looked on the verge of taking a bite of her. “Should I tease you? Should I tempt you? Should I offer you a glimpse of what is to come?”

  “Is that possible, amid company?” When he claimed her hand, she started. But then he massaged the soft flesh between the bases of two fingers, rubbing in a monotonous rhythm, hinting at the act that would complete their nuptials, and Daphne thought she might swoon.

  To prolong the meal, she consumed a second beefsteak, ample portions of brown onion soup, mashed turnips, green peas, and Salamongundy. By the time the cook rolled a trolley bearing the cake and a pyramid of grapes, nectarines, peaches, and strawberries, into the dining room, Daphne was positive she would bust. To delay the inevitable, she shoved two pieces of the frosted confection into her already unstable belly, and her nerves grew in epic proportion with the lateness of the hour and her girth.

  “My dear family, if I might, I would say a few words.” With a champagne flute in his grasp, Dalton stood and drew her with him. “On behalf of my wife and I, know you have our utmost gratitude for everything you have done to see us to this most blessed day. And now we will leave you to—”

  “Wait.” Teetering on the precipice of some perceived danger, neither real nor facetious, Daphne c
lutched at a last ditch means of escape, however brief. “I have a surprise for you, my cherished husband. I packed my lute, and I would like to play for you.”

  “What a wonderful idea.” Although Dalton had said one thing, his frown and rigid features conveyed an altogether different message. “Perhaps we should send Conrad to—”

  “Oh, I will fetch it.” Daphne tore from his side but slowed, when Conrad stepped into her path. In the hall, she teetered, as her stomach lurched. “Yes, Conrad?”

  “Mrs. Randolph, your belongings have been moved to what His Grace designated as your honeymoon suite.” The genial butler bowed. “Given the size of Penhurst Castle, please, permit me to show you the way, as you could, very well, get lost.”

  “Of course.” But as she navigated the massive stone structure, with its mahogany trim and casements, it dawned on her that, if Dalton could not find her, she could not disappoint him. After ascending the huge staircase, they strolled through a colossal gallery, which she had not had the opportunity to tour, in her rush to the altar. Wending between the sea of sculptures and busts perched atop pedestals, with the eyes of Damian and Alex’s ancestors seeming to trail her march, she followed Conrad down another long hallway.

  At a double-door entry, Conrad set wide an oak panel. “Continue to the other end of the sitting room, where the opposite portal opens to the bedchamber, and I shall await you, here.”

  “Thank you.” Her padded footfalls, muted by the thick burgundy carpet, sounded a dirge, of sorts. When she found herself face to face with her doom—an enormous four-poster fit for a king, everything seemed to spin out of control. Draped over the footboard, a sheer nightgown and a matching robe almost mocked her.

  As long as you live, you will never satisfy him as I satisfied him.

  Covering her ears, Daphne closed her eyes. “No.”

  But her shaky belly paid no heed, as it rebelled in the worst way. She jerked alert, scanned the area, located the washstand, hiked her skirts, sprinted to the back corner, bent, and revisited her wedding feast. After a series of wicked bouts of retching, she leaned on the edge of the bowl and gasped for breath. When she stretched upright, she swayed.

  “Careful, Mrs. Randolph.” Providing unfailing support, Conrad conveyed her to a chaise and then wet a cloth, which he pressed to the back of her neck. “Relax, while I retrieve your lute, as the maid put it in the adjoining dressing room.”

  “I am so ashamed.” She unfolded the towel and wiped her cheeks. “You will not tell anyone, will you, Conrad?”

  “Never.” Carrying her instrument, he smiled. “Your apprehension is quite normal, if I may be so bold, Mrs. Randolph. Daresay you are not the first newlywed to suffer such malady in advance of your wedding night. Now, there is fresh tooth powder and soap, and I shall have the maid empty, clean, and replace the basin, with none the wiser.”

  “Mr. Conrad, I could kiss you.” Refreshed, to an extent, she made quick use of the opportunity to calm her nerves, as she cleaned her teeth and washed her face. Later, poised and confident, clutching her lute to her chest, she returned to the dining room.

  “There you are.” Dalton vacated his chair and approached, and intense terror reared its ugly head. How could her greatest ally have become her worst fear, when all he had done was feed and clothe her and her family, restore Courtenay Hall, pay papa’s debts, and give her the security of his name? “I had thought, perhaps, you had got lost in the castle.”

  “Oh, no.” She forced a laugh. “I could not locate my lute, and I had to search my things.”

  “So you are going to serenade me, again?” He rocked on his heels and winked. “I should like you to do that, someday, in the privacy of our apartments. But I shall content myself with tonight’s performance. So what will you play for us, love?”

  “I had thought an old folk ballad, “The Knight and the Shepherd’s Daughter,” appropriate for the occasion.” Of course, Daphne neglected to mention the song had seventeen verses.

  #

  “Oh, Daphne, you look wonderful.” As Alex placed the silver-backed brush on the vanity, she smiled and admired her handiwork. “Dalton will fall at your feet when he sees you.”

  “As well he should, which is a good place to keep him.” After hanging Daphne’s wedding dress on a peg in the armoire, Rebecca folded her arms and inclined her head. “Now then, do you remember everything we told you?”

  The previous evening, while the men congregated in the village of Penhurst, the women had gathered to impart the detailed history of the Brethren of the Coast, a secret order of nautionnier knights descended from the Templars, after Dalton’s haphazard explanation, which had left Daphne filled to the brim with numerous unanswered questions. She had assumed there had been more to his character than he had admitted, and she had been correct, but she had never fathomed a jaw-dropping narrative of daring deeds and military prowess that counted Vice Admiral Nelson among the ranks.

  “Given this is your first time, you should let him set the tone and pace.” Toying with her diamond necklace, Caroline averted her gaze and sighed. “Trevor was wonderful on our honeymoon, so thoughtful and patient. It was a far cry from my deflowering, when he thought me a practiced courtesan, and he came at me as if he had just returned from a long voyage.”

  The Brethren wives chatted about all manner of spousal enjoyment, which she suspected they intended to soothe virgin’s anxiety, but their voices came to Daphne through a haze of rock-solid, almost impenetrable apprehension. In light of her lengthy performance, and the requested encores, which she had been more than willing to accommodate, the hour had grown late, to her husband’s expressed consternation. But she had stalled as long as possible and now loomed on the precipice of the most dreaded event.

  “My dear, are you all right?” Rebecca studied Daphne and then led her to a chair. “Sit, as you are white as a ghost.”

  “Do you really think Dalton will like me?” She bit her lip, as she pondered the humiliation of a rejection. “What if I fail him? What if he finds no joy with me? What if—”

  “Sister, calm yourself.” Caroline bent and cupped Daphne’s chin. “Dalton worships you. I would wager you could lie abed and do nothing more than blink and breathe, and he would still find release.”

  “Indeed, recall our counsel. Men are easily managed once you bridle the beast below their belly button.” Alex snickered. “Captain of my heart complained of the journey, as he wished to return to Stratfield Manor, until I suggested we have a second go at our wedding night in my old chambers, and now he is the soul of cooperation. So I should leave you, as I must change for the occasion, and I purchased something to inspire him, though I will not need it. Words of warning, if you hear a scream do not sound the alarm.”

  “Very good, Alex.” Rebecca tittered. “And we should vacate the room, as the groom will soon arrive.”

  The elegant allies exited, and Daphne found herself alone. The constant ticking of the mantel clock played an accompaniment to the steady drumbeat of her pulse, which echoed in her ears. She stood and walked to the long mirror, to check her appearance, and shrieked.

  The sheer sapphire nightgown and matching robe concealed nothing of her body. Then she turned and discovered the cleft of her bottom visible through the diaphanous material. Trepidation burgeoned into raw fear and panic. While the Brethren wives possessed a wealth of knowledge regarding a sated spouse, they had nothing to impart about a disappointed mate. In a flash, she flew into the dressing room, in search of protection. When she returned to the bedchamber, she found her husband standing in the entry, and she screamed.

  “Well that will give our brothers something to talk about.” As he untied his cravat, he scrutinized her appearance and frowned. “Going somewhere?”

  “No.” Confused by his rather odd query, she curled her toes into the thick carpet. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because you are wearing your pelisse.” Clutching the wool as a shield against salacious invasion, she retreated. “I am cold.�
��

  “I can take care of that.” After doffing his coat, waistcoat, and boots, Dalton unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. “Come here.”

  As long as you live, you will never satisfy him as I satisfied him.

  “What for?” Despite her best efforts, she trembled. “As I am fine, right here.”

  “Indulge me.” He flicked his fingers in entreaty. “Come here, darling.”

  Whereas some ladies might have seen a handsome rake bent on seduction, she considered him something more akin to an executioner—her downfall. It was with that thought swirling in her brain that she neared. When he unhooked the fastener at her throat and let her coat drop to the floor, she emitted a soft sob and crossed her arms to cover herself from his heated stare.

  “Are you afraid, sweetheart?” With his brow a mass of furrows, he settled his palms to her hips and pulled her close. “Relax.”

  “Easier said than done.” When he cupped her bottom, she shrieked, jerked free, and ran into the sitting room. “Would you like some wine?”

  “Daphne, what is wrong?” On the surface, his was a simple query, but the answer eluded her, just as she evaded him. “Have I done something to disturb you?”

  “Of course, not.” She responded with a high-pitched giggle and poured a full glass. But when he moved toward her, she sprinted behind the sofa. Oh, why had she listened to the Brethren wives, as they shared stories of their triumphant unions, when the end result, for her, had been monumental stress? How could she possibly live up to his expectations? “Remain where you are, sir. Else I may be forced to inform your mother of your inappropriate advances.”

  “Easy, love.” With hands up and splayed, he rounded the chair. “I am not going to hurt you. And, for us, there is no such thing as an inappropriate advance, as we are married, and we must consummate our vows. But we can take it slow.”

  “If that is true, then stay there.” Her gaze lit on his crotch and the source of her consternation. The black wool tented with proof of the one-eyed pirate Alex referred to as the perky but proud Jolly Roger, and Daphne’s knees buckled.